Citatepedia^®.com

Median wages of production workers, who comprise 80 percent of the workforce, haven't risen in 30 years, adjusted for inflation.

quote by Robert Reich
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Easter Day (Naples, 1849)

Through the great sinful streets of Naples as I past,
With fiercer heat than flamed above my head
My heart was hot within me; till at last
My brain was lightened, when my tongue had said
Christ is not risen!

Christ is not risen, no,
He lies and moulders low;
Christ is not risen.

What though the stone were rolled away, and though
The grave found empty there?
If not there, then elsewhere;
If not where Joseph laid Him first, why then
Where other men
Translaid Him after; in some humbler clay
Long ere to-day
Corruption that sad perfect work hath done,
Which here she scarcely, lightly had begun.
The foul engendered worm
Feeds on the flesh of the life-giving form
Of our most Holy and Anointed One.

He is not risen, no,
He lies and moulders low;
Christ is not risen.

What if the women, ere the dawn was grey,
Saw one or more great angels, as they say,
(Angels, or Him himself)? Yet neither there, nor then,
Nor afterward, nor elsewhere, nor at all,
Hath He appeared to Peter or the Ten;
Nor, save in thunderous terror, to blind Saul;
Save in an after-Gospel and late Creed
He is not risen indeed,
Christ is not risen.

Or what if e’en, as runs the tale, the Ten
Saw, heard, and touched, again and yet again?
What if at Emmaüs’ inn and by Capernaum’s Lake
Came One the bread that brake
Came One that spake as never mortal spake,
And with them ate and drank and stood and walked about?
Ah! ‘some’ did well to ‘doubt’!
Ah! the true Christ, while these things came to pass,
Nor heard, nor spake, nor walked, nor dreamt, alas!
He was not risen, no
He lay and moulder low,
Christ was not risen.

[...] Read more

poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
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European Union Austerity Measures Inflicted On Greece

an interesting development...
an online censor clerk,
has learned, an innovative, art
a strategic censorship perk

instead of banning...
problematic whole book,
article, poem, attacking
austerity measures

a strategic strike intriguing...
a crafty innovative hook,
just delete, fine tune, targeting
precisely, paragraph, paragraphs

referencing offending...
sponsorship bankers bank,
austerity, measures, mince meating
Greece, Greek, citizens

a lie shrouded adjustment...
offered by Germany her allies,
austerity, leads to, internal deflation repeat
Greece, will regain, competitiveness

proposed solution a no-brainer neat...
suppose miraculously austerity succeeds,
actually, could deliver, deflation sweet
growth, nominal GDP suppressed, decreases

turns negative burden of debt...
will increase reducing Greek wages,
relative, to Germany, in prime position seat
Greece, has sacrificed made, 'progress':

private-sector wages fell 5.4%...
in the third quarter of 2011,
from, a happier, year earlier 12%
since, peak first quarter, of 2010

leaked European Commission report...
called for nominal wages in business,
economy, to be reduced, by a further 15%
during,2012-2014, exploitation finesse

will Germany accept...
undesired price of inflation,
for stability, political, benefit
of keeping, intact, pet eurozone?

[...] Read more

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Wages Of Sin

When we fight and I wanna talk it out
You wont say nothing, nothing at all
You just sit there, you wont open that pretty mouth
I think you like keeping my back up against the wall
Wages of sin, you keep me paying
Wages of sin for wrongs that Ive done
Wages of sin, you keep me paying
Wages of sin, one by one
I walk in the apartment, theres clothes thrown all over the place
Youre crouched in the corner with makeup running down your face
I dont wanna believe what my heart keeps saying
You keep me on the line so you can keep me paying
Wages of sin, we keep paying
Wages of sin for the wrongs that weve done
Wages of sin, we keep paying
Wages of sin, thats how we have our fun
I remember when I was a little boy out where the cottonwoods grow tall
Trying to make it home through the forest before the darkness falls
Baby all the sounds I heard, even if they werent real
I was running down that broken path with the devil snapping at my heels
I tried so hard, so hard in every way
Swore someday Id grow up, just throw it all away
Cried all the tears, baby, that I could cry
Stomached all my fears till they came rushin up inside
Darlin Im losin and its a mean game
Still I play on and on just the same
Wages of sin, I keep paying
Wages of sin for some wrong that Ive done
Wages of sin, well I keep paying
Wages of sin, one by one

song performed by Bruce Springsteen
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Nuclear Is Safe? No They Lied To You

