From Song Of Myself
By Walt Whitman
I think I could turn and live a while with the animals...
They are so placid and self-contained,
I stand and look at them sometimes half the day long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins.
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,
Not one is dissatisfied...
Not one is demented with the mania of owning things,
Not one kneels to another,nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago.
Not one is respectable or industrious over the whole earth.
Now that I am no longer young, I have friends whose mothers have passed away. I have heard these sons and daughters say they never fully appreciated their mothers until it was too late to tell them.
I am blessed with the dear mother who is still alive. I appreciate her more each day. My mother does not change, but I do. As I grow older and wiser, I realize what an extraordinary person she is. How sad that I am unable to speak these words in her presence, but they flow easily from my pen.
How does a daughter begin to thank her mother for life itself? For the love, patience and just plain hard work that go into raising a child? For running after a toddler, for understanding a moody teenager, for tolerating a college student who knows everything? For waiting for the day when a daughter realizes her mother really is?
How does a grown woman thank for a mother for continuing to be a mother? For being ready with advice (when asked) or remaining silent when it is most appreciated? For not saying: "I told you so", when she could have uttered these words dozens of times? For being essentially herself--loving, thoughtful, patient, and forgiving?
I don't know how, dear God, except to bless her as richly as she deserves and to help me live up to the example she has set. I pray that I will look as good in the eyes of my children as my mother looks in mine.
Dear white, something you got to know
When I was born, I was black.
When I grow up, I am black.
When I’m under the sun, I’m black.
When I’m cold, I’m black.
When I’m afraid, I’m black.
When I’m sick, I’m black.
When I die, I’m still black.
When you were born, you were pink.
When you grow up, you become white.
You’re red under the sun.
You’re blue when you’re cold.
You are yellow when you’re afraid.
You’re green when you’re sick.
You’re gray when you die.
And you, call me color?