#AmericanWriters
The old men used to sing And lifted a brother Carefully Out the door I used to think they
The tree of life has fallen on my small house. I thought it was so much bigger! But it is not. There in the distance I see the m…
If my sorrow were deeper I’d be, along with you, under the ocean’s floor; but today I learn that the oil that pools beneath the ocean floor
I Sing of Mumia brilliant and strong and of the captivity that few black men escape
As if I’ve swallowed A watermelon And Sidestepping My digestive tract
If I was President The first thing I would do is call Mumia Abu—Jamal. No, if I was president
Going out to the garden this morning to plant seeds for my winter greens —the strong, fiery mustard
I said to Poetry:"I’m finished with you." Having to almost die before some wierd light comes creeping through
To change the world enough you must cease to be afraid of the poor. We experience your fear as the lea… humiliations; in the past
His posture From so many years Holding his robe with one hand Is odd. His gait
You confide in me that you are lonely,
I have a friend who is turning gray, not just her hair, and I do not know why this is so.
When you thought me poor, my poverty was shaming. When blackness was unwelcome we found it best that I stay home.
Did you ever understand this? If my spirit was poor, how could… Was I depressed? Understanding editing, I see how a comma, removed or inse…
When the people have won a victory whether small or large do you ever wonder