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"Beautiful Shades Of Ebony"
On this page you will see Poetry By Famous African American Women Writers
One of my favorite writers is Maya Angelou
Her words touch my Heart & Soul.
Peace ~ Love ~ Light
Karen ~aka~ Neah
Modified: April 14, 2002
"Four Generations Of Love, Hope and Strength"
The Beauty Of A Woman
The beauty of a woman, isn't in the clothes she wears, The figure that she carries, or the way she combs her hair.
The beauty of a woman, must be seen from in her eyes Because that's the doorway to her heart, the place where love resides.
The beauty of a woman, isn't in a facial mole, but true beauty in a woman, is reflected by her soul. It's the caring that she cares to give, the passion that she shows, And the beauty of a woman, with passing years, only grows.
Rambling rivers and great shining seas,
Mountains and forests with towering trees, Hillsides and valleys, all flower-festooned, Nature that nurtures whomever's attuned.
A faithful companion who'll stay by your side, Children to care for, to love and to guide, Enough work to do with enough time for play Then restful sleep at the close of the day.
Friends when you need them and when they need you, Something to spend, just as much as will do A heart full of laughter; perhaps a few tears, A faith you can follow through all of your years.
Then, fearlessly facing your last setting sun, As you contemplate all the deeds you have done, Recalling a life that's been more than worthwhile, Perhaps you will pause and give thanks with a smile.
Lord, all I am and hope to be,
I humbly offer, King, to thee!
When clouds arise, thy guidance send,
Accept my life, and bless it, Friend.
O Father! let me rest in thee,
Resigned to what thou will'st for me;
Content, though all my fond hopes fade,
And visions bright in gloom are laid.
When I was but a tiny child,
Thou shielded me from tempests wild;
And gave me strength to do the right
Within temptation's treacherous sight.
And now in girlhood's solemn time,
Oh, make my life one perfect rhyme,
Sung to the air of sweet content,
With blended sounds of a life well spent.
Once I redemption neither sought nor knew.
Some view our fable race with scornful eye,
"Their color is a diabolic die."
Remember, Christians, Negros, black as Cain,
May be refin'd, and join th' angelic train.
~**~ Inaugural Poem ~**~
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no more hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.
Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more. Come,
Clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
The River sings and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.
Today, the first and last of every Tree
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the River.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River.
Each of you, descendant of some passed
On traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name, you
Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of
Other seekers--desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot ...
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.
I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours--your Passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes, into
Your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Please, don't forget to sign my Guestbook.