#hughes
I am Mexican:
Brown and forgotten inbetween,
Brown like the dirt poor I am.
Iv'e been in hard labor:
I do what "they" don't want to anymore,
I am the backbone of the working class.
Iv'e been poor:
I see no handouts under the pyramid scheme,
I am the Latin prince of the ghetto.
Iv'e been a hustler:
Every penny earned off my back
Makes dollars for "their" pockets.
Iv'e been here:
I am no *******
I am the American dream,
Still I must show identification.
I am Mexican:
Brown and four generations deep
American, I am still
The immigrant face.
May 18
May 18, 2026 at 6:26 PM UTC
What happens to a broken promise?
Does it sting
like a bee?
or creates a wound
and leaves a scar?
Does it die in the heart
or grow as a seed
Maybe it just lives
like a ghost
Or it creates strangers?
Sep 20, 2020
Sep 20, 2020 at 11:54 PM UTC
Like fireflies, they dance
around my head, teasing,
promising resolution.
I can't catch them,
too quick for my heavy hands.
Movement on my fingertips,
but the light dims just as fast.
Frustration closes my eyes.
Defeat sweeps my mind clean.
...
My eyes snap open,
The light blinding,
and finally,
pen can meet paper.
Feb 9, 2020
Feb 9, 2020 at 5:50 AM UTC
I'm surrounded by so many, yet no one is close.
I feel your warmth, but no one is there
I yearn for your touch,
I need your pain.
But now I'm left alone
Alone in a world of isolation.
Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 4:36 PM UTC
Sometimes perhaps you don’t want to be a part of me
Yes, it hurts me- a little bit, a lot a bit
but I understand.
You are yourself and I am myself-
You will do you, I guess I’ll be me
I still wonder though.
Who am I-
Why not,
What’s so wrong with being a part of me,
my life- who I am?
What’s so bad about me?
Is it because I’m not “pretty” enough
or “cool” enough
or good enough to you, to be a part of me? Associated with me?
Because I won’t just make you happy
I will make myself, my family, those I do- and don’t know happy
I will try and make you as well.
What counts as part of me?
Just that I’m nineteen, female, probably bi
born in Geneva, Illinois, raised in South Elgin, Illinois
but also raised in Westford, Massachusetts
both painfully boring towns; quiet, uneventful.
Does that make me as well? Is part of me South Elgin, Westford?
And then what else- what other parts of me?
That can’t be the only part-
So I’m also creative, loud, spontaneous
the part that makes me different
Is it so bad to be that part?
Part. Of. Me.
it sounds like a bad pop song. Is that why you don’t want to be
part of me-
Why is it that sometimes perhaps you don’t want to be a part of me?
Does that mean you won’t speak, look or think about me?
i don’t think that’s possible.
Am I really that much of a stranger?
I’ve known you for quite sometime -
You’ve known me
So can you even not be a part of me?
You can be yourself, as well as
Part of me.
so
yes
You are part of me.
As am I to you,
Just not all of me.
A single piece, maybe, a part,
that shouldn’t be too much to ask.
You can have alone time, but even then that doesn’t mean;
for the time alone, your part of me is gone.
What an illogical statement,
Sometimes perhaps you don’t want to be part of me.
You already are.
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 1:30 AM UTC
Right Downtown where
buildings scrape blue skies
and leaves share
their space on the cement,
A vagrant just on the end of 10th
dances wildly capturing high-class sentiments
he throws wide arcs of brown shrouds
and falls with practiced elegance,
the city waltz between trees,
the jazz swing stepped proud,
in harmony with the breeze
your lolling head beats
out an ancient melody.
You belong to the streets.
You creak at the knee.
You smile right at me.
Between the glass pane
you see mine and wink,
you are perfectly framed—
I never do look away.
If you weren’t all
that I am not
so free
would I have seen
the officer turn the street
his rigid blue uniform taut
like his skin and hard
like his eyes?
Officer! I wish I could’ve
screamed, would you
had heard me? Turned a cheek?
