Guest poem sent in by Mukul Hinge
(Poem #1435) Preacher, Don't Send Me Preacher, don't send me when I die to some big ghetto in the sky where rats eat cats of the leopard type and Sunday brunch is grits and tripe. I've known those rats I've seen them kill and grits I've had would make a hill, or maybe a mountain, so what I need from you on Sunday is a different creed. Preacher, please don't promise me streets of gold and milk for free. I stopped all milk at four years old and once I'm dead I won't need gold. I'd call a place pure paradise where families are loyal and strangers are nice, where the music is jazz and the season is fall. Promise me that or nothing at all. |
Just thought I'd submit a poem by Maya Angelou that I really like because its extremely soulful (especially the last verse. I think it reflects the trauma that she faced in her childhood and adolescence... More information about Ms Angelou can be found on www.mayaangelou.com Cheers, Mukul Hinge [Martin adds] This poem has a beautiful, swinging rhythm that despite its apparent simplicity has to have been carefully crafted. I loved it until the last verse, which was disappointingly trite (though it ties in with the 'nothing' references running through a few recent poems). martin
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