AUGUST MORNING

by Howard Fergus

On this rainy Thursday morning
I feel a tincture of emotion
thinking of the first of August,
a date which England made for us
for freedom 181 years ago.

Freedom was spelt in black by white,
in black and white, I mean
it was a good feeling then
when Nincum Riley read the lay
and uncle William August in his day
prolonged the strain of freedom.

Today we are not fully free,
England still dictates our date
and calls to order our debates
complete with substance tone and colour
and sometimes with an attitude;
we have a song and constitution
hoping still for liberty.

As Langston Hughes would aver,
freedom is a dream deferred;
but this rainy August morning
sounds a chord within my breast;
freedom is a compelling purpose
that should not let us rest.

Howard A. Fergus

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by Howard Fergus

On this rainy Thursday morning
I feel a tincture of emotion
thinking of the first of August,
a date which England made for us
for freedom 181 years ago.

Freedom was spelt in black by white,
in black and white, I mean
it was a good feeling then
when Nincum Riley read the lay
and uncle William August in his day
prolonged the strain of freedom.

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Today we are not fully free,
England still dictates our date
and calls to order our debates
complete with substance tone and colour
and sometimes with an attitude;
we have a song and constitution
hoping still for liberty.

As Langston Hughes would aver,
freedom is a dream deferred;
but this rainy August morning
sounds a chord within my breast;
freedom is a compelling purpose
that should not let us rest.

Howard A. Fergus