Dreaming of Mother

On August 21, 2016 By dancingpalmtreesIn Africa, Dreaming of Mother, Poems, Poetry, Uncategorized6 Comments

Dreaming of Mother

A Poetry Moment

Ahhh…. So beautiful. My Dream. I went to bed in New York and woke up in Ghana! One day we will meet face to face and I will Lift my hands in Praise to the MotherLand. A kidnapped daughter returning to her Native Soil. Clap my hands together and land in Botswana! The Royal Kingdom of Benin. Nigeria My Love She beckons to me. Mama Mozambique I hear you calling my name!

My wings soar high across the Nile into Egypt Land of my Royal ancestors, Hatsheput, Tiye, and Nefertiti.

Who Were the Ancient Egyptians? They are us and we are them. We are all all Queendoms and Kingdoms of Africa!!

I see the long dark corridor which took me away. That dark ship ride on stormy seas bearing me to an untrue way in which I could no longer sing Creator’s grand melody. I can still hear the moans and groans of the weary, the silent rotting flesh of the dead. Some of cast into the ocean by pale pall bearers. Sanctified in oceans cold womb. For generations and generations I have longed to return. A cast away adrift in seas of detractors. My language, customs, traditions,rites and religion torn from me I recast myself yet never forgot my true self. Throwing off my shackles to be reborn. Warrior Queen reigns over distant shores. Curly kinky tendrils carry me upward off to regal shores.

My cousins sit along African shores awaiting my return.

Other genetic ancestors Navajo, Hopi, Arapaho and Sioux bid me stay, pay homage to our Ancient Americas and dwell among them but I could not. So I Blessed them all and began the long arduous journey homeward. This time No North Star for me only galaxies and universes enveloping me inside the womb of my first Mother.

Don’t wake me up because I’m going home. I’m going home. Five thousand years forward into the past. I’m going home.

Canopic Jar ~ Perhaps Queen Tiye

MMC 2002 Graduation

Swing Low Sweet Chariot – Fisk Jubilee Singers (1909)

Gentle Ganesha Stomp

On July 13, 2016February 14, 2017 By dancingpalmtreesIn Gentle Ganesha Stomp, No Man is an Island, Poems, Poetry, Uncategorized3 Comments

When he died All the Elephants gathered at Human House Home. Outside in the red dusky hard clay dirt she beat the ground crying, sobbing, wailing, pouring out her heart in sorrow and grief. Her tears watered each newly formed altar as two more babes were planted within Gaia’s womb.

Each pachyderm delivered a gentle caress with tender trunks lullabying her to sleepscapes. Once bidden by Hypnos and Somnos their nimble trunks carefully placed pillow thatch with moss green bed under her ambient sailing form.

Forming a protective circle swaying tender Tuskers began their slow strange dance.

Gentle Ganesha Stomp.

DeBorah Ann Palmer

https://jennifernicholewells.com/2017/02/14/one-word-photo-challenge-elephant/#like-15119

FEBRUARY 14, 2017 BY JENNIFER NICHOLE WELLS

One Word Photo Challenge: Elephant

Part III: People, Places & Things

If you want to share a literal image of the actual word, do that. But if you’d rather play with word association, post something that reminds you of the specific word, or something you use the word for, do so. It only has to make sense to you. Have fun and keep on photographing!

owpc 2017

This week’s word is Elephant!

Ganesha Mantra to African Drums

‘No Man is an Island’

No man is an island entire of itself; every man 
is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; 
if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe 
is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as 
well as any manner of thy friends or of thine 
own were; any man's death diminishes me, 
because I am involved in mankind. 
And therefore never send to know for whom 
the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. 


Olde English Version
No man is an Iland, intire of itselfe; every man
is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine;
if a Clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe
is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as
well as if a Manor of thy friends or of thine
owne were; any mans death diminishes me,
because I am involved in Mankinde;
And therefore never send to know for whom
the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.

MEDITATION XVII
Devotions upon Emergent Occasions
John Donne

A Snazzy British Jukebox

On June 21, 2016 By dancingpalmtreesIn A Snazzy British Jukebox, Ben E King - Supernatural Thing Pt 1 & 2 Disco Mix, Birthday Jubilee, Kilroy Was Here, Pigment is the Intimacy of Blood Roots and Stones, Uncategorized

Birthday Jubilee

Step Out of the Shadows and into the Limelight

A walk in the park becomes an Interplanetary slog through the miasma of grief, sorrow, pain, fear, panic, anxiety that tied knots in my lungs keeping my breathe hostage from sunlight, daylight, passage, freedom….A Faint towards the portal…………

Shade the Morphing Manster has come to claim my soul…..

Recumbent pathos reaches out a gnarly hand……

When You’re Strange????

Pigment is the Intimacy of Blood Roots and Stones

Blue-bloodied Ascots Scions of Trust Fund Fed Idle Rich who possess the wealth of questionable morals lacking values disregard of human rights all whilst illegally smuggling two foot human cargo into the Land of the Free for immoral entertainments.

There are No Faces merely interpretations. They are the sacrificial scapegoat Lambs.

Erase the Tart and begin again.

I Have Loved Thrown Stones for they became my Salvation.

