#AmericanWriters
Clean the spittoons, boy. Detroit, Chicago, Atlantic City, Palm Beach.
Have you dug the spill Of Sugar Hill? Cast your gims On this sepia thrill: Brown sugar lassie,
I would liken you To a night without stars Were it not for your eyes. I would liken you To a sleep without dreams
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
What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore— And then run?
I catch the pattern Of your silence Before you speak I do not need To hear a word.
The census man, The day he came round, Wanted my name To put it down. I said, Johnson,
I live on a park bench. You, Park Avenue. Hell of a distance Between us two. I beg a dime for dinner—
She, In the dark, Found light Brighter than many ever see. She,
Harlem Sent him home in a long box— Too dead To know why:
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
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…
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
He glides so swiftly Back into the grass— Gives me the courtesy of road To let me pass, That I am half ashamed
Here I sit With my shoes mismated. Lawdy—mercy! I’s frustrated!