#AmericanWriters #BlackWriters
In places like Selma, Alabama, Kids say, In places like Chicago and New York...
In an envelope marked: PERSONAL God addressed me a letter. In an envelope marked: PERSONAL
From Christ to Ghandi Appears this truth— St. Francis of Assisi Proves it, too: Goodness becomes grandeur
The ivory gods, And the ebony gods, And the gods of diamond and jade, Sit silently on their temple shelv… While the people
You sicken me with lies, With truthful lies. And with your pious faces. And your wide, out—stretched, mock—welcome, Christian hands.
Clean the spittoons, boy. Detroit, Chicago, Atlantic City, Palm Beach.
It’s such a Bore Being always Poor.
I worked for a woman, She wasn’t mean— But she had a twelve—room House to clean. Had to get breakfast,
I know I am The Negro Problem Being wined and dined, Answering the usual questions That come to white mind
Good morning, daddy! Ain’t you heard The boogie—woogie rumble Of a dream deferred? Listen closely:
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,
Down in the bass That steady beat Walking walking walking Like marching feet. Down in the bass
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 ...
Goin’ down the road, Lawd, Goin’ down the road. Down the road, Lawd, Way, way down the road. Got to find somebody
When the shoe strings break On both your shoes And you’re in a hurry— That’s the blues. When you go to buy a candy bar
