When Great Trees Fall – Maya Angelou

When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.

When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.

Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.

And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.

Maya Angelou

Stories of law violations are weighed on a different set of scales in the Black mind than in the white. Petty crimes embarrass the community and many people wistfully wonder why Negroes don’t rob more banks, embezzle more funds and employ graft in the unions…. This … appeals particularly to one who is unable to compete legally with his fellow citizens.”

Maya Angelou

Strictly speaking, one cannot legislate love, but what one can do is legislate fairness and justice. If legislation does not prohibit our living side by side, sooner or later your child will fall on the pavement and I’ll be the one to pick her up. Or one of my children will not be able to get into the house and you’ll have to say, “Stop here until your mom comes here.” Legislation affords us the chance to see if we might love each other.”

Maya Angelou

The white American man makes the white American woman maybe not superfluous but just a little kind of decoration. Not really important to turning around the wheels of the state. Well the black American woman has never been able to feel that way. No black American man at any time in our history in the United States has been able to feel that he didn’t need that black woman right against him, shoulder to shoulder—in that cotton field, on the auction block, in the ghetto, wherever.”

Poem – When Great Trees Fall

When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,

lions hunker down

in tall grasses,

and even elephants

lumber after safety.
When great trees fall

in forests,

small things recoil into silence,

their senses

eroded beyond fear.
When great souls die,

the air around us becomes

light, rare, sterile.

We breathe, briefly.

Our eyes, briefly,

see with

a hurtful clarity.

Our memory, suddenly sharpened,

examines,

gnaws on kind words

unsaid,

promised walks

never taken.
Great souls die and

our reality, bound to

them, takes leave of us.

Our souls,

dependent upon their

nurture,

now shrink, wizened.

Our minds, formed

and informed by their

radiance,

fall away.

We are not so much maddened

as reduced to the unutterable ignorance

of dark, cold

caves.
And when great souls die,

after a period peace blooms,

slowly and always

irregularly. Spaces fill

with a kind of

soothing electric vibration.

Our senses, restored, never

to be the same, whisper to us.

They existed. They existed.

We can be. Be and be

better. For they existed. 

Poem – Old Folks Laugh

They have spent their
content of simpering,

holding their lips this

and that way, winding

the lines between

their brows. Old folks

allow their bellies to jiggle like slow

tambourines.

The hollers

rise up and spill

over any way they want.

When old folks laugh, they free the world.

They turn slowly, slyly knowing

the best and the worst

of remembering.

Saliva glistens in

the corners of their mouths,

their heads wobble

on brittle necks, but

their laps

are filled with memories.

When old folks laugh, they consider the promise

of dear painless death, and generously

forgive life for happening

to them. 

Poem – Glory Fall 

Glory falls around us 
as we sob 

a dirge of 
desolation on the Cross 

and hatred is the ballast of 

the rock 

which his upon our necks 

and underfoot. 

We have woven 

robes of silk 

and clothed our nakedness 

with tapestry. 

From crawling on this 

murky planet’s floor 

we soar beyond the 

birds and 

through the clouds 

and edge our waays from hate 

and blind despair and 

bring horror 

to our brothers, and to our sisters cheer. 

We grow despite the 

horror that we feed 

upon our own 

tomorrow. 

We grow. 

Poem – Kin 

FOR BAILEY
We were entwined in red rings 

Of blood and loneliness before 

The first snows fell

Before muddy rivers seeded clouds 

Above a virgin forest, and 

Men ran naked, blue and black 

Skinned into the warm embraces 

Of Sheba, Eve and Lilith.

I was your sister.
You left me to force strangers 

Into brother molds, exacting 

Taxations they never

Owed or could ever pay.
You fought to die, thinking 

In destruction lies the seed 

Of birth. You may be right.
I will remember silent walks in 

Southern woods and long talks 

In low voices

Shielding meaning from the big ears 

Of overcurious adults.
You may be right. 

Your slow return from

Regions of terror and bloody

Screams, races my heart.

I hear again the laughter 

Of children and see fireflies 

Bursting tiny explosions in 

An Arkansas twilight. 

Poem – Human Family

I note the obvious differences
in the human family.

Some of us are serious,

some thrive on comedy.
Some declare their lives are lived

as true profundity,

and others claim they really live

the real reality.
The variety of our skin tones

can confuse, bemuse, delight,

brown and pink and beige and purple,

tan and blue and white.
I’ve sailed upon the seven seas

and stopped in every land,

I’ve seen the wonders of the world

not yet one common man.
I know ten thousand women

called Jane and Mary Jane,

but I’ve not seen any two

who really were the same.
Mirror twins are different

although their features jibe,

and lovers think quite different thoughts

while lying side by side.
We love and lose in China,

we weep on England’s moors,

and laugh and moan in Guinea,

and thrive on Spanish shores.
We seek success in Finland,

are born and die in Maine.

