Freedom's Son
At dawn the hedges and wheel-ruts
Ran t'ward the waking sky.
The grass was bent with shimmering dew,
Wild rose scent wafted high.
Birds held their tuneful gossip while
Each bubbling trill was hid
Within their sound, within the stir
Of rustling leaves, amid:
"I've gnawed my crust of mouldy bread,
And skimmed my hobo stew
While lying 'neath the barren hedge
As sleety night-winds blew.
"In slanting rain that chills my bones,
In sun that bakes my skin,
I tramp the rocky road of life;
No door may I go in.
The mules, I used to burn with whip,
Once on the grading gang;
And for my work they docked my pay--
Some day may that boss hang!
"I used to toil from six to six,
And tried to save my dough,
But had my fill of that rough life,
So now with winds I blow."
The leaves and branches rustled loud
Above the bindlestiff.
You've seen his like, a wanderer
In stained attire, adrift:
With untrimmed hedge of rusty beard
And curling sunburnt hair;
His leathery hands and cheeks, his eyes
Without a seeming care;
His mouth that laughs at life, and self,
Belies an inward pride;
A once white hat, uncertain now,
Atop his swagman's stride.
"Sometimes they shut you up in jail--
Some dak and filthy cell;
I hope the fellows built them jails
Soon find 'em down in hell.
"But I, above, can sleep outdoors,
Be fed just like a king;
I never have to saw no wood,
I only have to sing.
"Goodbye, farewell to Omaha,
K.C., and Denver, too;
I'm off to catch a flying freight,
I'm gonna ride her through."
Atop the knoll, 'gainst waking sky,
His stick and bundle showed
His only pair of shoes; and then,
Off on the wind he rode.
The lives of men, the lives of men,
In pattern-moulds are run;
Exempted is the bindlestiff,
For he is freedom's son.
(C) 1-10-96 Charles Sielert
Birth sign: Not entered
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by Charles Sielert / Libra.