voices from the fields - and we ain't talkin' cotton -

 fields of white fluff
flecked in twigs of brown
holding up skies of whisperin' strings of dreams
hanging on the old plantation tree
bayous brimmin' with nightmares
of babies born to die in chains
ghosts of dark annie’s red-haired girl child
now runnin' free in the big house
the big house of her sperm daddy
balls of white turned scarlet red
with the blood-fingers of those starvin' chained souls
waters turned stagnant from closed minds and hearts of stone
epithets of brown skinned souls etched
into tree trunks by the noose round their neck
spirits swing there in the silence of their crimes
murder by any other name
murder still
nothin’ civil ‘bout a civil war
rivers run red
from crimes of the bed
all those hopes now laying dead
with babies born but never fed

rivers run red
bodies of white
held by brown arms already dead
ain’t none of it never ‘nough
murder by any other name
murder still while
rivers run red

and we ain’t talkin’ cotton

for those of you who've not seen this over at gypsywomanworld, i share it here because it seems to fit here, as well - this piece was scribbled in my notebook literally as i drove through the cotton fields of arkansas on my recent trip - there is no editing from the original words - no particular format of "poetry" here - just a rambling stream of consciousness arising from the spirits speaking from those timeless fields of slavery -