Why do you think you're better
If your culture is not the same?
Yes, maybe you seem different
But deep inside all are the same.
Why do they think they're better?
If one is black and one is white,
If one is man and one is woman.
They are the same, that is their right.
A Letter To My Aunt Discussing The Correct Approach To Modern Poetry
To you, my aunt, who would explore
The literary Chankley Bore,
The paths are hard, for you are not
A literary Hottentot
But just a kind and cultured dame
Who knows not Eliot (to her shame).
Fie on you, aunt, that you should see
No genius in David G.,
No elemental form and sound
No wrong is done to one who consents,
The worst comes when you fail to confess,
For the things that one can’t express,
And for the problems one can’t address.
Love! True love as we know it,
Intimate, casual just name it,
Whether from the liberal or extremist,
But it can kill you if you believe it.
Think just think, of all the blood, sweat and tears
London has shed with the passing of years.
The dirt, dust and smog, the noise and the grime.
Poverty, slavery, squalor and crime.
Ambitions and hopes, mad schemings and fears,
Disease, depravity, vice, wines and beers,
Arts and culture can pass the test of time,
City of contrast from base to sublime.
At the gate of the West I stand,
On the isle where the nations throng.
We call them "scum o' the earth";
Stay, are we doing you wrong,
Young fellow from Socrates' land? --
You, like a Hermes so lissome and strong
Fresh from the Master Praxiteles' hand?
When my chips are down
And I’m feeling blue...
My car has a flat
And da rent is past due...
My wife just left me
And she took my dog...
My thoughts are all confused
Cuz my head’s in a fog...
Right after the turn of the century
The Mardi Gras Indians came alive...
The tribes came from all over the city
From the different wards where they still survive...
Downtown Indians use sequins and feathers...
Uptowners use feathers, rhinestones and beads...
The main part of every costume is the patch...
A message from the heart is what it reads...
Here come the flambeau
on Mardi Gras night...
Bringing dark parades alive
by sharing their light...
When the sun goes down
and the nights get cool...
The Flambeau Nation
is the Mardi Gras rule...
On the museum walls, a many hued color explosion,
As in varicolored gardens where beauty is spoken,
Or emerald forests where strange wildness thrives,
Scarlet macaws, blue frogs and orchid bee hives!
On nameless city streets, a steady fashion parade,
And sunshine orchards where luscious fruit is made.
Circuses and carnivals, with clowns and balloons,
And seeing flamingos dancing, on golden afternoons.
Within halls that all but speak,
Sit elegant objects, very antique;
Treasured and valued bits of past,
Which care and devotion made last.
A museum crowded with sweet memory,
Like of dead, red robin's late beauty!
The glossy mirror gracing the wall,
At ruddy sunset, reflects them all.