The Migrant Worker’s Song

 

My flesh is melting under the glare

of persecution from the sun.

My hands are sweaty, and are

starting to cramp up and crumble because

of the constant picking of

fruits and vegetables that do not show up on my table.

If you looked at my skin

you will see the deep welts of torment

embedded in the flesh of hope.

You will see the scars from the tears and blood

that lead to a path of injustices.

The sweat that pours off my back shows up in the form

of green backs which I always lack.

                      And -

 I - the laborer, live on the land,

work on the land, and

own no parts of it!

I - the laborer, live with the

sun as my overseer and

time as my torment.

I - the laborer pick up and

move when the seasons change,

in order to pick-up more work.

I - the laborer incur the wrath

of grapes in the vineyards of despair.

 

How can grapes sell for $.69 a pound

in the grocery store and sell anywhere from

$5- $1000 dollars in a bottle of wine?

                      It is because -

I - the laborer spend endless days

blistering my hands and

breaking my back like a

beast of burden in the field.

I - the laborer sweat and toil

and bleed for a shade of hope

under the sun’s oppression;

in the landscape of the

American Nightmare which enslaves me.

                      But -

 As the wind blows the dust of

reality in my face

My calluses are my honor

My scars are my story

My sweat and blood

are the uncircumcised hope

for a better way of living.

My back ache is for the land,

which I own no parts of.

My feet are for the migration

of my service and the

uncertainty of my existence; it is to

whichever way the wind blows

and to whichever land holds the

most promise of a brighter tomorrow.

 

My flesh still melts under the persecution

from the sun, which is casting

a grim shadow on my existence.

Now, I realize that the only thing

I live for are My seeds! My offspring!

And now, I plant them in the

realm of the American Nightmare.

In the soil of dreams, so

they can use the overseer’s persecution

and nature’s tears

to sprout forth from the

American Nightmare and

reach the American Dream.

The Migrant Worker’s Song

 

 

 

 

Searching

 

Crawling in the crawl - space of time looking for a way out

Searching for the dusk of ideas in the ashbin of life

But the only reality we face is that of a gun or a knife

And damned be our pride by the inner workings of self doubt

 

Languishing in the corner looking for employment

While we have become the subject of increasing statistics

To be locked in jail facing a harsh existence

Yet and still some of us are still waiting for the government

 

To be rendered powerless by splif, dujie, white lady, and angel dust

Hanging on Lennox and 125^th Street smoking weed

Trying to solve the cities problems and trying to fill a need

And all these things seem nothing but a puff 

 

Ignorance sets in and we do not seem to understand

That society has willed all these evils to be so

And our second class education has got to go

And this is why we are children searching in the promised land

Searching   

This is a narrative poem based on the book Manchild in the Promised Land.

Written by Claude Brown

 

Special Tribute

The Awakening

 

Sunday, September 15, 1963

The awakening of consciousness is at the

 corner of chaos and mayhem.

The Indian Summer has set in and

the ever - present heat of racial hatred

is hotter than the Alabama summer is long.

Birmingham is about to be set ablaze in a

travesty of hatred, leaving  only the charred

ruins of despair in the seas of equality .

 

The 5 o’clock shadow is growing misty now

can you see it!

can you feel it!

can you touch it!

can you smell it!

can you taste the shadow of anticipation

that is about to paint a picture of horror

on the landscape of injustice. 

                       Now -

There are four little girls on their way to church

laughing, singing and talking.

Not knowing they are taking their last steps.

Not knowing they are taking their last breaths.

Not knowing that they will be burned

by the searing flames of hatred.

Not knowing they will be cryogenically   

frozen in innocence while time took

a momentary rest in the bosom of insanity.

 

Then in a flash that was quicker than lightening

and louder than thunder, a bomb went off

and four little girls were buried under

the rubble and debris of the 16^th Street Church.

Now the tears of pain are confirming the loss

of innocence to the parents whose last trace

of their little girls lives is skeletal remains

and the small bibles stuffed in their small

purses.

 And the flash that shed four innocent lives

resonated throughout the country.

The flash left a deep scar on the complexion

of things to come.

That flash became the awakening for the

rest of the country to take a look at the politics

of separate but equal,

human and inhumane!

 

That flash made America look at its

two - sidedness in the mirror of a split society.

                             But - 

Four little girls were sacrificed upon the altar

of humanity, showing how evil and corrupt

prejudice can be.

Four little girls were charred asunder.

Four little girls were swept away in

the flames of old Southern Justice.

Their burnt flesh became the awakening

of how strong the seed of hatred is when

it is planted in the fertile soil of misunderstanding.

The awakening showed us who we were, and became

the catalyst for what we hope to be - as a society

melded together in love and equality, not fear and

persecution.

That is the way it was Sunday, September 15, 1963

The Awakening.

 

 

 

Fields of Death

 

The air is ripe with burnt flesh and blood.

The ground has become a mausoleum of bodies wrapped in mud.

The bullets are flying!

As it pierces the flesh a family’s dream is dying.

 

Time seems like it has come to an impasse.

Each day the sun rises, peace is drowned in a blood bath.

The tanks roll like thunder from above.

But War is a cousin of Hatred’s love.

 

The fields are ripe with the future that is dying.

The guns, the blood and the bodies are multiplying.

Truth is held hostage because of the propaganda of

mass murder,

mass destruction,

mass annihilation,

mass abomination,

of culture and civilization.

 

The fields are ripe for this harvest season,

which brings poverty, hunger, sickness, and disease.

Which ravages the people’s resolve and spirit.

There goes another bomb dropping, can you hear it!!!

 

Now there is a haze of fire and smoke.

Enough poison in the air to make the sky choke.

Now it is raining debris, rubble, and destruction.

There is no law and order - chaos is the only function.

 

The fields are where the last vestiges of men are buried

in screams,

in tears,

in blood,

in lies and

in deception.

Waiting for the harvest of war

to reap man’s  transgression.

                 -Now

The air is still ripe with burnt flesh and blood.

The ground is still a mausoleum of bodies wrapped in mud.

Benevolent reality is taking its last breath.

And is about to die on the bloody populated

fields of death!!.