Rainbowland
Living in a Rainbowland Where everything goes as planned And I smile 'Cause I know if we try, we could really make a difference in this world I won't give up, I'll sleep a wink It's the only thought I think, you know where I stand I believe we can start living in a Rainbowland
Living in a Rainbowland Where you and I go hand in hand Oh, I'd be lying if I said this was fine All the hurt and the hate going on here We are rainbows, me and you Every color, every hue Let's shine on through Together, we can start living in a Rainbowland
Living in a Rainbowland The skies are blue and things are grand Wouldn't it be nice to live in paradise Where we're free to be exactly who we are Let's all dig down deep inside Brush the judgment and fear aside Make wrong things right And end the fight 'Cause I promise ain't nobody gonna win (come on)
Living in a Rainbowland Where you and I go hand in hand Oh, I'd be lying if I said this was fine All the hurt and the hate going on here We are rainbows, me and you Every color, every hue Let's shine on through Together, we can start living in a Rainbowland
Living in a Rainbowland Where you and I go hand in hand together (let's do it together) Chase dreams forever I know there's gonna be a greener land We are rainbows, me and you Every color, every hue Let's shine on Together, we can start living in a Rainbowland
Awol Erizku
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The Last Tears of the Deceased
Amanda Gorman
What Words Begin
By Amanda Gorman
The word ‘race’ first arose
In the English language in 1508. Of course,
It appeared where all
words are born:
a poem. when
A Scottish writer
Spoke of a long line of kings,
And the dancing deadly sin of envy.
So what is a poem, if not a beginning?
An announcement that heralds itself?
Moments of air molded like melted wax.
I always thought language was
Akin to the body,
Padlocked oh so delicately to a pulse.
It tells you in the beginning was the word.
This was before 1619, before Trayvon, before Till,
Before Malcolm and Martin and Michael went still.
Before the echo that is breath’s
Pilgrimage to the start of the sound.
Before the inception of a new poem,
When I am bent and gasping,
Stripped skinny, thatched thin,
A wild note waiting to be sung.
I am braced against beginnings
I cannot name, my breath wheezing
So hard as to stain the haze of night.
My teeth are bared,
My tongue a rare thing, flared and forked.
I’m the damsel. The dragon. The dork.
A furious flower--
I dare you: bury me, wilting, under your feet.
For what is stepped on cannot be stepped over.
So I’m still not sure if words
Are something the page pulls from me,
Or the page pulls me from.
All the same, I am parcel to a we
That is enviously gibbous, glamorous.
Letters clamorous in the damp dip of the tongue.
Think: if sorrow made slaves sing,
Bronze faces polished with light,
Might we write a hymn
That fills the mouth tight with wind.
Maybe we can dream of lettering a lyric
Loud enough to crack the lung.
I want to speak a blackness that
Is something to celebrate
And something to shovel;
The soil from which all of us start.
Buried deep down within me,
Under the skin, like a secret skeleton.
The shell that keeps us standing.
Let our verses grab the globe by the ear,
Like a black grandma tugging a toddler straight.
Let us arrive on the backs of words
That give air its meanings,
So that the next time historians speak of race,
A long line of kings,
They’ll see us,
our crescent smiles naked and nascent,
Shining so bright they make others black with envy.
We tell the kingdom we are deadly,
And dancing, too. The heralds announce that
Our race has just arisen
From the flowerbeds
where our seeds have always been.
We grin,
Recognizing our reign isn’t words,
But the world words begin.
Harsh Malik
Cultural Diversity
n.l rivera
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Isamu Noguchi
Grey Sun
Amanda Gorman
