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The American love, the American heart, The American song, Sing I, The song of America, Full of beautiful Americanism and Americanness. Come, let us at least, come, join me at least With me in my imagery and scenic presentation Far from, I on this shore, you on that And I getting the cable messages in […]learn more
The gypsy woman told my mother before I was born,
“You got a boy child comin’, gonna be a son of a gun”.
Gonna make pretty women jump and shout, then the world gonna know what it’s all about.
I’m him everybody knows I’m him.
I’m the hoochie coochie man, Everybody knows I’m him, I him.
I got a black cat bone; I got a mojo too,
I got the Johnny conkeroo, I’m gonna mess with you.
I’m gonna make you girls lead me by the hand,
Then the worlds gonna know, I’m that hoochie coochie man.
I’m him everybody knows I’m him.
We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,-
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.
Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while We wear the mask.
We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise, We wear the mask…
Precious Lord, take my hand,
Lead me on, let me stand,
I am tired, I am weak, I am worn.
Through the storm, through the night
Lead me on to the light,
Take my hand, precious Lord, Lead me home.
When my way grow drear,
Precious Lord, linger near.
When my life is almost gone,
Hear my cry, hear my call,
Hold my hand lest I fall.
Take my hand, precious Lord,
Lead me home.
When the darkness appears
And the night draws near,
And the day is past and gone,
At the river I stand,
Guide my feet, hold my hand.
Take my hand, precious Lord
Lead me home….
My window opens out into the trees and in that small place of branches and of sky I see the seasons pass behold the tender green give way to darker heavier leaves.
The glory of autumn comes when steeped in mellow sunlight the fragile, golden leaves against a clear blue sky linger in the magic of the afternoon and then reluctantly break off and filter down to pave a street with gold.
Then bare, gray branches lift themselves against the cold December sky sometimes weaving a web across the rose and dusk of late sunset
Sometimes against a frail new moon and one bright star riding a sky of that
A Gold Watch to the FBI Man who has followed me for 25 years.
Well, old spy
looks like I
led you down some pretty blind alleys,
took you on several trips to Mexico,
fishing in the high Sierras,
jazz at the Philharmonic.
You’ve watched me all your life,
I’ve clothed your wife,
put your two sons through college,
what good has it done?
the sun keeps rising every morning.
ever see me buy an Assistant President?
or close a school?
or lend money to Trujillo?
ever catch me rigging airplane prices?
I bought some after-hours whiskey in L.A.
Our moulting days are in their twilight stage.
These lengthy dreaded suns of draggling plumes.
These days of moods that swiftly alternate between
the former preen and a downcast rage
or crest-fallen lag, are fading out. The initial bloom;
exotic, dazzling in its indigo, tangerine
splendor; this rare, conflicting coat had to be shed.
Our drooping feathers turn all shades. We spew
this unamicable aviary, gag upon the worm, and fling
our loosening quills. We make a riotous spread
upon the dust and mire that beds us.
I have been all my lovers
I have been better than my lovers
I have been those better than I
the ones I’ve never met
the ones I’ve met and never got
their secret side things
the ones I imagine
I have been my desires
I have been loved
in moments I have loved myself
having love is the key to having love
it is as simple as they ever said
I have been with people
I have been more than with people
I have been amongst myself
there is alone as well
and without self
these are even often better
my self cannot be imagined
I cannot seriously imagine you
but it has nev
On my back they’ve written history, Lord,
On my back they’ve lashed out hell.
My eyes run blood,
The faces I see are blood,
My toes can’t dig no deeper in the dirt.
When my children get to reading, Lord,
On my back they’ll read my tale.
My lips taste blood,
And in the soul’s they’re blood.
My tongue can’t joy no future in this blood.
When my children get to shouting, Lord,
When my children get to standing straight,
Lord, Lord, Lord,
When that time come rolling down!!!!
Slaves are said to have worked hard & long on this island
Sunup to sundown & beyond Sundays & Christmas off
Two clothes a year are memories bestowed to old Penn School.
Nearby expressionless summer homes of early plantation owners sit observing the bay
The stately museums of Beaufort the arsenals and ports of the English
Built above Native remains: the romance of American history.
Sand blows across the island from ocean beaches.learn more