Let's clear it up first, "May The Force Be With You" is from Star Wars.
The pastor of a "The Potter's House" in Dallas, mixed up "Star Wars" and "Star Trek" while making a point during the service at St. John's Church across from the White House.
He said his 14-year-old son Dexter would reference "Star Trek" instead of scripture by saying 'May the force be with you' which actually is from "Star Wars."
Good job, Dexter, for correcting Pop!
It is OK, T.D. Jakes.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
105-year-old Ella Mae Johnson at The National Mall: Witness of Rosa Parks's Spirit
Ella Mae Johnson and Rosa Parks's Spirit
Though old and frail, she stood up and made her last march on Washington
Ella Mae Johnson was not afraid of the cold winter day
Her sight was on the White House, soon to be occupied by the First Couple
She wanted to witness history one more time
Ella witnessed men and women who stood up to fight for others' rights
Too happy and too proud to feel the cold this morning
She saw no more color, no more separation, no more colored signs
On the National Mall, she saw happy people gathered together
With the same objectives to remake America
Change has come to the country. New blood and
Fresh ideas are reinvigorating the nation's business
Ella is tired from waiting for the inauguration of the President
Then, he took the oath of office, spoke to the chanting crowd
Ella's caregiver wiped her nose and tears from her face
But she did not feel the weather elements at all
Though old and frail, she stood up and made her last march on Washington
Ella Mae Johnson was not afraid of the cold winter day
Her sight was on the White House, soon to be occupied by the First Couple
She wanted to witness history one more time
Ella witnessed men and women who stood up to fight for others' rights
Too happy and too proud to feel the cold this morning
She saw no more color, no more separation, no more colored signs
On the National Mall, she saw happy people gathered together
With the same objectives to remake America
Change has come to the country. New blood and
Fresh ideas are reinvigorating the nation's business
Ella is tired from waiting for the inauguration of the President
Then, he took the oath of office, spoke to the chanting crowd
Ella's caregiver wiped her nose and tears from her face
But she did not feel the weather elements at all
Inaugural Poems: Excerpts from former Inauguration Day poems
Excerpts from former Inauguration Day poems
The Gift Outright, for John F. Kennedy, 1961, by Robert Frost
The land was ours before we were the land's.
She was our land more than a hundred years
Before we were her people. She was ours
In Massachusetts, in Virginia,
But we were England's, still colonials...
(NB from the poem Frost recited from memory, not the one he had written for the occasion)
On the Pulse of Morning, for Bill Clinton, 1993, by Maya Angelou
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot...
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.
Of History and Hope, for Bill Clinton, 1997, by Miller Williams
We have memorised America,
how it was born and who we have been and where.
In ceremonies and silence we say the words,
telling the stories, singing the old songs.
We like the places they take us. Mostly we do.
The great and all the anonymous dead are there.
We know the sound of all the sounds we brought.
From 'Ars Poetica: #100. I Believe', 2005, by Elizabeth Alexander
Poetry is what you find
in the dirt in the corner,
overhear on the bus, God
in the details, the only way
to get from here to there.
Poetry (and now my voice is rising)
is not all love, love, love,
and I'm sorry the dog died.
Poetry (here I hear myself loudest)
is the human voice,
and are we not of interest to each other?
The Gift Outright, for John F. Kennedy, 1961, by Robert Frost
The land was ours before we were the land's.
She was our land more than a hundred years
Before we were her people. She was ours
In Massachusetts, in Virginia,
But we were England's, still colonials...
(NB from the poem Frost recited from memory, not the one he had written for the occasion)
On the Pulse of Morning, for Bill Clinton, 1993, by Maya Angelou
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot...
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.
Of History and Hope, for Bill Clinton, 1997, by Miller Williams
We have memorised America,
how it was born and who we have been and where.
In ceremonies and silence we say the words,
telling the stories, singing the old songs.
We like the places they take us. Mostly we do.
The great and all the anonymous dead are there.
We know the sound of all the sounds we brought.
From 'Ars Poetica: #100. I Believe', 2005, by Elizabeth Alexander
Poetry is what you find
in the dirt in the corner,
overhear on the bus, God
in the details, the only way
to get from here to there.
Poetry (and now my voice is rising)
is not all love, love, love,
and I'm sorry the dog died.
Poetry (here I hear myself loudest)
is the human voice,
and are we not of interest to each other?
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Is Rev. Joseph E. Lowery's Inaugural Benediction Better Than Elizabeth Alexander's Praise Song for the Day?
God of our weary years, God of our silent tears, thou, who has brought us thus far along the way, thou, who has by thy might led us into the light, keep us forever in the path we pray, lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met thee, lest our hearts drunk with the wine of the world, we forget thee.
