Looking for soul

He was staring into the night sky as it bled
from its womb lessons in the form of beauty.
His eyes wide shut, having been stapled closed
by mother nature’s nurturing touch.
His mind as still as the carnage we ceremoniously deploy
into boxes, that are then later concealed.
Six feet far from our tormented souls.
Oh hail all things seen
one day will fade and never be seen.
Oh hail all things seen
one day will fade and never be seen.
His possessed mouth began to utter
possessed by the magic exuded by the invisible angel.
Illuminated by the glance of that unselfish king
that reigns only at night.
Then it all ended and all that was left,
was a face that seemed to have been
supernaturally reconstructed into a smile.
Residues of this impermanent event.
And I stood addled
I the god, creator of this haven of madness.

The god that never understood creation by Rantoloko Molokoane, South African poet

A meticulously crafted painting, with strokes from the unknown
another product of insanity.
I the prisoner, shackled to elusive poles of limitations.
By thoughts, perceptions, the tools of the mind.
The mind, the very prison I am confined in
the puppet, attached to the mind by strings of thoughts.
To reap torturous movements when emotions pull.
I understand nothing, seek nothing.
For too many a time have I thrown pebbles of thoughts
upon the surface of this perceived ocean
of comprehension, seeking a destination
where purpose and sense can be found.
But only for this ocean to swallow them
and I being attached drowned to a mere human.
A worshipper of the untold tale
of the ice maiden that fell in love with the sun,
Seeking nothing else but to serve
the sun’s heart with platters of eternal euphoria.
A tragic tale that still flows
in the crevices of this life, intoxicating seekers
farmers that water the seeds of suffering
that deeply in the fields of their lives
with their tears.
And if poetry be another medium that perpetuates understanding
then consider this as ramblings of the consciousness
scribbled in the book of life.
I, the god that never understood creation.

The god that never understood creation by Rantoloko Molokoane, South African poet.

Poetic math. Got it?

I’m climbing. I am.
I’m climbing. only,
because I ran out of time.

Pas[sed]t by Olumide Popoola, Nigerian poet

The body is not
an insomniac, some
twilight sleepless walker.
It turns to lie down
as it pleases, at times
against your will.

The body chooses
its separate departures
to backrooms of the house.
Goodnight heel, boomerang
of bone and tendons.
Goodnight feet, arch-less
pestle-crush of earth.

Body, an Elegy by DéLana Dameron, American poet.

i spent nights on the nile
waiting for a star over a rooftop
until i finally discovered
: the wrong river had gone into my veins

thus i travelled  i travelled 
guided by the full moon
i crossed mountains & bridges
& met several bitches
who tried to convert me
with glitter & gold
dicks in glasses  treetrunk size
jesus white on their side
in person of a fat-bellied priest 
who  at dinnertime  eats 
1
black 
child

but it was too late

it was too late
for their mission to be fulfilled
the river in my veins
had made my body rise 
to the size of a queen not a princess

home or the journey to my lunatic blackness by Chantel-Fleur Sandjon, Cameroonian-German poet

ctrlftempsperdu:

Parce que Liqen appelle à la lutte pour la préservation de la forêt équatorienne.

http://liqen.org

(via brandef)

divinemoon:

Nana Buruku ~ 

Nana is the great grandmother of all the Orishas and although she is praised more in Candomble than in Santeria, her fame is starting to rise more and more each day. She is in charge of all maternal issues pertaining to females and is the spirit of earth and moon. 

A wise old woman that likes to tend to herself while watching over the Earth and her grandchildren. Nana is petitioned for health issues or those pertaining to the womb, helping to aide in pregnancy whether to destroy or conceive. Now when I say destroy, I mean she aides in raped pregnancies and from that she is an Orisha of justice when rape or wrong maternal instincts are at bay. 

When Olodumare created the Earth, it was Nana who was in charge of looking down on the Earth and with her light of the moon she helped us navigate our way. 

Nana Buruku is seen near the rivers and is the mother of all the waters, including the sweet rivers. Although Oshun may dominate the sweet waters, it is through her mother Nana that she gets the river waters from. She is also seen in the middle of whirlpools where her offerings are left and the woody marshes.

At one time, she was married to Obatala and nurtured the Orishas as they were born. When Nana Buruku was in the Yoruba cult, she was in the manifestation of Yembo who was violated by her son Oggun. Due to the disgrace she fled to Dahomey and became recognized as the great Nana Buruku. She is a strict Orisha and does not like disrespects in any shape or form. 

Nana does not like anything of metal due to the disrespect of her son Oggun and due to that her animals are sacrificed with a knife made from bamboo material. This knife is sharpened and lives with her. Her foods are sacrificed in a different form from other Orishas, they are suffocated in the water where she consumes their Ache and the knife of bamboo is used to finish the process. 

A truly mysterious yet powerful Orisha..

Maferefun Nana Buruku! Ache pa’ ti abuela!

(via dreaminginspanish)

Sometimes silence is the loudest kind of noise
Like sometimes it was best when
Girls were girls and boys were boys.
Like back when freeze tag was a mating dance.
Like back when “Do Over” meant you got another chance.
Like back when anxiety was worrying if Wonder Woman would make it out alive.
Like back when freedom was sliding backwards on a slide.
Like back when success was jumping off a swing and
Landing on your feet, then
Doing it all over again.
Like new shoes made you run faster.
Like getting Ms. Gross again for math was a disaster.
Like failure was a word we hadn’t even learned to spell yet.
Like promises were sealed and kept with pinky bets.
Like a challenge was a double dare.
Like ugly was a cock-eyed stare.

Sometimes silence is the loudest kind of noise by Bassey Ikpi, Nigerian poet.

All respects for our mothers.

Picture: ANNIE PARRAM, AGE, 104; ANNA ANGALES, AGE 105; ELIZABETH BERKELEY, 125; SADIE THOMPSON, 110. Convention of former slaves, Washington, DC, 1917.

I wanted to bring you some very beautiful verses…
I bring you these empty hands
which are taking the shape of your breasts.

The offering by Mario Quintana, Brazilian poet