In minor ways we differ,

in major we’re the same.
I note the obvious differences

between each sort and type,

but we are more alike, my friends,

than we are unalike.
We are more alike, my friends,

than we are unalike.
We are more alike, my friends,

than we are unalike. 

These Yet To Be United States – Maya Angelou 

Tremors of your network 

cause kings to disappear. 

Your open mouth in anger 

makes nations bow in fear. 
Your bombs can change the seasons, 

obliterate the spring. 

What more do you long for ? 

Why are you suffering ? 
You control the human lives 

in Rome and Timbuktu. 

Lonely nomads wandering 

owe Telstar to you. 
Seas shift at your bidding, 

your mushrooms fill the sky. 

Why are you unhappy ? 

Why do your children cry ? 
They kneel alone in terror 

with dread in every glance. 

Their nights [‘rights’ ? – Schrift nicht lesbar] are threatened daily 

by a grim inheritance. 
You dwell in whitened castles 

with deep and poisoned moats 

and cannot hear the curses 

which fill your children’s throats.

The Mothering Blackness – Maya Angelou 

She came home running 

back to the mothering blackness 

deep in the smothering blackness 

white tears icicle gold plains of her face 

She came home running 
She came down creeping 

here to the black arms waiting 

now to the warm heart waiting 

rime of alien dreams befrosts her rich brown face 

She came down creeping 
She came home blameless 

black yet as Hagar’s daughter 

tall as was Sheba’s daughter 

threats of northern winds die on the desert’s face 

She came home blameless

Refusal – Maya Angelou

Beloved, 

In what other lives or lands 

Have I known your lips 

Your Hands 

Your Laughter brave 

Irreverent. 

Those sweet excesses that 

I do adore. 

What surety is there 

That we will meet again, 

On other worlds some 

Future time undated. 

I defy my body’s haste. 

Without the promise 

Of one more sweet encounter 

I will not deign to die.

Old Folks Laugh – Maya Angelou 

They have spent their 

content of simpering, 

holding their lips this 

and that way, winding 

the lines between 

their brows. Old folks 

allow their bellies to jiggle like slow 

tambourines. 

The hollers 

rise up and spill 

over any way they want. 

When old folks laugh, they free the world. 

They turn slowly, slyly knowing 

the best and the worst 

of remembering. 

Saliva glistens in 

the corners of their mouths, 

their heads wobble 

on brittle necks, but 

their laps 

are filled with memories. 

When old folks laugh, they consider the promise 

of dear painless death, and generously 

forgive life for happening 

to them.

On The Pulse Of Morning – Maya Angelou 

A Rock, A River, A Tree 

Hosts to species long since departed, 

Mark the mastodon. 

The dinosaur, who left dry tokens 

Of their sojourn here 

On our planet floor, 

Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doom 

Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages. 

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully, 

Come, you may stand upon my 

Back and face your distant destiny, 

But seek no haven in my shadow. 

I will give you no hiding place down here. 

You, created only a little lower than 

The angels, have crouched too long in 

The bruising darkness, 

Have lain too long 

Face down in ignorance. 

Your mouths spelling words 

Armed for slaughter. 

The rock cries out today, you may stand on me, 

But do not hide your face. 

Across the wall of the world, 

A river sings a beautiful song, 

Come rest here by my side. 

Each of you a bordered country, 

Delicate and strangely made proud, 

Yet thrusting perpetually under siege. 

Your armed struggles for profit 

Have left collars of waste upon 

My shore, currents of debris upon my breast. 

Yet, today I call you to my riverside, 

If you will study war no more. 

Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs 

The Creator gave to me when I 

And the tree and stone were one. 

Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow 

And when you yet knew you still knew nothing. 

The river sings and sings on. 

There is a true yearning to respond to 

The singing river and the wise rock. 

So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew, 

The African and Native American, the Sioux, 

The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek, 

The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh, 

The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher, 

The privileged, the homeless, the teacher. 

They hear. They all hear 

The speaking of the tree. 

Today, the first and last of every tree 

Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river. 

Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river. 

Each of you, descendant of some passed on 

Traveller, has been paid for. 

You, who gave me my first name, 

You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, 

You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, 

Then forced on bloody feet, 

Left me to the employment of other seekers- 

Desperate for gain, starving for gold. 

You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot… 

You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, 

Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare 

Praying for a dream. 

Here, root yourselves beside me. 

I am the tree planted by the river, 

Which will not be moved. 

I, the rock, I the river, I the tree 

I am yours- your passages have been paid. 

Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need 

For this bright morning dawning for you. 

History, despite its wrenching pain, 

Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage, 

Need not be lived again. 

Lift up your eyes upon 

The day breaking for you. 

Give birth again 

To the dream. 

Women, children, men, 

Take it into the palms of your hands. 

Mold it into the shape of your most 

Private need. Sculpt it into 

The image of your most public self. 

Lift up your hearts. 

Each new hour holds new chances 

For new beginnings. 

Do not be wedded forever 

To fear, yoked eternally 

To brutishness. 

The horizon leans forward, 

Offering you space to place new steps of change. 

Here, on the pulse of this fine day 

You may have the courage 

To look up and out upon me, 

The rock, the river, the tree, your country. 

No less to Midas than the mendicant. 

No less to you now than the mastodon then. 

Here on the pulse of this new day 

You may have the grace to look up and out 

And into your sister’s eyes, 

Into your brother’s face, your country 

And say simply 

Very simply 

With hope 

Good morning.

Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou 4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014

Maya Angelou
4 April 1928 – 28 May 2014


Born Marguerite Ann Johnson on April 4, 1928 was an American author and poet who has been called “America’s most visible black female autobiographer” by scholar Joanne M. Braxton. She is best known for her series of six autobiographical volumes, which focus on her childhood and early adult experiences. The first and most highly acclaimed, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (1969), tells of her first seventeen years. It brought her international recognition, and was nominated for a National Book Award. She has been awarded over 30 honorary degrees and was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize for her 1971 volume of poetry, Just Give Me a Cool Drink of Water ‘Fore I Diiie.

Angelou was a member of the Harlem Writers Guild in the late 1950s, was active in the Civil Rights movement, and served as Northern Coordinator of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s Southern Christian Leadership Conference. Since 1991, she has taught at Wake Forest University in Winston-Salem, North Carolina where she holds the first lifetime Reynolds Professorship of American Studies. Since the 1990s she has made around eighty appearances a year on the lecture circuit. In 1993, Angelou recited her poem “On the Pulse of Morning” at President Bill Clinton’s inauguration, the first poet to make an inaugural recitation since Robert Frost at John F. Kennedy’s inauguration in 1961. In 1995, she was recognized for having the longest-running record (two years) on The New York Times Paperback Nonfiction Bestseller List.

With the publication of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, Angelou was heralded as a new kind of memoirist, one of the first African American women who was able to publicly discuss her personal life. She is highly respected as a spokesperson for Black people and women. Angelou’s work is often characterized as autobiographical fiction. She has, however, made a deliberate attempt to challenge the common structure of the autobiography by critiquing, changing, and expanding the genre. Her books, centered on themes such as identity, family, and racism, are often used as set texts in schools and universities internationally. Some of her more controversial work has been challenged or banned in US schools and libraries.

Poems – On The Pulse Of Morning – Maya Angelou

A Rock, A River, A Tree 

Hosts to species long since departed, 

Mark the mastodon. 

The dinosaur, who left dry tokens 

Of their sojourn here 

On our planet floor, 

Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doom 

Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages. 

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully, 

Come, you may stand upon my 

Back and face your distant destiny, 

But seek no haven in my shadow. 

I will give you no hiding place down here. 

You, created only a little lower than 

The angels, have crouched too long in 

The bruising darkness, 

Have lain too long 

Face down in ignorance. 

Your mouths spelling words 

Armed for slaughter. 

The rock cries out today, you may stand on me, 

But do not hide your face. 

Across the wall of the world, 

A river sings a beautiful song, 

Come rest here by my side. 

Each of you a bordered country, 

Delicate and strangely made proud, 

Yet thrusting perpetually under siege. 

Your armed struggles for profit 

Have left collars of waste upon 

My shore, currents of debris upon my breast. 

Yet, today I call you to my riverside, 

If you will study war no more. 

Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs 

The Creator gave to me when I 

And the tree and stone were one. 

Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow 

And when you yet knew you still knew nothing. 

The river sings and sings on. 

There is a true yearning to respond to 

The singing river and the wise rock. 

So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew, 

The African and Native American, the Sioux, 

The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek, 

The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh, 

The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher, 

The privileged, the homeless, the teacher. 

They hear. They all hear 

The speaking of the tree. 

Today, the first and last of every tree 

Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river. 

Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river. 

Each of you, descendant of some passed on 

Traveller, has been paid for. 

You, who gave me my first name, 

You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, 

You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, 

Then forced on bloody feet, 

Left me to the employment of other seekers- 

Desperate for gain, starving for gold. 

You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot… 

You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, 

Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare 

Praying for a dream. 

