The Goddess

You hear their voices in the dead 

of night and retreat. Original 

sin so ingrained, you drown 

out their wisdom.

Sunken into the marrow of

your bones is their message.

Equally important, but

invariably unique. 

You close your eyes.

Drift into deepest 

consciousness. 

Eve's curiosity engulfs as 

you, yes you, bite into the

forbidden apple of a life

fully lived. 

Then, Ishtaar's fullness

surrounds you:

An existence pregnant

with joy. Rotund and

exuberant. Free and 

full.

This is only matched by Isis'

magic hand: healing,

tending, protecting. 

Growing and gifting. 

You feel Oshun's abundance.

You clench your thighs.

It lives in your hips:

sultry, sensual, sensory,

sensitive.

For the first time, you allow

yourself to feel that might.

A power that only Vashti's

resilience to resist to man

can balance. 

Man. Men. Who for millenia 

denegrated the Goddess 

(you).

Forgetful that if crossed,

you are both Kali and Medusa

- ash black and serpentine,

ready to strike. 

You remember that you can

cast flesh to stoney

death. And like Lilith, 

realise that you will not 

serve or subserve, but only

preserve (yourself).

Seraphic Sage

There is this feeling...

You know it well. The

hairs on your arms rise

one by one - like an ovation - 

and breathe a whisper 

down your back.

Your heart opens, in 

that moment it blooms.

You are one with 

the universe.

For an instant, all 

of existence is in 

sync with your psyche. 

Shhhh...

Don't think. Feel. You 

know it, as deeply, 

earnestly and truly 

as you know your 

own name. 

Like the creases of your

limbs, the prints on your

fingers: serenity is a part

of your seraphic essence. 

You, my dear, are holy. 

Ingest this, and remember:

The power that breathes you, 

will never leave you. 

Garden Heart

My morning meditation is a walk

through the garden of my heart 

as I ask the universe to show me 

her:

      The Divine Feminine. 

I construct, deconstruct and re-

construct through my thoughts 

and actions the idea of the wild -

woman.

Unkowingly, she comes to me. 

Increasingly, I see her in every

woman I meet. 

She is embedded in me.

I hear her in my mother's cackle, 

that's become my cackle, 

that's become my friends',

my sisters', my child's.

Wrestling with the present.

Sitting in it. Letting my 

intuition rise up like a flame

to warm and illuminate

the crevices in my chest. 

I pause. I feel joy. I think:

This can't possibly be 

reserved for me, for us,

for women. 

Then, like fog rising in the 

morning sun it dawns on me:

The divine feminine is 

in us all. She tends and observes

and is simply waiting for

us to give her a call. 

John Smith

What of this obsession with the colonizer?

I jog my memory, I run the hard-drive of 

my mind. My dad's voice ringing in my 

six year old ears: Call her Safia so that

her name is not a tongue-twister. 

Twisting whose tongue? Do I twist

their tongues now? Titillating, 

tempting, triumphant, truce. 

Sadistic seething. Sinister 

satisfaction. 

Desire me so that I can learn 

to love myself. No. Lay your

hands on me so that this emptiness 

is filled with something close

to the feeling of 

an existence. 

Wait. 

Think about that. Without the 

affirmation of your gaze, lust, 

eyes on my soul shifting face 

fleeting floating. I am stuck 

somewhere between the void 

and nothing.

Now tell me that colonization

brought boons? My bones

bereft of belonging.

Or maybe it is about possession

of power? For me. Pretty plight

pleaing to prey.