Hangings don’t happen here any more. Maybe. Maybe not so much from trees but in new ways, subtle and not-so-subtle. Like lack of access to good housing, education, minimum wages, high taxes and the high cost of living, inability to get mortgages, the “re-awakening” of bars to voting, gerrymandering of voting districts, and come on, I’m sure you can add your own…
The Sunday Whirl blog invites writers to write a poem or short prose using some or all of the “wordle’s” 12 word.
In this country,
Disguised as patriotism,
The old boys still sit with mason jars
And talk about the days gone by.
Forgotten times; like when
Yesterday held no hurry; and
Folks knew their places; and when
The sand had a good line drawn across it.
A white man could feel safe, and
Other folk would mind their business, and knew their places,
Or would end up meeting that old tree limb,
Whose rope scarred wound
Could still take on one more knot
And one more noose, and
Convince a whole lot of people
Of their places in life.