Tag Archives: #love

some days i feel like, Goddess Auset

auset

tenacious and stout would describe her love for him. or even, whole. this love predates all the great love stories. the kind that makes great movies and transcends love beyond the ordinary. their love defined truth, justice and righteousness.

it was not the contained love in a “faithful” box. in fact, it was not faithful. it evaded being self served and accepted deliverance for another being. it is the reciprocal love that most people say they deserve. There is no complete inscription of their relationship but they all seem to speak that Auset and her love, Ausar, had a legendary love.

The land of Egypt succeeded in enterprise under the leadership of Ausar. He provided laws and education and taught the people the art of agriculture. Auset championed the interest of his reign and they were both highly respected as rulers. When Ausar was murdered by his brother, Auset took to the land of Egypt to gather his body parts as he had been dismembered. She is primarily noted wearing a throne headdress to illustrate her representation of power. Auset is often called the Goddess of motherhood, magic and fertility.

Later in life I’ve realized how important it is to continue to wear my crown even in relationships. It is important to continue to revere my purpose in spite of who I am in a relationship with. This actualization came with maturity as I began to re-define what my societal constraints determined for me.

I have yet to feel safe and supported with my confidence to be an intelligent and sensual woman in a relationship. But when I observe the relationships around me that have survived both people remaining individuals, and not committing to the “relationship”, I know it can be accomplished. Some days I feel like Goddess Auset and breath fire and light for my love to come.

love marks the spot

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I spilled my heart here.

and in gym during 6th hour.
and in the parking lot of Dairy Queen.
and on the phone when long distance calling cost extra.
and I meant every word I said.

and for you I’d do it again.
for your smile.
for your time.
for the exchange of our secrets.

in the name of love.

some days i feel like a skyscraper

laskylineblackandwhite

I feel part of the smaller story. I feel part of the larger story. Skyscrapers are like small cities with thousands of people that live and work there. Their foundations and superstructures provide different appearances. These tall buildings are seen as symbols of power and greatness. They are improved in live time to stand the test of weather and the moods of mother nature. Yes, some days I feel like a skyscraper… especially when I began spoken word in Los Angeles.

It was clearly the congregated movement of griots and sages before us that declared the time again. Only the shadowless and their corners really thought “they started something new” or “took it to the next level”. Only time would be able to determine those thoughts just as the medu netter has spoken for centuries in the pyramids. Only time, still will reveal that.

One would have thought the time was 1961 and women were still only allowed to be house attendants. When in fact it was 2001. Writing and performing poetry was not new to me. I was shocked that it was being critiqued and shared in seemingly ‘non art environments’. Coffee shops, lobbies of recreational centers, after hours at businesses and theatres in need of publicity. The art form was taking on a new timeframe and would need new walls to hold it’s voice.

In an already big city. A city with the most highly structured designed skyscrapers, one would think she could just pick up where June Jordan left off. Just take the notebook from Gwendolyn Brooks and turn the page. But it wasn’t like that for Jaha Zainabu, Bridget Gray and Rachel Kann, my “come up” crew. None of us were novices to the arts. Together we were decades of stories, poems, lectures, theatre and visual art. Together we split the city and nestled our art amongst those who neighbored our homes. We supported our venues week after week and then by bequest, politics were engaged in our arts but this time the agenda was to undermine. From history our community arts had a focus of meeting weekly to “build and feed each other”. These new politics were of division because all of us would not be able to eat. In fact, it happened so fast we weren’t even able to decide on our seasonings! And many owned microwaves and had never lit a stove or practiced patience with a crock pot. But she/we stood there.

One would have thought it was 1961 they way we were over looked to perform feature poetry shows. One of us was even told, “women can’t hold the audience attention to do a feature segment”. And week after week, we went and supported the self served. And we began to see the bending of the art. This was called open mic, to disavow the necessity for us to hold one another accountable. We were allowed to do and say anything and not read or study and some times not even demanded to practice. Our art scene became like loose, dangled dred locs from an unhealthy scalp. Her voice strewn like sidewalk abandoned Christmas trees. With the desperate opportunity for manhood to be demonstrated, she/we were overlooked. It was not 1961.

Now about this, She was given the mic and then cut short by loud music playing in the background to a host dancing behind her begging for a laugh and a few smiles. She wasn’t given the same time limit, as he. And She, was given time on the stage to express her newest and most intimate poetry piece. She was accepted by the audience with warm applause and finger snaps. Capsized with emotion, she stepped away to gather herself only to have the host scold the audience clapping for her by saying, “We don’t do that here”. And then She, was too serious and her voice was too loud. “You should write some love poems”, he declared to her after she received thunderous applause when all night he received scattered rain drops. And then She, was a performer amidst reading writers. And while both are styles of interpretation, it distinguished her natural flame to a fire and cast her away feeling lost and unheard.

And she/we were paid less. And she/we were heard less. And then one night we all talked. And we almost cried. And we all had the same story and we all reaffirmed it wasn’t 1961. And Rachel decided we should do our own. And we did. And we sold out a night club on Hollywood Blvd with an all female poetry feature show. The first of it’s kind during this wave of poetry in Los Angeles. And we ate. And then our four corners of the city saw what we were made of. That temblor thwarting technology that doesn’t fall during earthquakes. That strong wavering skyscraper that houses thousands of people working and living with stories to tell.

(part II tomorrow)

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a zen note

One day, as the big temple bell was being rung, the Buddha asked Ananda, “Where does the bell sound come from?”
“The bell.”
The Buddha said, “The bell? But if there were no bell stick, how would the sound appear?”
Ananda hastily corrected himself. “The stick! The stick!”
“The stick? If there were no air, how could the sound come here?”
“Yes! Of course! It come from the air!”
The Buddha asked, “Air? But unless you have an ear, you cannot hear the bell sound.”
“Yes! I need an ear to hear it. So it comes from my ear.”
The Buddha replied, “Your ear? If you have no consciousness, how can you understand the bell?”
“My consciousness makes the sound.”
“My consciousness? So, Ananda, if you have no mind, how do you hear the bell sound?”
“It was created by mind alone.”

