She went in there to muse on being rid
Of relative beneath the coffin lid.
No one was by. She stuck her tongue out; slid.

(Gwendolyn Brooks (b. 1917), U.S. poet. "Old relative.")

If prejudice is native and it is you
Will find it ineradicable....

(Gwendolyn Brooks (b. 1917), U.S. poet. "XV," from The Womanhood.)

Rise.
Let us combine. There are no magics or elves
Or timely godmothers to guide us. We are lost, must
Wizard a track through our own screaming weed.

(Gwendolyn Brooks (b. 1917), U.S. poet. "XV," from The Womanhood.)

Refuses
To refuse the racket, to mutter No to the net.

(Gwendolyn Brooks (b. 1917), U.S. poet. "Old tennis player.")

I swear to keep the dead upon my mind,/Disdain for all time to be overglad./Among spring flowers, under summer trees./By chilling autumn waters, in the frosts/Of supercilious winter?all my days/I'll have as mentors those reproving ghosts.

(Gwendolyn Brooks (b. 1917), African American poet and fiction writer. "Gay Chaps at the Bar: mentors," lines 3-8 (1945). The speaker is an African American soldier who has survived wartime service and seen many of his comrades die.)

Forgotten and stinking they stick in the can.
And the vase breath's better and all, and all.
And so for the end of our life to a man,
Just over, just over and all.

(Gwendolyn Brooks (b. 1917), U.S. poet. "Throwing out the flowers.")

Mrs. Small went to the kitchen for her pocketbook
And came back to the living room with a peculiar look
And the coffee pot.
Pocketbook. Pot.
Pot. Pocketbook.

(Gwendolyn Brooks (b. 1917), U.S. poet. "Mrs. Small.")

My Tondeleyo, my black blonde
Will not be homing soon.

(Gwendolyn Brooks (b. 1917), U.S. poet. "My Little 'Bout-Town Gal.")

You are the beautiful half
Of a golden hurt.

(Gwendolyn Brooks (b. 1917), U.S. poet. "To Be in Love.")

The duck fats rot in the roasting pan,
And it's over and over and all ...

(Gwendolyn Brooks (b. 1917), U.S. poet. "Throwing out the flowers.")