• From That August Day On

    Tides risin’ high
    on Heaven.
    Freedom’s Hands
    bound and bleeding.
    Salt water,
    sting and clean,
    burying the free
    in August, 1619

    I don’t remember the day I came on purpose.
    That’s for my soul.
    I don’t remember the pain on purpose.
    That’s for my children.
    But blood has memory.
    It remembers
    when it spilled
    when it poured
    when it flowed like rivers in my children
    who don’t remember me.

    Remember me.
    Remember the day I ran in a summer soft day
    a free and cool night when joy was every moment
    and the wind sang my name.
    Remember me when I walked to school
    miles my feet would travel for miles to the place I belonged.
    Remember me
    when I rode in the back…
    broke my back…
    carried you on my back…
    kissed you and told you I’d be right back.
    Remember me
    not the stories
    the lies
    the myths
    but remember me true in your history.

    Your blood has memory
    and it is of me
    and so you know me
    you just have to see.

    Tobacco fields and the James
    High hills of southwest and into Shenandoah’s valley.
    The Confederate Capital just down below the little mountain in Charlottesville.
    We came in when the tides were high
    and the waters stirred with trouble
    and yet did not stop.
    It didn’t know any better.
    Time tip-toed by the bay,
    waiting for freedom
    up the way
    a bit.



    - Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
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