With inhaled breath we await that
great day when the dragon lays slain by the Redeemer’s Silver Sword.
Cries of help oft go unanswered,
condemning souls to lives of torture and urgent desperation. Whilst the wicked summon
the gods of war leaving negligence in their path. The innocent are blamed for
Refugees convicted by the stigmata
of their skins shared faith with raging bullies. Exiled to the land of shades.
Neither here nor there. Marching in place while aristocratic corpses decide
their fates. Competing crowns spout fear, fright, shame, anger all for the lure
of filthy lucre. Twilight evermore. Glasses clink in crystal towers. Pale
dancers’ minuet around delectable wine. Red states gather together behind
towers of golden grain zealously guarding from the starving hordes. Court Jesters all while the true royalty
clamors for righteousness.
May they fall upon their swords and
set the captives free, for I had heard the dirge commence. Queens and Kings once brilliant in their land
trudge listlessly along a Trail of Tears. Finding the Gates to the Golden
Cities locked against their entrance. The Promised Land is in view but shall we
ever enter in?
Suddenly a stone flies over the
camp. Then another. Streams of spittle stained red hit their marks. Horribly
mangled still they creep towards salvation while crimson stains the rocky
shores. And on a lonely beach a child lies still evermore in the grasp of
Poseidon. Maryam sobs for the child is no more. Bloated disembodied cadavers
wash up on shore. Their identities known only to God.
Yazidi Women weep and wail for lost
drowned Syrian children. Rachel cries for children murdered by Herod’s steel
swords. Disconnected Beloveds yearning, seeking forgotten families lost the
chaos of war.
Gauzy outlines and patches of color
billowing angles punctuated by oblique eyes staring into eternity. Behind us combat. Before us a limbo.
Suspended half-lives relegated to campgrounds with nary an exit in sight. What are we? Do we wear the mark of Cain
forever destined to wander the earth?
Who will pour libation, light
candles and sing mourning songs for the nameless dead?
I seek your face! The blood of
innocents cries out!
Arch Angel Gabriella Blow the
Trumpet that the Walls of Deceit come tumbling down!
Lead exiles to the Bejeweled
Metropolises Where We will be Welcome with Open Arms!
O’ Holy One Reign out Justice from
I AM NOT A STEREOTYPE
Stereotypes Hurt. No More Labels!!
Women of all colors, races,
religions ethnic groups and nationalities face double jeopardy.
I will not be defined by the narrow
conventions of your mangled mind.
Me and Patti LaBelle got a new
I will not be typecast by the slant
of my eyes, the color of my skin or country of origin.
I am a Woman of faith of dignity
who demands and commands respect.
I refuse to suffer indignities of
your racist sexist perversions.
I follow the laws of God as
dictated by my belief system whatever it may be.
I am not an exotic playtoy or life
size Barbie doll existing only to gratify, satisfy or fulfill your twisted
sadistic carnal predilections.
I am not the one and today is not
I will not be afraid and will not
I am not a victim.
I am more than a survivor.
I am defiant.
You do not have license to ill.
My height, weight, shape do not
delineate me as a loose woman or a hot number.
I am not your Ethiopian Chocolate
Fantasy or submissive Asian delight found in the back covers of men’s
I am not your Indian Maiden with
feathers in her hair or a sari wrapped around her waist.
If I’m a Lesbian nothing between
your legs will make me straight and certainly does not impress me.
Whatever fever you got, be it
Jungle Fever, Yellow Fever, Red Fever, Hot Spicy Latina Fever, I’m about to
throw cold water all over it and knock you out cold. Get over yourself. You’re
not all that and a bag of chips.
I choose who, when, where and if I
will lay my body down.
I am the Goddess and only the
worthy may gain access to the Temple. As Women we are called to maintain order
in the Universe. Ladies ~ Realize your calling.
Ladies sexual abuse, workplace
bullying and sexual harassment is the Elephant in the Room that everybody sees
but fails to acknowledge its presence. Instead we step lightly around him
hoping he will go away of his accord. Do not remain silent. Speak up. Speak
The Cruelty of “Christianity”
“Oh, why have your people forced on
me the name of Pauline Johnson? Was not my Indian name good enough? Do you
think you help us by bidding us forget our blood? By teaching us to cast off
all memory of our high ideals and our glorious past? I am an Indian. My pen and
my life I devote to the memory of my own people. Forget that I was Pauline
Johnson, but remember always that I was Tekahionwake, the Mohawk that humbly
aspired to be the saga singer of her people, the bard of the noblest folk the
world has ever seen, the sad historian of her own heroic race.”
Nobody knows my name or the real me
except Jesus and him alone. Some ancestors unwillingly pulled from the breast
of Mother Africa the others walked the “Trail of Tears”. Both had forced upon
them the indoctrination of Euro-centric Christianity to the detriment of each
A few months ago I traced my
maternal ancestry back to Mozambique. When I made that discovery something in
my spirit clicked and I knew that one day I had to return to the birthplace of
my Great, great, great, great, great Grandmother, her birth name lost to time
and eternity. Other ancestors born in this great land have yet to be revealed.
