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The Chickasaw Farmer…

15 Jan

30. Women in cottonfield

The painting is from the last post, it is one of my favorites as its subjects are from the memory of a child; of a place that I loved, and as a child understood the hardships of the times.  I have posted the following piece before; yet it hangs in my memory vividly today as I am nearing the date when my daddy passed away.  He was a good man.  My hopes are that he is somewhere beyond the veil of life sitting on the back of a wagon with the sweet smell of smoke from his pipe circling his head as he visits with those he also loved.

To The Chickasaw Farmer

“A small bit of prose a tribute to Daddy”

Rickety old man stood on the cotton wagon a tin of yellow salve in his hand.

Rickety Old Wagon

Rickety Old Man

A hot southern sun hides behind the willows on muddy Flint Creek, cotton pickers sweat falling on parched lips taste like salty brine while they wait for the Old man to call “quitting time”.

Rickety Old Wagon

Rickety Old Man

Young, old, children, women and men bloody fingers cut by the barbs of the cotton boll dig into the old yellow salve tin.

Rickety Old Wagon

Rickety Old Man

Tar bottom sacks emptied of the soft white gold weary feet follow two old sway back mules down a rutted road.

Rickety Old Wagon

Rickety Old Man

Crimson clouds from wagon wheels whirl around tired bodies and drained minds; feels like pickers were working in the cotton fields since the beginning of time.

Rickety Old Wagon

Rickety Old Man

Mules stop at the fork of the road as the cotton pickers walked into the dark of the night the Old man’s heart filled with appreciation, because he is just an old Chickasaw farmer trying to survive inside a “White Nation”.

Rickety Old Wagon

Rickety Old Man

©2015.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

 

 

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9 responses to “The Chickasaw Farmer…

  1. tmezpoetry

    January 15, 2016 at 8:53 pm

    Love it!

    Liked by 1 person

     
  2. jeanniec258

    January 16, 2016 at 12:45 am

    Anniversaries seem to peel away at the layers of protection we build up on the wounds of our grieving hearts.

    I can feel the heat of the sun in your tribute painting; the toil of the blood soaked hands.

    May you find many hugs to ease your days.

    Liked by 1 person

     
  3. sedge808

    January 16, 2016 at 2:04 am

    stunning art

    Liked by 1 person

     
  4. lbeth1950

    January 17, 2016 at 4:57 am

    Enjoyed this so much!

    Liked by 1 person

     
  5. poetlou

    January 19, 2016 at 3:07 pm

    memories of days gone by when cotton fields rose to touch the sky and hands that became
    broken and battered and to the owners it didn’t matter

    Liked by 1 person

     
 
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