Caribbean Herbal Teas: Lemon Grass and Ginger Tea

Lemon-grass and Ginger Tea

Sleepily I waddled on wobbly knees into the kitchen. Grated piece of ginger, crushed up two lemon grass stems, then, scooped them into a pot of water. As the tea boiled, I gazed out the window wondering "since when a little soccer and uphill-jogging turn into a sore-jointed morning after?" as an up-crawling sun inflames the morning-black sky.

After boiling up, I poured the tea into a cup and sweetened with agave- yeah man, watching my sugar levels also.  This combination tea has quickly become one of my favorites. First of all, if you didn't know, I love spicy flavors (actually I love HOT!! but you can control your own  level- the more ginger, the more spicy) and this tea has a tangy and almost peppery taste. But most importantly, the combination possesses anti-inflammatory, pain-relieving, not to mention all-out healthy qualities, that my body needs and holistic properties that calm anxieties, which my mind and soul crave. We should call herbal/bush teas such as this Redemption Teas: emancipating  us from mental and physical distress. I have been drinking this tea for a month now and it has helped alleviate the pain. In March my knees and football -kicking joints were on FIRE!

Tune in, I'll let you know in a next month or so how it goes...

 Kaya's Lemon Grass and Ginger Tea

Ingredients:
small pot of boiling water
a few (2-3) lemon grass stalks
one  ginger root
agave nectar

1. Crush lemon grass stalks with flat side of a knife
2. Grate or slice up ginger root
3. add both to a pot of water under a med. to high fire
4. allow to boil out for no less than five minutes
5. pour into a cup and add agave nectar to your taste

*Lemon grass (aka fever grass or razor grass) is an excellent natural cleanser that helps detoxify the digestive tract, bladder, liver, kidney and pancreas. It also assists in cutting uric acid (which when built up to high-concentrated levels lead to arthritic gout and kidney stones), lowering cholesterol, excess fats and other toxins. It alleviates indigestion and gastroenteritis while stimulating digestion and blood circulation. Lemon grass, which has a citrus flavor, is I-la (wonderful) for treating nasal congestion, cough and flu-symptoms. And, of importance to breastfeeding mothers, it also stimulates lactation.
Ginger is an important root and herb renowned for ailments such as nausea, upset stomach, stomach cramps, and various digestive problems. Its rich volatile oils contain active ingredients gingerol, zingibain, shogaols, and many other components that aid in treatment and protect the immune, circulatory and respiratory systems. Ginger helps lower LDL Cholesterol by reducing absorption in the blood and liver. It inhibits the only enzyme that feeds prostrate cancer cells. It is a strong antioxidant, contains two natural antibiotics, boosts the immune system and eases mucus congestion.

**By the way, gingerol is an anti-flammatory compound that relieves arthritis and joint pain, which is why my Granny, a real herbalist, uses ginger each morning and insists that I use it also...
Science seems to be validating many old time traditional remedies!

Tweet




Properties of Ginger
Health Benefits of Ginger

.

Related articles

• Health Benefits of Ginger Tea (almurtaza110.wordpress.com)
• Treat Your Sour Stomach with a Natural Remedy (brighthub.com)
• My New Favorite Tea (zwingliusredivivus.wordpress.com)
• Ginger Cardamom Tea - the morning cuppa (anzzcafe.wordpress.com)
• Jamaican Mint-Ginger Tea (foodiejoanie.wordpress.com)
• Recipe: Ginger Lemongrass Tea (courtneyoutloud.wordpress.com)

Rodney Reasoning

©2011 K.Omodele

 

It’s 12:35 p.m. one damp April day in Lower Manhattan. The Malone Construction labor crew’s collective spirit seems subdued by the gray, spring-time air. They slowly crumple up paper bags; dispose empty plastic bags and bottles, while palavering away the rest of their lunch break.

Rudeboy braces his back against a steel column, digging his gums with a toothpick. “Yow. Mi see di Vibez Kartel lecture at UWI* pon Youtube the other night. Maddd!”

Spence, the three-week-new laborer on the site, pulls down his specs and looks up at the six- plus, stick-thin youth.

“When yuh say ‘maddd’, wha’ you mean?” Spence asks, raking work-bent fingers through his steel-wool, smoke-white ‘fro.

Rudie removes a Newport from behind his ear, relights it and sucks the smoke into his magga** chest cavity. “Then, you nuh see how the man handle the UWI crowd? Intelligent and smooth…stylist,” he replies, a river of smoke winding around his words.

