Momma's Burden - Poem

We are this far under

In plunder of the night,

With dark brooding restlessness

Since entering the fight.

It is for this I wrestle

I hover - I groan

To open Heaven's best

And remove the stones...

On God's highway

Where women and Jews,

Black men and babes awomb 

Can find rightful plenitude.

Who is this I wonder

That moans beneath my belt,

And cries out for life

With God-inbredded wealth?

Over these I stand

I cover and protect...

Incubating vision

Of the ones now left.

Madness still is baking

In pockets of oppressed gloom,

Since mother's milk goes unaffirmed

As God's newborn soup.

Some say, "We're at sixes and sevens!"

Yet the times cry out for "eights". 

But the world continues spinning 

In a cosmic milky-wait.