By James C. Kilgore
A few shelf put on in a different way excellent.
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Additional info for African Violet: Poem for a Black Woman
I don't know why. . I've been wounded more by love than by war. It's not the back that matters though; I think it is the rain that hurts me more. My father used to predict rain by pain. When his arthritis struck a joint, He could take out his watch And tell us what time to expect the first drop. I'm not used to predicting rain by my own pain. I'd say though that from the way my torso reels when I walk and from the way the northwest wind weeps across these wet plains that a late monsoon rain is being born.
S. Steel, Shovels coal, deep under dark Kentucky, Squeezes the triggers of M-16's, Asks social questions of computers, Points blue-black pens at the Chairman of the Board to make her stock market points, And makes business in the bedroom. Page 42 I Shall Remember You When summer disappears And autumn stalks the road to Chagrin falls like a San Francisco whore welcoming troop ships to the shore, I shall remember you who will not wait for gray days to walk the land you love. When autumn is weeping wild tears on the sidewalks of Shaker Heights, You will be watching the tobacco harvest from atop of Mt.
No, you do not sleep alone: Your tears touch the centuries: Your lamentations echo the early hours of Armageddon; And when the clouds have cleared, We shall then know that your cries rang in the streets of the New Jerusalem. Page 69 Sisters of tragedy, The lambs left in your fold lope to the fields, But they do not play anymore: Their ears monitor the winds; Their eyes probe the valleys. They pray, I know, for an end to this grim night, For the daybreak of peace and innocence to dawn upon the sad hills And wake them from an episodic tragedy.