COMMENTARY
True form is without thinking. Truth is unmoving. Name and form, appearing and disappearing – these things never existed. Time and space are always moving. The world of name is the world of opposites. See, hear smell, speak, act and think clearly.

from the book I’m currently reading:
zenperfect

the thief of truth

Dear Attachment,

You are the thief of truth. You pretend to make me strong when in actuality you supply me with debilitating thoughts. You cast my feet in promise with a mixture of rocks and mud and you tell me I am “where I’m suppose to be”. So I wave bye to love and water to remain the intelligence you have attached me to.

You are a thief that has labeled some of the most critical minds I know as “activists” when they are flesh and blood

You are a thief that has labeled some of the most creative minds I know as “poets” when they are artists

You are a thief that has labeled brown skinned women as “strong and fierce” when they are growing silently

Your understanding of me is just an illusion. I cannot stand in an understanding phase when it should be digested and turned into wisdom. I should flow. Attachment, you are a thief that has kept me stagnant and I now rebuke you.

their gold

“Let’s go ahead and be, Betty and Malcolm to infinity
not boo and nigga to never,
Me Ruby Dee and you be my Ossie!”
– excerpt from the poem Make We by Nikki Skies

rubydeeandossie

They existed before we could quit. Before we began to measure faith. And I don’t know what their arguments were about! I don’t know if they ever went to bed mad at one another! But I can’t find an article of them speaking ill of the other or talking about giving up.

I see a complete picture. It’s like they’re looking at the end. They spotted the pot of gold and this is the best poker face they could deliver to hide their joy! I imagine this picture is after the blessings of their families for them to unite. After he promised her family he would now be the provider. This is after she agreed what he would bring to the table would be enough.

Perhaps this is before Malcolm X began to rise. This is a still when our antiques were their current treasures. This is a still of the black arts movement! If you stare long enough Ossie begins to sweat and pulse points on Ruby Dee’s neck palpitate subtly.

They look like they are ready to conquer the world.
They look like they will create their way out of any situation.
They look like a purposed love.
and I stand on their shoulders.

Ossie Davis and Rube Dee

my reVolution

“The most dangerous thing black people can do is feed eachother.” – Cointelpro

“If I could do it again, I would love as fearlessly as we fought.” – Kathleen Cleaver. 

You see, it is easy to duplicate (manipulate) anger. This makes infiltration simple because everyone is vibrating on a low level.

You can’t fake love, especially a fearless love.

speak on love.
nskies

Why I Stopped Blogging

This blog was created some two years ago.  I had incredible intentions to express myself as an artist and newly formed parent of my nieces and nephews.  I wanted to share with other people the newness that I was experiencing and hopefully get some insight as how to handle certain situations.  Now, I have been either writing or performing for years now. If I’m not performing then I am writing and vice versa.  So the discipline that is needed and where I need to go with myself came easy but what stopped me were the reactions.  The consistent and earnest support I began to receive.  The love that surrounded my situation.

As an artist, we receive stories from within (the Most High) and they always connect with somebody.  And that somebody has been waiting for you and when you arrive they have a genuine love for you.  They keep you connected with that unselfish, free feeling.  That plentiful emotion with the Most High continues if you deliver the message.  So you stay there as an artist.  When in fact, you are only delivering the same message to different people and not growing your spirit.  Because how dare you change and contradict yourself!

I sat in my theatre performing for years with the same emotions and only got out because I graduated with my degree.  I sat in my writings for years with the same emotions and only got out because people began to perform my works without my consent.  I then sat in my performance of theatre and poetry for years and only got out through a relationship.  I had been a captive to my art for years in fear of growth and because I feared what people would think.

So when people became affianced with my blog and my situation, I stopped.  I stopped in fear I would be held accountable to stay in whatever mood I was experiencing at the time.  Now being responsible for children, I knew this was not the time to wait around to be saved through a situation or person.  I knew I could only come back to my art with an unabashed confidence and a solid buoyancy about myself.

So, here I am.  Nikki Skies, author/performer and active aunt of five.  No longer afraid to be my perfect companion and grow amongst minutes.

Together Again

Her conversations wrapped around hope like a Kentucky porch

dreams drenched in newly released fiction

she pinned her children’s dew to her shoulder pads to stand tall

yet

convinced her eyes to swallow intuition.

She simmered her saucy sway to disappear in his abandonment

But the thunder crashed her calm

and streaked her breath wild and array like cheap paint.

She prayed she hadn’t just birthed her seventh child for the third time

as dubious matter surrounded her conversations with God

and gasps soiled her pillows.

those trees are/ours

We have to take back the trees.

Arouse the hyenas to distract the thunder so we can scratch our backs on the blades of grass.

Rub baby powder on the chest of slumber so they can dream pure.  Denounce titles and all this other foolery you have adopted to be our family structure. 

That silence is not mine!  I am the threatening crashes of waves you belittled to sand. Because… because I believed them too.  I bought the lemonade recipes and choreographed a dance to sour times.  Framed my “S” shirt for company to count the stripes I’ve endured and marvel at brown brave.  Outside of ourselves we have once again been led to puppetry.  And I hate you too.

This is not us.  There is no book.  Only 81 of those songs are ours.  Come unprepared with bread so we can dip away the excess.  It is me.  Re-member…

Listen to him no more.  Let her voice be of distant space.  We have to take back the trees, we have to take back the trees.