A list of non classified nuclear disasters
chalk one up for Chalk River Canada
rating 5 a “reactor shutoff rod failure,

combined with several operator errors,
led to a major power excursion of more
than double the reactor's rated output
at AECL's NRX reactor” then a big deal.1952

Entrant two Windscale Pile United Kingdom
rating 5 a “Release of radioactive material to
the environment following a fire in a reactor
core.” Toast a good year for nuclear disasters.1957

graphite core of a British nuclear “[weapons
programme] reactor at Windscale, Cumberland
(now Sellafield, Cumbria) caught fire, releasing
substantial amounts of radioactive contamination
into the surrounding area.” Radioactive fire.

A warm welcome to entrant three. Kyshtym
Russia rating 6 a “Significant release of
radioactive material to the environment
from explosion of a high activity waste tank.” 1957

Please all welcome contestant one back
Chalk River Canada (rating?) “Due to
inadequate cooling a damaged uranium
fuel rod caught fire and was torn in two.” 1958

Champagne pops cheer another good year
Vinč a Yugoslavia (rating?) “During
a subcritical counting experiment a power
buildup went undetected - six scientists
received high doses.” What detailed detail? 1958

Applause please for our first American entry
Santa Susana Field Laboratory US (rating?)
“Partial core meltdown.” Sounds serious.
Tick one deep operations public cover up.1959

Time to take a nice country waltz in a US county
Westinghouse Waltz Mill Westmoreland County
(rating?) a core melt accident in a test reactor? 1960

Looks like American is going for a hat trick
Charlestown US (rating?) “Error by a worker
at a United Nuclear Corporation fuel facility
led to an accidental criticality”. Human error? 1964

[...] Read more

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Responsibility In The Workforce

What is the work ethic
of Japanese
white-collar employees?

there are three
important components
to the work ethic

loyalty to company
a commitment to quality
peer group bonding

What do the Japanese
feel about their co-workers
and their company?

the Japanese feel
great responsibility
toward company
and co-workers

What moral attitude
are Japanese
employees taught?

Japanese employees
are taught a moral
to work in groups
to think of themselves
as part of a family

What is the Japanese
attitude to failure
in the workforce?

the white-collar executive
is extremely diligent
knowing that failure
or any errors affects
other fellow employees

What is the Japanese
attitude to sharing
profit in the workforce?

all rewards

[...] Read more

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Blue Collar Workers

Blue collar workers feeling used.
And being replaced,
By a robotic hasted pace.

Blue collar workers feeling used,
And moved...
From an assembled human touch,
To programmed computers...
More effective as tools.

Blue collar workers feeling used,
And moved...
From positions that were sacrificed,
To improve what they do.
Automated are these times,
And cheap labor too!

Booted by computers that leave nothing to do,
For the blue collar workers,
Feeling used and abused.

Delete.
Don't need.
Delete.
Don't need.

Booted by computers that leave nothing to do,
For the blue collar workers,
Feeling used and abused.

Blue collar workers feeling used,
And moved...
From positions that were sacrificed,
To improve what they do.
Automated are these times,
And cheap labor too!

Delete.
Don't need.
Delete.
Don't need.

Booted by computers that leave nothing to do,
For the blue collar workers,
Feeling used and abused.

Delete.
Don't need.
Delete.
Don't need.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Merchant of Dhaka

You can't make money without the factory that cremates the workers alive.
And by the time you piled and filled your coffers with TAKA
You decided to treat the workers as creatures to be used and their bodies mutilated to reap Dollars
Your greed becomes far-reaching.

Who are 'they', these eponymous?
Anonymous, charred bodies
Who worked relentlessly to bring a huge sum of foreign money from far and wide to make you filthy rich?
It is difficult to be more specific than to say
They are the life-line of your industry.

