O Jose can you see… that's how I sang it, when I was a cubanito in Miami, and America was some country
in the glossy pages of my history book, someplace
way north, everyone white, cold, perfect. This Land
is my Land, so why didn't I live there, in a brick house
with a fireplace, a chimney with curlicues of smoke.
I wanted to wear breeches and stockings to my chins,
those black pilgrim shoes with shiny gold buckles.
I wanted to eat yams with the Indians, shake hands
with los negros, and dash through snow I'd never seen in a one-horse hope-n-say? I wanted to speak in British,
say really smart stuff like fours core and seven years ago
or one country under God, in the visible. I wanted to see
that land with no palm trees, only the strange sounds
of flowers like petunias, peonies, impatience, waiting
to walk through a door someday, somewhere in God
Bless America and say, Lucy, I'm home, honey, I'm home.
Thank another mod angel..
(I never had an actual IntenseDebate account–logged in through wordpress)
Yeah, so went looking through books here for poems, found one kinda snarky, looked for it online, and it turns out to be one by the guy that was inaugural poet for Bamz in 2113 http://georgefitzgerald.blogspot.com/2013/04/when…
Today in my African-American History class (which is taught by a Mexican dude), he talked about going to a Jesuit College and listening to his professor say effectively, "If Manifest Destiny truly worked, think of all the beachfront resorts we could have had.."
Shit, you have ties to Scranton? (with a last name like that, shoulda known) : )
yay, it's finally getting windy here, like it's gonna rain.. (but it never does)
–wait, no I hear it kinda on the other street.
When I Was a Little Cuban Boy
by Richard Blanco
O Jose can you see… that's how I sang it, when I was
a cubanito in Miami, and America was some country
in the glossy pages of my history book, someplace
way north, everyone white, cold, perfect. This Land
is my Land, so why didn't I live there, in a brick house
with a fireplace, a chimney with curlicues of smoke.
I wanted to wear breeches and stockings to my chins,
those black pilgrim shoes with shiny gold buckles.
I wanted to eat yams with the Indians, shake hands
with los negros, and dash through snow I'd never seen
in a one-horse hope-n-say? I wanted to speak in British,
say really smart stuff like fours core and seven years ago
or one country under God, in the visible. I wanted to see
that land with no palm trees, only the strange sounds
of flowers like petunias, peonies, impatience, waiting
to walk through a door someday, somewhere in God
Bless America and say, Lucy, I'm home, honey, I'm home.
Fine. Approve the poem, or not. See if I care!!
Harumph.
Wha?
Had a poem, went into moderation.
Shit, sorry. I'm a 1/2 mod.. (can't do comments):
"Error!
You don't have permission to moderate this blog. Please log in using an admin account for this blog.
Go to the home page"
YOU HATE ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
LOL
OH SURE!!! NOW IT MAGICALLY APPEARS!!!!!!
Thank another mod angel..
(I never had an actual IntenseDebate account–logged in through wordpress)
Yeah, so went looking through books here for poems, found one kinda snarky, looked for it online, and it turns out to be one by the guy that was inaugural poet for Bamz in 2113 http://georgefitzgerald.blogspot.com/2013/04/when…
Today in my African-American History class (which is taught by a Mexican dude), he talked about going to a Jesuit College and listening to his professor say effectively, "If Manifest Destiny truly worked, think of all the beachfront resorts we could have had.."
Yeah, and this would still be what a typical day at the beach looks like in Rio.
<img src="https://streetsofsalem.files.wordpress.com/2012/11/pilgrim-pants-pc-nypl.jpg" width="300" height="300">
I once made a dubious comment.
Didn't know what the blog rule meant.
Shit, you have ties to Scranton? (with a last name like that, shoulda known) : )
yay, it's finally getting windy here, like it's gonna rain.. (but it never does)
–wait, no I hear it kinda on the other street.
I understand the gravity
Oh, damn you, the sagacity!
Fuck, I'm so sorry for your loss.. I can't imagine.