ANCESTORS

Ancient Heredity of Light

                       
There are footsteps in ash at Laetoli,  
made of clay with stripes of white, off center,  
the center is the outer porches of life  
as desires and dreams, deep within the tumbles of pain,  
feigning death, where enters the light of heredity  
when open to receive the energies of Pliocene,  
in lasting thoughts of the distant and venerable truth.                        
                       
There is a blindness of where we have been,  
the blindness of screaming ghosts peering  
through stained castles of gray indolence;  
they are not there – deny that you see them,  
for they do not see themselves.                          
                 
The footprints are within the ashes of yesteryear,  
in that my path could only follow my own two feet,  
and yet, there are those that are with me,  
undeniable measures of spiritual beings;  
pains that know this contact.                      
                 
There are footsteps in ash at Laetoli,  
from evolving beings fit for adaptation and survival,  
made of clay,  and with stripes of white,  
where enters this ancient light of heredity.                        
                       
       
“Keep looking at the bandaged place. [the pain]          
That's where the Light enters you.” ~ Rumi  

Cairdeas Mor Shaoghal Nan Druidh: Transformation

"No traitor, the salmon. He returns to his home. When you're tired of searching there, you'll find the answer here." - 4th Cent Welsh  
 
i.  
   
It began in the circle  
feminine expulsions and conclusions  
a seed no less, growth in overtures  
sought wanting - higher climbs,  
drives of personality and elements  
cascading inward, strange cadences  
doubtful and checkered  
   
and there, the opaline doe  
the shiver of walking onward  
to the soft drum of footsteps  
cracking detritus ribs  
stripped bare of dark longing;  
the wait is born,  
purgatory anticipates.  
   
ii.  
   
Solstice crescendos at dawn,  
watercolour pupils stare lovingly  
at the swaddled babe in my throat-  
my voice is a shard, an apple rising  
to the waiting hands of Eve,  
origins of womb and thought  
   
there gestation is a promise;  
I clutch my own body in emptiness  
make pacts with her masterpiece  
that never again will brushwork  
paint her five toes, five fingers  
on her descent into the Earth  
(she is waiting to live, to burst  
declared by Rowan's roots, we  
will be born again)  
   
iii.  
   
I have found my blood in water,  
mapped veins in aqueous filtration  
onward they spread, labyrinthine    
to find the soil they crave-  
the seasons turn and I know them  
their language and vexations  
the curvature of spirals  
into the eye of Awen's grain  
   
and transformation is more key  
than doorway, it is portals chained;  
a nymph at the mouth of the river,  
ancestral spines curling on leaves-  
the deep fire burning winter nights  
to magnetise again and again  
and again.

http://img12.deviantart.net/c64e/i/2016/319/c/b/ancestor_by_dejureinitiative-daoktt5.jpg

after the hunt...

blood dripped
from the short axe
on the shoulder

dishevelled hair
blood stained rags
but no wounds

the dark skin
reeked of filth
covered in dirt

a wild boar
in his hands
still squeaking

sweat sparkled
with a grin
in his face

dropped the boar
chopped the head
went inside the hut

~




note:
as per the history we learned there was a hunting tribe lived on our pearl island, way before the English or the Portuguese invade us. way before the Aryans entered. There are still few remaining families refuse to adapt to the changed culture and living by their roots. I didn't mean to incorporate them and with the savageness, they don't hunt anymore. Just an imaginary interpretation of how  it could have been. Now these villages have been a tourist's hotspot for decades. Even the locals visit them frequently.

SIGNIFICANT

It was a time when the surface colour
Of a man's skin was more significant
Than the colour of his eyes or his tie
More significant than the type of car
He drove or his football team colours

Guided by ancient lights in those eyes
To this lake whence humanity sprung
A tectonic fault a fracture of blue Nile
In Gihon after manfall angelfall all fell
Our wise ones said it matters not how
Often we fall so long as we rise again

Fortitude a river
So named for its dangerous floods
Another was called Patience for it was
Synonymous with pain

A goat skin bustle of sparks incendiary
Drum dancers calabash to the maganda
And make aliyah to the All-Mother Africa
Waters washing spine splashing her belly
Pregnant with tomorrows not a meanness
That the pall shadows pour shade on today

What of fires of oil seen
From the aircraft window

I loved in an age when a man's skin colour
Was more significant than what he deserved
His rights his knowledge or what he aspired to

Bright as Fire
Was my birth name
It means though I burn
I bring a light by which others see

You did it better my forefathers

Dawn on us they say you look
A path different from one you took
Life so simple yet none rived
Innovation they sold we meekly dived

One for another you taught
Name a price now and life is bought
Fighting enemies but never amid
Family wars today we can never rid

The evil of today you couldn't have perceived
On getting the dollar our lives are weaved
To be African was to care for the earth
An identity lost right at birth

You did it better my forefathers
To honor your your ways noone bothers
Yet your gaze on us forever fixed
With foreigners we should have never mixed.

Deer skins and Tomahawks
litter the ground
moccasins slap
the cold unfeeling earth
the T-P is gone
the fire is out
the buffalo are running
so its time we do to
warriors paint
run down my face
as i ready for battle
women and children
have hidden
men and warriors have prepared
for the war that has come
ready your tomahawks
hear the pounding of the drums of war
bum bum bum bum
let out your warriors cry
and charge head on into the unknown
fighting for you freedom
from the pale skins
our blood is red and our skin is copper
with the hair as black as a ravens wing
they have blond hair and pale skin
there blood must be blue
let our fates
be put into the old mothers hands
if we are to win
we will win
if we are to lose
then it shall be
the shamans have foreseen this
now we must fight
to there is no one standing
our arrow heads are sharp
our tomahawks
finer than any blade
we will win

Northern Saga

i come from ice and fire
blood, sweat but few tears
from gales and darkness and merciless sea

We arrived as Norsemen without wives
no self respecting Norse noblewoman
could be enticed to these wild shores

So we set sail once again on longboats
and returned with a good many Celtic maiden
we had plundered along with other goods

Here we have struggled for eleven hundred years
under foreign kings for most of the time
who stole everything but the dirt

An English Lord visited sixteen hundred something
he had traveled far and wide they said
but never seen such deplorable squalor as here

Nobody was interested in us, we were invisible
while the land repeatedly tried to kill us all
but being so used to little, we would not die easy

Our language was the glue of our society
we clung to it, jealously guarding it
wrote composed and spoke in it proudly

Now we are on the map and all the fad
and tourists have replaced our sheep
and mountain jeeps replaced our horses

But we know this is just temporary
before long all hell will break loose again
and once more we shall have to fend for ourselves

This crazy land has made us highly adaptable
and we don't make long term plans ever
yet it's strange how long we hold a grudge

We are a people convinced we can overcome all
never make the mistake of threatening us
for isolation is our friend and companion

We are Icelandic and this land we have earned

>Globe.Pouches<  KJV Rev 3:2

Eye.cum.from.<<a.long.:.line.of.mat.chompers.
You.expect.art.
That's.no.way.to.raise.Cain.
Eye.amm.reddy.und.Abel.

terminus.rising.:.:.: