Dark Skin Child

They said her skin reminded them of their past, the one they wished to forget

The colour of the coals they carried, the whip that raided scars on their backs

The dark nights that lengthened their labour, their sadness

She had been born into a stagnant time, in which your skin was your crown, at times, a crown made of thorns, piercing her heritage with persecution

Pain was always associated with her colour, it brought tears to her mother, she swallowed them like bitters

Her aunt had told her that when she was born, people mourned silently with their faces

‘she be of dark skin child, darker than any we seen with the eyes’ .. they murmured

Giving gifts of sympathetic glances to a woman already in pain from labour 

All the children started work at the age of two, helping with their tiny hands

They had mistaken it for play, they enjoyed running around the rows of cotton plants

She would hear songs about redemption on the fields, soul soothing comforting songs about a lord that saved people, yet she saw a light skinned person on the portraits, with the skin tone of the man who would take her mother away and spread her thighs in front of her

Her conflict was like a birth mark, only it covered her whole body

They looked at her as a painful reminder of their daily struggles, inner battles that they dared not mention in words. They feared death, but she didn’t. Her life already resembled death

Most days she sat at the barn, milking cows, seeing how white the milk was, wishing her skin was the same, so she could smile, laugh and be greeted with the same happiness they showed to their master’s eyes. She was only 10 years old, but her existence seemed longer, her eyes, frail with sadness, the spark of innocent life, gone, forgotten to be emphasized

She was taught to hate her skin, herself. And that is what she did. Nobody was there to show her how the dark soils were moulded into beautiful clay pots to collect water, how the coals gave life to food.  How her skin was of ancient goddesses that were worshipped in early times

All they ever did was spit on her with looks of detest, as if she could hear every woman praying that their daughters never become such a tone, full of damnation and scrutiny, when the very same people that hated her, had a similar tone. She felt inferior like they did, they fed her a poison they claimed was running in her veins.

The last they saw of her, was in her writing, when she mentioned how she was going to town, to beg to be lynched. As her own kind, had killed her at birth.

Merania

She was born the day the sun was covered with a ball of darkness

The tribesmen used to call this mysterious happening the blood of the sun

It’s bleeding signifying a foreseen greatness within the clan, an ancient prophecy

It said a woman with the sky people’s blood, with marks of nature’s carvings on her back, a wind symbol, will give birth to this child, an old soul becoming of flesh.

The puzzle pieces laid before them could not fit, ‘this is a girl child’ they said. This could not be.

But the gods had willed this, a girl child is the life giver after all.

Course long hair covered her head. She was the last of her kind. An aquarius, the one who can speak with the wind

Her eyes became the colour of the water spirit goddess Meran, at the age of five, the colour of perennial rain

The name she was given was Merania, the wind goddess, the name now owned her

Her hair would sing when she was the happiest, the healer’s trail as they called it, marked her as the one who could save her people from being annihilated.

When she was seven, which in their numerology symbolised perfect growth, they took her to the forest where her feet had to meet with the wilderness, to fuse with her spirit and ground her fragility, she needed to remember  how to use her gifts, and the mother giver, nature, the earth womb, would teach her within the silence.

She spent 60days with what felt like her real family, speaking with other worlds masked as trees and flowers. She knew this is where she would build her home

This was a time when foreign men would kill people for land, she had to be the barrier, she had to speak with the wind to offer protection for her people

She would summon ancestors, ten feet spirits that could manifest physically, to scare the foreign men away, their metal sticks had no magick, her hands did. They could not penetrate the seal of love she had blanketed her tribe with. This seal was considered the strongest

In the dawn of what was supposed to be their winter equinox , the wind told her it was getting heavy because of the cold, so it would not be able to protect them as it has did before

The foreign men had found an entrance that was much further from the forest, she could smell the blood from her vision, innocent blood

Her hair began singing a very painful song, the one that was written on the stones, by the ancestors who had come across the same fate

The people of her tribe heard it, they were ready for what was coming, their bodies were of no meaning now, their souls knew where they were going

The smell of copper bullets raided them, smoke, blood, fused. Spears and arrows piercing hearts, it was war. Merania was having a spiritual one, her tears had become bullets to the ground

The wind whispered ‘it is done, child, become the air that has made you’

She fought harder, conjuring a wind storm killing hundreds of men at once.  The earth stood still when she opened her eyes, seeing a massacre of both her people and these men she regarded having wounded souls to have committed such a deed.

The household that included her mother, which had twenty people inside, was the only legacy left of their tribe, the Watchers.