Street dancer, city slicker,
You were everything—
**** the way he tapped his feet
floating high, mesmerized,
stunned, I just watched
sitting in a leather chair
hair dye dripping blood red,
his cracked lips flare
a smile turned cross
he falls onto the cement
he goes home colored red
he fills the cracks
he is dead.
Dec 4, 2017
Dec 4, 2017 at 4:51 PM UTC
My Master died some time ago
But he left me 'The Ways of White Folks'
And he taught me about 'Democracy'
I recall the 'Dreams' and the 'Dreams Deferred'
And how he sang 'I, Too'
With less than a hundred years between us
His lessons are the same
America for him was brutal
America for me hasn't changed
So with the words he left me,
I craft my trade in his name
With artful thought, I pay my dues
Studying my master, Langston Hughes
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 8:20 PM UTC
I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.
Tomorrow,
I’ll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.
Besides,
They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—
I, too, am America.
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 2:41 AM UTC
How badly I want to be in that
John Hughes film
I want the cheesy romance
That reeks of tears for fears
And looks like the **** or geek or criminal
That sixteen candle
Sitting on your 944 porche
With the credits rolling up kind of romance
Please leave your notebook at home
Locked up with a vow you don't remeber.
I want that weird science kind of chemistry
A day off involving you
I can look pretty in pink
I can look pretty in Hughes of you.
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 11:30 PM UTC
*Parody of Langston Hughes's "I, Too, Sing America"
I, too, speak “American”.
I am the yellow father.
They send me to entertain in accents
When company comes,
But I smile,
And learn quick,
And grow smart.
Tomorrow,
I'll preach at the podium
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Listen to his accent,"
Then.
Besides,
They'll hear how articulate I am
And be ashamed--
I, too, speak “American”.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 11:40 PM UTC
I am Mexican:
Brown and forgotten inbetween,
Brown like the dirt poor I am.
Iv'e been in hard labor:
I do what "they" don't want to anymore,
I am the backbone of the working class.
Iv'e been poor:
I see no handouts under the pyramid scheme,
I am the Latin prince of the ghetto.
Iv'e been a hustler:
Every penny earned off my back
Makes dollars for "their" pockets.
Iv'e been here:
I am no *******
I am the American dream,
Still I must show identification.
I am Mexican:
Brown and four generations deep
American, I am still
The immigrant face.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 12:28 AM UTC
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
Langston Hughes (1902-1967).
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 10:47 PM UTC
How strange and violet and giddy
that you are a boy
and I am a girl,
and we sit here, there,
you with Plath and I with her lover,
pretending, pretending,
pretending-
they are not the poets.
It is you, the boy,
and me, the girl,
writing to each other.
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 5:40 AM UTC
I'm 'sophisticatedly' sticking a pen
in my mouth, pretending
to smoke a cigarette.
I don't have the courage to hurt
myself, but
I do.
In 'subtle and implied' ways, he
says.
I make watery coffee and convince
myself, my happiness
lies in there,
floating. And I pretend
I'm in a Parisian cafe.
But these are pipe-dream dregs,
nothing else.
I guess they can't substitute the
vividness of being,
living.
Of sharp technicolour experience that can be
smelt.
Dregs, indeed.
Today, I borrowed Birthday Letters by
Ted Hughes from the library.
I'm wondering if
salvias were his favourite
flower.
His favourite.
I can't figure it out.
For his words are only stricken,
messy with the rawness of
too-technicolour experience.
Beautiful.
But sharp
enough to pierce and
poison,
like Paris.
My Paris, your Paris,
our little Paris.
So startlingly, breathlessly
red.
I suddenly know why I have written this.
The colour of salvias,
of Paris,
of me and you,
is my soul's favourite.
His favourite.
And salvias, their fragrance, it
douses the fire that's threatening to
suffocate, swallow my
life whole,
incomplete.
Red is my favourite colour.
And it's yours.
But I really don't think I want it to be.
