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Runaway Hearts-e

Runaway Hearts-e
Item# 164-e
$6.50
Format: 

Product Description

by Terry L. White

Stories of Maryland's Eastern Shore, all told in rhyme. Tales of love and derring-do, of those who lived and loved in a place time almost forgot. Tales of the pirate, Jonathan Bright, and the changeling child he adopted. Of Jack Tilghman, who came home from the war in 1864, and his wife, Nicey, who waited, not always patiently. And of Harriet Tubman, the woman called Moses, who truly had a Runaway Heart, if anyone every did.



ISBN: 1-59431-164-1 Poetry / Black History/ Romance PDF is illustrated. HTML and RTF are text only.

Cover art by Terry L. White

Also available in RTF and HTML formats.



A Freedom Dream

Harriet Tubman was fine-boned,

but strong!

She worked in the world like a man.

Her story is here in the marshes

and woods

I’ll tell you as much as I can:



Screech owl call on a Bucktown night

Ain’t no moon, ain’t no light.

Child at rest on a corn shuck bed.

Strange dreams fill Mis Hattie’s head!



Seven years old,

a runaway twice,

Once, last fall.

before, there was ice!

There’s a tune that struggles

deep in her soul

Hat’s star points North,

a new life her goal.



“Rise up, Hat. You make your bed.

Poke that fire,” her mother said.

“Sun’s come up, don’t play the fool.

Time to bend to Massa’s rule ...”



Gathers them eggs in the

pink-washed dawn.

Brown feet bare, shift is torn.

Springy hair matted with

dust and chaff

Big brown eyes, don’t never laugh.



Hat plucks hen-fruit one by one,

Tears fall quick.

Hen pecks her thumb!

Round, white, smooth,

warm from breast,

She finds ten eggs in

a hidden nest.



Out from the Big House

Mam gives a yell,

“Bring that water from the well!”

Sun come hot, work begins.

Hat’s heart rides out

on a freedom wind



Sent to work on down the road,

Always hungry, tired, alone.

The babe she tends, it frets at best –

Cries all night and steals her rest.



Hat just does the best she can

Dream of a home in

Freedom Land.

Out through the marsh

her soul burn a path.

Can a white God hear the

thing she ask?