They are related by labour to 'you, the clothing merchant'.
And those workers have to be cremated alive! Some workers have
To be burnt alive in the shrinking hole of hell that you call 'FACTORY! '
And they just happen to be standing about
Like fireflies on a dark, dark night.

She (the female charred body) is, in short, one of many
Of means to an end, that end being to enlarge your ravenous tummy
The production machineries
And to make you prosper and chubbier.

The inhuman working condition, the lowest of wages in the world,
The sexual harassment, the physical torture and mutilation, the absence of everything human,
All these singularities help you pile profits on profits;
You can't make a mountain of riches
Without mutilating their bodies,
All of them in one enclosed hole.

And if versions of the story, the complete
Valency of the tragedy is to be believed
You can't make mountains full of riches without curtailing and telling
At the very least their life span and quite possibly
An imaginary cock and bull story.

A charred female body speaks
To accuse you
You can't, You can't, You can't.
That charred female body may actually have witnessed the carnage with one hundred and twenty one co-workers the final mutilation of their human bodies.

They may have wished to confirm -
You can't make money without the factory
That cremates the workers alive.

Outside the carnage where a few gathers to find the familiar faces of fathers, mothers, sisters and brothers
You are crying your own loss: 'O, my TAKA. O. My TAKA';
Someone is going to provide 'duty of care' to your TAKA lost
Assuring you that your money won't be lost
Would be recovered from the ashes of numbers.

poem by Dr Khairul Chowdhury
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Dodged Another Bullet

A sound as of a baseball bat
striking a cardboard box

Then… sudden silence
Cold and dry

A white car receding into the distance
A numbness creeping into my leg and thigh

Flat on my back, akimbo in the median
Looking up, confused, at clouds and blue sky

Books that I carried just a moment ago
Now they're gone and I don't know why

Slow realization that I'd dodged
Yet…another bullet

As I raised on my elbows
With a grimace and a sigh

I looked down at my leg…
It was still there (and I smiled)

Though it was battered
and blackened…no lie

Death had missed me
by a matter of inches

Fate had decided
To give me a bye

My head lowered once again
And my eyes gazed at the heavens

And my lips
formed the question….Why?

Footnote: This poem is a true account of that happened to me on 5/12/12
I wrote a bit of this in my mind, as I lay stunned, in the median of a main street in Las Vegas after being hit while waiting on the median of a crosswalk by a hit and run driver on Mother‘s day. I never saw it coming, just heard the bang and felt the blow. No one helped me except one black lady who stopped her car next to me and asked me if there was anything she could do. I told her "thanks, but no, I think I'm good" I think she called 911, since I heard sirens behind me as I limped several blocks to my home. I had black marks (Tread marks?) from my knee down to across my shoe. and blood ran down into my sock. I drove myself to the E.R at U.M.C Where I found out I had a broken leg and a flattened foot. (incidentally, in case you're wondering, before I left the scene I found my books intact, scattered in the roadway) Thank goodness, they weren't hurt!

poem by David Whalen
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The four Monarchyes, the Assyrian being the first, beginning under Nimrod, 131. Years after the Floo

