#AmericanWriters
His posture From so many years Holding his robe with one hand Is odd. His gait
Going out to the garden this morning to plant seeds for my winter greens —the strong, fiery mustard
Word reaches us that you are sleeping, sleeping. Dismayed we have turned to the sea. We encounter among others
Let other leaders Retire To play golf & write Memoirs
I will keep Broken things: The big clay Pot
in our lifetime. Which makes the idea of elections Notice how this word has “man” right in the middle of it? That’s one reason I like it. He is right there, front and center. But he i...
You confide in me that you are lonely,
As if I’ve swallowed A watermelon And Sidestepping My digestive tract
Look into her eyes and know: She does not think
Before I leave the stage I will sing the only song I was meant truly to sing. It is the song of I AM.
If my sorrow were deeper I’d be, along with you, under the ocean’s floor; but today I learn that the oil that pools beneath the ocean floor
I have a friend who is turning gray, not just her hair, and I do not know why this is so.
If I was President The first thing I would do is call Mumia Abu—Jamal. No, if I was president
She is the one who will notice that the first snapdragon of Spring is
When you thought me poor, my poverty was shaming. When blackness was unwelcome we found it best that I stay home.