Bajie pours the remnants of coffee from his Thermos, and then authorizes himself into the reasoning like some member of parliament. “Finally, you and me can agree on something, Rudeboy. He surprised me. He actually held a decent position, though I wouldn’t exactly call that intelligent.”

“Wha’ you woulda call it, then?” Rudeboy gestures in the air with his cigarette like a music conductor. “How many entertainers you know that coulda hold their own inna that kinda university lecture setting?”

Dreadie, forever a voice of reason, throws in his two shillings. “Rudie, Kartel mek a mockery of the academic platform. A UWI lecture? That suppose to be serious. Wha’ yuh seh, Trevor? You see it?”

Trevor guzzles the last of his water, rumble belches then says, “The man treat the whole thing like a self-serving, press conference. And mek it worse, he tried tie-in Marcus Garvey and Walter Rodney.”

Dread shakes his forefinger. “Yuh catch that? When he said ‘Sir Walter Rodney’?”

Rudeboy bull-rushes in with an interjection. “And wha’ happen to that?”

Dreadie whips out a hand-kerchief and waves it like a matador at Rudeboy. “Is Doctor Walter Rodney. Not Sir.”

Spence adds. “Kartel mussy confuse Walter Rodney with Sir Walter Raleigh.” Chuckling. “How you fi confuse the Brother, di Comrade, professor of African studies with a ole pirate.”

The whole crew cracks up, even Rudeboy.

At precisely 1PM, they grab their helmets and drag themselves into the building.

It’s now around 5:15 and the crew is trudging up Broadway toward the Park Place subway. Each man is seeking the no. 2 train, destination: Flatbush. ‘cepting Bajie of course, who, true to his contradictory form, is the only one catching the E to Queens.

Spence continues the reasoning from earlier. “Y’know, Rodney’s legacy LARGE when it come to the University… graduated there; taught there. As a matter of fact, when Hugh Shearer kick him outta JA, is the UWI students first tek up protest. And is that protest lead to the Rodney Riots in ‘68.”

Rudeboy now looks puzzled. “The government kick him out? Fi wha?”

“Actually, they barred him from coming back into Jamaica,” Bajan says. “Sent him right back to Guyana. Is Trevor them homeboy.”

Spence cut his eyes at Baj. “Kick him out beca’ they label him the single greatest threat to Jamaican security at that time.” Realising he is commanding Rudie’s full, yet confused attention, he continues. “See, Rodney taught African history. Plus he preached bout Black Power and was a Garveyite, which scared the hell outta them. Then he was a Marxist that chastised Capitalism and classism.”

Dreadie injects. “So you know that had them paro .”

“Hold on, now!” Bajie stops them. “Garvey was a capitalist. Rodney was a socialist. How in the hell he gon be a Garveyite?”

“How yuh mean? Is not me say so! Rodney proclaim himself a Garveyite. And in any case Garvey dealt with community and Rodney with Communalism.” Spence answers. “Anyhow, Rudie, they labeled him a subversive element when di man come venture down inna the ghettoes and gullies, talking with poor people and reasoning with Rasta youth. Rudebwoy, yuh need to read Groundings With My Brothers.”

Rudeboy nods. “I seen it.”

“Yuh read it?”Dreadie asks.

“Ehn-enh. But I know them kill him down inna Guyana, right?” Nodding at Trevor.

Trevor clears his throat. “Yeah man. Is like a Malcom X type ah thing. His own matty Black brother kill him. Boom him up.”

They reach the subway entrance .

Dreadie adds. “The President of Guyana himself-Burnham, order the hit!”

Before they descend down underground and part ways with him, Bajie smirks. “I surprised you didn’t claim the C.I.A. Oonu*** damn conspiracy theorists.” He runs down the steps taking two at a time and heads for the Uptown side.

Spence cries out. “Cho! But then who yuh think sanction it? Nuh di C.I.A.? Is them behind all the political fuckery back in them days. All up to now!”

The rest of them swipe their cards, and as they make way down to the Brooklyn side, Dreadie nods in approval.

“Yeah yuh right. But yet still, Burham had it out for him.”

They reach the platform. Up the platform towards the escalator, three youths gang up on a fourth, beating him down. The construction crew looks on as the gang pulverizes the helpless boy, slicing his face with a box-cutter.

