coming home near sunset...

sweet dollop half moon
lounging in
cotton candy sky

grateful
for the honeybee
that nearly lit on my hand
at lunch

for seeing through honeyed eyes
even with no explicit reason
for dulcet expressions.

maybe i can finally
touch my own center...

make beauty effortless
effortlessly see myself

effortlessly see...

sense
something
more...

elemental

i have a watery, sweet soul:
calm, cool, collected,
plenty of patience.

most are content to simply swim in the ocean...

but there's fire here, too.

an underwater volcano: quiet, but still active
contained only by the element surrounding me.

my worlds are created deeply, sometimes violently;
built from tsunamis, earthquakes, and lava spouts
seen only by the most skilled and adventurous divers.

untitled/incomplete {napowrimo '11, #20}

i was fine until
you cried.

trees
don't fall down
in a mere breeze.

sap-tears run down my arms,
too sticky for kleenex.

i'll have to bathe
in the river
to wash away your sorrow.

womanlove
doesn't repair
roots
bark
branches...

costume change {napowrimo '11, #15}

home means
wrapping myself in a sarong;
moonstone beads hanging
between warm breasts.

switch

if i didn't know any better
i'd worship at your feet
the way you once did at mine.

caught

hips rose,
meeting
the scent of rose hips
and cedar
buried in
neck hollows.

generation

born between
my lai
and jonestown,

hip hop seeds
planted in my baby bottles,

i remember cartoons
that didn't coddle;

heard whispers
of real journalism
while deciding whether or not
to show up on this plane.

why be surprised
at us 70s babies
and our shit talkin' ways
...knowing y'all had it coming?

greening

{stream of consciousness related to the cleansing}

lotus blossom
opening
petals in the wind
releasing fragrance

heart reaching towards sky, beating to please the sun
unbreaking
stitching
mending
closing in upon itself like morning glory
reborn in the morning

do i still remember how to be this released?

mindful of the lotus on my hip
walking in perfection
connected
communicating
the spirit behind the etching becoming clear again

thinking about
energy
hunger
intersections of the physical and spiritual
what's feeding what
where the nurturing lies...

back in touch with my heart
core
essence
dipped in the love i rarely allow myself to feel
glowing sticky with it...

drive

{adapted from a cell phone notation. months old.}

easter pastel palette sky:
pink
violet
hint of peach...

the moon
a solitary pearl
opposite tangerine sun
setting fire to skyscraper glass.

overflow (napowrimo #23)

filled with prayers
i can't speak

desires
i can't name

pain
i can't soothe

sometimes i hide in my dreams
just to see
who has the senses
to find me

working pisces magic
to tuck myself between waves

waiting for one
to hear the prayers
fulfill the desire
soothe the pain...

the island {part 3}

{part 1}
{part 2}

A breeze danced across the garden, bending the tall grasses and tickling the hibiscus bushes. The shores of a teal sea sparkled on the horizon.

The Lady fell into one of her hammocks near the garden wall. The wall itself was covered in honeysuckle vines, the hammock strung between two palm trees. She sunk into the thick, silk sling, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. Golden eyeshadow flecked with emerald green glitter danced off her mahogany eyelids. The breath sent one side of her kimono sliding over her collarbone, exposing a bit of her shoulder to the sun.

Concentrate on the vision, she chided herself. There'll be time later to play with the sun. She allowed herself a smile to thank the sunbeam for its warmth, breathed again. Focused.

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...

the island {part 2}

{part 1}

On a whim, Amil took Martine to see the ocean.

She had acquired a steady glow--nothing like the frightened, self conscious woman who'd appeared in the cottage a few mornings ago--and found comfort and beauty in the delicate fabrics and bright colors she'd been given to wear. All the fresh fruit and water had cleared her skin, and the massage oils Amil used smelled like flowers and herbs.

the island {part 1}

{a piece of a work in progress}

The kitchen wasn't clean enough. True, Martine had forgotten to dust the shelves, but she never thought Joseph would notice—when had he ever needed to go up there for anything?

He'd left after dinner, probably to play dominoes with friends. Shaking, she forced herself to stand up and begin the routine of slowly running her hands over her face, assessing the damage.

She started with her forehead—sore, but dry. Her fingers traced her right eye. Ok, but she winced as she touched her left. Another black eye. And her bottom lip was starting to swell. She ran a fingertip across it and ran into a nasty clot forming on the right side. Looking back at the corner she'd fallen into, she noticed red splotches on the tile. Must have been his ring.

She thought about crying, went numb instead. What would be the point? Still, she'd need to wash her face before dealing with the mess Joe had made...

fireball

a flame cannot exist
where there is nothing to consume.

that must be why
this feels like starving.

notes on a sunset

easter pastel palette sky
pink, violet...hint of peach

solitary moon-pearl
opposite tangerine sun
setting fire to skyscraper glass

once upon a time

(birthed 8.2007)

can't figure out how to end this...but i wanted to give it some air and see how it sounded...

sometimes
my past lives flash before my eyes
like

standing bare-breasted
in the middle of the serengeti
watching lions and zebras walk by
under an impossibly brilliant blue sky
breathing
freely
and knowing precisely
who i am...

sometimes
it's the memory of a lover long gone
children i don't remember having
habits i pick up for an hour...or a day...

always illuminating
some glimmer of my current self
i think of as useless or
wrong...

reminding me that
without those selves
i couldn't be who i am
speak the stories i hear
dream the same dreams or
wield the same power...

i don't wanna play...

there were
no innocent games of house;
they always went too far,
invading space and emotion.

it was dodgeball, really.
ducking hands and lips
eager to snatch more of my soul.

venus in chains

venus lies waiting

bound by boredom
cruelty and
an absence of pleasure

begging her daughters
for freedom.

the garden

{part 1}

My magic is simple, potent. It's not about nonsensical words and rabbits in hats. It's everyday. I wouldn't know how to live without seeing the way I do. In the blood, I guess.