When time was young, & World in Infancy,
Man did not proudly strive for Soveraignty:
But each one thought his petty Rule was high,
If of his house he held the Monarchy.
This was the golden Age, but after came
The boisterous son of Chus, Grand-Child to Ham,
That mighty Hunter, who in his strong toyles
Both Beasts and Men subjected to his spoyles:
The strong foundation of proud Babel laid,
Erech, Accad, and Culneh also made.
These were his first, all stood in Shinar land,
From thence he went Assyria to command,
And mighty Niniveh, he there begun,
Not finished till he his race had run.
Resen, Caleh, and Rehoboth likewise
By him to Cities eminent did rise.
Of Saturn, he was the Original,
Whom the succeeding times a God did call,
When thus with rule, he had been dignifi'd,
One hundred fourteen years he after dy'd.
Belus.
Great Nimrod dead, Belus the next his Son
Confirms the rule, his Father had begun;
Whose acts and power is not for certainty
Left to the world, by any History.
But yet this blot for ever on him lies,
He taught the people first to Idolize:
Titles Divine he to himself did take,
Alive and dead, a God they did him make.
This is that Bel the Chaldees worshiped,
Whose Priests in Stories oft are mentioned;
This is that Baal to whom the Israelites
So oft profanely offered sacred Rites:
This is Beelzebub God of Ekronites,
Likewise Baalpeor of the Mohabites,
His reign was short, for as I calculate,
At twenty five ended his Regal date.
Ninus.
His Father dead, Ninus begins his reign,
Transfers his seat to the Assyrian plain;
And mighty Nineveh more mighty made,
Whose Foundation was by his Grand-sire laid:
Four hundred forty Furlongs wall'd about,
On which stood fifteen hundred Towers stout.
The walls one hundred sixty foot upright,
So broad three Chariots run abrest there might.
Upon the pleasant banks of Tygris floud
This stately Seat of warlike Ninus stood:
This Ninus for a God his Father canonized,
To whom the sottish people sacrificed.

[...] Read more

poem by Anne Bradstreet
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The Revenge of the 47 Percent

In politics, it is acceptable to fight back with the ballot.
This long awaited election is about people with a lot
Versus the hardworking middle- class, which strives
Every day to earn a living, and to improve their lives.

The 47 percent is a powerful force made of retirees,
Veterans of the armed forces, recently graduate students,
Teachers, full and part-time workers, factory employees,
Health workers, paraprofessionals, and civil servants.

The list is infinitesimal, that's what makes this voting block
So potent and important. The next election will serve as a test,
For this true melting pot, which has the strength to move the rock,
In favor of Barack H. Obama, the one and only, and the best.

The best person who can lead and move this country forward.
Barack has proven himself in the last four years, despite
And in spite of the mess that he has inherited. The kite
Will only fly higher with his effective leadership, not downward.

The 47 percent will, without a doubt, fight back,
The 47 percent will vote, en masse, for Barack,
Because Obama is a very smart and savvy President,
Who cares for all, for the 99 percent, and also for the 1 percent.

poem by Hebert Logerie
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Variations At Home And Abroad

It takes a lot of a person's life
To be French, or English, or American
Or Italian. And to be at any age. To live at any certain time.
The Polish-born resident of Manhattan is not merely a representative of
general humanity
And neither is this Sicilian fisherman stringing his bait
Or to be any gender, born where or when
Betty holding a big plate
Karen crossing her post-World War Two legs
And smiling across the table
These three Italian boys age about twenty gesturing and talking
And laughing after they get off the train
Seem fifty percent Italian and the rest percent just plain
Human race.
O mystery of growing up! O history of going to school!
O lovers O enchantments!

The subject is not over because the photograph is over.
The photographer sits down. Murnau makes the movie.
Everything is a little bit off, but has a nationality.
The oysters won't help the refugees off the boats,
Only other human creatures will. The phone rings and the Albanian
nationalist sits down.
When he gets up he hasn't become a Russian émigré or a German circus
clown
A woman is carrying a basket—a beautiful sight! She is in and of
Madagascar.
The uniformed Malay policeman sniffs the beer barrel that the brothers of
Ludwig are bringing close to him.
All humanity likes to get drunk! Are differences then all on the surface?
But even every surface gets hot
In the sun. It may be that the surface is where we are all alike!
But man and woman show that this isn't true.
We will get by, though. The train is puffing at the station
But the station isn't puffing at the train. This difference allows for a sense
of community
As when people feel really glad to have cats and dogs
And some even a few mice in the chimney. We are not alone
In the universe, and the diversity causes comfort as well as difficulty.
To be Italian takes at least half the day. To be Chinese seven-eighths of it.
Only at evening when Chang Ho, repast over, sits down to smoke
Is he exclusively human, in the way the train is exclusively itself when it is
in motion
But that's to say it wrongly. His being human is also his being seven-eighths
Chinese.
Falling in love one may get, say, twenty percent back
Toward universality, though that is probably all. Then when love's gone
One's Nigerianness increases, or one's quality of being of Nepal.
An American may start out wishing
To be everybody or that everybody were the same

