in passing...

returning from a visit to see mother, i wandered by a tree with very unusual leaves.

its roots were twisted and tangled and seemed a little bunched up, all but straining to respect the boundary of the sidewalk.

(i can only assume they weren't happy when it was built, but have since resigned themselves to the exchange: a little bondage, to live)

i thought, "hello. i've never seen a tree like you before..."

i sensed a faint but audible reply: "few who pass here think those thoughts or speak to me..."

that nearly stopped me cold, but i had to move on. still, i took a moment to send it some loving energy.

next time i walk that way, i'll stay awhile.

on: being

i know more than i realize,
yet have volumes to learn.

i am healed,
healing,
and still hurt.

i am closed
and open wide;

stitched
and bleeding;

profane
and the holiest of holys.

i am earthbound
and a shining star
unique unto myself
like all the others.

black
woman
spirit

human.

today.

giving thanks.
absorbing.
reflecting.
listening.

dancing to the songs in this moment and wondering where the steps are leading me. what the sound is teaching me.

the fight

dreamt of deep tombs filled with wary bones...
a botanica/jewelry store built on top.

as my "mother" and i were leaving,
a ham-fisted man caught us in the hallway.
we tried to keep walking.
the man's wife tried to keep him walking.

he threatened anyway.
came for mother first.

somehow, in a way i didn't see, she cut him.
slashed right across his throat, but he dripped instead of gushing.
tasted his blood, fed it back to him...

i was shocked.
then it occurred to me:
she wanted to know how insane he had to be to step to her.
the blood told her.
she said,
"if you would harm someone, harm yourself first. drink your own blood."

that's when he, weakened, lifted his fat hand to slap her.
i waited.
he did.
i got my hand around his bloodied neck
and choked him til his eyes bulged,
saying, "don't you ever lay a hand on my mother..."


"draw me out of the net they have spread for me, for you are my refuge; to your hands i commit my spirit, by you have i been redeemed." ~psalm 31:4-5

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.

today...

i am at home.
my home.
with my chosen scents and colors, my books and my familiar.

enjoying my kitchen.
eating my food.
savoring my appetite.

i have had the day to myself.
i have slept, awakened, bathed, and prayed in ways pleasing to myself.

i am full of myself
and life
and love.

and i am happy.

jesus, mary and...

something from last september. just found it again...there are entirely too many notebooks lying around my house...

i, mary magdalene
seven sinned slut
of red hair and impossible curves
showered with my jesus' gifts
candles
fragrant timber
honey jars full of
anointing oil
and a map
to lead me
back home

you don't have to crucify yourself
and i don't have to hide my divinity
behind ill conceived notions of purity

we can build a villa
on the shores of the dead sea
bless the bathers from our porch
lay the foundation of new myths
when visitors attempt to classify
the sounds of our lovemaking

i can shake my shekere
while you learn the drums
wind my hips to your other rhythms
in ...inbetween-thighs time

...all the things
i miss most
when we're between incarnations

come and kneel

let
us
pray...

the ceiling

because the war started on my 25th birthday...

i can't
breathe

my house has
divided against itself

my ceiling
is now
my floor

the cobweb i used to stare at
before i fell asleep
is now inches
from my nose

i can't see.
there's something
in my eye...

i can't hear my children
maybe they are finally
asleep.

none of us
have slept for years.

we cough
cry
laugh sometimes
but rarely sleep.

feast or famine
chaos or silence
our nerves are altered
deafened by necessity

isn't there only so much
a man can take?

i want to roll over
but there's the ceiling--
and something cramping
my thigh

no pain yet...
so i must be high on adrenaline
or losing blood...

i can see the
colors of aminah's favorite toy
in the corner

...oh, wait.
how'd the wall get back
the way it was?

never mind...just an illusion.

my prayer rug
is it still by the bed?

my wife should be home
in time for prayer.

she'll see the ceiling
and fuss
but
we must still
have prayer.

there is so much
to be
thankful
for...