“One thing for sure though, Rodney influence Rasta in nuff a them small Eastern Caribbean islands. Notice how them Rasta deh in Grenada militant, bad. They all help overthrow Gairy. Is Rodney that. Everywhere that man went, when he see the establishment oppressing and victimizing the poor, he sound out against it.” Trevor responds.
But everone is now focused on the scene up the platform. 
Trevor continues, as he begins making his way toward the ruckus. “That’s why nuff government couldn’t stand him. They ein’t want no talk of revolution. And besides, the Cold War was being fought right down there in the West Indies- Cuba, JA, GT, Grenada. We ein’t stand a chance, bout we aligning weself with either one a them Super Powers.”

Dreadie declares, “Vampires. Babylon them!” and unsheaths a hammer while stepping up the platform.

“True! The whole a them.” Spence says. He grabs a screw driver from his utility belt.

The construction crew picks up pace. Burst into a rush up the platform, drawing tools from their bags and utility belts as their train rumbles toward them in the distance.

The clack-clack of the train riding the track grows louder.
The platform vibrates.

*University of The West Indies
** extremely slim, skinny
***you, you all

Tweet

Sound The Abeng!

Copyright 2011 K. Omodele

 

A youth ask me the other day why I chose the word "ABENG" for this blog.
Wha' it mean? A wha'?
Abeng is ah animal horn* in the Twi language of the Akan people of Ghana. It traveled 'pon slave ships in the heart and minds of a captured people and survived with them through the horrors of Maafa** just as many aspects of culture did.
So is ah instrument, then?
Yeah man. Maroons*** in Jamaica used to sound di Abeng as a signal during the Maroon Wars against the English, who were determined to re-enslave them.
Eh? Wha yuh mean ‘sound di abeng’?
The Maroons set up camps and towns, in the hills in the East and in the Cockpit Country, and had sentries posted to warn of any threat, any approaching attack. The sentries them would literally sound di Abeng, blow it and communicate warning with other Maroon villages.
So, was  like ringin alarm? To Rass!
Yeah man! Is a symbol of freedom. Sounding di Abeng is a declaration of liberty, yuh overstand?
SOUND DI ABENG!

*most often cow
**African Holocaust of slavery
***freed and escaped Africans

Copyright 2011 K. Omodele
Tweet

March 27...(Comfort of Fools)

copyright 2011 K.Omodele for The Abeng

A new beginning...

her sashay graced the catwalk

snatched his thought,

suspending his breath

on a climatic ledge

...

gripped his stone-flint heart

and struck a SPARK!

the river-walk in Augusta

arms en-wrapping arm

skin caressing skin

sun-warmed hearts coddling

prom dates whisper in spring

soft kisses dripping promises

of life-long tomorrows

filled with never-ending,

early-morning pillow talk

and private sabbatical reasonings

interpreting Love and contemplating Life...

love of a lifetime

learning through life, time

growing, graying

soul intertwining soul

...

but

tomorrow

never

came
and the promise

comforted only the fools

Jah knows, their yesterdays crept in the way...

copyright 2011 K.Omodele for The Abeng

Tweet

Related articles

• Seeking Makeda I: (Journey into Sound) (consciouspen.blogspot.com)
• Seeking Makeda II: (Journey InSight) (consciouspen.blogspot.com)

Word, Sound Power: The Misunderstanding of Lawrence Stuart

Never gone! Never forgotten!

Uncle Lawrence (Stuartie),

You wear many crowns: Elder, counselor, philosopher, comrade, griot.

I laugh when people cringe and seh how yuh  mouth too big and yuh talk  too slack. Griots are traditionally masters of words and you have kept our family stories vivid in our minds- from comical ("Man vs Turkey") to reflective ("Aunt Elise is gold"). Undeniable!
As ah talk bout griot, you tell the wickedest, maddest set a 'tory- mek me laugh 'til water full up me eye. 
You are the Keeper of our family's oral tradition. You personify communalism.

When they say you too loud, I say, so the lion roar mek  the jungle know he's the King and not some pussy cat. I can still hear you sound out to me whenever I entered the room. "OMODELE!" - your voice a rolling bass like thunder, declaring my presence. Your Sound...is...Unforgettable! And, you exude energy powerful as a radiant sun.

You are one king that really lived; I mean, LIVES. Yuh lived hard! laughed hard! drank hard! loved hard! cared hard, hard!
You embody "it takes a village to raise a child."
People don't know that from I was a youth, you drew me in, encompassing me with your life force, and made me feel like a prince. And how later when I walked through fire, I'd run to you on Nostrand and Crown, and you'd  make me feel like it was no longer me but us against the world. That's just you.
Remember yuh seh, "I KNOW you, y'know, where yuh been, where yuh from and where yuh going..."?
Stuartie, when you done talk, I feel sure of my place in the Universal Order. For that, I am forever grateful.

