LET AMERICA BE AMERICA AGAIN

Please, open your heart and feel each word.

“When I was five years old, my mom always told me that happiness was the key to life. When I went to school, they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I wrote down “happy.”They told me I didn’t understand the assignment and I told them they didn’t understand life.” – Langston Hughes

LET AMERICA BE AMERICA AGAIN

Langston Hughes – 1902 – 1967

Let america be america again.

Let it be the dream it used to be.

Let it be the pioneer on the plain

Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed-

Let it be that great strong land of love

Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme

That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty

Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,

But opportunity is real, and life is free,

Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There’s never been equality for me,

Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”)

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?

And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,

I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars.

I am the red man driven from the land,

I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek-

And finding only the same old stupid plan

Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,

Tangled in that ancient endless chain

Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!

Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!

Of work the men! Of take the pay!

Of owning everything for one’s own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.

I am the worker sold to the machine.

I am the Negro, servant to you all.

I am the people, humble, hungry, mean-

Hungry yet today despite the dream.

Beaten yet today-O, Pioneers!

I am the man who never got ahead,

The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream

In the Old World while still a serf of kings,

Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,

That even yet its mighty daring sings

In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned

That’s made America the land it has become.

O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas

In search of what I meant to be my home-

For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore,

And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea,

And torn from Black Africa\s strand I came

To build a “homeland of the free.”

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?

Surely not me? The millions on relief today?

The millions shot down when we strike?

The millions who have nothing for our pay?

For all the dreams we’ve dreamed

And all the songs we’ve sung

And all the hopes we’ve held

And all the flags we’ve hung,

The millions who have nothing for our pay-

Except the dream that’s almost dead today.

O, let America be America again-

The land that never has been yet-

And yet must be-the land where every man is free

The land that’s mine- the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s ME-

Who made America,

Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,

Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,

Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose-

The steel of freedom does not stain.

From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives,

We must take back our land again,

America!

O, yes,

I say it plain,

America never was America to me

And yet I swear this oath-

America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,

The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,

We the people must redeem

The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.

The mountains and the endless plain-

All, all the stretch of these great green states-

And make America again!

*******

Bisous,

Léa

Why We Got Here — Dark Matter

A faith like Al Capone’s: a gun and a smile will get you farther than just a smile. A vision like Charlie Manson’s: love is all you need, “love” spelled “K-N-I-F-E.” A discipline like John Gotti’s: well-dressed, cracking jokes and heads, bragging and daring you to try it. A truth like George Armstrong Custer’s: if you charge […]

via Why We Got Here — Dark Matter

A poignant tale

“Be not inhospitable to strangers lest they be angels in disguise.”

Have We Had Help?

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After after getting to know an old tramp back in the nineteen seventies, I decided to write the following story…

~~~

Dhobi

I walked into the autopsy room at the beginning of the day to find a body awaiting my undivided attention which had been found in the woods above the neighbouring village where I grew up. I was equally shocked and saddened. It was my childhood friend Dhobi.

Back then most of the kids in our village were merciless towards him, throwing stones, shouting obscenities. None of them knew the simple gentle man hidden beneath the grime the way I did.

I was the only kid who didn’t pick on him. There was something very special about this loner who had shunned society for the woods. Never once did I wonder why he lived the way he did, nor did he ever offer an explanation. Dhobi was a man…

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No Wasted Ink Writers Links

Do not be fooled! Follow the money trail!

Education for Sustainable Development

no

by Sven A. Bjorke, Feb 2017

The sail ship era did not end because of a lack of wind, but because better alternatives were found. The fossil fuel era will end when better alternatives are available. It is happening now.

Oil and coal-billionaires, petro-tyrants and extreme Islamists live high on fossil fuels. These men are willing to do anything; start wars and destroy the future of their own grandchildren, to delay the inevitable shift from the fossil fuel paradigm to the sustainable development paradigm.

The world’s largest (1) oil-exporters: President Putin and the Saudi royal family, in close cooperation with US oil executives and the OPEC regimes, are fighting with their backs against the wall. The green shift (2) has begun, and oil prices will never return to the high altitudes (3). After a possible short-lived upturn the next two or three years, the price…

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I See With My Heart

Part-Time Poet

I see a saucer of milk
skimming the treetops,
I see over a dozen twin droplets
shaken from a pair of whiskers
and my heart
stops.

I see the icicle stars
diamanté paw prints
padding across the whole sky,
I see a half-smile
soon to be a grin
and I swear I see the moon slumping
heaving a contented sigh.

I see with my heart
as well as my eyes,
maybe that’s why
tonight of all nights
the earth seems so very
alive,

if only my tongue were long enough
to drink every last sight up,
and if only I were tall enough
to reach out and give the world
a hug.

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The Truest Beauty

REAL BEAUTY…

Scribbled Verse

from google



the truest beauty …





On that rainy windswept night, when we took shelter under a leaking bus stop,


shivering as invisibles, scratched out of this world’s pitiless sight.



We spoke at length, as the buses passed us by,


we bared our souls to each other, as strangers often do,


laughing about how we roamed these avenues without a clue.



We spoke of excruciating truths, of life’s random cruelty, of our hopes and of our dreams, of our small joys and of our fears,


as we stood under that leaking bus stop, the rain streaking down cheeks that were salty with tears.



I barely saw you, and you could hardly see me, in the rain and in the fog,


as we laughed and cried together, sharing feelings of being swamped in life’s quicksand tugging bog.



We spoke so much that rainy night, we shared what we could not share…

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…Authors, fear not, the ‘business’ of story-telling is limitless…

Seumas Gallacher

…the phrase, ‘there are only seven story plots’ is an old chestnut, averred by alleged ‘literary’pundits over the years… I’m not convinced, but my take on it is a bit broader… even if the assumption of the surreptitious, silvery, slippery seven is correct… how does it explain the millions of books, novels and stories that have filled our libraries and bookshops for the past coupla thousand years?… p’raps the not-so-secret clue is in the actual ‘telling’ of the story… ask any theatre performer what differentiates a great performance from a merely good performance, and they will say “it’s in the ‘business’ on stage”… in other WURDS, “it’s the way they tell ’em”… such it is with any great book…

…granted, there are those authors whose use of vocabulary is outstanding, but even the simplest unfolding of a narrative can contain that magical element that glues readers’…

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Help Wanted: Mom

EXCELLENT AND EXCITING NEWS! Just in time for summertime reading! Mine is on the way!

Gabriel Constans

51h-QG6AotLLife Begins When The Kids Leave Home And The Dog Dies by Barb Taub. Reviewed by Gabriel Constans.

Okay, this is a seriously funny collection of essays and columns about mothering, children, and relationships. Life Begins When The Kids Leave Home And The Dog Dies presents insights and experiences, with which the author decided were better to laugh about than to cry over. All to the readers’ benefit. Not only is she able to have a laugh at the families past expense (and present), but she does so with insight and knowledge that only a super-mom would understand. If you are ready to cut loose for a big dose of parenting reality, check out this gem.

The chapter titles alone give a hint of what’s in store for those lucky enough to get there own copy. “Serial Kid-Producer Reveals Top 10 Reasons Not To Have Kinds”, “Penis Envy Or…

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Don’t Think, Just Write!

Thanks Cristian for this valuable reminder.

The Art of Blogging

If you’ve done the proper amount of research on your topic, you know what your audience wants, and you know what you want to say, then taking action and starting to write should be simple and require no particular effort. Right?

Not quite. All writers know too well that sometimes this just isn’t the case. Getting down to the physical act of writing can take a lot of will power.

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