August 22, 2015

Photo Credit: Rennett Stowe

By Zakeia Tyson-Cross

Poppa don’t like whipping sticks
You know that boy George gone up the road yonder
He never did like to wear shoes on his feet
And always talking about eating pig feet
My Poppa never like pig feet or any pork for that matter
He said it was like eating what you despise to look at everyday on the field
Poppa don’t like whipping sticks
You ever had the feeling that your time here
Living in Tuskegee wasn’t your own
That you were sent here from the heavens at the wrong time
That’s how I feel
Don’t think life should be this hard to breathe in
As beautiful as the sun is
It sure can turn into your worst enemy by peak
Poppa sure don’t like whipping sticks
Momma hadn’t spoken a word in 5 years
Guess my brother disappearing into thin air one night never sat right with her mind
All you can hear are her moans and cries seeping out the crevice of her soul
In the deep and silent arms of darkness
Poppa don’t like whipping sticks
I sometime wonder about nothing
What’s left to dream about?
Aint nothing for me to look forward to
Except for when my aunt CeCe visits at the end of most months
Her husband rides white lightening through south 85 to north 90
Aint never been that far up
They always say I’m welcome but
My Poppa said its road will only meet drunken white fools and death
They pass and me going will only give them away
Poppa sho’ don’t like whipping sticks
The marks on his back and arms gives me enough reason not to ask why