Mr. Africa Poetry Lounge!
God don't like ugly.
And He ain't too fond of pretty.
Is what this world is made of.
But it sure is pretty as my child
the way the trees stand alone
like the cheese in a child's song.
And do they all go back home?
To the earth.
To blue heaven, wide open
as the Conqueror's eyes.
Everywhere above, blue eye
where used to be soft berries' stain,
the spirit of crushed blue flowers.
Some people who could fly
flew back from the whip
and the shackle
to tell the story
of kidnap-no-ransom,
high hell-ships, all weeping
for fields, all enduring
until they flew.
Do I go back home
with Miss Boney MaRoney
or with my wishbone
mended
And come true?
Written by Angela Jackson
<----> SEND THIS POEM TO A FRIEND! <---->