my passion for music is something that will live on through me till i die. never have i given up on music and i never will. the crying and weeping notes i play on my guitar symbolize what i have gone through in my short life. many think of music as a hobby, i think of it as being a part of my soul. 

The trade of barbering is something that will never die

The way you feel when your in the hands of a true barber is one like no other

The smell of talc powder and bay-rum after shave lingers through the shop

The buzz of clippers are some what soothing to your ears

Men wait for months just to go and get a traditional shave a cut 

The barber shop is a mans home away from home

The barbershop is my home

-Isaiah B

                                          TRADITIONAL CUTS. OLDSCHOOL BARBERING

           wake up and smell the suavecito !

Catch in the rye questions
• why does Holden think everyone is a phony?
• what could of influenced Holden to be so skeptical about people?
• does Holden put on an act, and never realize it ?

Share on facebook Share on twitter Share on tumblr Share on email Share

Print

My Favorite Poetry

Add to Favorite Poetry

Remove from Favorite Poetry

Register

I agree to the terms and conditions.

or Log in

Forgot Password?

cancel

Please log in.

or Register

Forgot Password?       cancel

To recover your password, enter the email address that you used to register.

or Log In or Register

cancel

The Weary Blues

By Langston Hughes 1902–1967 Langston Hughes

Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,

Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,

      I heard a Negro play.

Down on Lenox Avenue the other night

By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light

      He did a lazy sway. . . .

      He did a lazy sway. . . .

To the tune o’ those Weary Blues.

With his ebony hands on each ivory key

He made that poor piano moan with melody.

      O Blues!

Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool

He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.

      Sweet Blues!

Coming from a black man’s soul.

      O Blues!

In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone

I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan—

      “Ain’t got nobody in all this world,

      Ain’t got nobody but ma self.

      I’s gwine to quit ma frownin’

      And put ma troubles on the shelf.”

Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.

He played a few chords then he sang some more—

      “I got the Weary Blues

      And I can’t be satisfied.

      Got the Weary Blues

      And can’t be satisfied—

      I ain’t happy no mo’

      And I wish that I had died.”

And far into the night he crooned that tune.

The stars went out and so did the moon.

The singer stopped playing and went to bed

While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.

He slept like a rock or a man that’s dead.