FAMOUS BLACK POET AND ARTIST JACQUELINE AMOS

THE TOMB 29

IN GOD WE TRUST | BEYOND THE GRAVE | God Is God | THE BLACK MOSES REFORM | DIVINTY | DIARY OF A BLACK MAN | Search For Poet | WORLD WIDE GALLERY | Comments | Book Release | Authors Den Survival | Diary | What You Know About A Ghetto Child? | Ghetto Heaven | Book Release A Message To A Black Son | Proclamation | Black Mothers Dreams | Book Release | MOTHER | Listen | THE BLACK MAN DIARY | MAKING LOVE TO THE UNIVERSE | GURILLIA PIMP | SLAVES TO CHAINS | Litigations | THROUGH THE GRAVE YARD I STOOD | DE' BLACK PRINCE | CONFESSIONS OF A NEGRO MAID | THE SPIRIT OF MALCOLM X | DE' MASTER THE SLAVE | BUY HERE GALLERY

fire2.gif

annienew.jpg

 

Flourish Fresh Upon Thy Sacred Tomb 29 Lord the hot bristling sun, the bags upon my back; the lab’ ring of the songs I sing, lord the days get longer, the night gets shorter, lord have I earn my merit upon the sun, lord the morning as the sweat upon, my bosom, and my Chile cries to the beat of my heart. I have nurtured a dead root unto a burning bush, but lord the roots, are blooming roses, it keeps me on the move. Lord the roses no longer belong to me, lord you say suffered to those who come unto me; lord I give to thee, I take my stripes on my back, in a moment hoping to be free. The cotton upon my head, the sun that bakes my skin, the fingers that turn to blood, the burning bush produce a rose, oh glory I give to thee. I have felt the pain lord of the savior who lied upon the cross, the burning bush, the stolen treasures, the bitter taste of water, the burning of the wipe, the burning bush; that presents a rose unto me. I sing the songs of psalms; lord nobody knows the trouble I have seen, Nobody knows my sorrow; I lift the bag upon my trust, I pick the white cotton, and throw the thongs upon the ground, the memories of the blooming rose, I continue to work on. ‘Twas mercy that brought me through; the promise land, taught me be kind to my enemies, that my father looks upon the burning bush, lord the redemption neither my suffering upon the sun, the diabolic dye breed within thy skin, black as the son Cain, lord my lesson upon this earth, say his name, dear God, I give to thee, I sing the Negro song; Deep on thy pillow the box that holds my remains; The traces of my inscriptions, I leave to man ; the summary of darkness, have given me peace, my name shall be branded in the sun; the archives of God, remembers the labors of my hands; I have shredded blood under the mockery of man, I shall no longer suffer, God has brought me home, I put on my Sunday Go meeting armory, God has called me on home, lord I don’t study war no more. Cry not for me, I’m on my way home, the roses have multiplied they lay upon my cold body, but the smell of the roses, has put me to sleep.