#AmericanWriters
My old man’s a white old man And my old mother’s black. If ever I cursed my white old man I take my curses back. If ever I cursed my black old mot…
Now dreams Are not available To the dreamers, Nor songs To the singers.
Tell all my mourners To mourn in red — Cause there ain’t no sense In my bein’ dead.
How still, How strangely still The water is today, It is not good For water
I worked for a woman, She wasn’t mean— But she had a twelve—room House to clean. Had to get breakfast,
I would liken you To a night without stars Were it not for your eyes. I would liken you To a sleep without dreams
Love Is a ripe plum Growing on a purple tree. Taste it once And the spell of its enchantment
Hold fast to dreams For if dreams die Life is a broken-winged bird That cannot fly. Hold fast to dreams
Gather quickly Out of darkness All the songs you know And throw them at the sun Before they melt
To fling my arms wide In some place of the sun, To whirl and to dance Till the white day is done. Then rest at cool evening
Well, son, I’ll tell you: Life for me ain’t been no crystal… It’s had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up,
From Christ to Ghandi Appears this truth— St. Francis of Assisi Proves it, too: Goodness becomes grandeur
And that is what poetry may do, wrap up your dreams, protect and preserve and hold them until maybe they come true. Columbus dreamed of finding a new world, he found it. Edison dreamed ...
I, too, sing America. I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen When company comes, But I laugh,
When you turn the corner And you run into yourself Then you know that you have turned All the corners that are left