Yemaya's Wings
Yemeya’s Wings
Upon our return to our earth we are struck by the immensity of our ocean and the epic saga of life, and treasure, lesson and lore it portends for our 2nd Coming. We hear her – Yemaya, Our Mother of Worlds, inside the ocean, the oceans inside Yemaya — as an omen inside a welcomed invitation
womb me into your secret place, / i will be drowned in you
chinned to your waterfall/ split me too / desire insists /
the rapids submit / eventually.
We are the occasion / they’ve come out to sea. /
Took the risk / in middle storm / to rediscover middle earth. /
The rain the clouds / they will not cover Us. /
We will need an orisha for safe passage.
Indwelling our bones is the premonition of a middle passage. Our bodies know implicitly the peril and the promise there. Too much of what the indigenous everywhere have had to learn of human history has heretofore rendered itself squarely inside the word genocide. And yet, our species has and will only be survived by the worlds defying capacity for a hope that never fails. But the Sea, The Sea, The Sea will always demand of us her own kind of submission, if we have any hope at reimagining, re-articulating, reinvigorating the depth and scale of the new mythos and upon which we must—even now, especially now—invariably cast our destiny.
Yemeya’s Wings
Upon our return to our earth we are struck by the immensity of our ocean and the epic saga of life, and treasure, lesson and lore it portends for our 2nd Coming. We hear her – Yemaya, Our Mother of Worlds, inside the ocean, the oceans inside Yemaya — as an omen inside a welcomed invitation
womb me into your secret place, / i will be drowned in you
chinned to your waterfall/ split me too / desire insists /
the rapids submit / eventually.
We are the occasion / they’ve come out to sea. /
Took the risk / in middle storm / to rediscover middle earth. /
The rain the clouds / they will not cover Us. /
We will need an orisha for safe passage.
Indwelling our bones is the premonition of a middle passage. Our bodies know implicitly the peril and the promise there. Too much of what the indigenous everywhere have had to learn of human history has heretofore rendered itself squarely inside the word genocide. And yet, our species has and will only be survived by the worlds defying capacity for a hope that never fails. But the Sea, The Sea, The Sea will always demand of us her own kind of submission, if we have any hope at reimagining, re-articulating, reinvigorating the depth and scale of the new mythos and upon which we must—even now, especially now—invariably cast our destiny.
Yemeya’s Wings
Upon our return to our earth we are struck by the immensity of our ocean and the epic saga of life, and treasure, lesson and lore it portends for our 2nd Coming. We hear her – Yemaya, Our Mother of Worlds, inside the ocean, the oceans inside Yemaya — as an omen inside a welcomed invitation
womb me into your secret place, / i will be drowned in you
chinned to your waterfall/ split me too / desire insists /
the rapids submit / eventually.
We are the occasion / they’ve come out to sea. /
Took the risk / in middle storm / to rediscover middle earth. /
The rain the clouds / they will not cover Us. /
We will need an orisha for safe passage.
Indwelling our bones is the premonition of a middle passage. Our bodies know implicitly the peril and the promise there. Too much of what the indigenous everywhere have had to learn of human history has heretofore rendered itself squarely inside the word genocide. And yet, our species has and will only be survived by the worlds defying capacity for a hope that never fails. But the Sea, The Sea, The Sea will always demand of us her own kind of submission, if we have any hope at reimagining, re-articulating, reinvigorating the depth and scale of the new mythos and upon which we must—even now, especially now—invariably cast our destiny.