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December 12 - December 12, 2023
CORNER MEETING Ladder, flag, and amplifier now are what the soap box used to be. The speaker catches fire, looking at listeners’ faces. His words jump down to stand in their places.
MOTTO I play it cool And dig all jive— That’s the reason I stay alive. My motto, As I live and learn Is Dig and be dug In return.
AMERICAN HEARTBREAK I am the American heartbreak— The rock on which Freedom Stumped its toe— The great mistake That Jamestown made Long ago.
LONG VIEW: NEGRO Emancipation: 1865 Sighted through the Telescope of dreams Looms larger, So much larger, So it seems, Than truth can be. But turn the telescope around, Look through the larger end— And wonder why What was so large Becomes so small Again.
JUSTICE That Justice is a blind goddess Is a thing to which we black are wise: Her bandage hides two festering sores That once perhaps were eyes.
DOWN WHERE I AM Too many years Beatin’ at the door— I done beat my Both fists sore. Too many years Tryin’ to get up there— Done broke my ankles down, Got nowhere. Too many years Climbin’ that hill, ’Bout out of breath. I got my fill. I’m gonna plant my feet On solid ground. If you want to see me, Come down.
PEACE We passed their graves: The dead men there, Winners or losers, Did not care. In the dark They could not see Who had gained The victory.
WAR The face of war is my face. The face of war is your face. What color Is the face Of war? Brown, black, white— Your face and my face. Death is the broom I take in my hands To sweep the world Clean. I sweep and I sweep Then mop and I mop. I dip my broom in blood, My mop in blood— And blame you for this, Because you are there, Enemy. It’s hard to blame me, Because I am here— So I kill you. And you kill me. My name, Like your name, Is war.
COLOR Wear it Like a banner For the proud— Not like a shroud. Wear it Like a song Soaring high— Not moan or cry.
HISTORY The past has been a mint Of blood and sorrow. That must not be True of tomorrow.
DREAM DUST Gather out of star-dust Earth-dust, Cloud-dust, And splinters of hail, One handful of dream-dust Not for sale.
SLUM DREAMS Little dreams Of springtime Bud in sunny air With no roots To nourish them, Since no stems Are there— Detached, Naïve, So young. On air alone They’re hung.
