Listen for My Name


 

 

Listen For My Name

 

If I had Listened for my Name I would have heard the Sweet Silent Saint Speaking & Calling of Destiny beyond my Brittle Brain.  I am a series of abandoned places and misplaced faces turning, churning learning.

If I had Listened for My Name I would have escaped the Family Plot and Indecent Mausoleum that keeps my bones on ice.  Dust would not have gathered in splotches and griefs within crevasses of spirit and soul.

If I had Listened For My Name my world would burst forth, setting free oceans of galaxies. Seas of synchronicity.

If I had Listened For My Name I would not have signed away my hopes and dreams into obligations and duties.

I would not be a lost one looking for a home.  Sequoias and sand bid me entrance. Forest and Green Hills bid me Welcome.

That voice though unintelligible yet distinct was getting louder and more insistent on being heard.

I a Scavenger of Blues  spread stardust seeds from journey seeking the Traveler.  An impenetrable Limbo foggy and heavy misty prior to a storm.  So difficult that staying afloat feels like drowning. My views are behind a steel cage.

The Storm arrives to clear the air.

Muddled Dreams and Visions receive clarification when passing through hurricanes and tornadoes.

For I am Most Awake When Dreaming.

 

Life Beyond, Behind and Through Green Cauls

 

Copious amounts of letters, alphabets, symbols and gibes fell to the floor.  Some fell into gestures others were barely held together by periods, adjectives, commas, semi-colons, verbs and apostrophes.  Weak chain links that were often smashed into derpish grins.

 

My Muse sprinkled the fallens with Holy Water and Anointing Oil keeping rigor mortis from settling in.  Here and There Muse Traveler plants and picks, prunes and shears. Preparing the landscape.

Mystic + Muse Join Forces with the Traveler Leading the Way Home.

My Name is planted deeply within foraging for nourishment.  Perpetuating eternal root systems

Once again I must Pray my Unconscious into Being.

 

This prose poem inspired by My Ghana SiStar and Sister-Friend  Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia 

https://amoafowaa.com/2018/01/26/if-i-had-listened-to-maame-crazy-stanzas/

 

https://amoafowaa.com/2018/01/27/%E2%80%8Bwhat-you-dont-see/

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Prompt Stomp ~~ Super Heroes


 

https://themomhood.wordpress.com/2016/01/02/prompt-stomp-week-13-welcome-2016/comment-page-1/#comment-2133

 

“…I love dressing up in superhero outfits and in fact, when I dress up as Wonder Woman, I actually think that I’m more powerful…”

—Olivia Munn

Real or made up. A super hero can be anybody. The lady next door who devotes her time to the needy, our soldiers across the seas or like our heroes growing up we can write about Batman or Wonder Woman. A super hero can take many forms. Lets write about them this week!

 

Every Halloween my brother Stephen and I become Super Heroes. Halloween is my favorite holiday because you can not only dress in costume but it’s okay to walk around the city in that costume with your new though temporary Identity. For a long time I went with a feline theme thus I was Cat Woman channeling Eartha Kitt for several Halloweens.  As you can see I greatly enjoyed my Cat Woman and Tigeress Avatars!  Stephen won Best Costume in 2011 for his Scarecrow Costume!!  in 2013/2014 Stephen was a Sailor aka like the kid on the Cracker Jack box for those of you old enough to remember the caramel popcorn with the toy surprise. Obviously for those of you living on the East Coast of the United States Hurricane Sandy put the kibosh on Halloween that year. Some photos were taken at Stephen’s training center AABR in Jamaica, Queens, New York.

Sailor Stephen
Sailor Stephen

Stephen the Happy Sailor Stephen Sails the Seas Stephen Sails the Oceans

Sailor Stephen
Sailor Stephen
Stephen as Scarecrow
Stephen as Scarecrow
Ebony Panther
Ebony Panther

Black Panther2

Me as the Black Panther
Me as the Black Panther
Stephen as Scarecrow. Me as Cat Woman.
Stephen as Scarecrow. Me as Cat Woman.
Year of the Tiger!
Halloween 2013 ~ Year of the Tiger!!
Me channeling Cat Woman Halloween 2011
Me channeling Cat Woman Halloween 2011

 

My Avatar ~ Cat Woman
My Avatar ~ Cat Woman

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This past summer Stephen with his Group Home residence had visited The New York Renaissance Faire located in Tuxedo, New York. So together we decided on variations of a Renaissance Theme. I re-imagined Diana the Huntress as DeBorah the Huntress, a combination of the Hunger Games and the Goddess Diana. So I become the Goddess DeBorah acting out my incarnation as Huntress Protector of the Forest.  Stephen transformed from a Sailor into the Black Robin Hood! This is what ensued.

