Hand-me-downs
2nd Generation
Eatonton, Georgia
The thread wear’s thin;
I solemnly pass ‘cause of my fair skin,
But my bloodline suffers the savagery,
Blasphemous rare kin,
I bear sin; I’m unforgiven,
This dungeon of hate; Under the influence
Of injustice; Soon drunken with rapes-
Bigoted torture! My misery screams
“You cowards ” How sour it sounds,
But the epitome of history exceeeeeeds the power of now,
So my needle relieves the demons,
The hours when I’m down,
Dreams of freedom; I now fight on powerless grounds-
I’m Out; The redeem in rapture;
Causes the thread to end; The weaving plastered,
Into seams I’ve mastered; Not so distinct,
But the cheapest patterns; Can’t afford
Any more until next month; I’ll receive it after,
I feed my seed and capture;
Her face full of gleam and laughter-
Newly woven;
The uniqueness bleeds, and truly spoken,
Few are chosen; I dare to drown in the bluest ocean,
In the smoothest motions; I bargain to finish, while
Each hand delicately cradles the art of remembrance,
Years past, I’m lethargic and timid; And slowly
A fading mind, the farther the image,
But death is only scarring the living,
So I leave a needle and thread,
In hopes that she’s a startling resemblance.
Generation
Milledgeville, Georgia
The thread wear’s thin;
The long days are overbearing,
Housewife and mother of three,
A ferocious pairing,
Unaware then; Never expect them to pity us in-
This lifetime; My feet hurts,
Boycotting the city buses;
Minister King says “He who is trusted”,
But why must I still weep through the roughest
times; The movement seems so ill advised,
We’re fighting for rights that’s so civil,
Yet they fight back uncivilized- And
I'm Out;The timing I fed,
Causes the thread to end; The outline of her head,
Is perfect; I admire and ponder the growth,
Keeping in tact with every stitch,
The warmth of her soul; Honoring those
That bled through our tumultuous blows; It’s why
I pray that my daughter has her
Wondrous glow-
Newly woven;
You never know, so take the chance first,
The aches stifle my motions, and now my hands hurt,
Any plan works; We hope for better improvements,
Each hand forces my last repetitive movement,
Days go by; My face confused, dismal, lost,
Causing infected joints to produce crippled thoughts,
So brittle, flawed;
So I leave a needle and thread,
In hopes my only daughter is never this feeble when dead.
4th Generation
Atlanta, Georgia
The thread wear’s thin;
Still fighting, but now it’s reflecting,
On ourselves; Black on black hate,
The despair in,
You paving the way it’s so apparent; But we
Can’t follow if there’s never a parent
Around; Guns fire- A savages sound,
Crime rates up- and the activists down
Lavishness crowned; And the fools rush,
We were given the playing field,
Yet too stubborn to suit up; Struggle!?
Even the Klansmen are enraged,
Cause our shoes cost more,
Then the hands that were slaved; And
I'm Out;Couple of blemishes, toughness
To portray reality in her face,
The finishing touches;
Causes the thread to end; The swirling wind,
Projects the mere beauty in a world of sin;
A breath of fresh air, as I sit on my deck;
While revisiting the last loop holes of
The past that is left; The miraculous depth,
From the centuries enslaved,
To enrichment from the memories engraved-
Newly woven;
More than a hand-me-down,
Feelings of everlasting love;
Mutual family ground,
A friendly ounce,
Of expanded heart,
Through generations of branded art.
-Nique.
