Returning to Mother Earth to be scattered across the oceans, seas, plains……taken up by the wind once more. Galaxies. Sand. Soil. Swirling rings around Saturn Whirlpools of Atlantis Solar systems of revolving doors.
In the Dust of this orbital sphere are seeds and spores of generations yet untold. Stories to be written and songs to be sung. Poesy hanging by vineyard climbing ivy searching for fertile ground in which to take root and bloom. You are the pitter patter of dew arising with great tear droplets falling to moss and leaf covered ground. Take hold my Luna branches and spring forth from sweet tender Gaia into renewed awakenings.
Foliage covering preternatural forest an ancient womb delivering sustenance to all flora and fauna. You are the scent of a damp summer’s night. She suckles her young with tender shoots Arboreal Splendor to behold. Goddesses arise and walk about restoring the vanquished, quenching all thirsts birthing new lives.
Foggy Misty morn over Central Park in the ball field
Cloud Mists ~ For Lucy
Mists Cloud your face yet never your smile, laughter, your cheerfulness, your precious spirit. Life moves on but there will always be an empty space where you once stood. You were a sweet and gentle soul. All the world is passing by and I want to shout, Stop! Wait a minute! Don’t you know a melody has ceased playing? A familiar song is now silent? Here I remain stoic yet crying inside wishing I could reach through this veil of tears and take your hand once again.
Misty Day
Remembrance
Though we be in the Autumn of our lives we still beam the Girlish Dreams of Youth. When the cord is cut mid-stream will our dreams be cast into the raging seas…..ashes scattered to the prevailing winds blanketing the Earth like so many strips of confetti after the parade has ended?
Are our dreams lost forever or merely transferred to future generations. When death stills earthly dreams do they take wings and fly towards the Heavens. Do our Ancestors dream of those yet to join them? Are we the living dreaming Lineages cut short who seek a bloodline vessel?
Girlish dreams beckon faded broken bodies. Minds kindled by the flames of youth —- yet the structure could not hold. BOOM!! And ever so slowly and softly one million photographs gently wafted to earth to be gathered by the Memory Gleaners and placed in the gallery of Lost Souls.
Do Heavenly dwellers have earthly memories? Can Memories transpose the veil? And we, if we be close enough or strong enough then death will hold no obstacle. Essence travels freely no longer bound by fleshly concerns.
Despite the Challenges and setbacks in life my journey takes me to new places, new discoveries and new learning experiences.
Within the Soul the two natures of man exist each seeking the preeminence and each wanting to be the dominant force. The Sacred and the profane.
The Struggle of the Two Natures in Man George Grey Barnard (American, Bellefonte, Pennsylvania 1863–1938 New York)
A Lost Soul finds her way home. Chains are being Broken.
Tasha Cobbs — Break Every Chain
My Awakening has happened over a period of time. I went into the next phase of my Womanhood as I entered Menopause. Truly over the last several years as I entered my 50s, (I’m 55 now) I’ve undergone a revealing Change of Life. The Universe has opened up new portals and realms in which I travel taking on the mantle of being an Elder. I take my place within the Council of Elders as I march towards Infinity = Eternity.
The Heavens opened up and all my Ancestors, African, Native American, Christian, Buddhist, Indigenous Faiths began speaking to me on next steps in Life. I truly believe in the Scripture that says, “The Steps of the Righteous are Ordered by the Lord.” I’m discovering the Galaxies within. Through my Kindred Ancestors I’ve found into to Leap Forward I had to step back confronting my fears honestly with faith, gentleness, Wisdom and Understanding. I gather each of my broken pieces, honor the Divinity of each shard, embrace my tears, and like Isis I’ve gathered the pieces of my scattered tribes and Ethiopia is Reborn! Shall these dry bones live? Yes says the Creator of the Universe! Once again I sing the Songs of Solomon and Sheba.
Habakkuk 2:2-3 New International Version (NIV)
The Lord’s Answer
2 Then the Lord replied:
“Write down the revelation and make it plain on tablets so that a heraldmay run with it. 3 For the revelation awaits an appointed time; it speaks of the end and will not prove false. Though it linger, wait for it; itwill certainly come and will not delay.
The Land of the Rising Sun embraced me as I entered the Border-less Gardens.
Live the Sankofa bird I’ve returned to myself. Despite raging battles without and within my Calling and Passion as a Scribe bid me come forth to record my Voyage. Grounded in the Lily. Supported by the Lotus.
The Queen has returned to her Queendom. She sits upon her Throne whilst reigning over the Seven Lands, A Judge and a Mother over Africa, Israel and the Americas.
Judges 4 & 5.
Isaiah 54:1-3 New International Version (NIV)
The Future Glory of Zion
54 “Sing, barren woman, you who never bore a child; burst into song, shout for joy, you who were never in labor; because more are the children of the desolate woman than of her who has a husband,” says the Lord. 2 “Enlarge the place of your tent, stretch your tent curtains wide, do not hold back; lengthen your cords, strengthen your stakes. 3 For you will spread out to the right and to the left; your descendants will dispossess nations and settle in their desolate cities.
Epoch Heydays beat rhythm time Tempo bringing Glory Days and Golden Age into Earth, Space, time Continuum alignment around my being. Spiritual Discernment begins the convergence of planets, Moon-Womben Star-gazers endlessly birthing heavenly bodies and floating orbs.