I didn't get to tell you all this before that's why I'm saying it now. 
Never Gone. Never Forgotten.
You are Legendary.

One Love, One Life
K. Omodele



Tweet

Mother To Son: Go Read a Book!

Drawing property rights to The Abeng.../ YardCore Int'l, Publishing

Copyright 2010 K. Omodele

One sun-parched, Third World July noon, a mother scurries around a metal-creaking kerosene stove, simmering curry chicken and white rice in enamel pots when she notices her eleven-year old son fingering a string, making diamonds.
Mother to Son:
“Boy, yuh bored, nuh?”
He snorts but doesn’t look up.
“If yuh bored, go and read a book! You can travel round the world in a book.”
The boy throws away the string. “OK, Mummie.”

Years later in Foreign, one January evening with the mercury sinking two degrees below zero, she’s stirring up marrow-heating soup with provisions and dumplings. He’s in his mid-teens and she refuses to buy more than one T.V., which she locks and keys in her bedroom.
“You won’t be like the typical American pickney*, nursing on no boob tube. This thing dims out yuh wits. It too visual. It show and tell you what to think, so yuh don’t even use your imagination to picture what nice piece a chicken would look like, smell like. I want yuh wonder and envision what a Andorran sunset look like, why blood deh in George Jackson eye, what Gambia mussy** feel like to Kunta Kinte. I don’t want yuh depend on the T.V. to show you.”
“Mummie, everybody I know in school got a T.V. in their room. We living in Foreign now. Is Foreign.”
“And wha happen to that? Well then read a foreign book, then. You not getting no T.V. in yuh room. Hear me, GO READ A BOOK!”

One morning three years later he’s taking this girl, Missy, home from Days Inn after a night that began in a dancehall with her gazing at his rope chain. He pulls his BMW up outside The Blue Nile across the street from Howard University. He doesn’t live with Mummie anymore and now three T.V.’s sit like Great Propagators around his apartment.

The girl’s eyes furrow. “What you stop here for?”

She half hides a chuckle and hurries behind him into the bookstore.

He nods at the girl behind the counter, “Morning,” and heads straight to the new releases where he snatches up Assata Shakur’s autobiography and marches back to the counter.

As he hands the book to the cashier, he feels Missy stare. He glares back.

She says, “I don’t mean no harm but I ain’t never known no nigga that bought no book.” She glances around the Blue Nile. “Shit, I ain’t never been with no nigga in no bookstore.”

He winces while paying fifteen dollars for the book. “You still ain’t.”

“Ain’t what?”

“Been with no nigga in no bookstore.” He spat. “I ain’t no nigga, dutty gyal***” He can feel Mummie grimacing.

The cashier gives him his change and a grin.

The girl catches her jaw before it hits the ground. “You look like a nigga to me!” she says, snaking her neck.

“And you sound like a dutty gyal to me. Go read a book, any book.”

He two-steps out the door, the girl at his heels.

*child
**must be

***dirty girl

Copyright 2010 K.Omodele


Tweet

Caribbean Poetry: Catharsis (When I Write...)

Caribbean Poetry: Catharsis

(When I Write...)
a free-style

©2010 K. Omodele

When I write, I:
seal long–time wounds in my soul
try stitch a heart that’s been torn
mend this conscience I've worn...

When I write, it's like:
slitting my wrists when I vent
scribbling blood with my pen 

        I'm awakening each sense…

When I bleed through my pen, it's like:
purging away old stabbing pains
watching them swirl down the drain
then lifting my face to more rain...

I word to di riddim of drums when I write!
I sound di Abeng from plantations when I’m right !
draw power from village and slums, passage rites!

I AM
Tom Feelings when I write/
Count Ossie when I write/
When blind, more sight/ when dark, more light/
my stain, my plight/my pain, my fight/

I create a unique, lyrical mural -
when I write...
I am right.

©2010 K. Omodele

Tweet

Related articles

• How to Write Your Own Caribbean Folktale: Anancy Festival, 2012

  ---

An Empress' Eyes

 Copyright 2010 K. Omodele

When he first saw her, he was convinced the secrets of the pyramids were etched in her eyes, the way they twinkled like she knew some mystery, untold. Unblinking, she scanned the room and it was like a lioness assessing her plain- basking in confidence that could move Nubia and Kush.
When he first saw her laugh, really laugh deep, life's divine essence danced with the spring sunlight, those glittering eyes sweet. 