[...] Read more

poem by Kenneth Koch
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From Bad To Worse

Opiate drugs once were sold on city streets
Pushed by people living “Outside the law”
Today prescription drugs the law defeats
Big-Pharma profits and crooks withdraw

ROTMS

Source: Natural News

“When most people hear reports about illicit drug use at work, they probably assume they are talking about things like marijuana and cocaine. But a new report shows that most of today's workers and job applicants have ditched the street drugs and now take prescription pain pills instead - and these pills are causing more accident-related injuries and deaths than ever.

It used to be that drug users hit the streets to get their drug of choice. But today, getting high is as easy as hitting up your local pharmacy. According to a new report by Quest Diagnostics Inc., a Madison, Wisconsin-based diagnostic testing company, prescription opiate use among American workers and job applicants has increased by 40 percent since 2005, and is only continuing to rise.

Prescription opiates like hydrocodone, oxycodone and hydromorphone, are among the most commonly abused opiate drugs, and they can be relatively easy to obtain. But these drugs are very similar in nature to cocaine and can cause the same problems, including severe injuries that require emergency hospitalization, and even death.

'Because more U.S. workers are performing their duties while taking prescription opiates, employers, particularly those with safety-sensitive workers, should note this trend and take appropriate steps to ensure worker and public safety, ' said Dr. Barry Sample, director of science and technology at Quest, in a statement regarding the study.

Though cocaine use dropped nearly 30 percent between 2008 and 2009, prescription opiate use made up for the difference. And between 2004 and 2008, emergency room visits increased by more than 110 percent as a result, indicating that just because the prescription drugs are legal does not mean they are safe.”

poem by Ray Lucero
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My Name Is Jonas

My name is jonas!
Im carrying the wheel.
Thanks for all youve shown us.
But this is how we feel.
Come sit next to me, pour yourself some tea.
Just like grandma made, when we couldnt find sleep.
Things were better then.
Once but never again.
Weve all left the den, let me tell you bout it.
The choo-choo train left right on time.
A ticket cost only your mind.
The driver said hey man, we go all the way.
Of course we were willing to pay!
My name is wepeel !
Got a box full of your toys.
Theyre fresh out of batteries.
But youre still making noise! making noise!
Tell me what to do,
Now the tank is dry, now this wheel is flat, and you know what else!
Guess what I received in the mail today,
Words of deep concern, for my little brother.
The buildings not going as he planned...
The foreman has injured his hand,
The dozer will not clear a path,
The driver swears he learned his math !
The workers are going home.
Workers are going home.
The workers are going home.
The workers are going home.
Yeah!
The workers are going home.
The workers are going home.
The workers are going home.
Yeah yeah yeah!
My name is jonas.

song performed by Weezer
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Neoliberalism And The IMF

Who imposed neoliberalism upon
its victims and what is vile agenda?
Neoliberalism revealed road to hell.

As neoliberalism spreads
agenda fed around the world
like a modern day plague

or a Sheriff of Nottingham
coldly counting out gold coins
amassed stolen from serfdom.

We skip merrily to powerhouse
baron modern day bankers
International Monetary Fund.

The serf medieval farmer
of feudal Europe cultivating
land belonging to a knight?

The landowner buys sells serfs
as land is bought and sold
purchased sold with the land.

Who today could be likened
to a labourer legally bound by
law serving his lord master?

Who indeed? Ignoring modern
slavery more prolific than ever
historically in contemporary
many layered twistered forms?

Is it true that around the world
neoliberalism is imposed by
powerful financial institutions?

Esteemed institutions like famous
International Monetary Fund (IMF)
the Inter-American Development
Bank and the World Bank. Yes!

Banks rape raging all over Latin America!

Neo-liberalism weeds CIA its way into Chile
courtesy agenda of University of Chicago
Milton Friedman who hates welfare dependency
CIA-supports coup against local popularly
elected Allende regime in takeover 1973
then takes out regimes in other countries...

