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Human
Family
I
note the obvious differences
in
the human family.
Some
of us are serious,
some
thrive on comedy.
Some
declare their lives are lived
as
true profundity,
and
others claim they really live
the
real reality.
The
variety of our skin tones
can
confuse, bemuse, delight,
brown
and pink and beige and purple,
tan
and blue and white.
I've
sailed upon the seven seas
and
stopped in every land,
I've
seen the wonders of the world
not
yet one common man.
I
know ten thousand women
called
Jane and Mary Jane,
but
I've not seen any two
who
really were the same.
Mirror
twins are different
although
their features jibe,
and
lovers think quite different thoughts
while
lying side by side.
We
love and lose in China,
we
weep on England's moors,
and
laugh and moan in Guinea,
and
thrive on Spanish shores.
We
seek success in Finland,
are
born and die in Maine.
In
minor ways we differ,
in
major we're the same.
I
note the obvious differences
between
each sort and type,
but
we are more alike, my friends,
than
we are unalike.
We
are more alike, my friends,
than
we are unalike.
We
are more alike, my friends,
than
we are unalike.
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Still
I Rise
You
may write me down in history
With
your bitter, twisted lies,
You
may trod me in the very dirt
But
still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does
my sassiness upset you?
Why
are you beset with gloom?
'Cause
I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping
in my living room.
Just
like moons and like suns,
With
the certainty of tides,
Just
like hopes springing high,
Still
I'll rise.
Did
you want to see me broken?
Bowed
head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders
falling down like teardrops.
Weakened
by my soulful cries.
Does
my haughtiness offend you?
Don't
you take it awful hard
'Cause
I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin'
in my own back yard.
You
may shoot me with your words,
You
may cut me with your eyes,
You
may kill me with your hatefulness,
But
still, like air, I'll rise.
Does
my sexiness upset you?
Does
it come as a surprise
That
I dance like I've got diamonds
At
the meeting of my thighs?
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Million Man March Poem
The
night
has been long,
The
wound
has been deep,
The
pit
has been dark,
And
the
walls have been steep.
Under
a
dead blue sky on a distant beach,
I
was
dragged by my braids just beyond your reach.
Your
hands
were tied, your mouth was bound,
You
couldn't even call out my name.
You
were
helpless and so was I,
But
unfortunately throughout history
You've
worn a badge of shame.
I
say, the
night has been long,
The
wound
has been deep,
The
pit
has been dark
And
the
walls have been steep.
But
today,
voices of old spirit sound
Speak
to
us in words profound,
Across
the
years, across the centuries,
Across
the
oceans, and across the seas.
They
say,
draw near to one another,
Save
your
race.
You
have
been paid for in a distant place,
The
old
ones remind us that slavery's chains
Have
paid
for our freedom again and again.
The
night
has been long,
The
pit
has been deep,
The
night
has been dark,
And
the
walls have been steep.
The
hells
we have lived through
and live through still,
Have
sharpened our senses and
toughened our will.
The
night
has been long.
This
morning I look through your anguish
Right
down
to your soul.
I
know
that with each other we
can make ourselves whole.
I
look
through the posture and past your disguise,
And
see
your love for family in your big brown eyes.
I
say,
clap hands and let's come together in
this meeting ground,
I
say,
clap hands and let's deal
with each other with love,
I
say,
clap hands and let us get from the
low road of indifference,
Clap
hands, let us come together
and reveal our hearts,
Let
us
come together and revise our spirits,
Let
us
come together and cleanse our souls,
Clap
hands, let's leave the preening
And
stop
impostering our own history.
Clap
hands, call the spirits back from the ledge,
Clap
hands, let us invite joy into our conversation,
Courtesy
into our bedrooms,
Gentleness
into our kitchen,
Care
into
our nursery.
The
ancestors remind us, despite the history of pain
We
are a
going-on people who will rise again.
And
still
we rise.
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Weekend
Glory
Some clichty folks
don't know the facts,
posin' and preenin'
and puttin' on acts,
stretchin' their backs.
They move into condos
up over the ranks,
pawn their souls
to the local banks.
Buying big cars
they can't afford,
ridin' around town
actin' bored.
If they want to learn how to live life right
they ought to study me on Saturday night.
My job at the plant
ain't the biggest bet,
but I pay my bills
and stay out of debt.
I get my hair done
for my own self's sake,
so I don't have to pick
and I don't have to rake.
Take the church money out
and head cross town
to my friend girl's house
where we plan our round.