Even with most dead, they knew they would see them in blossoming flowers, on fields sprouting of fresh grass, even on the rays of the morning sun

Their tribe was selfless, the love they had for each other, was stronger than death itself

I find the design of a tree very intriguing. Yesterday while just travelling to my destination I tried to really see these beings (as I would call them since they are very much alive), like I was unfamiliar to them, as if I was a new born marvelling at a space I never thought as possible, I honestly tried. J . What I saw is something that resonated with my own life and actually, what I needed to learn and still continue to. First of all, the branches, which have sprouted in many directions, each seeming so perfect, made me to ask myself about the many choices I have made. How the tree has many paths, all from the same channel or lifeline, like the stem represents, not just one simple laid out branch. The collective umbrella-like structure, is what really made the tree so beautiful, these various projections. It’s like that channel, here being the stem, stored directions, choices each branch can make, but it felt to me that a tree didn’t have such a choice. It just grew, regardless.  It gave me a smile, to see how each tree has its own uniqueness in the shapes of its branches, leaves, and just the whole entire framework. How they are connected on the same ground for their roots to drink nutrients from the earth, the silence being caressed by the wind, the lack of comparison or competition, the sense of an energy that states, ‘we just ARE’, and we are here. Another smile arose, this time from my heart. It was comforting, as time and again we as human beings fail to see this kind of connection. To see this possibility on just an area with trees, did revive me that we also can have such. A reminder sank in, of how unique every experience is, especially for humans, even with such distinctions, the entirety of it all is, we are all people. And because we are people, choice is one gift we fail to fully explore why it has been given to us. We taint choice to the labels of ‘good or bad’, depending on what they have given us. One would say, but angie, there is a lot of bad choices people make. I have thought on this, in one point believing it, seeing bad choices in my life. But when I see what I learn from those ‘bad choices’, the label just disappears. It fails to be bad anymore. Thing is, YOU are the one who makes the choice that in turn makes itself into an experience you gain, whether you embrace it or not. And these words were just so hard to swallow, for me, to realize that choice is what makes me what I am and how I choose to see that self.  The roots of the tree grounded it, made it fortified in how it stood, in a way, appearing to mould how the tree would grow. And then, a thought rushed, ‘we also search for grounding, for a source that gives us the life we have’, yet, we still want to create that source in how it would suit us best, not just letting it be within us, and in turn in the midst of our lives. This confuses us very much, we create what we don’t know with what we know. Learn from a tree, it does not question its existence, it just knows it is where it needs to be

......

I heard someone say a devastating phrase ‘we are not equal, we are only equal beneath the ground’. What happened? Where is the root of the tree that made us think that its branches do not stem from the same tree, of oneness. People have mistaken this word ‘oneness’ into ‘sameness’. But it is not, oneness embraces the connection we each have with our surroundings, as we distinctly experience it differently. We need to see that poverty is a manifestation of our own internal unbalance, and that the wars we see are conducted by our own brothers, sisters, sons, loved ones who feel it patriotic to act against another since that is their occupation. They too have mouths to feed and the society that ‘cares’ about them is breaking them into vicious creatures with no drop of empathy when killing a family. Bloodshed, hunger, are all reflections of each person in this planet, our own stories, thoughts, beliefs manifesting. The sense of community in every society, which is a blatant façade, masks an internal cry which most do not feel the need to be aware of.  The way we, as a whole with obvious differences, have succumbed to petty labels of divisible nature, is sad. WE are more than that, more precious and amazing than what this world has made us think we are. To step into that awareness of how we have been deluded, and also deluded ourselves, is a great feel, not easy of course to embrace and unravel, because we love to feel that sense of belonging our communities give. We need to question though, if we deserve a sense of belonging that is not deep rooted, and that does not embrace our complete potential, but always constructs us into models of what they expect us to be. We have to rise above such limited existence. I do though, inner-stand that we have different cultures, backgrounds, but that should not be the only plane to which we choose to perceive this world. The love we truly are is that which a word cannot fathom, even the mind itself. 

hold me, like the last drag of your cigarette in your lungs, just inhale me like your last breath.. pixels of your face formed like a ray in my iris, bright, reflecting grace, as you slowly drank my blood as passion. Indulge in the lucid dreams it gives you..sniff me like the white devil.. i want to be your high.

The LifeLine

Her white beads, little pearls of hope she sees in the salt that she scatters

Her red beads, blood stained crystals of those that guide-be her

Her hair, think strings that source her to the Beloved

Ten magical wands make her hands, mapping  brown streams of healing

‘The bones speak, they have little mouths of truth, they release flesh from the body and free the spirit, they speak’.. she says this to a skin-made bag.. given to her by her grandmother.

She is now gasping, growling, bending to her own being

She is reaching out for thin air,  grabbing nothing, still gasping.. ‘they whisper to me you’.. now telling her uncle

She now holds water like she is one with it.

Red and white beads flying with the air of her locks

She now holds water like she is one with it.

‘cleanse him, cleanse him’!!!!

That cloth with ritualistic dances rhythms the connection with her tribe

She feels them surrounding her, their bare feet on the ground, holding her still, 'be, child'

But it’s only their spirits present

The cloth covers all her fears with a comfort she feels in her core.. it’s a sort of love.. a deep love that never leaves her.

