Forget history
And don't repeat it.
The time is now for herstory.
Return to the Mother God.
Embrace Her. Love Her.
For She is the Earth
And water is Her blood.
The atmosphere, Her lungs.
We stand and talk
And walk upon Her skin.
We are all Her kin.
There's no need for a bible
For life is Her book.
We are Her pages.
And perhaps if we listen
(To our moms)
We will evolve and speak
Goddess
And not some God damn
Male dominated slippery tongue.
She empowers us with family
Friendship and encourages free thought.
She is never boring even though
She's the one who stays home
Nurturing us, raising us
While He's out there taking all the credit
For this magnificent universe.
With man at the reigns
Mankind is surely doomed.
It is about time for herstory
Or else ...
Every male from this day forth shall be born gay.
And a famous female scientist
Will discover a way for women to have only daughters
Without the help of men.
Only then will Womankind be freed
From the crucifixion of testosterone driven monkeys.
concentrated in cobbles
unpatterned fairyland
box homes coloured
community symphonic
church mosque kiss mystical
flesh moves brick RECREATE
realms unified and truthful
fabric encodes memories
generational genetics quietly smile
enlightened shadows
in craft supreme
ancestral PROMPTS
in district cultural
moods
stabilised
his-herstory
recorded
____________
Fabric Art Wall Tapestry : Appliqué & Image Embroidery, Quilting : ‘BIRTH STREET ALIVE’ : 71 Horstley Street, District Six’ : Prior to Forced Removals : Ghairo Daniels : 2021
Leatherette & Suede with cotton, silk, satin, coloured net, chiffon, beads, sequins, buttons : 100 x 58 cm : Purple Satin Lining
Style: Historical Story Quilting
[ NB. Link to pics at comments section of Poem ]
Earthen motte mounds and bailey burg
Sludge strongholds severed for siege
Norman castles cut of stone surge
Vowed vassals, the lords of liege
Round refuge tower of ashlar
Lured strums of Celtic cither
While they tend to tiers of mortar
Howling high waters hither
Gemlike blades grassy shades of green
Sailing seas beckon smartly
Hair to partly pare ployed the teen
Pirate Queen awaits Bartley
Homeland hush weave no words but mum
Forum flouters of gainsay
Dark Lady of Doona they hum
Legend of the Blacksod Bay
Fortress chieftain forges her case
Ní Grace unbowed by Bingham
Royalty rises face to face
Let them lie Ó Máille clan
Lyrate luck of her Irish pride
Aside vassal villeins sought
Herstory harmonized resides,
‘pon castles cloaked earthen motte
A dash of cinemas in cider glass
resin slightly film cubicles adore
courts row corner circle O Picas
face quartered pairs apple' core
Herstory versus history mystery
Poe had Lenore a spirit anomaly
Frost's The Must Not Take Road
Chose what his small voice told
*Her spirit lives and his friend dies.
My Poe Rhyme: Coronavirus: Covid-19; and my Frost Short Story: The Road That Never Should Have Been Taken.
Eye am Sacred Antiquity
The Beginning, the Portal, the Untold Herstory
Eye am Nameless, Formless, Creator of the Created
Timeless Logos, Water and Fire mated
Eye am the Black Womb wherein the Gods and Goddesses emerged
My body adorned with Celestial Energy stones
Eye am the Eternal Demiurge
Maiden, Mother, Crone
My will reflects the All
With the Light My Fertility Ignite
Original Fecundity bringing forth Creativity
Gently Nurturing Fierce dark Feminine Potency
Eye am the Great Weaver
The Spinning Wheel of the Fates
Attributes Manifold, Herstory Untold
Leave your burdens at My Feet
Mercy and Grace Uphold.
The End of Herstories
It used to be called senility
now Alzheimer’s, or dementia
but in Agatha’s case I’d choose
primary progressive aphasia
in which her language capabilities
slowly and progressively became
impaired as the author of more
than eighty novels lost the ability
to swim in the Alphabet Soup.
Postmortem textual analysis
suggests her vocabulary decreased
by fifteen to thirty percent.
And was her last mystery
“Elephants Can Remember”
an explanation or
a cry for help?
In the beginning
of human history
was the WORD,
And these words
sang to sun's light
and moon's ebbing
and tidal powers,
climatically bright.
