The Dirt Poem

An old poem I wrote about 10 years ago before I tried to write slam poetry.

Ebony gold


"Ain't no good" is what they said,
that old gray dirt has long been dead.

Marse worked us for years long gone,
stayed here after he'd passed on.

Share cropped on that rocky field,
every year a smaller yield.

Mama say dirtís more'n just soil.
In it was sweat from years of toil.

It had tears from black girlís eyes,
Master's sneakín nighttime lies.

It had blood from torn black backs,
brutal mark from whip attack.

It had dreams of our glorious past,
Ashanti Kings that didn't last.


Shook her head and softly cussed,
"Dreams kicked into sandy dust."

We looked down at the useless clay.
The sun sank low to close the day.
Mama pulled on her tattered shawl.
Our little sis began to crawl.

In our midst sis laid down.
Scraped and dug the useless ground.

Black muck oozed to slow her pace.
The shiny crude covered her face.

That little one not very old,
had found our hidden ebony gold.

Category:

People & Blogs

Tags:

• sharecropping
• dirt
• poem
• children
• future
• ebony
• gold
• africa
• african
• american
• Ashanti

[AfricanArtFan]

I get it. Great poem and reading.