Two More Poems I Ran Across Yesterday,

posted in observance of Black History Month. The titles link to the pages with more info about the poet and their works.

Surrender

Angelina Weld Grimké 1880 – 1958

We ask for peace. We, at the bound
O life, are weary of the round
In search of Truth. We know the quest
Is not for us, the vision blest
Is meant for other eyes. Uncrowned,
We go, with heads bowed to the ground,
And old hands, gnarled and hard and browned.
Let us forget the past unrest,—
We ask for peace.

Our strainéd ears are deaf,—no sound
May reach them more; no sight may wound
Our worn-out eyes. We gave our best,
And, while we totter down the West,
Unto that last, that open mound,—
We ask for peace.

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on February 8, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.

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Expectancy

William Moore

I do not care for sleep, I’ll wait awhile
For Love to come out of the darkness, wait
For laughter, gifted with the frequent fate
Of dusk-lit hope, to touch me with the smile
Of moon and star and joy of that last mile
Before I reach the sea. The ships are late
And mayhap laden with the precious freight
Dawn brings from Life’s eternal summer isle.

And should I find the sweeter fruits of dream—
The oranges of love and mating song—
I’ll laugh so true the morn will gayly seem
Endless and ships full laden with a throng
Of beauty, dreams and loves will come to me
Out of the surge of yonder silver sea.

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on February 9, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.

Sunday AM Poetry Courtesy of Janet

Poem by Christina Anne Hawthorne

Late-breaking Poetry

Whose flaming sword

And Another One

It’s an excellent poem, with more background on the page, of interest to us here. Click the title.

After

Youna Kwak

I never feel so alive as when I am
writing and have no right
answer for what this means
for the lives of others, how

to live in the after which after
all means the now of our living
together when together
means death for all

those forbidden from
entering the home so
methodically built until after
they are dead. Only

after will locked doors
swing amply open to
admit the murdered
into rooms of vast

crushed comfort, whose
inhabitants eat and sleep
on furnishings carved
with corpses, stepping

with hospitable sorrow
around the bodies of the
dead, speaking dirges
into the phantom

darkness. What happens
in the quiet grave where
the living make themselves
at home, where noisily

they intend to thrive, where
the poem itself concedes
to suffering so it might persist
in blazing against it.

Enjoy Some Harlem Renaissance Poetry This Morning:

Click the poem title for more about this poet and her poem.

Things Said When He Was Gone

Blanche Taylor Dickinson 1896 – 1972

My branch of thoughts is frail tonight
As one lone-wind-whipped weed.
Little I care if a rain drop laughs
Or cries; I cannot heed

Such trifles now as a twinkling star,
Or catch a night-bird’s tune.
My whole life is you, to-night,
And you, a cool distant moon.

With a few soft words to nurture my heart
And brighter beams following love’s cool shower
Who knows but this frail wind-whipped weed
Might bear you a gorgeous flower!

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on February 2, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.

Observing Black History Month, Because This Is The Fkn’ US, Dammit!

The Negro’s “America” by Frank Barbour Coffin 1870–1951

My country, ’tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,
Would I could sing;
Its land of Pilgrim’s pride
Also where lynched men died
With such upon her tide,
Freedom can’t reign.

My native country, thee
The world pronounce you free
Thy name I love;
But when the lynchers rise
To slaughter human lives
Thou closest up thine eyes,
Thy God’s above.

Let Negroes smell the breeze
So they can sing with ease
Sweet freedom’s song;
Let justice reign supreme,
Let men be what they seem
Break up that lyncher’s screen,
Lay down all wrong.

Our fathers’ God, to Thee,
Author of liberty,
To Thee we sing;
How can our land be bright?
Can lynching be a light?
Protect us by thy might,
Great God our king!

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on February 1, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.

As always, click the title to get more about the poet and their work. Today’s background is especially poignant, and work the click.

Good Morning!

the cat, a black fur sausage with yellow Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries to get onto my head. It’s his way of telling whether or not I’m dead. by Worriedman

Margaret Atwood – “February” Read on Substack

I hope everybody goes and reads this terrific poem. It’s a joy to read. Every word is right. The focus of the poem shifts from a cat’s butthole to the spectre of widespread famine and the end of civilization. In like, two stanzas. That’s pretty nimble!

I can’t wait for this! Working a happy horse and a warm sunny day –

It’s not February yet. Just a few days though.

Barncat isn’t a black cat. More relentlessly gray.With pretty green eyes.

I am very fond of giant flowers that grow in the house in the dead of winter.

Starlings, in the field across the road.

Sunrise in the Greenhouse

Juice !

Juice loves late ’60s Grateful Dead.

I need to explore the Fen/Zardoz connection

That’s all I have room for – Thanks for dropping by.

Arise, indeed!

Dharmageddon (Untouchable Sonnet) | Abhijit Naskar | Azad Earth Army: When The World Cries Blood

“A Well-Developed Character…”

Reality is Frequency (EM Sonnet) | Abhijit Naskar | Azad Earth Army: When The World Cries Blood

Snow in Florida

(The title is the link to the poem, to find out more about it and the poet.)

Florida Snow P. Scott Cunningham

The Everglades are burning. I’m fifteen.
I open the window, knock out the screen

and crawl up the tiles to the apex of the roof.
Overhead the black clouds march on hooves

from the sunset to the ocean. It’s rare for the wind
to carry the sugar burns in my direction.

I assume the purpose of the fires is to make
the sugar sweeter, but besides covering the state

in smoke, all they do is make the harvest cheaper.
Some men spent a fortune to drain the river

but the cost was all up front. The stalks get so dry some-
times a piece of lightning starts the fire for them

and what’s left behind can’t help becoming tinder.
I think the land will tire of not being water soon.

Tonight the air is cold and smells like winter.
Ashes fall around me like pieces of the moon.