The Kid


The Visitor - Poem by The Kid

The harvest is noosed already.
Every family bears the brunt
If they are farming here.
Upon the hill the white man has much
But his spoils go to the dogs,
Feasting in their kennels ‘pon the ridgeways.

North is the railroad where Father is.
‘Mid the haze ‘pon the horizon
I dream that I can see him toiling well.
We have not heard from him in years
But he must be out there somewhere,
Rich, and waiting for us.

My brothers will have to go to work soon;
Once their help is needless on the farm
They will be off, made men before their times,
And sending money back, like Father used to.

The thunder echoes all around us – and it is getting dark.
I see the men upon the hill are now a-sleeping,
But Mother shall ne’er abide ‘til midnight.
I stand beside the crop, ‘tis lynched and weeping.

A horse comes to a halt outside our gateway.
The white-cloaked rider steps down from his steed.
A chill rings in the air. The horizon bears a shroud
Under the black. I feel that the light must truly cede.


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Poem Submitted: Thursday, June 9, 2011

Poem Edited: Friday, June 10, 2011


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