What I Know of Love

Though I am of many years,
What I know of love would fill a tiny tin cup,
rusted and worn, battered and abused.
Were I to measure the tears
They would fill oceans deep
From the nights I cried myself to sleep.
For love, in spite of its splendor,
Has brought nothing but defeat.
But attracted to the beauty of the rose,
I mindlessly reach out for one last touch.
Forgetting the prick of the thorn
With every waking morn,
Hoping for more,
I hold out my cup for one last pour.

copyright 2015 Patricia Newman-Harris

Celebration of National Poetry Month (continued)

Another one of my favorite poets is Nikki Giovanni.  It is clear she knows what it means to  live and breathe poetry.

POETRY

BY NIKKI GIOVANNI

poetry is motion graceful
as a fawn
gentle as a teardrop
strong like the eye
finding peace in a crowded room
we poets tend to think
our words are golden
though emotion speaks too
loudly to be defined
by silence
sometimes after midnight or just before
the dawn
we sit typewriter in hand
pulling loneliness around us
forgetting our lovers or children
who are sleeping
ignoring the weary wariness
of our own logic
to compsoe a poem
no one understands it
it never says "love me" for poets are
beyond love
it never says "accept me" for poems seke not
acceptance but controversy
it only says "i am" and therefore
i concede that you are too

a poem is pure energy
horizontally contained
between the mind
of the poet and the ear of the reader
if it does not sing discard the ear
for poetry is song
if it does not deligh discard
the heart for poetry is joy
if it does not inform then close
off the brain for it is dead
if it cannot heed the insistent message
that life is precious

which is all we poets
wrapped in our loneliness
are trying to say

Celebration of National Poetry Month

I apologize for getting a late start on Poetry Month.  I would like to start by sharing some pieces by various poets that struck a chord with me.  In light of the many challenges facing our country today, I thought this would be a good place to start.

Let America be America Again
Langston Hughes




Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed-
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?
I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek-
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean-
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today-O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home-
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay-
Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again-
The land that never has been yet-
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME-
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose-
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath-
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain-
All, all the stretch of these great green states-
And make America again!

He Rose

 

The Cost

When I think of the cross,
I think of the cost.
I think of how Jesus suffered, bled and died
For you and I,
He didn't have to give his life.
He didn't have to sacrifice.
He didn't have to die
He did it for you and I.
No one else would willingly suffer the pain
Expecting no gain.
No one else would give their life.
No one else would pay such a price.
He accepted the call.
He did it all,
Knowing what the outcome would be
He chose to let it be
He hung bled and died
For you and I.
Oh how Jesus loves!
Oh how he loves!
For us, he sacrificed
He gave his life
Today, tomorrow and forever more
One thing is sure,
He died that we might live
That is the gift he gives again and again
What was thought to be lost
Became eternal gain
Nothing would ever be the same
For when he died,
Death was swallowed up in victory
For all eternity
He suffered bled and died
For you and I
For you and I,
He did it all for you and I
For you and I
He died
Oh how Jesus loves
Oh how he loves you and I
When I think of the cross,
I think of the cost
I think of how he suffered
I think of how he died
For you and I
I think of how he answered the call
I think of how He did it all.
He willingly died on the cross,
Who else would pay such a cost?
Who else would give their life?
He made that sacrifice
For you and I
He willingly died.
Oh how Jesus loves
Oh how he loves,
Oh how he loves you and I.

copyright 2015 Patricia Newman-Harris

Black History Month (final post) 50th Anniversary of Selma March

The culmination of the movie Selma has brought to the forefront the importance and appreciation of the right to vote in America.  Although we have come a long way in this arena, we still have a long ways to go. We thank all of those who marched for our rights in 1965.  Thank you for enduring on our behalf.  The battle is not over and the struggle continues as long as the rights won are being denied any man in this country.

American Pie

This song is for you,

The heroes

And sheroes

Of our sacred past.

Yours was a complicated past

Filled with anguish and pain.

You were shamed and ignored

And treated like a dirty stain

On America’s floor.

This song is for you.

For all you went through,

We thank you.

Thank you

For purchasing our piece of the

American pie.

We know the price was high.

You suffered and died

That we might have a slice.

Yes we know the price.

So we won’t forget to

Pay our respect

As we take our seat

And feast.

Nothing can be worse than what you had to face.

Still, you established our place.

As long as we are able,

We will take our seat at the table;

 Savoring the taste.