Mother Africa as Creator Goddess singing Reign Blessings upon her children.
My World, the ones I saw in my Grandmother’s Quilt and the ever expanding Galaxies beyond Earth, Sky, Sun and Moon-Daughter Wishes, Hopes and Desires.
Ancient hand stretching finger Ancestor Dimensions reaching forward into time and eternity bringing revelation knowledge of history long past yet made fresh daily.
Troubles beating bloody fists upon my pate.
Belladonna into Nightshades.
Tethered by an unholy umbilical cord to a dead albatross. Dreams deluge. Green metal Frigidaire Fan blowing air opposite it’s promised heat relief. Stub toe late shift Dad curses Castro and his Convertible. Bucolic heat wave summer in the city. 25 cent Ice Cream salvation dispensed by Mr. Softee. Martha Reeves and her Vandellas gyrating to Dancing in the Streets while kids follow her Piped Pipers.
Kool-Aid libation sugar screams ensue while transistor talking heads Ralph Kiner and Lindsey Nelson called Shea play by plays. Bygone days of Tri-Corn braids. Fletcher’s Castoria Beef Iron Wine cocktails. Childhood freedom beckons signalling release from adulthood chain gangs. Teeter-totter bring unbalanced superimposed idealized memories to double-doubted times past. It’s 1964 and my Dixie Peach anointed head snuggles with Panda pillow transcending time once again in the loving arms of Grandma Eva’s patchwork quilt.
Today I am 55 years old. It is a Blessing to be this age. I have depression, anxiety and panic attacks. I’m also a domestic violence and sexual abuse survivor. I’m the person sitting next to you on the bus, subway, at work and in church. No I don’t want pity just acceptance. Recently I had a conversation on my Facebook page regarding mental illness. It was good sharing with my FB buddy who works in the mental illness field about the obstacles and hurdles faced not only by the mentally ill but their families. The government just seems to put more roadblocks in our way so we wind up taking many detours towards a place called Wellness. My mother Mable Elizabeth Palmer lived most of adult life as a functioning schizophrenic. There is a serious lack of support services for the mentally ill thus we read of all these horror stories in the newspapers but for the most part many mentally ill folks carry on with their daily lives. Despite all that I’ve been through as a child and again as an adult I’m happy to be alive.
Sometimes when I tell my story people who have these “happy lives” meaning a satisfying long term marriage, house in New Burbia, kids, grand-kids, successful careers feel sorry for me, pity or think I’m a walking tragedy living a substandard life. Not true! I live in full life in spite of my numerous desert and valley experiences. Perhaps an even fuller more substantive life than those who eat from silver platters. Mine is not a half-life of only the sunny side of the street but a full life that includes the alleys, back-roads, ghettos, and dimly lit streets populated with voices yearning to be head. I like it that way.
Nothing to be sorry about. Despite all the things my parents went through, especially my Mom’s battles with her demons, she was also an alcoholic, overall I had a good childhood. We have a choice to dwell on the sad past or the fond happy times of the past. I think about the good things. The fun stuff our family did when I was growing up. Of course now being an adult I have a different perspective. I was not so accepting myself when I was younger but age, maturity, experience and time changed my viewpoints.
It’s the government and people’s approach to mental illness that needs to be healed. It should not be a stigma. I readily admit to my struggles with depression, anxiety and panic attacks. That’s my life. It is not a tragedy.The tragedy is other peoples reactions and perceptions of mental illness. My Mom was a good wife and mother. I served my country in the Army, earned my BA in English, held down jobs all my life, went to church, now a full participant in Shinnyo-en Buddhism etc… It would be good if people with mental illness were more accepted. If there was more help for those of us suffering. If people would stop trying to impose their expectations on me of what happiness means. Everybody has a past. Everyone has a story. Life goes on. I’m just happy to be alive. Pitiful prayers, slapping oil on my head, telling me the latest New Age positive thinking strategy 12 Steps to Happiness, and sad sack face looks going tsk, tsk, tsk are an insult to my intelligence as a human being. It is what it is. Raw, exposed and uncut.
I have health insurance so I do have the option of returning to those mind-numbing anti-depressant drugs I took after my mother’s death but I choose not too. I choose the full gamut and range of my emotions and feelings as opposed to being a drug induced zombie. During the high points in life I love my odd slightly off center sense of humor. The times when I’m at my lowest are the times when I’m most creative. I’m a better writer, a better photographer because I know what it is like to live life in the margins, the outskirts of society, to be a misfit and an outcast. I’m drawn to people living alternative lives. That’s why I love Street Photography. I don’t want what’s staged, posed or set-up. I want real. The nitty gritty. The down and dirty. The quirky and unusual. If life was meant to be perfect happiness or total sadness the books of Job and the Song of Solomon would not be in the Holy Bible.
What would the world look like if gave a helping hand to the Mentally Ill by supporting organizations like NAMI, prosecuting men who abuse their wives and girlfriends and pulling the collars off ministers who are rapists. What if we weren’t treated like modern day lepers? Instead of further victimizing people living with mental illness write to your Congresspersons and Senators to create laws that will enable us to receive the treatment and support systems we so desperately need.
No I don’t need to be “healed” but our society does.
Espiritu en Fuego/A Fiery Spirit 