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Quote by Neelam Saxena Chandra

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the frozen evenings

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Neelam Saxena Chandra

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“POEM: "THE LORD" - Lailah Gifty Akita The Lord blesses. The Lord baptises. The Lord encourages. The Lord enlightens. The Lord edifies. The Lord empowers. The Lord heals. The Lord hears. The Lord helps. The Lord protects. The Lord provides. The Lord punishes. The Lord prepares. The Lord purifies. The Lord performs. The Lord gives. The Lord guards. The Lord guides. The Lord teaches. The Lord touches. The Lord answers. The Lord judges. The Lord defends. The Lord defeats. The Lord leads. The Lord loves. The Lord lights. The Lord creates. The Lord comforts. The Lord conquers. The Lord favours. The Lord forgives. The Lord fulfills. The Lord supplies. The Lord strengthens. The Lord sacrifices. The Lord sanctifies. The Lord saves. The Lord rescues. The Lord reveals. The Lord renews. The Lord rewards. The Lord reigns. The Lord restores. The Lord revives. The Lord relents. The Lord rules. The Lord opens. The Lord overcomes. The Lord instructs. The Lord manifests. The Lord shows mercy. The Lord warns.”

“Based on the Waste." By Aron Micko H.B Pure hot chocolate milk love to drink; I've got a pen and my time is to start to think. I forgot to take a vitamin C with zinc; However, the moment is starting to sync. I lost along the way, not doublethink; Imagination runs fast, stare and wink. The right brain forgot the word critic; In some laziness of the left brain link. I saw my pastel lose the color pink. I drop accidentally all colors shrink; The smoke coming in the door stink; My nose starts to smell some sink. My hand start to flow no more think; Drop someone's chocolate milk drink. I drew strange lady, a blink; Trying to waste my mom's ballpen ink.”

“Woman of Mother Earth Oh, what is this I’m feeling, Mother Earth beneath my feet . . . Endless roots journey, through fresh rich soil, grounded and strong. Forever reaching, forever pulsing out the beat. A voice of a thousand mothers in synchronicity. Let yourself be seeded in the womb, belly of heart and soul, And all that is grown, the richest gift ever known. Wisdom of the land, nurtured by hand, Are the women who give birth, to the children of the Earth. Plants and trees and flowers and seeds Breathe life with energy from the sun and rain. As in me, I remain, a woman of the Earth. That is this feeling . . . I am woman of Mother Earth.”

“The news of [James Baldwin's] death reached me in Trinidad around midnight. I was lecturing in the country about African-American literature and liberation, longevity and love, commitment and courage. I could not sleep. I got up and walked out of my hotel room into a night filled with stars. And I sat down in the park and talked to him. About the world. About his work. How grateful we all are that he walked on the earth, that he breathed, that he preached, that he came toward us baptizing us with his holy words. And some of us were saved because of him. Harlem man. Genius. Piercing us with his eyes and his pen. How to write of this beautiful big-eyed man who took on the country with his words? How to make anyone understand his beauty in a country that hates Blacks?”

“When I first saw [James Baldwin] on television in the early sixties, I felt immediately a kinship with this man whose anger and disappointment with America's contradictions transformed his face into a warrior's face, whose tongue transformed our massacres into triumphs. And he left behind a hundred TV deaths: scholars, writers, teachers, and journalists shipwrecked by his revivals and sermons. And the Black audiences watched and shouted amen and felt clean and conscious and chosen.”