Joe Fazio (a pseudonym) was a novelist, whose work has been translated, into numerous languages. Mr Fazio, has chosen to not disclose, any personal information. Friends and associates, that knew him, are asked, to make a donation to, The United Way.
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************************* *********** Weep Not For Me Do not weep for me when I no longer dwell among the wonders of the earth; for my larger self is free, and my soul rejoices on the other side of pain...on the other side of darkness. Do not weep for me, for I am a ray of sunshine that touches your skin, a tropical breeze upon your face, the hush of joy within your heart and the innocence of babes in mothers arms. I am the hope in a darkened night. And, in your hour of need, I will be there to comfort you. I will share your tears, your joys, your fears, your disappointments and your triumphs. Do not weep for me, for I am cradled in the arms of God. I walk with the angels, and hear the music beyond the stars. Do not weep for me, for I am within you; I am peace, love, I am a soft wind that caresses the flowers. I am the calm that follows a raging storm. I am an autumns leaf that floats among the garden of God, and I am pure white snow that softly falls upon your hand. Do not weep for me, for I shall never die, as long as you remember me... with a smile and a sigh.
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I Miss You


I miss your quiet caring, your gentelness, the softness of you, and the warm cloak of your love. I miss your smile that was always so tentative, but warm like the sunshine, gentle as the rain, and softer than a rose. I miss your honesty, your caring and your loyaty. I miss your eyes, nose...mouth. I miss the sound, the comfort of your voice. I miss your laughter, your joy-I miss your tears, your kiss, your touch, and I miss our bodies pressed together, entwined as one. I miss falling asleep with you in my arms, and waking up to the warmness of you next to me. I miss...I miss, everything about you.

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When Do I Think Of You?


I think of you in the peace solitude and stillness of the early a.m., for you are tranquillity. I think of you on an ocean's front, for you are the roar of the waves, the power of the sea, and the salt in the air. I think of you amidst a crowd and the chorus of city sounds ...for that is my song, and you are the music. You are my first thought of each new day, and the last image I glimpse, as my eyes are closed upon a feathered pillow. In that secret place called sleep, it is you that I search for, through shades of darkness and clouds of cotton. When do I think of you? Every moment of my life. And, when the final sleep does come and if there is thought... it will be of you.

James Langston Hughes was born February 1, 1902, in Joplin, Missouri. His parents divorced when he was a small child, and his father moved to Mexico. He was raised by his grandmother until he was thirteen, when he moved to Lincoln, Illinois, to live with his mother and her husband, before the family eventually settled in Cleveland, Ohio. It was in Lincoln, Illinois, that Hughes began writing poetry. Following graduation, he spent a year in Mexico and a year at Columbia University. During these years, he held odd jobs as an assistant cook, launderer, and a busboy, and travelled to Africa and Europe working as a seaman. In November 1924, he moved to Washington, D.C. Hughes's first book of poetry, The Weary Blues, was published by Alfred A. Knopf in 1926. He finished his college education at Lincoln University in Pennsylvania three years later. In 1930 his first novel, Not Without Laughter, won the Harmon gold medal for literature.
Hughes, who claimed Paul Lawrence Dunbar, Carl Sandburg, and Walt Whitman as his primary influences, is particularly known for his insightful, colorful portrayals of black life in America from the twenties through the sixties. He wrote novels, short stories and plays, as well as poetry, and is also known for his engagement with the world of jazz and the influence it had on his writing, as in "Montage of a Dream Deferred." His life and work were enormously important in shaping the artistic contributions of the Harlem Renaissance of the 1920s. Unlike other notable black poets of the period—Claude McKay, Jean Toomer, and Countee Cullen—Hughes refused to differentiate between his personal experience and the common experience of black America. He wanted to tell the stories of his people in ways that reflected their actual culture, including both their suffering and their love of music, laughter, and language itself.
Langston Hughes died of complications from prostate cancer in May 22, 1967, in New York. In his memory, his residence at 20 East 127th Street in Harlem, New York City, has been given landmark status by the New York City Preservation Commission, and East 127th Street has been renamed "Langston Hughes Place."
In addition to leaving us a large body of poetic work, Hughes wrote eleven plays and countless works of prose, including the well-known “Simple” books: Simple Speaks His Mind, Simple Stakes a Claim,Simple Takes a Wife, and Simple's Uncle Sam. He edited the anthologies The Poetry of the Negro and The Book of Negro Folklore, wrote an acclaimed autobiography (The Big Sea) and co-wrote the play Mule Bone with Zora Neale Hurston.

poem From Langston Hughes"The Weary Blues"by 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 nightBy the pale dull pallor of an old gas lightHe did a lazy sway . . .He did a lazy sway . . .To the tune o' those Weary Blues.With his ebony hands on each ivory keyHe made that poor piano moan with melody.O Blues!Swaying to and fro on his rickety stoolHe 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. It'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 BluesAnd I can't be satisfied.Got the Weary BluesAnd 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 bedWhile the Weary Blues echoed through his head.He slept like a rock or a man that's dead.

The reason I chose this poem, is because this is one of the most famous poems he wrote and one of the most remembruble poems.