We meet our men and go to a joint
where the music is blue
and to the point.
Folks write about me.
They just can't see
how I work all week
at the factory.
Then get spruced up
and laugh and dance
And turn away from worry
with sassy glance.
They accuse me of livin'
from day to day,
but who are they kiddin'?
So are they.
My life ain't heaven
but it sure ain't hell.
I'm not on top
but I call it swell
if I'm able to work
and get paid right
and have the luck to be Black
on a Saturday night.
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On The Pulse Of Morning
A
Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts
to species long since departed,
Mark
the mastodon.
The
dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of
their sojourn here
On
our planet floor,
Any
broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is
lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But
today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come,
you may stand upon my
Back
and face your distant destiny,
But
seek no haven in my shadow.
I
will give you no hiding place down here.
You,
created only a little lower than
The
angels, have crouched too long in
The
bruising darkness,
Have
lain too long
Face
down in ignorance.
Your
mouths spelling words
Armed
for slaughter.
The
rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But
do not hide your face.
Across
the wall of the world,
A
river sings a beautiful song,
Come
rest here by my side.
Each
of you a bordered country,
Delicate
and strangely made proud,
Yet
thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your
armed struggles for profit
Have
left collars of waste upon
My
shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet,
today I call you to my riverside,
If
you will study war no more.
Come,
clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The
Creator gave to me when I
And
the tree and stone were one.
Before
cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow
And
when you yet knew you still knew nothing.
The
river sings and sings on.
There
is a true yearning to respond to
The
singing river and the wise rock.
So
say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,
The
African and Native American, the Sioux,
The
Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,
The
Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The
Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The
privileged, the homeless, the teacher.
They
hear. They all hear
The
speaking of the tree.
Today,
the first and last of every tree
Speaks
to humankind. Come to me,
here beside the river.
Plant
yourself beside me, here beside the river.
Each
of you, descendant of some passed on
Traveller,
has been paid for.
You,
who gave me my first name,
You
Pawnee, Apache and Seneca,
You
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me,
Then
forced on bloody feet,
Left
me to the employment of other seekers—
Desperate
for gain, starving for gold.
You,
the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot…
You
the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru,
Bought,
sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying
for a dream.
Here,
root yourselves beside me.
I
am the tree planted by the river,
Which
will not be moved.
I,
the rock, I the river, I the tree
I
am yours—your passages have been paid.
Lift
up your faces, you have a piercing need
For
this bright morning dawning for you.
History,
despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot
be unlived, and if faced with courage,
Need
not be lived again.
Lift
up your eyes upon
The
day breaking for you.
Give
birth again
To
the dream.
Women,
children, men,
Take
it into the palms of your hands.
Mold
it into the shape of your most
Private
need. Sculpt it into
The
image of your most public self.
Lift
up your hearts.
Each
new hour holds new chances
For
new beginnings.
Do
not be wedded forever
To
fear, yoked eternally
To
brutishness.
The
horizon leans forward,
Offering
you space to place new steps of change.
Here,
on the pulse of this fine day
You
may have the courage
To
look up and out upon me,
The
rock, the river, the tree, your country.
No
less to Midas than the mendicant.
No
less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here
on the pulse of this new day
You
may have the grace to look up and out
And
into your sister's eyes,
Into
your brother's face, your country
And
say simply
Very
simply
With
hope
Good
morning.
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Men
When
I was young, I used to
Watch
behind the curtains
As
men walked up and down the street. Wino men, old men.
Young
men sharp as mustard.
See
them. Men are always
Going
somewhere.
They
knew I was there. Fifteen
Years
old and starving for them.
Under
my window, they would pauses,
Their
shoulders high like the
Breasts
of a young girl,
Jacket
tails slapping over
Those
behinds, Men.
One
day they hold you in the
Palms
of their hands, gentle, as if you
Were
the last raw egg in the world. Then
They
tighten up. Just a little. The
First
squeeze is nice. A quick hug.
Soft
into your defenselessness. A little
More.
The hurt begins. Wrench out a
Smile
that slides around the fear. When the
Air
disappears,
Your
mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly,
Like
the head of a kitchen match. Shattered.
It
is your juice
That
runs down their legs. Staining their shoes.
When
the earth rights itself again,
And
taste tries to return to the tongue,
Your
body has slammed shut. Forever.
No
keys exist.
Then
the window draws full upon
Your
mind. There, just beyond
The
sway of curtains, men walk.
Knowing
something.
Going
someplace.
But
this time, I will simply
Stand
and watch.
