Category Archives: Poetry

Still I Rise by Maya Angelou

Photo of Maya Angelou

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?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.


Spring Heat


Soupy thick air in a
day that is not yet summer
Ants already marching
two by two down my bathroom wall


I miss
The curve of your hip, the arch of your back, the smooth lines of your shoulder blade…
the abandoned couch on shoulder of the highway
Who will love me now?




Mother’s Day cards scare me

a little, when they proclaim

that I’m the

most marvelous mom ever,

that I might not be able

to live up to that



Bombs from suiciders

tearing at my heart she said; 

not sure what compartment

to place this in anymore, as now,

it’s just a Monday you see.



The Snowing

amsterdam--aSmack dab in the mid

of winter the snowing has

begun. No pumping

the breaks now on this feathery

white tundry blanket.


He Does


Ebony raven gazes at the smoldering blonde moon wondering if he shall wing south with the murder for the winter or perhaps instead like a lone wolf stay at perch atop branches soon to be rigid and frosty. He haunts you, doesn’t he.


Either Way, He Won’t Give Himself Away


I’d like to think that

the bird isn’t angry at

the bitter cold and

ice stealing away the petite

branches between his

hind-limbs and is instead

contented  with his

frozen little perch

amongst the clusters of crimson


Morning Cuddles Are The Best


There’s nothing sweeter

than the little wee one who

wants nothing more in the

world than to just cuddle with

his dear Momma


Dry Leaves


Twisty trembly crinkly
leaves hanging on for dear life
You’ll all be gone soon