By Lucille Clifton won’t you celebrate with me what i have shaped into a kind of life? i had no model. born in babylon both nonwhite and woman what did i see to be except myself? i made it up here on this bridge between starshine and clay, my one hand holding tight my other hand; come celebrate with me that everyday something has tried to kill me and has failed.
On the third anniversary of Maya Angelou’s death, here is a poem of hers that is not so widely known. Enjoy. Because we have forgotten our ancestors, our children no longer give us honor. Because we have lost the path our ancestors cleared kneeling in perilous undergrowth, our children cannot find their way. Because we have banished the God of our ancestors, our children cannot pray. Because the old wails of our ancestors have faded beyond our hearing, our children cannot hear us crying. Because we have abandoned our wisdom of mothering and fathering, our befuddled children give birth to children they neither want nor
If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too: If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies, Or being hated don’t give way to hating, And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise; If you can dream—and not make dreams your master; If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim, If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same:.