Maya Angelou

Phenomenal Woman

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size But when I start to tell them, They think I’m telling lies. I say, It’s in

When You Come

When you come to me, unbidden, Beckoning me To long-ago rooms, Where memories lie. Offering me, as to a child, an attic, Gatherings of days too few. Baubles of stolen kisses. Trinkets of borrowed

The Lesson

I keep on dying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs, Rotting flesh and worms do Not convince me against The challenge. The years And cold

I know why the caged bird sings

A free bird leaps on the back Of the wind and floats downstream Till the current ends and dips his wing In the orange suns rays And dares to claim the sky. But a

Still I Rise

You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I’ll rise. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you

Refusal

Beloved, In what other lives or lands Have I known your lips Your Hands Your Laughter brave Irreverent. Those sweet excesses that I do adore. What surety is there That we will meet again,

Touched by An Angel

We, unaccustomed to courage Exiles from delight Live coiled in shells of loneliness Until love leaves its high holy temple And comes into our sight To liberate us into life. Love arrives And in

Weekend Glory

Some clichty folks Don’t know the facts, Posin’ and preenin’ And puttin’ on acts, Stretchin’ their backs. They move into condos Up over the ranks, Pawn their souls To the local banks. Buying big

Remembrance

Your hands easy Weight, teasing the bees Hived in my hair, your smile at the Slope of my cheek. On the Occasion, you press Above me, glowing, spouting Readiness, mystery rapes My reason When

Insomniac

There are some nights when Sleep plays coy, Aloof and disdainful. And all the wiles That I employ to win Its service to my side Are useless as wounded pride, And much more painful.

Woman Work

I’ve got the children to tend The clothes to mend The floor to mop The food to shop Then the chicken to fry The baby to dry I got company to feed The garden

The Rock Cries Out to Us Today

A Rock, A River, A Tree Hosts to species long since departed, Mark the mastodon. The dinosaur, who left dry tokens Of their sojourn here On our planet floor, Any broad alarm of their

Men

When I was young, I used to Watch behind the curtains As men walked up and down the street. Wino men, old men. Young men sharp as mustard. See them. Men are always Going

Million Man March Poem

The night has been long, The wound has been deep, The pit has been dark, And the walls have been steep. Under a dead blue sky on a distant beach, I was dragged by

Her arms semaphore fat triangles, Pudgy HANDS bunched on layered hips Where bones idle under years of fatback And lima beans. Her jowls shiver in accusation Of crimes cliched by Repetition. Her children, strangers

A Conceit

Give me your hand Make room for me To lead and follow You Beyond this rage of poetry. Let others have The privacy of Touching words And love of loss Of love. For me

Alone

Lying, thinking Last night How to find my soul a home Where water is not thirsty And bread loaf is not stone I came up with one thing And I don’t believe I’m wrong