After their first brief peck, her eyes squinted to slits, that's it? chastising him- like Head-mis-tress Harper with cane in fist.

Then he noticed, though stern, they still sparkled through rain and he realized that her eyes had conquered much pain. That made him wonder, are Queens only born  queens or can a woman be molded into royalty? the way intense pressure forms carbon to gems.
When they first really loved, her eyes were rolling lava, molten and slow. Her cheekbones high like the Nile Valley walls and he delighted as the river shimmered into her soul.

When she's gray, will the eye-corners pinch lines from the passage of time? Will they shine reminiscing these times?
Her regal eyes; her caring eyes; her vibrant, intelligent and intense eyes; 

eyes that scream independence; eyes full with thought;

Scrabble eyes bright; dreamy late night;
her eyes, her eyes, her eyes, her eyes!

Tweet

Related articles

• Seeking Makeda II: (Journey InSight) (consciouspen.blogspot.com)
• Seeking Makeda I: (Journey into Sound) (consciouspen.blogspot.com)
• Empress (poetwhispers.wordpress.com)
• An Empress' Eyes (theabengandmyconsciouspen.com)
• Seeking Makeda III: (Journey in Touch) (consciouspen.blogspot.com)

Abeng Tribute: Gregory Number One

Cover of Gregory Isaacs

Gregory Number One
Copyright 2010 K. Omodele

6:45 A.M. and sunrise is pecking, struggling to hatch through the Manhattan skyline. Two dozen laborers with Malone Construction hardhats are milling around a group of tool chests, sipping steaming coffee, chatting in cliques, each silently dreading the impending workday. Their muscles ache; breathing is highlighted by streams of condensation.

“Yow!” A bamboo-limbed youth shouts before lighting a cigarette. Drags smoke deeply into his lungs then feverishly sands his calloused hands together. “One minute ah silence for the Cool Ruler, nuh man.” Rudeboy demands heavily.

Dreadie crams his locks into one extra-large hardhat ‘til it sticks cocked-up on his head Velcro tight. Shakes his head and pounces on him. “Yuh don’t hear lung cancer tek him way? Drop the Oldport them Rudie!” Gesturing to box the cigarette out his bredren’s hand.

They take shield from the late-autumn wind behind a mortar-laced, cinder-block wall.

A tree-stump man with ringed, saucer eyes joins them, skinning his teeth. “Yuh hear wha duh man say? Drop the cancer stick!”

Rudeboy pulls his coat collar up and leans a shoulder ‘gainst the wall. “Ay Trevor; yuh favor Guyanese patoo.*”

They all buss out a laugh.

Trevor continues. “Man all the great singers dying off: Dee Brown, Sugar Minott- when di foundation gone, wha’ left?”

“Ah rate Gregory over all them, still,” Rudeboy interjects. Pulls on the cigarette.

Trevor adds. “Me tuh.”

Dreadie whips his forefinger against his middle and thumb. “Gregory was the definition of artist. Art-is-try!”

Bajie marches up to them like some corporal in the B.D.F.**, drinking from a Thermos cup. Grinning out the corner of his eye, he snaps. “According to who?”

“According to I- Dreadie’s Sidewalk Knowledge Collegiate Dictionary, yuh mad rass yuh.” He licks back. “Anyhow, the definition of an artist is someone who creative expression inspire or who leave some kind ah impression on people; a great artist move the masses.”

Bajie sips with his pinkie out as if its tea time somewhere in Christ Church. “And? You want rate Gregory Issacs over Dennis Brown? Wunna mad or what?”

“Or whot? All up in yuh nose.” Trevor mimics, laughing. “Yeah man. Gregory ragamuffin.”

Bajie doesn’t let go. “Dennis Brown voice sweeter than a nightingale.”

Rudeboy bounces off the wall and outs out his cigarette. “Yuh never hear Gregory siddung pon a riddim yet?*** Listen Tune In! ‘I said I like it like dat.’” He sings, head and shoulders dippinging to a rhythm in his memory bank.

“Yeah?” Bajan challenges. “So wha bout Should I? Yuh talking bout a singer riding a riddim? ‘How can I go on feeling this waaay?/Acting like a child so young and gaaaay?/ YOU DON’T KNOW-”

Dreadie and Trevor chime in, grinning. “-WHAT IT MEANS TO BE LOVED.”

