#AmericanWriters
To fling my arms wide In some place of the sun, To whirl and to dance Till the white day is done. Then rest at cool evening
Tell all my mourners To mourn in red — Cause there ain’t no sense In my bein’ dead.
Democracy will not come Today, this year Nor ever Through compromise and fear. I have as much right
I got to leave this town. It’s a lonesome place. Got to leave this town cause It’s a lonesome place. A po’, po’ boy can’t
Love Is a ripe plum Growing on a purple tree. Taste it once And the spell of its enchantment
Night funeral In Harlem: Where did they get Them two fine cars? Insurance man, he did not pay—
Go home and write a page tonight. And let that page come out of you— Then, it will be true. I wonder if it’s that simple?
In the Quarter of the Negroes Where the doors are doors of paper Dust of dingy atoms Blows a scratchy sound. Amorphous jack—o’—Lanterns caper
My name is Johnson— Madam Alberta K. The Madam stands for business. I’m smart that way. I had a
I live on a park bench. You, Park Avenue. Hell of a distance Between us two. I beg a dime for dinner—
From Christ to Ghandi Appears this truth— St. Francis of Assisi Proves it, too: Goodness becomes grandeur
The night is beautiful, So the faces of my people. The stars are beautiful, So the eyes of my people. Beautiful, also, is the sun.
I was so sick last night I Didn’t hardly know my mind. So sick last night I Didn’t know my mind. I drunk some bad licker that
Harlem Sent him home in a long box— Too dead To know why:
I could take the Harlem night and wrap around you, Take the neon lights and make a cr… Take the Lenox Avenue busses, Taxis, subways,