Maybe
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Preacher,
Don't Send Me
Preacher,
don't send me
when
I die
to
some big ghetto
in
the sky
where
rats eat cats
of
the leopard type
and
Sunday brunch
is
grits and tripe.
I've
known those rats
I've
seen them kill
and
grits I've had
would
make a hill,
or
maybe a mountain,
so
what I need
from
you on Sunday
is
a different creed.
Preacher,
please don't
promise
me
streets
of gold
and
milk for free.
I
stopped all milk
at
four years old
and
once I'm dead
I
won't need gold.
I'd
call a place
pure
paradise
where
families are loyal
and
strangers are nice,
where
the music is jazz
and
the season is fall.
Promise
me that
or
nothing at all
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I Know Why The Caged
Bird Sings
The
free bird leaps
on
the back of the wind
and
floats downstream
till
the current ends
and
dips his wings
in
the orange sun rays
and
dares to claim the sky.
But
a bird that stalks
down
his narrow cage
can
seldom see through
his
bars of rage
his
wings are clipped and
his
feet are tied
so
he opens his throat to sing.
The
caged bird sings
with
fearful trill
of
the things unknown
but
longed for still
and
his tune is heard
on
the distant hill for the caged bird
sings
of freedom
The
free bird thinks of another breeze
and
the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and
the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and
he names the sky his own.
But
a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his
shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his
wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so
he opens his throat to sing
The
caged bird sings
with
a fearful trill
of
things unknown
but
longed for still
and
his tune is heard
on
the distant hill
for
the caged bird
sings
of freedom.
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The Rock Cries Out To
Us Today
A
Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts
to species long since departed,
Mark
the mastodon.
The
dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of
their sojourn here
On
our planet floor,
Any
broad alarm of their of their hastening doom
Is
lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But
today, the Rock cries out to us,
clearly, forcefully,
Come,
you may stand upon my
Back
and face your distant destiny,
But
seek no haven in my shadow.
I
will give you no hiding place down here.
You,
created only a little lower than
The
angels, have crouched too long in
The
bruising darkness,
Have
lain too long
Face
down in ignorance.
Your
mouths spelling words
Armed
for slaughter.
The
rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But
do not hide your face.
Across
the wall of the world,
A
river sings a beautiful song,
Come
rest here by my side.
Each
of you a bordered country,
Delicate
and strangely made proud,
Yet
thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your
armed struggles for profit
Have
left collars of waste upon
My
shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet,
today I call you to my riverside,
If
you will study war no more.
Come,
clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The
Creator gave to me when I
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Refusal
Beloved,
In
what other lives or lands
Have
I known your lips
Your
Hands
Your
Laughter brave
Irreverent.
Those
sweet excesses that
I
do adore.
What
surety is there
That
we will meet again,
On
other worlds some
Future
time undated.
I
defy my body's haste.
Without
the promise
Of
one more sweet encounter
I
will not deign to die.
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The
Health-Food Diner
No
sprouted wheat and soya shoots
And
Brussels in a cake,
Carrot
straw and spinach raw,
(Today,
I need a steak).
Not
thick brown rice and rice pilaw
Or
mushrooms creamed on toast,
Turnips
mashed and parsnips hashed,
(I'm
dreaming of a roast).
Health-food
folks around the world
Are
thinned by anxious zeal,
They
look for help in seafood kelp
(I
count on breaded veal).
No
smoking signs, raw mustard greens,
Zucchini
by the ton,
Uncooked
kale and bodies frail
Are
sure to make me
run
to
Loins
of pork and chicken thighs
And
standing rib, so prime,
Pork
chops brown and fresh ground round
(I
crave them all the time).
Irish
stews and boiled corned beef
and
hot dogs by the scores,
or
any place that saves a space
For
smoking carnivores.
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Remembrance
Your
hands easy
weight,
teasing the bees
hived
in my hair, your smile at the
slope
of my cheek. On the
occasion,
you press
above
me, glowing, spouting
readiness,
mystery rapes
my
reason
When
you have withdrawn
your
self and the magic, when
only
the smell of your
love
lingers between
my
breasts, then, only
then,
can I greedily consume
your
presence.
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The
Lesson
I
keep on dying again.
Veins
collapse, opening like the
Small
fists of sleeping
Children.
Memory
of old tombs,
Rotting
flesh and worms do
Not
convince me against
The
challenge. The years
And
cold defeat live deep in
Lines
along my face.
They
dull my eyes, yet
I
keep on dying,
Because
I love to live.
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