The 5th Of Twenty Ten @Miscellaneous

They were late the both of them
Late for the trip
Perhaps all legitimate
Perhaps someone taking a sip
It is funny
Depends on how you look
Seems like a long song
Or like someone reading a book
Michael died at fifty
Not fiddy cents
The mind and breath are getting foggy
Who’s giving out mints
The rain hasn’t stopped
And the sky yet gray
The music has suddenly changed
Perchance to stay that way
Look, he rolled up on me
Never knew he was a cop
Take a listen at all this madness
When is it ever gonna stop?

©2016 tjroach


Today I’ve got to give you a double dose of “STILL I RISE.” The first dose is by the gospel singer Yolanda Adams. This is one of those songs that I sing on a regular basis in the car. I play it so much until I’m surprised I haven’t burned this cd out. Once you listen to the song you’ll definitely know what I mean. This song is song inspirational and so well sung.
The second dose of “STILL I RISE” is by one of my favorite poets, Maya Angelou. Her poem is just as inspirational as Yolanda Adam’s song. I hope you enjoy both. Make it a great day!!!

Still I Rise

By Maya Angelou
© 1978 by Maya Angelou.

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 beset with gloom?

’Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops,

Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don’t you take it awful hard

’Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines

Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I’ve got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame

I rise

Up from a past that’s rooted in pain

I rise

I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise.


***I am proud to say that this is my 1000th post on studiotj.***

This is a poem by one of my favorite poets, Langston Hughes. I don’t think there’s been a Black History Month, since I’ve been a blogger, that I did not post something about this iconic poet during this month.
Today I’m presenting this poem:

Let America Be America Again – Poem by Langston Hughes

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,

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!

Langston Hughes




You sing such melodic sounds
Tenderly in my ear
Enduring is your gentle touch
There is no one else I hear
The oceans, the birds
The refreshing gentle breeze
They fail to compare with the way
You bring me…to my knees
No, never to bow down
Yet to always embrace
The radiance of your splendor
Is enough…to keep me in this space

©2014 tjroach



Blown Away…

Because your lives
Are void of substance
You, with a great
Degree of regularity
Delve deeply into
The lives of others.
How much richer
How much wiser
How much healthier
Your lives would be
If you were to invest
That same energy
In your own affairs.
You just might
Blow your own mind…



feed me

as thoughts come rushing
to my mind
i write them down today

it’s like food from
some foreign spirit

a spirit
with which i feel
a deep kinship feel re-energized
and i buy into…
the feeding frenzy

i’m not so certain
that life without…
this spirit
would be the same

and i never want…
to know

…feed me

©2015 tjroach



The sun has just peaked over the water

Steadily inching its way upward

Resplendent arrays of colors emerge

Inexplicable patterns appear in the clouds

No two quite the same

The ocean jumps and roars as if its’

Audience is giving a rising ovation.

The cheering crowd then subsides,

But only briefly. With each

Passing second, the glory ascends

Higher, then momentatily…it pauses

And sits directly on the water.

The birth of this new day has been

Consummated. whatever else happens

Will be miniscule in comparison.

Have a wonderful day.

© tjroach 2013

I think I posted this before………Oh well. I hope you enjoy.


Dream Deferred

Written by Langston Hughes


What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up

Like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore–

And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over–

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?

This is the 20th anniversary of National Poetry Month.  What better way to commemorate than with this poem by one of my favorites, Langston Hughes.



You tell on yourself by the friends you seek

By the very manner in which you speak

By the way you employ your leisure time;

By the use you make of dollar and dime

You tell what you are by the things you wear

By the spirit in which your burdens bear

By the kind of things at which you laugh

By the records you play on the phonograph

You tell what you are by the way you walk

By the things of which you delight to talk

By the manner in which you bear defeat

By so simple a thing as how you eat

By the books you choose from the well-filled shelf

In these ways and more, you tell on yourself

So there’s really no particle of sense

In effort to keep up a false pretense

-Author Unknown-