Gwendolyn Brooks

To be in love .Is to touch with a lighter hand .In yourself you stretch, you are well You look at things .Through his eyes .A cardinal is red .A sky is blue

,There once was a tiger, terrible and tough .who said “I don’t think tigers are stylish enough .They put on only orange and stripes of fierce black .Fine and fancy fashion is what they mostly lack

.But in the crowding darkness not a word did they say .Though the pretty-coated birds had piped so lightly all the day

.They eat beans mostly, this old yellow pair .Dinner is a casual affair ,Plain chipware on a plain and creaking wood .Tin flatware

Blackness ,is a title ,is a preoccupation is a commitment Blacks —are to comprehend and in which you are .to perceive your Glory

.THE POOL PLAYERS                    .SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL

?Oh mother, mother, where is happiness ,They took my lover's tallness off to war Left me lamenting. Now I cannot guess .What I can use an empty heart-cup for

.Abortions will not let you forget ,You remember the children you got that you did not get ,The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair .The singers and workers that never handled the air

,We are things of dry hours and the involuntary plan Grayed in, and gray. “Dream” makes a giddy sound, not strong ”.Like “rent,” “feeding a wife,” “satisfying a man

.I’ve stayed in the front yard all my life I want a peek at the back .Where it’s rough and untended and hungry weed grows .A girl gets sick of a rose