AFRICAN ATTIBUTES

a Black Woman says...

African-Indian woman, Mithia, laying nude on yellow blanket

AFRICA

Africa My Africa…


Drum beats herald civilization’s dawning…
Cradle land of the initiate…
Mother of infinite wisdom…
Conquering hordes have trampled on your bosom
unappreciative of your ancient splendor…
Immeasurable treasures buried in your bowels…
Mined by foreign invaders with careless laxatives…
Warm and fertile womb of creation…
You gave birth to immortal souls…
Distorted by pagan influences…
Africa, sweet Africa…
Raped and pillaged, plundered and plowed
by infidels with no respect…
You cry and oil tears drip down
your blood stained mountains…
You perspire and diamonds rise from your pores…
Africa, my Africa…
You bleed the blood of the blessed chosen…
Your veins spew crimson rain down
on the heads of the unjust…
And unlike Pontius Pilot, they cannot
wash their hands…
Africa, my dear sweet Africa…
You shall be vindicated…
Black pearls will one day emerge
from the shells of capitalistic indifference…
And you shall, Phoenix-like, soar
above the forest of all…
Mother of us all…
You gave birth to the King and Queen of civilization…
And you shall have your due…
My Africa, sweet Africa…

Ty Gray-El, poet, conduit
2000

Mithia

TREE OF LIFE: Song of a Father to a daughter

photo of African-Indian woman, Mithia, outdoors sitting under a bush

“These pages from your life’s chapters are seeds becoming, growing into plants that expand into the deeper qualities of Life according to your needs, and definition of who you are. Maybe a tree will come forth over time bending in the wind with its waters flowing upward from Earth to Sky out of your womb to the tops of the tree you birthed. Atop the Tree of Life you have ushered into the world through honesty, and pain birds of all colors, and types, will fly into your leaves to play with each other. Perhaps the squirrels and their small relatives will add choruses to their play-songs, and contribute to the dancing leaves chattering under the hot Sun.

The Sacred Process of Birthing tills the soils of your Souls, and the harvest of your life is not the seeds you sowed, but the fruit the seeds your life planted that grew into other lives. Those folks’ growth spaces, their understanding of who they are and the Why of your existence will dance, one day, together. Somehow this makes sense only if one is in the process of unlearning, becoming and not in the anxiety of trying to control what they cannot control.” -Dawn Wolf