So, in humanity's end
of ecowomanist herstory
becomes our Last-First WORD
And this EarthTribe narrative
sings too burning chorus light
or possibly just rebirthing right
eulogy ebbing and creation climaxing
bright tidal power showers
rewriting divinely enlightened long
resilient dancing in
and out
loud
resonant EarthLove songs.
I am not only my breath
of life
erupting out,
redescending in
I feel
and hear,
taste
and see,
our sacred breath
through my lungs bilaterally
waving out
with full moon bright delight
and in toward dark night
once again,
Regained center of uniting
regenerous time
extending space out Yang
empowering,
Reintending sacred placed Yintegrity
breathing my breath of life
re-emptying out and in
our Great Transitional 20/20 revolutionary breath,
reascending out
Is in
toward future healthy wealth
empowering out past history
enlightening in future multiculturing herstory
egopatriarchal alterations
ecofeminist Yang
Yin
leftbrain dominantly out
rightbrain recessing back in
win-win
Across all respiring
revolutionary
spiraling
regenerations
of greening air
and blue therapeutic water
and red anthro-privileged fire
breathing MotherEarth
of life continuously
reincarnate
rememory
reconnecting
religioning
reweaving
reinvesting
regenerate
restoring EarthJustice
inhaled
exhalations.
Which came first?
An individual ego-centered identity,
or Earth's self-governing ecosystemic awareness?
Is like asking
Which came first?
Egg
or chicken?
Each lies potentially co-arising
within the other,
chicken DNA programming
within the eggshell,
and egg-producing capacity
within the chicken
and not her rooster.
We could have no inside ego centering awareness
without Earth's ecosystemic resonant health
as resiliently wealthy
herstorically reproducing
history and herstory,
egocenters born win/win co-attached
with healthy EarthMothers
reproducing eggs
for individuating egos.
So,
when correct identity politics
is not also relationally interdependent
co-empowering economics,
then that would be
unsafe
unhealthy
supremacist
incorrect
undemocratic
negative elitist politics
Over-investing in today's wealthy chickens
by under-investing in tomorrow's healthy eggs.
my history
had nothing
to do with her
story before we
met and then
all by me at
least was
forgotten
i had done
and i did
a world's
difference
to her story
but we met
and i hope
and pray
this
will
now
become
herstory
(for Virginia Woolf)
She wanted to buy some flowers but drowned Herself instead,
drifting along the ebbing flow of time, with warm
water cracking Her slim figure and airless lungs.
‘will I freeze the river?’ She thought, wondering if the trees
would still rustle in the wind if She wasn’t alive to notice it,
thinking if Her man’s heart would still beat if She could
no longer shock its rhythmical thump-thud-stop with kisses.
the wood was chopped down around Her home. The
veranda from which She surveyed the world was but
deafened by cruel hacking chopping and sawing at the
hands of men whom took Her feminine beauty away.
She became the water as She died, became the weeds,
became the bark that broke her own back, the pen and the phallus.
‘this isn’t purgatory’ She realised, ‘this is revenge and reward’.
‘I am a sacrifice to literature. I am a sacrifice for the word’.
from writer to death to glory to ink
to the lies under rocks uncovered,
to god to me to the taking of Her own life,
She is the paper in our very hands.
When capital wealth
produces lusty Kings,
And liberal health
consumes lavish Queens,
Then nature's many polypaths
predict holy spirit-nature empowering
flowing polyphonic languages
sung and said,
danced and done,
cultured and historic,
eco-felt and theo-reflected,
remembered and re-imagined.
King of Clubs
trusting love's history
and Queen of Hearts
re-investing in/on Earth's HerStory.
slithering through a suffragette smattering
the serpentine has no shoulder
on which to give
or have taken
piggyback rides through pantsuit criterion
so certainly lacks the same of which to dry witch salt tears with
whirling up and around then down up her ankle
thick thick thigh
deliciously dry coconut shunt
lipstick cracking
open pistachio shells
bravo to the mercenaries!
at least the split is red enough to pull the lever
and
spill how
women got their seat
at the
baccarat table
I wrote a poem for myself.
I have always wanted to
write a poem for myself.
It's not a history,
It's not a herstory,
I am a misogynist, sorry
My beads tell a story, shedding light on
mother Africa's Herstory.
The
African story told by African inventory.
Without these beads I feel bare like a
breeze leaves the dandelions.
The African story told by African
inventory.
The colorful beads my ancestors wore...
Glistening beads on silky
chocolate skin. These beds we wear,
speak numerous things.
These beads tell a story of pride and self
Glory!
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