Celeste Butler Mendez Poems

I am the slave hand that rocked the cradle
back and forth gently as my pink son slept.
While on a dirt floor, my brown son crept.
As I catered to masters' mood, my black son wept.
...

Cry empty heart; a lonely tear
that I have always shed.
Through wake of poetry I write
and pray this yearning's fed.
...

In the early morning hours
when the sun still lies asleep
with the stars lights slowly dimming,
a garden stirs without a peep
...