Mother
I am not ready to make babies
my hands are soft
the poems from these fingers
are her children
river message for humanity
curing infertile spirits
making whole what has been divided
she blessed our work with water vibrations
clear and vibrant
blue ribbons and cowrie shells at her feet
no longer silenced
whisper into a deeper breath
Yemoja, Yemaya
your Rivers are Alive
but these wars rage on in a land
where greed began
so long ago
so long ago
Father, am I not here to be
Always in the place of poetry?
prayers have been sold for gold
it was all foretold
in the book of pages, by eternal sages
yet your names ran over the lips
of those who chose to mask intentions
now Military forces run Nile blood from their sources
the Almighty and those who call upon his name
who do acts in the name of Allah
who awaken stagnant powers from slumber
all for a chance to pull the new number
scores of bodies in mass graves
pacifying the devotees as slaves
yet the same tombs, the same temples
that Egyptian Pharaohs oversaw
are not exempt from the higher law
Hot desert winds leading Mohammed
to alchemize, to catalyze
changes occurring in a rapturous daze
in the eyes of sedated ones
agitated ones
in the daze of rapture
shifting the gears of the goddess
lying raped and forlorn
her gentle body torn
by the empty broken traditions
passed on for generations
Now only the rivers must cleanse
what will follow
Be hollow
streams of conscience, of consciousness
the world has not yet seen
what is to become of us?
No comments:
Post a Comment