For generations
our family had walked these terraces.
In December we planted the seeds,
and plowed the fields over in March.

The communists flooded the country
in 1955, their guns popping louder
than a storm of hail hitting walls and roofs.

We had abused our workers,
they shouted. We would be arrested.

We fled to the south.
We could do nothing but cross a river
silently at night.

Dirty as spent embers, we drifted
in straw shoes with the clouds of dust
and others of our criminal class:

the bourgeoisie.

 

 

Bob Bradshaw is very grateful to the journals that have published his work. His poems can be found at Apple Valley Review, Cha, Eclectica, Pedestal, Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, Stirring and many other publications. When he isn't napping he can be reached at This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it [Cha profile]

Search Cha for Bob Bradshaw