Not one piece will we waste.

Before we eat our slice,

We will consider the price.

For we know good men had to die,

For our piece of the pie.

In homage, we bow our heads

And say, Thank you.

We would not be here without you.

We, your survivors sit in your place.

We thank God for His grace,

And we thank you for standing strong.

For us, you defied wrong,

You fought hard and long

To give us a place to belong.

You labored

Sunrise to sunset

To make sure we would get

What you could not get.

We know the price was high.

You suffered and died.

This song is for you,

Our heroes and sheroes

For all you went through.

We just want to say, Thank you.

From Living the Dream copyright 2014 by Patricia Newman-Harris

March 5, 1965
King and Johnson meet to discuss voting rights act

March 7, 1965
Voting rights marchers are beaten at Edmund Pettus Bridge

March 9, 1965
King leads second attempt at a voting rights march from Selma to Montgomery, Ala.

March 13, 1965
President Johnson denounces the brutality in Alabama in a meeting with governor George Wallace

March 15, 1965
President Johnson addresses Congress in support of a Voting Rights Bill

March 20, 1965National Guard to oversee Selma to Montgomery march

March 25, 1965
Selma to Montgomery March

http://mlk-kpp01.stanford.edu/index.php/encyclopedia/chronologyentry/1965_03_25/

                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

Black History Month--

Phyllis Wheatley, Slave, Author, Poet, On Being Brought From Africa to America

From Africa to America

One man traced his roots back to Africa, back to where it all began.  His odyssey sparked by the story of how, long ago, his people were taken from a land far across the sea.   It was the story of a people stripped of their native heritage and sold into slavery;  A people, without a voice,  without freedom of choice.  It was the story of a people who struggled to hold onto their dignity as their women were violated and their families ripped apart.  When scourged and beaten, they still possessed a courage that was admired and envied.  If they cried out, they cried out in anguish to their Heavenly Father,  who was their only source of hope in a darkened existence.  They were a people whose spirit could not be broken, a people who courageously continued to cling to the customs and values of their motherland. 

Throughout the years, generation after generation told the story of how it all began.  Who would know that one day, the story would find its way back to Africa?

Who would know that this people, once stolen from their native soil would become the fruit of a country that sought to enslave their very souls?  Who would know that this people would rise above their plight and one day take their places among the best in society, becoming doctors, lawyers, and teachers?  It was what they had dreamed of, fought for and hoped one day would come to be.

We can be proud because we have proven that we have inherited the spirit of courage and determination possessed by our African ancestors.  We are born warriors, and as such, we will stand our ground and fight for our place in this land.

Through us, the story of how it all began will go on, from  Africa to America and back again.  We will carry this story throughout time.  It will forever be a part of our history, forever in our hearts and in our souls, for it is the one thing that time can never erase.

 Copyright Patricia Newman-Harris 2014

We will endure!

Black History Month-(continued)

Freedom Train

Freedom Train

What is it I hear?

Sounds like a train drawing near.

Ain’t no ordinary train.

It’s the freedom train.

Underground and out of sight.

Comin like a thief in the night.

Freedom train,

Freedom train

Comin round the bend.

Songs of freedom blowin in the wind.

Freedom train, freedom train.

Gonna ride that freedom train.

Freedom train, freedom train.

Nothing will be the same.

Voices whispering in the dark of night,

Don’t go left, go right.

Bloodhounds drawing near

As if they can smell the fear.

Hush!

Hush!

Don’t make a sound

We will be found.

Can’t get tired now.

Got to keep on going somehow.

Freedom train,

Freedom train.

Gonna ride that freedom train.

Freedom train,

Freedom train

Comin round the bend.

Songs of freedom blowin in the wind.

Waited so long for this day.

Gonna sing a song of freedom in a land far away.

By and by,

No more tears to cry.

All sorrows  passed.

Gonna be free at last.

Freedom train, freedom train

Gonna ride that freedom train.

Those who once came to ride

Have long since died.

I can still hear their spirits calling me.

For what a tragedy

That some had to die and never see

Their dream of freedom become reality.

Wish that they could hear the whistle

Of freedom blowing once again .

Would that I could tell them the suffering

Has come to an end.

All sorrows are passed.

We are free at last.

Freedom train,

Freedom train,

Coming round the bend.

Songs of freedom blowin in the wind.

Freedom train,

Freedom train

Gonna ride that freedom train.

Copyright 2014, by Patricia Newman-Harris, Living the Dream