Still I Rise

Still I Rise
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 back yard.

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. 

Snow Cone Green

Snow Cone Green-Benjamin Moore-2026-30

Patrick McCabe

The dull clang of a steel bat

Shatters the placid silence

Of a magnificent summer morning,

A leather ball soars through the sweltering Virginian air,

The majestic orb seems to sail endlessly

Floating towards the divine horizon,

But some invisible force swiftly plucks the ball out of the sky,

It leisurely rolls until it comes to a tranquil standstill

In the beautifully cured Bermuda grass,

I observe the game from an old wooden bench

On a grassy hill beyond the serene outfield,

Separated by a Green Giant,

Four feet short,

I can just barely make out the words “Take me out to the crowd”

Emanating from the sound system below,

On the other side stand

Nine boys,

All with dreams of the Big Leagues

All with Dreams of Big Flies,

And all with dreams of making it Big,

Dreams of cloudless mornings in the cages,

And moonless nights at the bullpen,

Of the age old dirt of Fenway

And the checkered grass of Yankee Stadium,

Longing to stand on the very same home plate

Where Babe Ruth, and Joe DiMaggio, Lou Gehrig, and Yogi Berra, David Ortiz

And all the other boys of summer once stood,

A pair shiny quarters jingle in my pocket

As I approach the enticing Snack Shack,

My mouth waters with the thoughts of

Chilidogs and cotton candy, Dippin’ dots and Cracker Jacks,

I visualize the snow cone,

A mound of frozen grated ice,

The green apple syrup slowly drips down

Through the crevices,

Producing a pool of sweet, luscious syrup

That I slurp and guzzle down,

Filling my body with a pleasurable sensation,

But soon these days will fade away,

Leaving me with nothing but delightful memories,

Gone will be the days of baseball at the crack of dawn

And mouth-watering snow cones,

Gone will be the precious blossoms

And the aroma of freshly cut grass,

Soon the leaves will lose their color,

And the earth will ice over with the first frost,

Followed by flurries and snow storms,

Now baseball is but a dream,

A longing for a day at the park over takes me,

I yearn for the soft cotton of my Cubs jersey

And the curved brim of my cap,

For the smooth grip of my Di Marini

And the gentle depressions in my Vendetta,

From where scores of fastballs, curve balls, and sinkers

Were transfigured into line drives, base hits, and sacrifice bunts,

I slip the Vinci leather mitt onto my miniscule hands,

As I toss a ball into the pocket

Worn smooth by hundreds of catches,

All the memories come rushing back


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I Am From Poem

I am from high-tops,

From Nike and Adidas,

I am from the colossal Oak trees looming over the back porch

(Ancient, and elegant, it’s a canopy rises perpetually into the heavens)

I am from the Chesapeake Bay,

The immense bushes that stood boldly in front of my house

Over your complex network of tunes I reigned,

I am from family chants

And perplexing divorces,

From Elizabeth and Suarez
From the McCabe Family Tree,

I am from the hard workers

And the exceedingly competitive,

From Way to go! And Let it go!

I am from Lord you are my Shepard

And the other countless prayers I have repeated at hundreds of early morning services,

I am from Dolores Sugar Mill on the ever-sunny island of Cuba,

Lechon and black beans,

From the leg my Great Great Great Grandfather David Auch lost defending his nation

On the front lines of Antietam,

The time my grandmother spent in jail at the young age of 17

Consequences of her father's democratic beliefs,

The 500 Page long family genealogy book,

Created by my Grandfather

So the brave deeds of my bold ancestors,

Will be remembered eternally for ages to the come, 

        

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