RUKUS
11-03-07, 08:49 PM
One-drop daughter
"and so the masters watched their slaves from hilltops, till the sun set..."
1.
I watch the sun approach evening and
die out like bitter white men;
Tired and
red-in-the-face -
laying down
beneath the mountains
not thinking of tomorrow.
Before the rows become dark,
we move in rhythm -
ebony bodies
and I,
the pale ghost,
ducking through browning-leaves
which hang from
yellowed-stalks.
Stretched out in fields
we leave the withered
leaves to sweat in heaps.
2.
When I was younger
they would stare at me
and tell me how eyes,
silver as moons
and skin, white as bone
made me a child
of the devil.
I searched this hell
far and wide
for hands like hooves,
glowing horns, and
flesh pulled tight
on skull.
I found your
silhouette instead -
rifle in hand,
the sun centered behind
wisps of your curly hair
and you must have been
a saint for a moment.
3.
Mother
hardly claimed me
by firelight, and
I feed alone
wondering why
she walks away,
chin falling softly
to her chest, still
graceful
in disgust.
I do understand the others -
shame and pity
shape their crooked smiles;
the younger ones chuckling
at my pink cheeks
and sun-peeled back.
But it took 7 years
to find how people could see
my soul.
Johnny walked me to the water
that day, pointing at the bubbling
stream, telling me to look.
You’re different
I never noticed the silver discs;
each with a hole punched
in their center, where
people thoughts crawl in
like baby possums
to forage on whatever dignity
I have left.
4.
Father:
all I have of you
are other’s whispered memories
told under North Star.
No longer do you
watch me
from hill
or mountain high,
your pale ghost
sent to haunt
this streak of stalks.
I should have known
you’d leave me
alone
and die your way;
quietly laying down
like all bitter, white men.
Never thinking of me,
Never thinking of tomorrow.
-RUKUS (copyright 2007)
"and so the masters watched their slaves from hilltops, till the sun set..."
1.
I watch the sun approach evening and
die out like bitter white men;
Tired and
red-in-the-face -
laying down
beneath the mountains
not thinking of tomorrow.
Before the rows become dark,
we move in rhythm -
ebony bodies
and I,
the pale ghost,
ducking through browning-leaves
which hang from
yellowed-stalks.
Stretched out in fields
we leave the withered
leaves to sweat in heaps.
2.
When I was younger
they would stare at me
and tell me how eyes,
silver as moons
and skin, white as bone
made me a child
of the devil.
I searched this hell
far and wide
for hands like hooves,
glowing horns, and
flesh pulled tight
on skull.
I found your
silhouette instead -
rifle in hand,
the sun centered behind
wisps of your curly hair
and you must have been
a saint for a moment.
3.
Mother
hardly claimed me
by firelight, and
I feed alone
wondering why
she walks away,
chin falling softly
to her chest, still
graceful
in disgust.
I do understand the others -
shame and pity
shape their crooked smiles;
the younger ones chuckling
at my pink cheeks
and sun-peeled back.
But it took 7 years
to find how people could see
my soul.
Johnny walked me to the water
that day, pointing at the bubbling
stream, telling me to look.
You’re different
I never noticed the silver discs;
each with a hole punched
in their center, where
people thoughts crawl in
like baby possums
to forage on whatever dignity
I have left.
4.
Father:
all I have of you
are other’s whispered memories
told under North Star.
No longer do you
watch me
from hill
or mountain high,
your pale ghost
sent to haunt
this streak of stalks.
I should have known
you’d leave me
alone
and die your way;
quietly laying down
like all bitter, white men.
Never thinking of me,
Never thinking of tomorrow.
-RUKUS (copyright 2007)