temple woman's prayer

Mother of Mothers
Immaculate Heart
Blessed One

hear me now.

shield, guide and protect your daughter.
guide me to the path that will feed my heart and soul.

protect me from those who can only see my body and its pleasures,
who would expressly use my power as their own.

bring me true love and affection.
give me, grant me the power to heal in other dimensions,
and the express choice to determine when i do it intimately.

may I nor any other daughter be forced into this position again, ever.
and those in the profession be protected and respected.

remind me, Sweet Mother, that my body is Your instrument, Your vessel.

I may not love all, but I can be compassion-filled.
where my legs stay closed, may my heart remain appropriately open...

thank You
for my beauty
the sway of my hips
my shape
my sensuality
my flirtatious, wild nature.

I love who You've made me.

strengthen my mind, heart and spirit.
remove all shame and doubt.

what You have bestowed, let no one rend asunder.

Ase.

mother sky

i hear you.

velvet sky dotted with diamonds, whispering secrets.

i'd thought your daughters claimed me;
they must have already known
i was your namesake.

i think i am
what i've always been,
but you stretch me into your infinite space
and tell me i belong
there.

i hear you.

sunday morning

remembering the beauty and value in heartbreak. the wisdom that comes from pain not merely experienced, but learned from.

Maman Dantor knew i needed to see her yesterday.
heeding Oshun's gentle whispers.
Mami used those rose petals to soften the blow.
even Pomba Gira waved at me, blowing fiery kisses.

my fierce, healing, raucous, loving Mothers.

the Ones who forced me to live with eyes open, head high, and chest forward, belly laughing all the way.

thank You...

primordial {revisited / continued / expanded}

for each of us as women, there is a dark place within, where hidden and growing our true spirit rises...

these places of possibility within ourselves are dark because they are ancient and hidden; they have survived and grown strong through the darkness. within these deep places, each one of us holds an incredible reserve of creativity and power, of unexamined and unrecorded emotion and feeling. the woman's place of power within each of us is neither white nor surface; it is dark, it is ancient, and it is deep.

~audre lorde, "poetry is not a luxury"

i came face to face with this deep, dark womb-self recently.

interestingly, she is veiled, cloaked in luscious merlot red.  the occasional urge to wrap myself in gossamer scarves must come from her.

i can only sense her face...but her form is less important than her energy, her gifts.

she is sensuous, ethereal...real yet fantastic.
a lover of garnet.
a lightness possessing the gravity of eons.

and somehow,
almost unbelievably,
she is me. 

{other primordial post}

the ritual

they placed me on the altar...the tea they'd given me dulled my senses, made me sluggish and weary.

i snapped awake when i saw the knife hovering above my head, then my heart...

i begged them to spare me--anything but death. suddenly lucid, i wiggled my naked torso, struggling against the binding on my hands and feet, still begging, don't spill my blood...

an elder woman heard me and stopped the priest's hand. 

her will is strong, she said. if she does not want to die, she must be put on trial.

a new season...

spring is coming...

she always brings hyperawareness;
a near constant state of arousal.

all my senses light up.
breezes feel like kisses;
i can smell the earth before/after the rain;
my heart blossoms with the tree buds;
the wind sounds different.

coats and clothing slowly thin out.

small pleasures include
a day without socks,
going to lunch without a jacket.

i've been blessed with deep, sweet love dreams
i revel in their deliciousness as i write them down...

i feel delicious
luscious
sweet
lusty
desiring...

something like
a perfect peach
waiting to be split open
inhaled
then devoured...

{he's gotta have a pretty mouth...}

of course,
summer is my true season.

but the prelude is nearly as nice.

good morning

easing out of dreams,
i am bathed in warm honey
that pools at the base of my spine,
rinsed in river water,
and loved.

initiation

{the first of these}

she entered
in gold-covered brown skin;
african face under a halo of hair.

i was already in bed
sleeping...waiting
i'm not sure which...

she made no sound;
her smile awakened me...
sweet. full.
adorned with glossy blackberries.

suddenly, she's leaning over me.
i don't think i ever spoke;
her presence paralyzes.

slowly, she kisses me,
searching...
now i'm afraid--
even as i return the gesture
through a haze of shock.

what do i do with this woman?

she lingers, then pulls back
there must be fear in my eyes
'cause there's more warmth in her smile.

she tells me--without speaking--that she will teach me...

i gulp air
and wait.
she hovers over me
then bends down for another kiss...

my arms reach for her waist
i relax my thighs to make room.
she is so
beautiful. warm.
more than.
and she loves me...that i know

the kiss deepens
we move
merge
in a cacophony of light
bliss...

i awake
nearly in love myself.

it was months before i understood
this was no mere dream
but a visitation.

