I have another blog I actually post on, if you’re interested.

Langston Hughes, “Harlem”

sharingpoetry:

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode? 

(submitted by potatonutx)

teachingliteracy:

open book (by jiakhechari)
nhmcelroy:

EE Cummings

nhmcelroy:

EE Cummings

Degas said he didn’t paint
what he saw, but what
would enable them to see
the thing he had.
Jack Gilbert, from “Poetry Is a Kind of Lying” (via the-final-sentence)
A mother is the truest friend we have, when trials heavy and sudden fall upon us; when adversity takes the place of prosperity; when friends desert us; when trouble thickens around us, still will she cling to us, and endeavor by her kind precepts and counsels to dissipate the clouds of darkness, and cause peace to return to our hearts.
Washington Irving
teachingliteracy:

karinmaimori:
Happy Mother’s Day!

teachingliteracy:

karinmaimori:

Happy Mother’s Day!

All The Secrets of the Universe
“Books are the quietest and most constant of friends; they are the most accessible and wisest of counselors, and the most patient of teachers.”

― Charles William Eliot