The Red Queen gave the White Queen a choice she could not deny.

Scumbling Scuttlebutt. Radial solid wood sculptures cracking and breathing. Crackling perpendicular to tree ring growth.

Expand. Contract.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Crepey flaky pale skin. She had ingrown pastels that reflected Light.

Kilroy was here. I just saw him at the Blackjack table a few minutes ago. He was with a Snazzy British Jukebox. Short on Memory. Long on Selection.

Ben E King – Supernatural Thing Pt 1 & 2 Disco Mix

https://youtu.be/1PxuCjMoFkQ

The Doors – People Are Strange

Store Your Obsessions inside The Cube

On June 6, 2016June 7, 2016 By dancingpalmtreesIn Charming MoonRising, DeBorah, DeBorah Ann Palmer, Insipid Alienist, Judith with the Head of Holofernes, Poems, Poetry, Seigneur, Store Your Obsessions in The Cube, Uncategorized1 Comment

Store Your Obsessions inside The Cube

Store Your Obsessions in a Cube

Store Your Obsessions in the Cube

An Insipid Alienist was discovered inhabiting insidious spaces inside my head. She thought to fill them with bran and honey forever sticking to the collective hive.

Protected by my double bubble skin I resisted all attempts at Rehab or Civilization for I spin wildly yet connectedly within my galaxy held in place by eons of moons and upswept worn torn taints of traits. On the cusp of virginity and statehood.

Glitter Cosmos

The Baronet bumped up against her gold metal skin and the surface was shorn allowing electricity to flow from within.

Debonair Mannerisms

Moneyed Heiresses

Cousins upon Cousins

Quietly going mad from incestful ancestral seasons.

Seismic moments vomited up my brain. Memories put up Yield signs cautioning “Out of Order”

The Invisible Man is so Elusive.

Red Dunes | Sandstorms

Jacob’s Well needs Weeding.

Inborn tornadoes burning bright.

Sometime later his life was brought to a judicial end.

Judith made good on Revenge Promise.

Kehinde-Wiley-Judith-and-Holofernes-2012.-An-Economy-of-Grace-Sean-Kelly-Gallery (1) — Judith with the Head of Holofernes

As Warriors crumble Knights fractals and holograms play havoc with jousting pixellated metaphysical tramps and hobos.

His reward for such due diligence was 18 months up the river all the while yelling, “I’ll tell you what I’m looking for when I find it!!” There goes Mr. Bombastic off to the races!!

Girls like Polly are always around. They kneel in worship at phallic iKon temples. PollyAnna Burlesque. I submitted myself to the Battle and was immediately cut to pieces.

Symbols washed ruts into the air. Footsteps vanished into clouds. Caught up in a Vortex of tumbling whirling muffled conversations. Spreading iridescent fairy dust-balls across the plains. The earth opened up under his feet swallowing him whole emitting noxious vapors, fumes and a trickle of smoke. Every breath sucked air from the wind leaving behind desiccated pockets of stillness. A resounding Vibrato echoed across sparkling valleys.

Even if the Rescue Squad only plucks one from the murky depths Let me stop in Hades before the Charming MoonRising sets sail. Quaff along with the reluctant crumpled Muses for I can hear your fragrance rising from the pores of your flesh.

Transcendent Souls burst into being. Spicy Masala Gumbo Jambalaya Oasis occupied breathing spaces formerly homes for fertile progeny. The Seigneur awaits his audience. The Parliament of Fools is now in session.

Fusion Poetry ~~ Epistle to the Daughters of Luna

On March 16, 2016 By dancingpalmtreesIn DeBorah, DeBorah Ann Palmer, Ella Fitzgerald - Stella by Starlight, Epistle to the Daughters of St. Luna, Fusion Poetry, Memoirs of an Evening, Poems, Poetry, Sarah Vaughan - Stella by Starlight, Uncategorized2 Comments

Epistle to the Daughters of St. Luna

Amethyst and Garnet fusion dance THE TARANTULA NEBULA whirling and twirling like untamed dervishes through tentacles of Gordian knots. Together they trip the light fantasia. Bobbling, lolling, bobbing and weaving. Swaying…. Praying… Homage to the Great Her. Flowing through the Magellanic Clouds of Joyful Paradise.

30 Doradus begetter of infinite universes. Stars kiss. Morph. Join forces into exploding orgasms each populating whipping legs of sown seeds.

Eternal moonshine of the flightless mind.

Dripping fine veils of hosiery over endless galaxies.

Ella Fitzgerald – Stella by Starlight

Memoirs of an Evening

Sepia toned Duckbill Platypus saddled with plastic implants blonde Double DD barbie doll. Grecian Urn of pale translucent white blue vein skin. All Hail the bright Neon Orange protector goddess. Astro Nose Noise. Brazilian butt jobs. Collagen plumped Lipppeeesss for days on end.

Below Ugly Toe Jam Drama. It jutted out precariously that if one breathed deep and two-stepped succinctly off it would jump into the hairy precipice, down the cliff and into craggy foreboding Temple ores.

The Metronome calls Cadence in accordance with ancient sweet sirens.

Well bred. Well groomed. Varnished White Mares. Striding the pecking order all vying to be Number #1 Trophy Wife.