[...] Read more

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Fleeting Times

Many men live life for the reward, and never seem to seek The Lord.
And the earnings that they gain, come with frustration and with pain.
The wages they desire to spend, do seem to come to an early end.
So men will seek a bigger door, always looking to earn much more.
The wages that they get my friend, seem to come to a sudden end.
Men fill their own heart with deceit; vainly imaging what life could be.

They follow many earthly dreams, which lead to deceptive schemes.
And with their eyes they cannot see, beyond this earth is an eternity.
Men follow unmet desires within, unaware that many do lead into sin.
All your wages don’t come into play, when speaking of judgment day.
For the only wages that do figure in, are the wages for all of your sin.
These wages secure eternal death, received upon your final breath.

Men seek from others earthly praise, never thinking of eternal days.
Accolades may lift your self esteem, however, what can they redeem.
All your works will come to naught, if Christ Jesus you never sought.
Christ had paid an enormous price, for men to have prosperous life.
But not one an earthly eye can see, for it is tucked away in eternity.
So why not get with it my friend, and start thinking on your final end.

Far above the present moment of time, is an Eternal World sublime.
Many men spend a life in pursuit, of what turns out to be bitter fruit.
This world slowly ceases to be, as we all move towards an eternity.
Time here is just fleeting away, in this world where no one will stay.
When you seek God in this life, God produces blessings in the strife.
And when you do follow The Lord, you shall reap an eternal reward.

poem by Bob Gotti
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To Those Who Concern

Migrant workers from developing Third World
Move to developed countries for all sorts of work
They may be professionals or just basic workers
Trying to fill their pockets a little much tighter.

Their employers hire them instead of their own country men
Because they are the cheaper and more hard working ones
They don't understand workers' right and things like that
And work and work and collect their wages intact

The wages basic workers get are quite pathetic and petty
It barely is enough for them to send money back to their families
But for professionals the sum is quite attractive indeed
They can save and send money back to their families in need

These remittent money, says the governments of Third World
Boost their GDPs and increase their economic power overall
But that money, if huge enough, can increase the demand of commodities and land
And raises the prices in those Third World countries of concern

This is a problem for those who are trapped inside
With no family members abroad and self-ability to flight
They work hopelessly and barely survive for less than a dollar a day
Until their minds are exhausted and their body slowly decay

poem by Henry Chen
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Slice The Memories of It

Count on getting your cut,
Of up to fifty percent less.

'Fifty percent less of what? '

You appear to be intelligent.
This figure may cut deeper than you expect.
Remember neglected responsibilities...
Leaves an exquisite taste for spice you like.
Slice the memories of it,
And do something else...
With that bitterness you will be gifted with.

It seems that glamourous nest you lay resting...
To live that fantastic life you treasure and measured.
At the expense of your pretensions?

Count on getting your cut,
Of up to fifty percent less.

'Fifty percent less of what? '

Of nothing left!

My mama use to tell us,
She could not squeeze blood from a turnip!
And she tried very hard to make us believe...
Eating mustard and mayonaisse sandwiches,
Was good for our teeth and made strong bones!

We were also taught we could not have,
What she and my father did not own!
And she connected this to not having money.
To keep our dreams,
But not to waste them on empty wishes.
In other words...
If one sees there is nothing when shown.
It is best to accept it and adapt!
Take and attach your dreams...
On something you know is yours,
That can not be tapped.
Or taken!

Count on getting your cut,
Of up to fifty percent less.

'Fifty percent less of what? '

Of nothing left!
And that depends on where your mind is,

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Easter Day, II

So in the sinful streets, abstracted and alone,
I with my secret self held communing of mine own.
So in the southern city spake the tongue
Of one that somewhat overwildly sung,
But in a later hour I sat and heard
Another voice that spake another graver word.
Weep not, it bade, whatever hath been said,
Though He be dead, He is not dead.
In the true creed
He is yet risen indeed;
Christ is yet risen.

