#AmericanWriters
I went to the Gypsy’s. Gypsy settin’ all alone. I said, Tell me, Gypsy, When will my gal be home? Gypsy said, Silver,
It was a long time ago. I have almost forgotten my dream. But it was there then, In front of me, Bright like a sun—
Hold fast to dreams For if dreams die Life is a broken-winged bird That cannot fly. Hold fast to dreams
Listen! Dear dream of utter aliveness— Touching my body of utter death— Tell me, O quickly! dream of aliv… The flaming source of your bright…
In places like Selma, Alabama, Kids say, In places like Chicago and New York...
By what sends the white kids I ain’t sent: I know I can’t be President.
My old mule, He’s gota grin on his face. He’s been a mule so long He’s forgotten about his race. I’m like that old mule —
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,
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
She, In the dark, Found light Brighter than many ever see. She,
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
I know I am The Negro Problem Being wined and dined, Answering the usual questions That come to white mind
Now dreams Are not available To the dreamers, Nor songs To the singers.
Love Is a ripe plum Growing on a purple tree. Taste it once And the spell of its enchantment
Landlord, landlord, My roof has sprung a leak. Don’t you 'member I told you abou… Way last week? Landlord, landlord,