20151030_141540

Stephen as Robin Hood October 30, 2015
Stephen as Robin Hood October 30, 2015

20151030_14153520151030_14152920151030_13520020151030_135148Robin Hood enjoying M&MsDeBorah the Huntress 20151031_141549 20151031_141601 20151031_141602 20151031_141607 20151031_141614 20151031_141704 20151031_141707 20151031_141709 20151031_141817 20151031_141824 20151031_141827 20151031_141831 20151031_141936 20151031_141946 20151031_142001 20151031_142005 20151031_142007 20151031_142009 20151031_142013 20151031_142038 20151031_142047 20151031_142054 20151031_142059 20151031_142107

Stephen as the Black Robin Hood!
Stephen as Robin Hood!

Seed


Seed

She put her hand to the Stone……………………

She put her hand to the Stone and a million millennia of memories coursed through her soul and out from her pores.

She put her hand to every boulder and heard the rocks cry out their praise to Our Creator.

She put her hand to the magnificent Oak Tree and received the voices of streams, rivers, oceans, lakes and streams.

Woman Tree
Woman Tree

She put her hand inside Gaia Mother Earth and heard the calls of sacrifices, bog dwellers, cave peoples, the cries of those murdered all crying out for justice.

She extended her hands within the forest absorbed the singings of creatures past and present reverberating within her spirit. Her fingers touched the voices of cave dwellers imbuing their drawings with Life. And in the fullness of time vibrations echoed through the eons.

She put her hand upon the Rock of Ages and they extended their hands inside her inner being enveloping her with knowledge, wisdom and understanding.

What Are The Akashic Records & How to Access the Akashic Records

 http://youtu.be/SojN1E79jG0

Fort Tipii


Fort Tipii

Tepee-Hut
Tepee-Hut

I couldn’t build a proper tree house.  Too high up and anyway I’m afraid of heights, so instead I built this little fort of sorts as a place to gather my thoughts after a hectic day.  Made my best efforts with whatever materials the forest floor offered up as building materials.  There were enough twigs and branches to construct more ground level tree houses or make my current enclosure larger but I chose to save some for kindling for warmth against the chill night air and the rest I kept stacked as a type of cord-wood in a womb like nook Mother Nature had carved into a tree that had been struck by lightening. Eventually I decided to construct another Tipii twig abode to store my few belongings I had gradually began to sneak away from The Family Residence.

These Tree/Tepee/Tipii/Twig aka T3 structures became my holy sanctuaries and safe havens I return to again and again to re-connect with Mother Earth and nature. Too small to stand upright clicking my heels together three times was not an option so I was forced to remain seated. With some degree of discomfort I could lay down in a fetal position while I imagined myself re-entering an alternate womb to be reborn into better circumstances. Mine were a tepee shelters without the buffalo skin covering all exposed bones and framework.

Tipii Stick Hut
Tipii-Hut

Sometimes I’d hug my knees and rhythmically rock back and forth while repeating what I thought were calming mantras, occasionally wishing that the earth would open up and swallow me whole transporting me some place free from pain, misery and cruelty. Like a shaman I chanted using my homemade rituals attempting to silence the drumbeat of voices incessantly chattering inside my head versus the declarations of the Family.  They created a dissonance tear in the time frame continuum of my thoughts.

You see our house, The Family Home if you could call it that is a ramshackle structure; a hodgepodge mixture of stone, wood and stucco additions and afterthoughts as different parts of the building were constructed at different times upon the whims the directors and caretakers.

I was forced to share this mishmash cottage with twelve other inmates, bordered on this expanse of woods providing me a refuge from leaky roofs, busted walls, peeling wallpaper, lukewarm baths, moldy musty scented showers, not to mention all the yelling, screaming, arguments, fights, thefts of food and personal belongings and constant disagreements of a house too small to accommodate the number of people residing within its creaky ramparts.  The Family nicknamed it the Hotel California. You know the place where you check in but never check out. The nails across chalkboard voices of The Family were constant knife thrusts to my brain making daily life a constant battle that did not end even has the diurnal gave up residence to the nocturnal for they all snored, wheezed and gasped through the night abyss.  The utter desolation of the place crept into your bones and took root nourished by hopelessness.

The Family’s house sits on an oddly place piece of land, our house gives way to forest which in turn after several miles gives way to craggy, rocky shores of a steep cliff, where if one sits perfectly still you can hear the violent waves crashing against rough jagged rock formations that looked as though they were designed by the devil himself. It is said that in olden times there used to be many shipwrecks where sailors were either impaled on the razor sharp Stalagmites. Sometimes you can even hear the shrieks, moans, cries and groans of the unfortunate wretches mixed in with the howling winds. The few who weren’t dashed to pieces by the razor sharp jagged rock formations tried to climb up to safety but were thwarted by the steep incline.

Forest Hiding Place
Forest Hiding Place

So I periodically retreated to my exoskeleton asylums as a sentry medium between earth and sky. I can never turn my mind off completely but within my secret hiding place the voices were kept to a low roar and bid to change direction and pace.

