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
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
Soupy thick air in a
day that is not yet summer
Ants already marching
two by two down my bathroom wall
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.
Posted in Current Events, haiku, Poems, Poetry
Tagged Attack, Belgium, Brussels, current-events, Poems, Poetry, Suicide Bombers, Terrorism
Smack dab in the mid
of winter the snowing has
begun. No pumping
the breaks now on this feathery
white tundry blanket.
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.
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
There’s nothing sweeter
than the little wee one who
wants nothing more in the
world than to just cuddle with
his dear Momma
Twisty trembly crinkly
leaves hanging on for dear life
You’ll all be gone soon