Love Poetry For Couple

This performance will always make its mark on my psyche, in the way I view music and hope music to sound like. If not like this, then this good, pure, soulful and generous. Like all serious artists, Aretha has given her whole life to reaching this level, and it shows. The woman is untouchable and barely reachable on that top rung where she's sitting. May she live to sing many more songs. Of course Obama shed a tear. I have chills every time I watch this performance and I'm watching a freaking video. Obama was there! Aretha Franklin

" My job to the Muslim world is to communicate that the Americans are not your enemy. " �President Barack Obama on cable TV network al-Arabiya (January 27, 2009) Barack Hussein Obama

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 plowed, parting for their president; a field of snow-flecked cotton forty acres wide, of crows with predictable omens that the young plowman ignores for his unforgotten cotton-haired ancestors, while lined on one branch are a tense court of bespectacled owls and, on the field�s receding rim is a gesticulating scarecrow stamping with rage at him while the small plow continues on this lined page beyond the moaning ground, the lynching tree, the tornado�s black vengeance, and the young plowman feels the change in his veins, heart, muscles, tendons, till the field lies open like a flag as dawn�s sure light streaks the field and furrows wait for the sower. I've been told many times, directly and indirectly, notably by Geoffrey and Rustum , both of whom I admire, that if I read any one thing, then I must...

A poem by the National Poet of Wales to honour the Inauguration of Barack Obama as the 44th President of the United States of America on 20th January 2009 Venus in the arc of the young moon is a boat the arms of a bay, the sky clear to infinity but for the trailing gossamer of a transatlantic plane. The old year and the old era dead, pushed burning out to sea bearing the bones of heroes, tyrants, ideologues, thieves and deceivers in a smoke of burning money. The dream is over. Glaciers will melt. Seas will rise to swallow golden islands. Somewhere a volcano may whelm a city, earth shake its skin like an old horse, a hurricane topple a town to rubble. Yet tonight, under the cold beauty of the moon and Venus, something like hope begins, as if times can turn, the world change course, as if truth can speak, good men come to power, and words have meaning again. Maybe black-hearted boys in love with death won�t blow themselves and us to smithereens. Maybe guns will fall silent, the powerful ...