The last straw that broke the camels back came when my moronic addled brained cell-mate Pearl kept throwing her nasty, dirty towels, underwear and flip-flops over to my side of the room. When I returned from the canteen or our common dining area there were moldy wet towels plastered to the floor like throw rugs that accosted the dividing line between our two living areas.  Pearl was known as the filthiest female in our wing tossing food and drink to and fro fully expecting that a squad of personal maids and sweepers were following in her wake. One night after I returned from my many woodland sojourns I decided that I had, had enough and soaked all her grimy towels in gasoline and lighter fluid obtained from an unlocked supply closet near the motor pool.  Pearl had a tendency to drink like sailor on shore leave and sleep just as soundly so she never had an inkling as I piled the towels around her bed, built a kindling fort for good measure and added effect, led a fuse from a doorway to an open window, climbed out and lit said fuse.

The Kindling delivered me from The Family’s vocalizations. I tried to warn them before. I tried to silence the voices through escape, but it was not working so I had to try another plan. The crackles and pops of my campfire seem to be in sync with the screams and cries for rescue from the patients locked inside their rooms but eventually those voices will die out also, and then sleep.  Blessed sleep.

Love,

Cassandra Verity

My Secret Hiding Place


My Secret Hiding Place

The Hiding Place
The Hiding Place

I couldn’t build a tree house.  Too high up and anyway I’m afraid of heights, so instead I built this little fort of sorts as a place to gather my thoughts after a hectic day.  Made my best efforts with whatever materials the forest floor offered up as building materials.  There were enough twigs and branches to construct more ground level tree houses or make my current enclosure larger but I chose to save some for kindling for warmth against the chill night air and the rest I kept stacked as a type of cord-wood not too far away.

It has become my sanctuary and safe haven I return to again and again to re-connect with Mother Earth and nature. Too small to stand upright clicking my heels together three times was not an option so I was forced to remain seated. With some degree of discomfort I could lay down in a fetal position while I imagined myself re-entering an alternate womb to be reborn into better circumstances. Mine was a tepee without the buffalo skin covering all bones and framework.

Sometimes I’d hug my knees and rhythmically rock back and forth while repeating what I thought were calming mantras, occasionally wishing that the earth would open up and swallow me whole transporting me some place free from pain, misery and cruelty. Like a shaman I chanted using my homemade rituals attempting to silence the drumbeat of squatter voices incessantly chattering inside my head versus the declarations of the Family.  They created a dissonance within the time frame continuum of my thoughts.

You see our house, if you could call that ramshackle structure; a hodgepodge mixture of stone, wood and stucco addendum and afterthoughts as different parts of the building were constructed at different times upon the whims the directors and caretakers.

I was forced to share this mishmash cottage with twelve other inmates, bordered on this expanse of woods providing me a refuge from leaky roofs, busted walls, peeling wallpaper, lukewarm baths, moldy musty scented showers, not to mention all the yelling, screaming, arguments, fights and constant disagreements of a house too small to accommodate the number of people residing within its creaky ramparts.  The Family nicknamed it the Hotel California. You know the place where you check in but never check out. The nails across chalkboard voices of The Family were constant knife thrusts to my brain making daily life a constant battle that did not end even has the diurnal gave up residence to the nocturnal for they all snored, wheezed and gasped through the night abyss. The Family’s house sits on an oddly place piece of land, our house gives way to forest which in turn after several miles gives way to craggy, rocky shores of a steep cliff, where if one sits perfectly still you can hear the violent waves crashing against rough jagged rock formations that looked as though they were designed by the devil himself. It is said that in olden times there used to be many shipwrecks where sailors were either impaled on the razor sharp Stalagmites. Sometimes you can even hear the shrieks, moans, cries and groans of the unfortunate wretches mixed in with the howling winds.

So I periodically retreated to my exoskeleton asylum as a sentry medium between earth and sky. I can never turn my mind off completely but within my secret hiding place the voices were kept to a low roar and bid to change direction and pace.

The Kindling delivered me from The Family’s vocalizations. I tried to warn them before. I tried to silence the voices through escape, but it was not working so I had to try another plan. The crackles and pops of my campfire seem to be in sync with the screams and cries for rescue from the patients locked inside their rooms but eventually those voices will die out also, and then sleep.  Blessed sleep.  As I drifted off I thought I heard sounds creeping up on me.  Maybe it could be…. Naw.  How would those deviant mutations get all the way out here.

While pyrotechnics roared and exploded beyond the glen my dream state thoughts went to Calista and Cassandra those Kudzu Chia matronly tumbleweeds who wreck havoc and chaos wherever they spore and spawn and their equally troublesome and problematic one-legged Siamese twin cousins Morton and Milton.

Love,

Cassandra