#AmericanWriters #BlackWriters
When Susanna Jones wears red her face is like an ancient cameo Turned brown by the ages. Come with a blast of trumphets, J… When Susanna Jones wears red
By what sends the white kids I ain’t sent: I know I can’t be President.
been scared and battered. My hopes the wind done scattered. Snow has friz me, Sun has baked me, Looks like between 'em they done
Fine living . . . a la carte? Come to the Waldorf—Astoria! LISTEN HUNGRY ONES! Look! See what Vanity Fair says… new Waldorf—Astoria:
From Christ to Ghandi Appears this truth— St. Francis of Assisi Proves it, too: Goodness becomes grandeur
I am God— Without one friend, Alone in my purity World without end. Below me young lovers
In an envelope marked: PERSONAL God addressed me a letter. In an envelope marked: PERSONAL
Go home and write a page tonight. And let that page come out of you— Then, it will be true. I wonder if it’s that simple?
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’ve known rivers: I’ve known rivers ancient as the w… My soul has grown deep like the ri… I bathed in the Euphrates when da… I built my hut near the Congo and…
Down in the bass That steady beat Walking walking walking Like marching feet. Down in the bass
What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore— And then run?
It’s such a Bore Being always Poor.
My name is Johnson— Madam Alberta K. The Madam stands for business. I’m smart that way. I had a
You say I O.K.ed LONG DISTANCE? O.K.ed it when? My goodness, Central That was then!