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 6:13 AM UTC
Is time to pay homage to those who paved a path for me. Had a "Dream with in a dream" like Edgar did. No kiss upon the brow, we shook hands and drank tea. Spoke about love and death and all its synonyms like I am to he. Did you kissed her because she died? Were the grain of golden sand that creeped through your fingers from her broken hour glass? Is this life a reality or yet a dream? For the poor it must be a nightmare to sleep and not see reality. As he vanished right in front of me and left behind a black feather with ink as it came from a Raven's wing.
Pinched my self to wake up from this dream or nightmare. Scared of what might come next. I see snow flakes start to fall from the sky as if heaven is coming down towards me. I look up with my mouth open catching snow on my tounge. I hear a horse gallop and is getting close. He stops right before and asked if the woods are mine? He says, "I know he know he still has miles to go for promises he must keep before he sleeps." As the horse harness bell shakes he ask "before I depart how far I'll go before I sleep in the woods that are lovely, dark and deep. Remember my name Robert Frost, for when I sleep and arrive at your door but For now I must go I have promises to keep, I have promises to keep before I sleep." As he vanishes right before my eyes horse and all I hear the gallops far far away and a solid snow flake falls right between my eyes.
and I blink and I see 21st century man ask a stranger where am i? He smiles and sarcastically said "the land of the free" "we were named New Amsterdam but now is called Manhattan, this hear is Harlem. I'm Langston Hughes let's sit by the river. Asked him how's life? "Life is fine" "I was born for living as are you." "You'll be dogged if you let them see you die for love, so live. You'll make your mark I'll all come one night." Took the elevator to the 16 floor asked him if I was dreaming? He said "of course I died in 1967" as he jumped this time for the first time he yelled "don't let it dry up like a raisin in the sun, dream don't defer". Just like that he was gone.
As time moves back and forth between centuries. I hear murmurs, see things I can't understand stop please the voices are to much for me. Troy, Troy is it burned yet? Homer and William Butler Yeats discuss Odeysseu's journey, Helen and Menelaus king of Sparta.
Stop! Stop! Stop! As I fall from space in fear of my death. I wake up and see the sun beaming through the blinds. The smell of pancakes enters the room and in to my nose, glad is on my face. She said "How you sleep last night, bad dream again" As I eat with my left and write with my right. Time to pay homage i said. Time to pay homage.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 12:53 PM UTC
Dreams by Langston Hughes
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 10:31 PM UTC
he holds a coffee cup in one hand
and a notebook in the other
it has a langston hughes quote on the cover
written in a midnight scrawl
when he paid, he smiled with all his teeth
and he had taken off his dark gloves for long enough
to reveal his calloused fingers
scarred guitar worn fingers
he drinks his coffee black and sits by the window
and Lord, the thought of him breaks me already
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
Dear Emma Watson -
Shall we make love
The object of
Our spiritual quest
Together?
Surely an altogether
Better option
Than pairing you off
In a commentary box
With one John Motson
Discussing twenty two
Pairs of socks
Chasing a piece of leather?
If spiritual questing
Is not for you
I will make do
With tightly tied pairs of shoes
Existential emus,
Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes.
Whilst hoping you find
Your Sherlock Holmes,
Miss Watson
I will content myself with
Cataloguing my collection of
Black and white combs.
I also have plots on
Which I need to work -
Wednesday Addams's love of
Moon dried tomatoes
Or Erica Roe
Somewhere in Portugal
Growing sweet potatoes
For sale.
Don't let anyone tell you
There ain't no perks
To being an Omega Male.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:01 AM UTC
In the aftermath
Of a very hot bath
Sylvia Plath
Used to re-read
Katherine Mansfield stories
Until she felt
A little bit snory.
Whilst Ted Hughes -
After he'd imbued
The cool waters of
A shower for an hour -
Would watch Jackanory
Till he felt Hunky Dory
Then listen to Aladdin Sane
To bring him back to
The real world again.
Watch That Man!
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC