General Poetry posted December 11, 2014


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a rose by any name

White Pink Black

by mfowler

They call me Rose like I some pretty thang
my English masser plucked from his sweet garden.
I s'posed to be all grateful they no hang
me, like poor daddy, 'cos, him, they no pardon.
 
A child, I was, and I was spared a whippin'.
Poor Daddy's crime was stealin' from the bins,
and him was belted black and red, all drippin'
'fore they strung him up for his negro sins.
 
My name's Shaday, not Rose, but I still smile   
'cos I is grateful, serve my masser well.
I scrub the floors, and smell the rose, all while
the stink of masser's sweat reeks like black hell
 
upon my skin, which is not white nor pink
like Rose; but black like Daddy's own Shaday.
The masser, calls me 'Rose' and with a wink,
he say he love me, then he have his way.
 
Him pump like faucet, calling, 'Lovely Rose'.
I feel no feelin', seek for Daddy's face
and know Shaday is here, and I s'pose
he proud I not a traitor to my race.
 
Today, the rose done prick my skin, it bleed.
The blood, all red like masser. I still, weed.


Poem of the Month contest entry

Recognized


Colloquialism
masser: master

Shaday: girl's name, pronounced 'sha-DAY'
Pays one point and 2 member cents.


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