#AmericanWriters
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
Here I sit With my shoes mismated. Lawdy—mercy! I’s frustrated!
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 was so sick last night I Didn’t hardly know my mind. So sick last night I Didn’t know my mind. I drunk some bad licker that
From Christ to Ghandi Appears this truth— St. Francis of Assisi Proves it, too: Goodness becomes grandeur
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 —
I got to leave this town. It’s a lonesome place. Got to leave this town cause It’s a lonesome place. A po’, po’ boy can’t
Children, I come back today To tell you a story of the long da… That I had to climb, that I had t… In order that the race might live… Look at my face —dark as the night…
Only dumb guys fight. If I wasn’t dumb I wouldn’t be fightin’. I could make six dollars a day On the docks
2 and 2 are 4. 4 and 4 are 8. But what would happen If the last 4 was late? And how would it be
It would be nice In any case, To someday meet you Face to face Walking down
God in His infinite wisdom Did not make me very wise— So when my actions are stupid They hardly take God by surprise
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?
I live on a park bench. You, Park Avenue. Hell of a distance Between us two. I beg a dime for dinner—
How still, How strangely still The water is today, It is not good For water