filled and brimming with so much this morning
calliing that tall dark forest green house with the huge wraparound veranda while i sit, read, write and look over forest canopies, other mountain tops, the sky''s falllen horizon and birds soaring...thinking, praying, gathering..and watching other solitudinal souls crawl out of their caves like peter hadeed without his guitar...envisioning altars, weapons, makeovers, and what would i accomplish if my bathsuit becomes a two piece, the top oh too small for cantalopes - same size and fullness...and the bottom thongs of a kind, or to retain my boyishness tinier still boxers...and all my clothes were pencil skirts bespokely made...and i reverted to my old proper snotty american before i came to this swamp of trinidad self..that i thought was my glory but has ended up being everyone's bane of existence..and i wonder did i really choose and make this or am i living the cards my soul selected/ or was and is it beyond the both of us..
i rise thinking of limitations, restrictions, lanes and knowing places...not thinking of Tillah' post but it is like i can have a browser remaining open with those words and her many people selecting like but the males still choose the light high no color vapid vixens
and it is sad too cause our pains can be the same but we still hesitate to full hug embrace and hold each other...so big is the fear and loathing; the jealousy and distrust.
but i wonder not of those things but what oshun weapons to take on to transform all those things...the war may be to become the fatalist femme fatale..taking all on my ship razack knowing they shall never return to the port of embarkation....taking me to my treasures they are holding...out at sea.
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this morning i could have sworn i saw oshun
rise out of the water – she who makes her people one.
i needed to see her this morning after james byrd junior,
our brother, was dragged to death by a truck in jasper,
texas; for i need to believe this morning – i don’t want
to be a tongueless bell – i don’t want to be burnt
up like a useless limb by my own simmering hate.
oshun, guardian of our dreams and our spirit,
lover of our dark hands, dark bodies, dark skin,
healer of wounds made from enemies and our weapons
aimed at ourselves, my sister, protect us in this dread
hour until anger passes – wash your coolness over my head.
-Geoffrey Philp
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Tillah Willah:
"For the girls like us who were and still are told we're too black for love, success, respect, visibility #LupitaNyongo #OshunWeapons"
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