Soon I’ll be heading back to the farm where no one was FREE. Where the crops were ripe in the field, but the slave was unapparent property.
The overseer is mindful to make sure his subjects stay in their place while violence and brutality spread throughout the open wide space.
Evil eyes gaze me down, but I’ll not shed one teardrop. The hatred was like crabs in a barrel trying to crawl their way to the top.
And like an Eagle in the face of a storm, the taste of freedom makes it difficult to conform.
Fleeing thoughts consume the mind as I look for inspiration and solace. The spirit is weak, but faith unshaken as I hold tight to the Lords promise.
Sneering and wicked faces expose---an unpleasant contemplation. But a ‘Freed Man’ will always remember---the day he escapes the plantation.
I dedicate this poem to my “Big Poppa” who in 1896 (a slave) was born into a tribe of the Iroquoian family. Lorenzo (Wren) for short, married my grandmother, Big Mama, and he built her a beautiful home on the top of a hill where they raised 11 children (one of which was my mother). There are too many grandchildren to count, however, I’m honored that I was alive to see his legacy, which was surrounded by land, livestock, and much love in God’s country. Big Poppa would own more land than any of his neighbors. In fact, he would say that “land is the only thing a Freeman can hold his hat on when times were tough.”
My Big Poppa was a Freemason, a deacon, carpenter, farmer, businessman, civil rights activist; he had a highway named in his honor, and he lived to see the ripe young age of 98. However, what I remember most about my “Big Poppa” was his confident and robust personality. He was a proud man and well respected in the community and his favorite saying was, “The spirit is weak, but the faith is unshaken.”
R.I.P. “Big Poppa” XOXO, EVF