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"hughs" poems
Why do I write? Not just to tell my story But to to tell her story His story And our history This is how we pass it down We must realize our roots and grow The great late Langston Hughs Said his hands was on the the plow And that plow was plowing freedom Well, if that plow headed to freedom I'm on that plow too So I sit down and write Planting seeds For the youth Hoping that the flowers from my garden bloom I nourish their minds Giving them the ability to plant roots Hoping they become strong To become a forest To nourish the new youth that comes along Than all of us can come together and sing along To some old ***** Spiritual "Free at last, free at last I thank God I'm free at last Free at last, free at last I thank God I'm free at last"
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Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC
michael-a-bauseman
Roots
Why do I write? Not just to tell my story But to to tell her story His story And our history This is how we pass it down We must realize our roots and grow The great late Langston Hughs Said his hands was on the the plow And that plow was plowing freedom Well, if that plow headed to freedom I'm on that plow too So I sit down and write Planting seeds For the youth Hoping that the flowers from my garden bloom I nourish their minds Giving them the ability to plant roots Hoping they become strong To become a forest To nourish the new youth that comes along Than all of us can come together and sing along To some old ***** Spiritual "Free at last, free at last I thank God I'm free at last Free at last, free at last I thank God I'm free at last"
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If we were on a canvas; I. Ocean blue greys in heavy handed strokes, Bleed into a green of sun lit canopies .   Burnt umber and soil with quick wristed flecks of something like the yellow of thick honey   Intermingling over deafening white, the colors collide messily but not unintentionally   Not oil, not acrylic,  not even water color .   Rather something made truly of these very things,   Ocean depths and hurricane hights, black tire marks burnt into cement and the mud that squishes beneath bare feet. The colors of momentary bliss . Unapologetic and unraveling. II.  Dust collects heavily on a lustrous and listless painting , dimly lit in an empty gallery.      Only my fingertips disturb the sediment of dust and salt, the face of these colors only haunt me .   And those who remember seeing it look sadly apon me and tell me only; that there are more muses in this world than one.   III.   You're somewhere doing something ,     But no matter what satisfaction is gained You know there is no recreation of those hughs, And a piece of you too mourns the capability to finish the art set in place by fate and choice. If we were on a canvas , we would be hidden in lonely parts of eachother, because whatever we made this of is stained into our skin no matter how hard their loving hands try to cleanse them . We are the very mess we create. Unapologetic. Unraveling. Undeniably human.
0
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
abigail-reynolds
Canvas Hands
If we were on a canvas; I. Ocean blue greys in heavy handed strokes, Bleed into a green of sun lit canopies .   Burnt umber and soil with quick wristed flecks of something like the yellow of thick honey   Intermingling over deafening white, the colors collide messily but not unintentionally   Not oil, not acrylic,  not even water color .   Rather something made truly of these very things,   Ocean depths and hurricane hights, black tire marks burnt into cement and the mud that squishes beneath bare feet. The colors of momentary bliss . Unapologetic and unraveling. II.  Dust collects heavily on a lustrous and listless painting , dimly lit in an empty gallery.      Only my fingertips disturb the sediment of dust and salt, the face of these colors only haunt me .   And those who remember seeing it look sadly apon me and tell me only; that there are more muses in this world than one.   III.   You're somewhere doing something ,     But no matter what satisfaction is gained You know there is no recreation of those hughs, And a piece of you too mourns the capability to finish the art set in place by fate and choice. If we were on a canvas , we would be hidden in lonely parts of eachother, because whatever we made this of is stained into our skin no matter how hard their loving hands try to cleanse them . We are the very mess we create. Unapologetic. Unraveling. Undeniably human.
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