Shadowed beneath thy hand, may we forever stand true to thee, oh God, and true to our native land.
We truly give thanks for the glorious experience we've shared this day.
We pray now, oh Lord, for your blessing upon thy servant Barack Obama, the 44th president of these United States, his family and his administration.
He has come to this high office at a low moment in the national, and indeed the global, fiscal climate. But because we know you got the whole world in your hands, we pray for not only our nation, but for the community of nations.
Our faith does not shrink though pressed by the flood of mortal ills.
For we know that, Lord, you are able and you're willing to work through faithful leadership to restore stability, mend our brokenness, heal our wounds, and deliver us from the exploitation of the poor, of the least of these, and from favoritism toward the rich, the elite of these.
We thank you for the empowering of thy servant, our 44th president, to inspire our nation to believe that yes we can work together to achieve a more perfect union.
And while we have sown the seeds of greed — the wind of greed and corruption, and even as we reap the whirlwind of social and economic disruption, we seek forgiveness and we come in a spirit of unity and solidarity to commit our support to our president by our willingness to make sacrifices, to respect your creation, to turn to each other and not on each other.
And now, Lord, in the complex arena of human relations, help us to make choices on the side of love, not hate; on the side of inclusion, not exclusion; tolerance, not intolerance.
And as we leave this mountain top, help us to hold on to the spirit of fellowship and the oneness of our family. Let us take that power back to our homes, our workplaces, our churches, our temples, our mosques, or wherever we seek your will.
Bless President Barack, First Lady Michelle. Look over our little angelic Sasha and Malia.
We go now to walk together as children, pledging that we won't get weary in the difficult days ahead. We know you will not leave us alone.
With your hands of power and your heart of love, help us then, now, Lord, to work for that day when nations shall not lift up sword against nation, when tanks will be beaten into tractors, when every man and every woman shall sit under his or her own vine and fig tree and none shall be afraid, when justice will roll down like waters and righteousness as a mighty stream.
Lord, in the memory of all the saints who from their labors rest, and in the joy of a new beginning, we ask you to help us work for that day when black will not be asked to get in back, when brown can stick around ... when yellow will be mellow ... when the red man can get ahead, man; and when white will embrace what is right. That all those who do justice and love mercy say Amen.
Shadowed beneath thy hand, may we forever stand true to thee, oh God, and true to our native land.
We truly give thanks for the glorious experience we've shared this day.
We pray now, oh Lord, for your blessing upon thy servant Barack Obama, the 44th president of these United States, his family and his administration.
He has come to this high office at a low moment in the national, and indeed the global, fiscal climate. But because we know you got the whole world in your hands, we pray for not only our nation, but for the community of nations.
Our faith does not shrink though pressed by the flood of mortal ills.
For we know that, Lord, you are able and you're willing to work through faithful leadership to restore stability, mend our brokenness, heal our wounds, and deliver us from the exploitation of the poor, of the least of these, and from favoritism toward the rich, the elite of these.
We thank you for the empowering of thy servant, our 44th president, to inspire our nation to believe that yes we can work together to achieve a more perfect union.
And while we have sown the seeds of greed — the wind of greed and corruption, and even as we reap the whirlwind of social and economic disruption, we seek forgiveness and we come in a spirit of unity and solidarity to commit our support to our president by our willingness to make sacrifices, to respect your creation, to turn to each other and not on each other.
And now, Lord, in the complex arena of human relations, help us to make choices on the side of love, not hate; on the side of inclusion, not exclusion; tolerance, not intolerance.
And as we leave this mountain top, help us to hold on to the spirit of fellowship and the oneness of our family. Let us take that power back to our homes, our workplaces, our churches, our temples, our mosques, or wherever we seek your will.
Bless President Barack, First Lady Michelle. Look over our little angelic Sasha and Malia.
We go now to walk together as children, pledging that we won't get weary in the difficult days ahead. We know you will not leave us alone.
With your hands of power and your heart of love, help us then, now, Lord, to work for that day when nations shall not lift up sword against nation, when tanks will be beaten into tractors, when every man and every woman shall sit under his or her own vine and fig tree and none shall be afraid, when justice will roll down like waters and righteousness as a mighty stream.
Lord, in the memory of all the saints who from their labors rest, and in the joy of a new beginning, we ask you to help us work for that day when black will not be asked to get in back, when brown can stick around ... when yellow will be mellow ... when the red man can get ahead, man; and when white will embrace what is right. That all those who do justice and love mercy say Amen.
