#AmericanWriters
It would be nice In any case, To someday meet you Face to face Walking down
From Christ to Ghandi Appears this truth— St. Francis of Assisi Proves it, too: Goodness becomes grandeur
In the Quarter of the Negroes Where the doors are doors of paper Dust of dingy atoms Blows a scratchy sound. Amorphous jack—o’—Lanterns caper
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 will take you heart. I will take your soul out of your… As though I were God. I will not be satisfied With the touch of your hand
I catch the pattern Of your silence Before you speak I do not need To hear a word.
Now dreams Are not available To the dreamers, Nor songs To the singers.
You sicken me with lies, With truthful lies. And with your pious faces. And your wide, out—stretched, mock—welcome, Christian hands.
Goin’ down the road, Lawd, Goin’ down the road. Down the road, Lawd, Way, way down the road. Got to find somebody
When a man starts out with nothing… When a man starts out with his han… Empty, but clean, When a man starts to build a world… He starts first with himself
What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore— And then run?
Good morning, daddy! Ain’t you heard The boogie—woogie rumble Of a dream deferred? Listen closely:
The rent man knocked. He said, Howdy—do? I said, What Can I do for you? He said, You know
When you turn the corner And you run into yourself Then you know that you have turned All the corners that are left
I am God— Without one friend, Alone in my purity World without end. Below me young lovers