Maya Angelou

(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)

Preacher, Don't Send Me - Poem by Maya Angelou

Preacher, don't send me
when I die
to some big ghetto
in the sky
where rats eat cats
of the leopard type
and Sunday brunch
is grits and tripe.

I've known those rats
I've seen them kill
and grits I've had
would make a hill,
or maybe a mountain,
so what I need
from you on Sunday
is a different creed.

Preacher, please don't
promise me
streets of gold
and milk for free.
I stopped all milk
at four years old
and once I'm dead
I won't need gold.

I'd call a place
pure paradise
where families are loyal
and strangers are nice,
where the music is jazz
and the season is fall.
Promise me that
or nothing at all.


Comments about Preacher, Don't Send Me by Maya Angelou

  • (10/10/2018 9:26:00 AM)


    OH, and also, Why does everyone have to be so negative these days?
    (Rhetorical)
    (Report) Reply

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  • (10/10/2018 9:22:00 AM)


    Preacher, please don't
    promise me
    streets of gold

    This particular part made me think she was mentioning Heaven, the REAL, heaven.
    In loving memory of Maya Angelou
    (Report) Reply

  • Petals Azureblue (7/14/2018 8:34:00 AM)


    A beautiful poem. Autumn is my fav season for its transformational beauty where leaves take the battle forward from flowers. Indeed we look forward to a different place than this in eternity. (Report) Reply

  • Subhas Chandra Chakra (12/9/2017 11:48:00 PM)


    I'd call a place
    pure paradise
    where families are loyal
    and strangers are nice,
    where the music is jazz
    and the season is fall.
    wow, nice poem.
    (Report) Reply

  • Rogelio Guillermo (10/11/2017 8:45:00 AM)


    A nice factual portrayal of what being religious should be (Report) Reply

  • Anita Aparajita Das (9/20/2017 3:27:00 PM)


    poet Maya Angelou #1 on top 500 poets Poet's PagePoemsQuotesCommentsStatsE-BooksBiographyVideosShare on FacebookShare on Twitter
    Poems by Maya Angelou: 28 / 53 « prev. poem next poem »
    Preacher, Don't Send Me - Poem by Maya Angelou
    Preacher, don't send me
    when I die
    to some big ghetto
    in the sky
    where rats eat cats
    of the leopard type
    and Sunday brunch
    is grits and tripe.

    I've known those rats
    I've seen them kill
    and grits I've had
    would make a hill,
    or maybe a mountain,
    so what I need
    from you on Sunday
    is a different creed.

    Preacher, please don't
    promise me
    streets of gold
    and milk for free.
    I stopped all milk
    at four years old
    and once I'm dead
    I won't need gold.

    I'd call a place
    pure paradise
    where families are loyal
    and strangers are nice,
    where the music is jazz
    and the season is fall.
    wow, nice poem.
    (Report) Reply

  • Sabita Sahoo (9/20/2017 3:04:00 PM)


    I'd call a place
    pure paradise
    where families are loyal
    and strangers are nice,
    where the music is jazz
    and the season is fall.
    Promise me that
    or nothing at all.
    A great write.
    (Report) Reply

  • Subhas Chandra Chakra (9/9/2016 12:31:00 AM)


    Preacher, please don't
    promise me
    streets of gold
    and milk for free.
    I stopped all milk
    at four years old
    and once I'm dead
    I won't need gold.

    What a poem based on naked truth of life and society.
    (Report) Reply

  • Mysia Hayling (8/3/2016 10:00:00 AM)


    very interesting piece indeed. (Report) Reply

Read all 9 comments »



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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, March 9, 2016



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