Category: Mr. Hughes

9.11.2025 – sun and softness and …

sun and softness and …
beaten hardness of the earth
song of all sun-stars

Sunrise over Broad Creek on Hilton Head Island, September 11, 2025

Adapted from:

Sun Song

by Langston Hughes

Sun and softness,
Sun and the beaten hardness of the earth,
Sun and the song of all the sun-stars
Gathered together —
Dark ones of Africa,
I bring you my songs
To sing on the Georgia roads.

As published in The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes by Langston Hughes (New York, Knopf, 1994).

My grand daughter called last night.

She had an assignment in class to interview someone who was alive on 9/11/2001.

She had 11 questions to ask; where was I, what was I doing, how did it change my day?

I worked in the TV News business so I was watching TV at work when the 2nd plane hit.

I spent the rest of the day working to provide coverage online of what was going on in New York and in Washington and the rest of the world.

The last question my grand daughter asked was how has life changed since 9/11?

Less safe.

Less trusting.

Less.

Driving to work this morning, the interview and 9/11 was on my mind.

It struck me that as I drove over the bridges to an island on the coast, that 24 years ago at this very minute, the sun was rising out of the Atlantic Ocean.

People were getting up, starting their day, safe and sound.

The events of the day were already in motion.

Coming up over the curve of the earth like a wall of clouds on the horizon at sunrise.

In the next 24 hours the tide would come in and out two times.

And the sun would be coming up again.

The tide and the sun the same with the softness of the sun and the beaten hardness of the earth.

But the world would be different place.

It would be less.

Sunrise on 9/11
—in the manner of Langston Hughes

The sky broke open,
not with fire,
but with gold.
September’s hush,
a whisper low,
before the sirens told.

Steel and sun,
stood side by side,
in morning’s proud parade—
no hint yet of the ash to come,
no shadow on the blade.

O Harlem,
O Brooklyn streets,
O sleeping Bronx and Queens—
the city stirred with coffee dreams,
and soft machines.

Children laughed.
Mothers prayed.
Builders raised the day.
Dreamers climbed their towered hopes
the American way.

But somewhere deep,
in silence coiled,
a storm prepared to rise—
and blue turned black,
and joy cracked loud
against the stinging skies.

Yet still, that sun,
it rose again—
above the smoke and cries.
And still it burns
in every soul
that dares to hope and rise.

Let morning break—
not just with light,
but with a voice that sings:
“We lived. We wept.
We stood. We fight—
for better, braver things.”

8.28.2025 – thought you was happy

thought you was happy
don’t know how you feel today
baby, I feel blue

Oh, I wish that yesterday
Yesterday was today!
Yesterday you was here
Today you gone away

I miss you, Lulu
I miss you so bad—
There ain’t no way for me
To get you out of my head

Yesterday I was happy
I thought you was happy, too
I don’t know how you feel today—
But baby, I feel blue

Yesterday and Today as published in The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes by Langston Hughes (New York, Knopf, 1994)

7.21.2025 – man that is born of

man that is born of
a woman is of few days
and full of trouble

Man that is born of a woman is of few days and full of trouble.
Book of Job, Chapter 14, verse 1.

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.

From The Weary Blues by Langston Hughes As printed in The collected poems of Langston Hughes by Langston Hughes (Knopf, New York, 1994).

5.11.2025 – well, son, I’ll tell you

well, son, I’ll tell you
life ain’t been no crystal stair
it’s had tacks in it

Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.


But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.


So boy, don’t you turn back.
Don’t you set down on the steps
’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now—
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

“Mother to Son” from The Collected Works of Langston Hughes by Langston Hughes (University of Missouri Press, 2002).

Three generations: Mary Hendrickson - Lorraine Hendrickson Hoffman – Mary Hoffman

I think this photo is of a Labor Day walk from our families house on the North End of Grand Rapids to my Grandma Hoffman’s house over on Coit Street near the old Creston Branch Library.

On the left is my Grandma Hendrickson and on the right is my older sister, Mary.

That’s Mom in the middle.

Her life wasn’t what Mr. Hughes wrote about when describing his Mother’s life but there were tacks aplenty in Mom’s life and I was lot of them.

I was a goofy 8th-child in a family of 11.

I could have chosen to keep my mouth shut, fly under the radar and mostly likely would not have been noticed too much … but where’s the fun in that?

At least from my point of view.

So I worked to stand out.

Not that I had too.

Even with 11 kids, Mom could make you feel special.

At some point in my elementary school career I made a clay pot which I proudly presented to my Mom on Mother’s Day and she loved it and put it, for a while, in a place of pride on the kitchen counter.

Was I proud!

So I proud that I never noticed that over time, other pots and gifts replaced my pinch pot.

With 11 kids, these types of gifts accumulated and Mom had a special shelf in one of the kitchen cupboards where she safely stored them all.

But deep down I knew mine was her favorite.

I know that because year’s later, when one of my brother’s returned from college having picked up the habit of smoking, Mom put MY pot in his room to use for a ashtray.

I puzzled about that for a little bit.

But when I realized none of those other pots never ever made it out of her cupboard, I knew mine must have meant something special to her to want to share it with my brother.

So what if it became an ashtray.

She was just trying to spread the happiness.

That is a great way to describe Mom.