beneath the hanging tree,
gnarled and bent old limbs,
cursed with fears inbred....
where black folks hung for being black,
and later, white folks for standing beside...
'holy' hatreds spat, crackling in the fires;
acts too horrid for the light of day,
and the lonesome cry of the night,
testifying against....
now the hanging tree takes different forms...
poverty, crack cocaine, trailer tub meth...
young girls put out on the street,
by pistol carrying punks
in big wheeled cars....
schooled by the prisons,
and left to die;
no hope, no jobs, no chance,
driven by those fears
while the ghosts of hatred dance!
Eric Cockrell
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-hanging-tree/