My breakfast conversations as a child revolved around the night's dreams. We worked through them diligently, like homework. I had to know both, be grounded in two worlds: know the herbs in the garden and spelling; long division and the four directions; geometry and the phases of the moon.

Somehow, my folks were blessedly cursed with remembrance. They killed many of us for what we knew. Many of us forgot in order to survive. It was easier to be ourselves quietly, whispering incantations in babies' ears and reciting singsong chants in the kitchen.

My grandmother silently built her garden. Granny flew to Guinea in dreams and came back with special treats. The colors, “accent” pieces—everything had a meaning. There were veves made of pebbles and specially chosen flowers and herbs—every few steps offered a different scent.

It was years before I recognized the altars in my grandmother’s garden and even longer before I knew they were accurately constructed (for example, the Virgin in the grotto wasn't the Virgin at all, and there was a reason Granny meticulously shaded her face and hands in cafe au lait craft paint). The spirits spoke to her, and she listened. Often she'd wait for a message to repeat as confirmation.

She'd let me work in the sections devoted to my guides. There were some places we could not enter at all. Even my mother knew better. She didn't have to tell visitors, either; they just knew. Strangers would gravitate to particular spots and ignore others.

The church women were intrigued and repelled at the same time. Some became significantly less sanctified after spending an hour or two in Granny’s garden. The change was quiet, nothing dramatic. It just seemed that, over several weeks, they felt less and less of the Spirit in the sanctuary and started building their own gardens. Some spent more hours in the kitchen, giving away wondrous dinners, cakes or pies. Sometimes it was knitting or sewing. Some came back to the garden—same spot—for more inspiration. Others only needed one afternoon. Some found magical men and went away. Others dreamed of Nigeria. Or Benin. More went south—Louisiana, Miami. They'd heard there was more of that garden there.

The church women talked about 'em, then cajoled, then pleaded the Blood. Some went back to church, albeit a little less devoted. Most, if they'd truly been touched by the flowers, never did.

Granny was on the “sick and shut in” list at the church, even though she was neither. The women showed up a few times a month, always in pairs, like good missionaries. They would ask Granny about donating to the church or try to cajole her into attending Sunday’s service. She'd listen politely, chat, sometimes offering fresh herbs or teas she’d made. She'd grown up with most of them and genuinely liked a few.

Every now and then, one of the pair—typically someone she merely tolerated—would want to “take tea in the garden”. That’s when I waited to see which one would be the “inbetweener”—too sanctified to admit she was drawn to the garden, but too nosy to stay away. The inbetweener’s companion would invariably exhibit one extreme or another: excitement, or horror.

When the question came, Granny knew when to say no, when to hint about her space “changing” folks, and when to joyfully lead the way. If she gave the hint, that's when the inbetweener would persist and—except in the most extreme situations—the three women would go outside.

Immediately, one or both women would remark on the beauty of it all, simultaneously noticing the lack of a crucifix, Jesus statue, or “Footprints” plaque.

The inbetweener mused, “You know, they have some lovely Psalms etched in stones. Don't you think a cross would work over by those mums? Lord, You should rest among Your creation. Hm.” All the while, she peered over her glasses, searching for some proof of hoodoo—bloodstains, dolls or something. She'd have seen it all around if she'd known anything about real magic instead of accepting the nonsense she'd been fed.


Meanwhile, an excited companion wandered off, unbeknownst to the inbetweener. Granny noticed and kept the inbetweener busy, imploring the garden to lead the companion where she needed to go. Inevitably, the more respectful visitor returned with some question about a plant or an object she'd seen (sometimes actual, other times a vision). Granny smiled, offering an explanation and making a mental note to give her a cutting, poultice, tea, or phone call.


If the companion was horrified, she’d stick close to the inbetweener, totally thrown off by the magic, but seeing and feeling more than she was willing to say. The inbetweener continued to suggest more inane improvements for the glory of the Lord while her poor partner already sensed some ungodly purpose in motion. Granny told me later that these were the people who remembered but tried so desperately to forget that they clung to the Bible, hoping their visions and dreams would disappear. Many went crazy trying to shut their gifts out.


Sometimes the scared ones returned, alone, unable to deter the dreams. Others refused to ever come back, Christian duty be damned.


The inbetweeners traded gossip, told lies about what they'd seen, and declared the place unholy, but they also kept coming back, grinning wider each time and unwittingly pushing more women away from the Lamb and into the arms of the Goddess.


I'm sure Papa Legba was working them, laughing the whole time—content with letting them believe they were drenched in the blood of Jesus instead of a chicken's.