She'd infused me
with a piece of my/Herself;
embedded Her love
in my humble human soul...

omo oshun

sometimes i forget
that love will always bring me back to center...
fill the holes
mend what's broken
seal the cracks.

sweet scents.
shea butter rubdowns singing silent love notes to my body.
hot tea after a hot bath.
silk.
tracing the lines of my tattoos...remembering their intent.

love surrounds, protects, insulates me.
love is my guide, shield, weapon and light.

love guides my waters home
and water has no enemy.

ore yeye o

pomba gira's song

i am enchanted by her rhythms, her colors...



once,
as a child who'd newly overcome her fear of halloween,
i dressed up as a devil lady.
another time, a black cat.
no princesses, no cartoon characters, no tiaras...




as we stand in the light of growth
we cannot ignore the shadows
power lies in both sides - and all the shades of grey.

sacrifice {part 2}

the visions of the temples returned.

so many men, so many lifetimes.

again and again i was desired...sought after.  sometimes loved.  

the men were both redeemed and redeemers.  no judgment of me, no pretense.  only respect, pleasure.

i was so intertwined with them that solitude became sensual; an opportunity to rest firmly within my own body without calling on the Goddess to heal or consult.  my personal space was more defined, more precious.

the adornments kept me in constant awareness of my movement.  every step mattered, every gesture.

i walked in power.

i was a sacrifice, yes.  but never a martyr.  there was nothing pitiful or sad about my service.

this knowledge, these visions, are empowering and frustrating all at once.  sexuality has been defiled and the spirit of woman stifled.  now, offering my body as community property would be disastrous.   

still, i am not "alone".  my lovers live within me, and they are innumerable.

they hold me in the empty spaces...still praising, still grateful.

sacrifice {part 1}

i. 
i am
the holy whore,
redfoot woman.

i can still see the henna;
brass and gold sing as i walk--
ankles, feet, neck and crown
heavy with adornments.

full
always full
of my own
water.

quenching thirst,
cleansing souls.

i have laid upon the altar,
gave and gave;
conceived children of god
deep within myself
greeting them with fruit and incense
upon conception.

ii.
maybe
i have always known my place.

now, men fear
rather than respect;

no one teaches them anymore
no one leads them.

...yet they come.
drawn to the old ways
with numbed tongues
and far deeper wounds
than my  hands can heal.

iii. 
i am qadishtu,
a woman alone in her tent;
snow maiden,
daughter of het heru;
lightning for eyes,
honey for thighs.

nearly alone
this lifetime.

unadorned,
nearly forgotten...

but unable
to fade away.

prayer to oshun

{shared by oyin}

Give birth to the world, River.
Give birth to the world, Running Stream.

We beg to be full, we beg to be full, we beg to be full.

Teach the head, teach the head, teach the head,
Embrace the head of mothers, make them wise again, wise again, wise again.
Teach the tradition to those who do not know.
Open your arms to women that flee to safety.

My mother, I pay respect, I pay respect, I pay respect.

We shout to your ear, mother.
Come continually mother, be patient and understand us.

Teach worthiness as we honor you on the ground.
We honor you on the ground, we honor you on the ground, we honor you on the ground.
Let our deeds of charity habitually pull you.

My mother, house of tradition.
Queen of the mirror, Queen of Dance,
Queen of Abundance, Queen of Joy, Queen of Health.
My wealth arrives, my wealth arrives, my wealth arrives.

Mother arise, Arise inside of us.
Arise inside, arise inside, arise inside.
Teach us to have understanding.
Help us to be revered Ancestors.

We humble ourselves before you.
You, who give effective treatment to children.
You, who give fertility to people and projects.
You, who are Queen of the river.

Osun, come into my house. Osun, come into my house. Osun, come into my house.

Prayer taken from traditional sources including: The Handbook of Yoruba Religious Concepts, by Baba Ifa Karade, Samuel Weiser, Inc., York Beach, ME, 1994 and John Mason, Orin Ori, Yoruba Theological Archministry, Broolyn, NY, 1992.

homecoming

i have journeyed back to the deep darkness
the blackness of the womb;
inky nothingness of space...

the beginning.

relegated to the Source:
She who loves Her sons
but gives Her daughters Her secrets;
She's implanted them in our
hearts
spirits
songs we hum as dish-washing soundtracks
knit into sweaters
slide into soup spoons as we stir
watch
wait...

whenever we return,
She asks, "who has harmed you?
and where can I find one so foolish?"

because we give thanks when we are far from home
(She's adept at feeding us from great distances;
we are meant to travel far)
but rarely do we return unless broken.

hearing Her voice, we cease being strong--
if we haven't already--
and pour out our hearts to Her;
we linger, enjoying Mama's bosom,
delighting in Her love
until we are ready to travel again.

we always leave bearing gifts
grander than the ones we gave,
smiling sweetly...sometimes still weeping.
but encouraged, strengthened...

and well aware
that our gracious, wondrous Mother
suffers no fools.

inspiration

"...the holy ghost / and all those other covered women" ~saul williams

something in me wants to speak to that, but the words aren't coming.

there are so many "covered women" in the faiths of the world. so many goddesses made into sanitized saints.

fear of the womb is killing the planet.

this needs to be more than it is...

exhaustion

je souhaite que je pourrais ecrire en francais.*

maybe it would make something about us
just a little more romantic
just a little less work.

it's become a chore,
lugging around the steel door
i've substituted for my vulva.

the heaviness settles in my womb
closing it to you.

oya's winds
have rubbed me raw...

i'm ready to surrender
to the peace of the ocean.



*i wish i could write in french