Freedom.
The word dances like fire
across your tongue,
the azure of the sky
on a torrid August day,
the gentle lapping water
of an Adirondack lake.
Red and white stripes
are what's left, the last of
a fading memory,
the only remembrance.
A boy ran through a forest,
his black feet cut with thorns,
the branded D on his cheek
burning with pride, not shame.
Defiant, the only truth
the white man ever told
about him and his family.
Ma and Pop were dead,
Maybelle and Louise sold.
Nothing left but Canada.
They saw her broken,
a shattered bone
without a splint.
Her head was bald,
but her eyes were full.
The doctors thought
she couldn't hear,
the death word,
terminal.
She left that day,
took put the IV,
ran through the halls,
left the place.
They found her
at the ice rink,
after dark,
feet clad in skates,
riding on the wind.
Freedom- a funny thing.
Taste becomes search,
and search becomes wings.
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125,020 Literary Works • 672,861 Reviews
That was a wonderfully written poem. I like the description and the way you finished off the poem. My favorite lines are
"the branded D on his cheek, burning with pride, not shame." and "Freedom- a funny thing. Taste becomes search,and search becomes wings." The poem didn't have much structure or flow to it but it still sounded good. Overall, it was a very good poem and I liked it a lot.
I really like this poem, I really feel touched by it. But I would suggest you work on the rhytme of the poem. It really worked in the last line I commented, but there are several places where it doesn't.
Really good poem!