The Deep South

The farmhouse of my ancestors,
a magnificent Antebellum, built  
before  the civil war    
 Fierce,  southern spirit alive,    
the smell  of fear and shame  
 blows through  the old tobacco  
fields and giant willows  
where  Spanish moss hangs  
morbidly.  
 
Balconies,  columns, pillars,  
and a  grand entrance, covered  
porches,  elegant staircases,  
 a representative    
of power and idealism.  
 
I was the last living relative,  
this old house had    
This infamous southern town  
was known for its cruel  
slaveowners.    
 
Auctions were held frequently inside the outbuildings, the slave trade in action,  its history would be mine now.    
My grief and shame had  
become diluted with age,  
 and city life    
 
I had put that part of my  
 ancestry behind bars  
Now,  it was back again  
The Last Will and Testament  
bears  my name    
Would this be my legacy?  
Should the spirit behind this plantation be destroyed?    
The old house run down, it was,  
as it was then.  
   
Photographs were found  
 stored in  the attic along with  
record-keeping and logbooks    
People's names with their value  
in quotations    
My skin began to crawl,  
 I wanted no  part of this,    
of these memories.    
I escaped the presence  
of the attic  to breath some  
fresh air  
   
An old chapel nearest the house drew my attention.  
Modest, dusty, cobwebs and rats,  
nothing else no bibles no pulpit  
no pews perhaps they were  
stolen I thought  
Feelings ran through my head,  
producing visions of a beautiful  
 woman, a woman with pride  
in her heart and soulful eyes.    
Dressed in period clothing her long hair tied up in a bun.    
 
Her spirit led me to the back  
of the church and down to the  
bottom of the hill to a shed  
 where baskets are woven with care  
 hang from hooks.    
Hung there by someone  
who signed their name as "Jessie"    
 
Looking further, I followed some  
worn-out steps which took me  
deep into the woods to the edge  
of a grove where wild berries  
 have grown before the  
old house proudly stood    
her ground.  
   
I paused,  overlooking spent  
tobacco fields where colors  
of jade, deep forest green,  
crimson pink and purple grew.    
I sat down,  under an old  
Cottonwood tree where children  
had left their mark on tree bark.    
Beneath the brambles of old berry  
 vines a sign, made of wood  
now rotted barely holding  
onto baling wire wrapped around  
 a hidden post.  
 
A closer look revealed the word  
"Freedom"  
Faded letters carved from ancient memories    
   
This old house was a sanctuary,  
not a prison!    
Not only a plantation where  
human lives were bought sold  
or traded but a sanctuary.  
Underlying the horror was love  
 and peace where lives that  
were stolen away, found their  
freedom through the underbrush  
of these plantation acres    
 
The Church a refuge for those
 seeking freedom.  
It's basement corridors led  
to the underground railway    
The old shed with baskets was for  
 food storage for those who had  
 time to prepare their escape    
   
This plantation is now my home.    
 The secrets of courage and hope,  
secrets of love and freedom.  
The truth once buried beneath  
brambles and weeds under  
 an old Cottonwood tree has  
 been revealed    
 
The Lives that  were taken  
and the  lives that were saved  
were alive again  
within the walls of    
this Antebellum.