‘shelter me from my fears great mother, I’m afraid’

‘My eyes burn with dreams’.. she notices.. but she loves the alternative existence they brew

Its peaceful, it heals her while it heals him, her uncle now saying incantations she fails to know why she understands  like the mother tongue she speaks

05/09/11

The God of passion

I knew of a place where I was the god of passion

Dripping desire from my fingertips in which the apathetic nation suckled

Having eyes of auburn nature, I was the fire in every heart

Ignited by flesh instead of spirit chants

I was a fountain, clothed with deity pigments of white silk around my brass body

Clouds were my messengers, engulfing sight into inspiration of those with the courage to look unto me and embrace my sun like face

‘Cut me loose from your breasts’, they all prayed... yet they were breathed from pebbles of purity that i fused with my own soul

Self-sacrifice is what I decided as my fate

Yet mortals of flesh clothing never worshipped my immortal glance to gain beauty-full inspiration, cleansed from a sort of fear, not completely

I wished to be seen as the only river in the drought of their lives

To be the only tree that gave them fruit to eat

Yet, they praised my brother, compassion, never dwelling under his protection

They loved his name as it gave re-birth to wilting souls

But none dwelled in him

This is why he broke himself into rays of hope, faith

For he was too much for such a timid race like theirs

They still fear me, saying 'glance so strong, we can never hold, be the light, but never bright'

Tears are still my oil, they keep my molded body shining, tears of those that worship me

I, in a world surrounded by solid matter that fantasized of becoming long fragments of energy

Dipped in all potential possibleness 

Was still, a god of passion

The Coin

The shadows surrounded him, he saw them as they consumed every light in him. He loathed the pain yet enjoyed the state in which he could not see himself. His dreams grew colder, darker, the paint in his hands was too heavy for him to paint with. He did not need colour or the happiness each stroke brought, it was all too temporary for him as the rain would come and wash his canvas- mind clean. Demons, angels, were the watchers of his life, taught him that light and darkness are the sides of one coin, that they needed each other to build his wings. This was hard for him. He was suspended in the middle of these two worlds. He thought that there was a choice, he saw that he needed to be a manifestation of one. His spirit was torn. Reality and fantasy fused between his eyes, each too quick for him to grasp. One demon told him, ‘choices aren’t made, they make themselves when the time is at hand’.. he did not understand what this meant, so he travelled between the clouds and met an angel pouring colours in a rainbow after a rainy day of summer. He asked the angel, ‘are you of light or are you of the dark’.. the angel continued to say.. ‘I am of neither’. He went back in his dreams, tried looking for answers that he never seized.  Life became what he dreaded, which was the lack of choice of either. He lived in both. 

A Reality to sleep on

It’s a little over two after midnight now, a little late for my eyes to bare but my fingers itch for the feelings within me to pour out. This world is mad and until a minute ago I was mad too at it for allowing itself to become its own ridicule. My madness though, will only be adding to the evident one we see. Humanity is destroying itself because it has lost the essence of what it is to take responsibility for what it sees. We have played the blame game, and entrusted other people with our health, finances, even our lives. But what else was there to do? This is the normality isn’t it? The only way this structure called society has offered us. But now everything is so bleak, unpromising, getting worse and just on the verge of collapse? Why? I mean this is intensely worrisome and scary when you do contemplate our fate, what it is going to be if all this continues. So, at this point, I have decided, that I need to take responsibility of my own state of internal affairs, because the prior question is one that does not have a standard answer we can all agree to. The only thing I can change is me, you know, be the change I wish to see. :)  It will always be like that until the people themselves see it fit for their own lives, to change. I mean some are adamant their lives are perfect. Honestly. It is so tiring to carry the world and its delusion on your shoulders and think it will willingly get off of them because it realizes the burden. We cannot change this external hell hole, or should I say ‘whole’ we see until something in us changes, ‘the projector’ needs to empty its hard drive. And that is painful to admit, to face and especially accept. The madness is in each one of us, and is projected to form this craziness, that is the root. From within. We deal everyday with different set of eyes that have different beliefs and standpoints that no one can change to be otherwise unless they allow it, to change it for them is another ‘God-task’ on its own. Lol. It becomes another ‘you are lying, you are not’ situation if people are pressured to be something they are not which further separates us. It is a predicament and it has been for thousands of years now. The patterns are there, war, poverty, these are just some of the recycled problems, not new problems. This just gets me wondering again, are we blind to this or we would rather choose to turn a blind eye to them, or even both? Is life easier that way? I appreciate people who make it their purpose to inform the world about its dealings that are not honestly transmitted to the public. The only thing at this point is to share information, and make people aware of the elephant that has always been in the room, the truth! It’s up to the people and it has always been. And one other thing I have seen even for myself is that our attachments are one of our greatest vices.  That’s another thought that deserves it own space here.

Love and Light

xx