Weep not beside His tomb,
Ye women unto whom
He was great comfort and yet greater grief;
Nor ye, ye faithful few that wont with Him to roam,
Seek sadly what for Him ye left, go hopeless to your home;
Nor ye despair, ye sharers yet to be of their belief;
Though He be dead, He is not dead,
Nor gone, though fled,
Not lost, though vanished;
Though He return not, though
He lies and moulders low;
In the true creed
He is yet risen indeed;
Christ is yet risen.

Sit if ye will, sit down upon the ground,
Yet not to weep and wail, but calmly look around.
Whate’er befel,
Earth is not hell;
Now, too, as when it first began,
Life is yet life, and man is man.
For all that breathe beneath the heaven’s high cope,
Joy with grief mixes, with despondence hope.
Hope conquers cowardice, joy grief;
Or at least, faith unbelief.
Though dead, not dead;
Not gone, though fled;
Not lost, though vanished.
In the great gospel and true creed,
He is yet risen indeed;
Christ is yet risen.

poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
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King Solomon And The Queen Of Sheba

(A Poem Game.)

“And when the Queen of Sheba heard of the fame of Solomon, . . .
she came to prove him with hard questions.”

[The men’s leader rises as he sees the Queen unveiling
and approaching a position that gives her half of the stage.]

Men’s Leader: The Queen of Sheba came to see King Solomon.
[He bows three times.]
I was King Solomon,
I was King Solomon,
I was King Solomon.

[She bows three times.]
Women’s Leader: I was the Queen,
I was the Queen,
I was the Queen.

Both Leaders: We will be king and queen,
[They stand together stretching their hands over the land.]
Reigning on mountains green,
Happy and free
For ten thousand years.

[They stagger forward as though carrying a yoke together.]
Both Leaders: King Solomon he had four hundred oxen.

Congregation: We were the oxen.

[Here King and Queen pause at the footlights.]
Both Leaders: You shall feel goads no more.
[They walk backward, throwing off the yoke and rejoicing.]
Walk dreadful roads no more,
Free from your loads
For ten thousand years.

[The men’s leader goes forward, the women’s leader dances round him.]
Both Leaders: King Solomon he had four hundred sweethearts.

[Here he pauses at the footlights.]
Congregation: We were the sweethearts.

[He walks backward. Both clap their hands to the measure.]
Both Leaders: You shall dance round again,
You shall dance round again,
Cymbals shall sound again,
Cymbals shall sound again,
[The Queen appears to gather wildflowers.]

[...] Read more

poem by Vachel Lindsay
Added by Poetry Lover
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The Booker Washington Trilogy

I. A NEGRO SERMON:—SIMON LEGREE

(To be read in your own variety of negro dialect.)

Legree's big house was white and green.
His cotton-fields were the best to be seen.
He had strong horses and opulent cattle,
And bloodhounds bold, with chains that would rattle.
His garret was full of curious things:
Books of magic, bags of gold,
And rabbits' feet on long twine strings.
But he went down to the Devil.

Legree he sported a brass-buttoned coat,
A snake-skin necktie, a blood-red shirt.
Legree he had a beard like a goat,
And a thick hairy neck, and eyes like dirt.
His puffed-out cheeks were fish-belly white,
He had great long teeth, and an appetite.
He ate raw meat, 'most every meal,
And rolled his eyes till the cat would squeal.

His fist was an enormous size
To mash poor niggers that told him lies:
He was surely a witch-man in disguise.
But he went down to the Devil.

He wore hip-boots, and would wade all day
To capture his slaves that had fled away.
But he went down to the Devil.

He beat poor Uncle Tom to death
Who prayed for Legree with his last breath.
Then Uncle Tom to Eva flew,
To the high sanctoriums bright and new;
And Simon Legree stared up beneath,
And cracked his heels, and ground his teeth:
And went down to the Devil.

He crossed the yard in the storm and gloom;
He went into his grand front room.
He said, "I killed him, and I don't care."
He kicked a hound, he gave a swear;
He tightened his belt, he took a lamp,
Went down cellar to the webs and damp.
There in the middle of the mouldy floor
He heaved up a slab, he found a door —
And went down to the Devil.

[...] Read more

poem by Vachel Lindsay
Added by Poetry Lover
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