Poem for Barack H. Obama from Derek Walcott
Derek Walcott
Out of the turmoil emerges one emblem, an engraving —
a young Negro at dawn in straw hat and overalls,
an emblem of impossible prophecy, a crowd
dividing like the furrow which a mule has ploughed,
parting for their president: a field of snow-flecked
cotton
forty acres wide, of crows with predictable omens
that the young ploughman ignores for his unforgotten
cotton-haired ancestors, while lined on one branch, is
a tense
court of bespectacled owls and, on the field's
receding rim —
a gesticulating scarecrow stamping with rage at him.
The small plough continues on this lined page
beyond the moaning ground, the lynching tree, the tornado's
black vengeance,
and the young ploughman feels the change in his veins,
heart, muscles, tendons,
till the land lies open like a flag as dawn's sure
light streaks the field and furrows wait for the sower.
Out of the turmoil emerges one emblem, an engraving —
a young Negro at dawn in straw hat and overalls,
an emblem of impossible prophecy, a crowd
dividing like the furrow which a mule has ploughed,
parting for their president: a field of snow-flecked
cotton
forty acres wide, of crows with predictable omens
that the young ploughman ignores for his unforgotten
cotton-haired ancestors, while lined on one branch, is
a tense
court of bespectacled owls and, on the field's
receding rim —
a gesticulating scarecrow stamping with rage at him.
The small plough continues on this lined page
beyond the moaning ground, the lynching tree, the tornado's
black vengeance,
and the young ploughman feels the change in his veins,
heart, muscles, tendons,
till the land lies open like a flag as dawn's sure
light streaks the field and furrows wait for the sower.
Inaugural Poet Elizabeth Alexander's Poem, "Praise Song for the Day"
Praise song for the day.
Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching
each others' eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is
noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of
our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a
hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of
repair.
Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons
on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.
A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky. A teacher says, "Take out your
pencils. Begin."
We encounter each other in words, words spiny or smooth, whispered or
declaimed; words to consider, reconsider.
We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and
then others who said, "I need to see what's on the other side; I know
there's something better down the road."
We need to find a place where we are safe; we walk into that which we
cannot yet see.
Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the
dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the
bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the
glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.
Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for
every hand-lettered sign, the figuring it out at kitchen tables.
Some live by "Love thy neighbor as thy self." Others by "First do no
harm," or "Take no more than you need."
What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial,
national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need
to preempt grievance.
In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any
sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp -- praise song for walking
forward in that light.
Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching
each others' eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is
noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of
our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a
hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of
repair.
Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons
on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.
A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky. A teacher says, "Take out your
pencils. Begin."
We encounter each other in words, words spiny or smooth, whispered or
declaimed; words to consider, reconsider.
We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and
then others who said, "I need to see what's on the other side; I know
there's something better down the road."
We need to find a place where we are safe; we walk into that which we
cannot yet see.
Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the
dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the
bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the
glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.
Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for
every hand-lettered sign, the figuring it out at kitchen tables.
Some live by "Love thy neighbor as thy self." Others by "First do no
harm," or "Take no more than you need."
What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial,
national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need
to preempt grievance.
In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any
sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp -- praise song for walking
forward in that light.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Ms. Elizabeth Alexander's Books of Poetry Become Bestsellers on Amazon.com
Poetry finds its voice in this Yale University Professor who has been honored by President Barack Obama. She has been a good servant of the craft for many years. she has been commissioned to write and deliver a poem during the inauguration.
There is no doubt that her books are going to be purchased like hot potatoes on various web sites and in bookstores. After reaching millions on January 20, her audience will increase.
Ms. Alexander’s first book of poems, "The Venus Hottentot," was published in 1990. Ms. Alexander’s other books of poetry are "Body of Life" (1996), "Antebellum Dream Book" (2001) and "American Sublime" (2005), one of three finalists for the Pulitzer Prize. She has also published two books of essays, "The Black Interior" (2003) and "Power & Possibility" (2007).
Buy Poetry books at
http://bestsellerpicks.blogspot.com
http://bestsellerpicks.blogspot.com
http://shopnowshop.tripod.com
There is no doubt that her books are going to be purchased like hot potatoes on various web sites and in bookstores. After reaching millions on January 20, her audience will increase.
Ms. Alexander’s first book of poems, "The Venus Hottentot," was published in 1990. Ms. Alexander’s other books of poetry are "Body of Life" (1996), "Antebellum Dream Book" (2001) and "American Sublime" (2005), one of three finalists for the Pulitzer Prize. She has also published two books of essays, "The Black Interior" (2003) and "Power & Possibility" (2007).
Buy Poetry books at
http://bestsellerpicks.blogspot.com
http://bestsellerpicks.blogspot.com
http://shopnowshop.tripod.com
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