Black Sunday/Poem/Bette Wolf Duncan

Black Sunday
     April 14, 1935
 

Black Sunday, nineteen thirty-five...
the day turned into night;
the thick, black dust that plagued us
had blotted out the light.
It looked like some satanic hand
had poured tar from on high.
It blew and boiled above us,
and charred the raging sky.
Armageddon? Some believed it—
that an awful, evil spell
had been cast upon creation
by the anti-Christ from hell.

The prairie's crust,
gust after gust,
was blown to God knows where.
Outside the house—
Inside the house—
dust clogged the heavy air.
Black Sunday...All who saw it
could clearly understand
that crops would never grow again
upon the ravaged land.
Armageddon? Some believed it—
but the rest knew all too well.....
call it what you want to,
it was a living hell.

The cruel winds blew incessantly
and stripped the prairie bare.
The precious soil, thus swept aloft,
tarred black the heavy air.
We went outside with goggles;
and on faces, towels were hung.
Still dust filmed the eyes and nose,
and grit begrimed the tongue.
Dust filtered through the smallest cracks
and settled on the floors;
upon the stove and in the food;
and even in the drawers.
Everywhere... dust everywhere...
dirty sheets of silt,
although we dusted, swept and mopped
and battled to the hilt.

"Would this nightmare never end?,"
we asked—but knew full well,
that even when Black Sunday waned,
we'd still be facing hell.
Neighbors...some already gone—
just like the dust clouds, blown
down some dust-filled highway
to places yet unknown.
And what of us? Where would we go?
How could we leave our home...
just leave the only life we'd known...
just pack it up and roam?
Oh, the dreams- all dashed to dust...
and hopes that wind did quell;
no golden fields of wheat for us—
just bitter grains of hell!

© 2006, Bette Wolf Duncan
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's permission.