Here, root yourselves beside me. 

I am the tree planted by the river, 

Which will not be moved. 

I, the rock, I the river, I the tree 

I am yours- your passages have been paid. 

Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need 

For this bright morning dawning for you. 

History, despite its wrenching pain, 

Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage, 

Need not be lived again. 

Lift up your eyes upon 

The day breaking for you. 

Give birth again 

To the dream. 

Women, children, men, 

Take it into the palms of your hands. 

Mold it into the shape of your most 

Private need. Sculpt it into 

The image of your most public self. 

Lift up your hearts. 

Each new hour holds new chances 

For new beginnings. 

Do not be wedded forever 

To fear, yoked eternally 

To brutishness. 

The horizon leans forward, 

Offering you space to place new steps of change. 

Here, on the pulse of this fine day 

You may have the courage 

To look up and out upon me, 

The rock, the river, the tree, your country. 

No less to Midas than the mendicant. 

No less to you now than the mastodon then. 

Here on the pulse of this new day 

You may have the grace to look up and out 

And into your sister’s eyes, 

Into your brother’s face, your country 

And say simply 

Very simply 

With hope 

Good morning.

Old Folks Laugh – Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou 4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014

Maya Angelou
4 April 1928 – 28 May 2014


They have spent their
content of simpering,
holding their lips this
and that way, winding
the lines between
their brows. Old folks
allow their bellies to jiggle like slow
tambourines.
The hollers
rise up and spill
over any way they want.
When old folks laugh, they free the world.
They turn slowly, slyly knowing
the best and the worst
of remembering.
Saliva glistens in
the corners of their mouths,
their heads wobble
on brittle necks, but
their laps
are filled with memories.
When old folks laugh, they consider the promise
of dear painless death, and generously
forgive life for happening
to them.

The Health-Food Diner – Maya Angelou

maya-angelou-2
The Health-Food Diner
No sprouted wheat and soya shoots
And Brussels in a cake,
Carrot straw and spinach raw,
(Today, I need a steak).

Not thick brown rice and rice pilaw
Or mushrooms creamed on toast,
Turnips mashed and parsnips hashed,
(I’m dreaming of a roast).

Health-food folks around the world
Are thinned by anxious zeal,
They look for help in seafood kelp
(I count on breaded veal).

No smoking signs, raw mustard greens,
Zucchini by the ton,
Uncooked kale and bodies frail
Are sure to make me run

to

Loins of pork and chicken thighs
And standing rib, so prime,
Pork chops brown and fresh ground round
(I crave them all the time).

Irish stews and boiled corned beef
and hot dogs by the scores,
or any place that saves a space
For smoking carnivores.

These Yet To Be United States – Maya Angelou

maya-angelou-2
Tremors of your network
cause kings to disappear.
Your open mouth in anger
makes nations bow in fear.

Your bombs can change the seasons,
obliterate the spring.
What more do you long for ?
Why are you suffering ?

You control the human lives
in Rome and Timbuktu.
Lonely nomads wandering
owe Telstar to you.

Seas shift at your bidding,
your mushrooms fill the sky.
Why are you unhappy ?
Why do your children cry ?

They kneel alone in terror
with dread in every glance.
Their nights [‘rights’ ? – Schrift nicht lesbar] are threatened daily
by a grim inheritance.

You dwell in whitened castles
with deep and poisoned moats
and cannot hear the curses
which fill your children’s throats.

Woman Work – Maya Angelou

maya-angelou-2

I’ve got the children to tend
The clothes to mend
The floor to mop
The food to shop
Then the chicken to fry
The baby to dry
I got company to feed
The garden to weed
I’ve got shirts to press
The tots to dress
The can to be cut
I gotta clean up this hut
Then see about the sick
And the cotton to pick.

Shine on me, sunshine
Rain on me, rain
Fall softly, dewdrops
And cool my brow again.

Storm, blow me from here
With your fiercest wind
Let me float across the sky
‘Til I can rest again.

Fall gently, snowflakes
Cover me with white
Cold icy kisses and
Let me rest tonight.

Sun, rain, curving sky
Mountain, oceans, leaf and stone
Star shine, moon glow
You’re all that I can call my own.

Touched by an Angel – Maya Angelou

maya-angelou-2

We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.

Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love’s light
we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.

Alone – Maya Angelou

maya-angelou-dies

Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don’t believe I’m wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

There are some millionaires
With money they can’t use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They’ve got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Now if you listen closely
I’ll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
‘Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Still I Rise – Maya Angelou

maya-angelou-2

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings – Maya Angelou

maya-angelou-dies

The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

Phenomenal Woman – Maya Angelou

maya angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can’t see.
I say,
It’s in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
‘Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.