Whatever we tell ogbo, ogbo must hear Whatever we tell ogba, ogba must accept O east wind, come quickly, rise with the sun, Carry these words on swift wings to Omo Ade Wherever his head may lay; Let duty come before adventure And let the west wind bring him home Omo Ade ooo! Seven days after your departure, While our faces were still wet with tears We received some guests Strange men who told us they were friends of yours They brought us gifts, beautifully wrapped in the finest damask A place to rest their travelling feet Water for their faces and
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
On some days, fear is a cold hand squeezing your insides, sending your heart racing after what-ifs and what-nots. On other days, it is a trickle down your spine that snakes down your legs and keeps your feet firmly planted in the mire of your realities. Sometimes, you move regardless; your humanness brings you to brinks of grief, pleasure, and moments of mad daring. Other times, you stay mired and call it grounded; it’s just not a day to be brave.
I remember you Your deep frown and hearty laugh The way your eyes lit up when you were pleased And how they darkened and almost disappeared as your grin widened in mischief I remember how you would fold both hands and place them on your head as you sat Or bring them together at your back as you walked Kicking pebbles, shifting the weight of the world from one shoulder to the other
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:.
I love this poem. It’s the only one I found written by this poet. Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there. I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning’s hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did