plantation shutters
brick trimmed manor
enveloped in gardens
'n groves
the slaves
in the fields
picking cotton
the burning heat
blasting down
as the mistress
takes a stroll
through the fields
porcelain skin
etched by fear
her eyes
carved in sadness
to many tears
cried
her husband at war
already
2 sons lost
'n maybe
her husband next
everyday
lived in fear
'n darkness
hoping
against odds
his name
won't appear
on the list
but
knowing
if she saw
his name
he died
protecting her
'n the child
he never saw
whispers
'n screams
her head
a wreck
no one speaks
as she is handed
the list of death
the death toll
rising
higher and higher
each day
no more than children
playing at the game of war
now
her eyes
focus in
and stroll down
the list of names
a neighbor's son
an uncle
'n old servant
dead
but
widow hood hences
for another day
'n another time
but
her her heart
not ease
this war
too long
too many dead
to celebrate
for one still living
her carriage
pull round
'n to the plantation
and bed
she goes
for another night
of disrupted sleep
by the tear soaked pillow
under her head.
A contest entry
- who might you have been in the eighteen hundreds? by Rheea.
2000 points, ended May 25, 11 entries
Honorable winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
-
you have her down twice in one place.... this is not my south the history of my family is not in this.Though I know it happened. Our house was big my people had slaves they were like family in our records.
we went to war yes to save the south. slavery was not the issue we did not have that many. things like this amaze me. lovely write though I wish you had said more about all of the people. -
Your style is quite interesting...understand that it's in the style of a list. I think that's fabulous. It really just...makes it flow fast and it goes with the feeling too. As if the writer is going crazy trying to find who died and just not being able to comprehend it so she basically goes mad. Huh. Nice.
Thanks for your comment by the way, complete shock.
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