by Marilyn S. Ferrell

Into my trembling palms Iíll scream
in defiance of marauding tempests,
ribbons of perversion and poverty
swirls in the openness
of deserted skies.

Gauche voices rebuke me for 
being born dirt poor,
bells of bankruptcy rings
at my door,
trying to uproot feet,
which are planted near still waters, 

       		But I shall not be moved.

The earth quakes and my weary heart fails,
my entire life is quantified
by my ability to give my family
a meal of greens, biscuit, and fried
chicken with gravy,
but my eyes shall no longer cry,

                     And I shall not be moved.

They may reclaim my possessions
leaving me naked, hungry, and dying daily,
but hymns shall infuse my cerebral,
as I proclaim my suffering as befitting
oneís walk up yonder.
I ponder my spiritual economy,
my condition is but an 
abstract topiary
shaping me for times of greater tribulation,
that Iíll stand firm, and BELIEVE,

                               I shall not be moved.

Economics by Marilyn S. Ferrell

© Copyright 2010. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

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