Many times I wonder, “What was my African and/or Native American name.” The names of Finney, Halstead, Gordon, Palmer
were all given by some distant slave-owner. Who were they and who were they 500
Like Tekahionwake I live my
dichotomy every day even in my spiritual life wondering about the respective
faiths of my African and Native American ancestors. Thinking about how their
own unique worship was torn asunder only to be replaced by a Euro-centric
“Christian” god who relegated them to a lesser status, below that of their
CHILDREN OF AN ACCURSED HAM?
(GENESIS 9:20–27) I THINK NOT FOR THE DESCENDENTS OF THE GREAT REALM OF
ETHIOPIA HAVE RISEN AGAIN TO THE RIGHTFUL PLACE IN THE DIASPORA.
New King James Version (NKJV)
42 The queen of the South will rise
up in the judgment with this generation and condemn it, for she came from the
ends of the earth to hear the wisdom of Solomon; and indeed a greater than
Solomon is here.
The cries of my people would not be
extinguished. The voices of my Native American ancestors called to me for
redemption. Through an experiment called Carlisle Indian Industrial School
History, really internment in re-culturalization concentration camps Richard
Henry Pratt sought to erase the cultural identity of Kiowa, Cheyenne, Arapaho
and other tribes through forcing children into complete immersion in
Eurocentric culture and identity, effectively erasing their own. Take away a
person’s language and belief systems, telling them that how God created them
was wrong and had to be fixed only serves to create indwelling images of self-hatred
within those lost children. If eradicating my indigenous and African American
culture, traditions, ethnicity and exchanging them for dominant white culture
will I be closer to God? Will Jesus
accept me in this new form?
As I gaze in the mirror as many
Native Americans did 150 years ago neither my face nor my features as God made
them can be erased. The efforts on the part of European conquerors failed. Nor
were the colonizers able to erase the connection to the Great Spirit as he was
known long before the white man touched our shores.
White man you tell me that only
your version of Jesus can save my soul and deliver me from sin. And just what
is my sin? Being born with a brown face, high cheek bones, full lips, long
flowing Jet Black hair or locs that rise to kiss the sun. Does my sin lie in
the dances my people perform to honor my ancestors and Mother Earth who gives
us all sustenance? Am I or my ways at fault because we revere Nature as opposed
to destroying the land, fouling the waters, polluting the environment in a
never ending obsession to conquer, convert and control? Now who is the savage?
Who is the so-called heathen?
Oh European who comes bearing the
sign of the cross who is this God of yours that lifts up your customs and
traditions but disparages mine? He is not the Jesus depicted in your Old Master
paintings from Italy, Spain, France or the Flemish Masters. No, more than
likely he was a swarthy man with kinky dark woolly hair, skin darkened by
constant exposure to the sun. Jesus was someone whose looks paralleled the
populations most of the indigenous tribes of Africa, North and South America.
New King James Version (NKJV)
14 His head and hair were white
like wool, as white as snow, and His eyes like a flame of fire; 15 His feet
were like fine brass, as if refined in a furnace, and His voice as the sound of
We Sisters and Brothers from what
you named the “Third World” now know that Jesus came for us just as we are. God
accepts us in all the richness with which he created us. We Black and Brown
followers have redefined and returned Christianity to its original intent and
No longer do we walk the “Trail of
Tears” or the Via Dolorosa. Now we stand together arm in arm marching onward to
Zion that beautiful city of God taking our place among those who have been
PARANOIA SEEDS REAP MURDEROUS MILITIAS
Rage and anger still hang in the
air. Just like the stale smell of
spilled mixed bloods of innocence and evil.
Murky thoughts reap dark denizens of warped erratic soldiers. The Grim Reaper ushers in cattle cars of
newly thread cut souls. Harpies are kept busy knitting death shrouds for
mounting numbers of never-ending procession of carcasses.
Cruel knives have excised hearts of
flesh and replace them with hearts of stone.
Blameless lambs have been forfeited on altars of hate. Penetrated and inseminated by odious sermons
alien babies burst forth for vengeance of perceived wrongs. Imprinted fury orations cloud sense and
humanity leaving behind robotic combatants programmed to destroy.
Obliterated beings victims of
bizarre boot camp rhetoric. Minds fed on twisted animosity, frenzy, wrath being
pushed through narrower and narrower corridors. Young thoughts empty of
direction are seeded, watered and fertilized by sadistic rantings of violent
false profit prophets. Seasoned by false doctrines. Paranoia reigns across the
Mangled casualties and mercenary
arms are gathered together under oceans and seas of golden grains.
Bodies lie in crumpled heaps. I hear screams in distance lands. An abominable stench wafts up from frozen
faces ajar in cries for help. Floating
detonated disembodied appendages wash up on copious coasts.
Peace and serenity are wrapped
inside flaming swords.
Grave marker tombstones spring up
from the ground like granite flowers still-born commemorating lost lives.
Gurgling choking gore coughed up
cartridges of bullets before letting go.
Grudges chew up compassion and humanity gnawing away at former sensible
Sulky dogs indulge in decayed
corpses littering pastures, turfs of thickly timbered interiors. Small
concussions into the ether.
Fatalities live on only in printed
photographs newspaper articles and family memories.
Will spontaneously self-exploding
personages continue to litter the landscapes with sacrificial lambs?