“Oh-Oh, Rudeyouth.” Dreadie says, eye brow arching. “Bajie want go tune fi tune.”

“Bajan a idiot. When I need fi pick myself up off di ground, I just play ‘One man against the world/” Rudeboy croons, gyrating his wiry frame, gun fingers cocked and poised.

The others rise gun fingers in the air, saluting. “BOOM! BOOM!BOOM!”

Still half-asleep, other workers gaze curiously over at the West Indians.

Bajie bend up his mouth like he not the least impressed. Raises one hand in the air, bounces and chants:

“Do you know what it means to-“

The rest of them sing along. “-HAVE A RE-VO-LU-TION?”

The whole clique is now wide awake, laughing and touching fists.

The lead plumber, Mike LaTronica, waddles over to them. “Trevor! You working or you gonna sing Calypso there all day, Harry Belafonte?”

Trevor straightens his face. “Nah. I gon stand over here wid you and sing Figaro, Pavorotti.”

More laughter.

Trevor goes off to flux and prep joints with the plumber.

With emptiness plowing in their hearts, the others trudge over to their respective work crews. 

* Owl                                                                More Construction Crew Stories on The Abeng...
** Barbados Defense Force                                                Reasoning: Conspiracy Osama
*** Sit down on the rhythm                                                        Cupful Reasoning

Copyright 2010 K. Omodele

Tweet

Related articles

• Cupful Reasoning (consciouspen.blogspot.com)
• Rodney Reasoning (consciouspen.blogspot.com)
• Reasoning: Conspiracy Osama? (consciouspen.blogspot.com)

Omodele: The Son Also Rises

copyright 2010 K. Omodele

Sunrise is a gold-smeared promise, with its hint of anticipation. Day clean; a new slate; a rebirth, like Spring, except The Son is only a day older. He's excited as he embraces each Dawn- a time to briefly contemplate then bury yesterday's mistakes. Can't undo what has been done. (Did Basquait ever erase smudges; did he cover smears?)

Sunrise is a vernal whisper cascading over dying winter silence. It blankets the algid night and its dew-draped freshness inspires, murmuring, "Today is a new day." Pond water steadily slushing over stagnant stones is his mantra, persistence will eventually form, shape and mold the unyielding. "Life is change; stagnation is death."

The Son rises with the sun. He rises like the sun...With the confidence worn by a warrior who has trodded through a hail of brimstone and gunfire, he meditates over his canvass, lifts his chin and continues painting the rest of Life's Journey...

Tweet

On The Mountaintop

What life has taught me
I would like to share with
Those who want to learn...

- Bob Marley Intro to the song War (Excerpt from speech by HIM Haile Selassie)

 On The Mountaintop

Copyright 2010 K. Omodele

I have a Bredren who thinks I am madder than one a them running [of the] bulls because I love morning time alone on top of Stone Mountain. And I am ecstatic sharing time on a swing with my little niece. He doesn’t really comprehend how much I enjoyed pedal boats with my cousin (and two Sistren). He doesn’t choose to feel the sense of urgency I have in creating moments. And that's cool, he and I have different perspectives when it comes to the passage of time - we look at life through different spectacles.

I have missed out on moments that many people my age have experienced: high school proms/ dances/ fetes; getting married; a son’s/daughter’s birth; a first word, first step, first day at school. But on the other hand, there are no ex-wives lurking, no all he money (alimony), and no support payments due of any kind.

There’s much that I’ve missed, so right now I am considering moments like a canvass and creating masterpieces. Them damn pedal boats had me sweating like a Preakness stallion, but guess what? I savored the whole scene the way an accident survivor appreciates life after avoiding that “bright Light.” Some of the things I’ve experienced since I “came home” I never thought of doing…EVER! Like visiting a winery (and I don’t mean a dance hall); and meditating on Stone Mountain top. I danced with my aunt and her friends at de Luna’s (a Spanish, as in Spaniard, lounge). I realize these are not things that the average person would write home about, but my reality three years ago was hard like a flogging...HARD like iron bars...I mean HARD like penitentiary yards. So I man give thanks and praises to the Almighty for seeing me through. And though I cannot promise HIM that I will be the perfect son, an Ingel on earth nor unwavering in spirit, I do promise to notice his beautiful WORKS – the burning sunset; the bright moon suspended against a deep purple back drop glittering with tightly-scattered stars; an ebony Empress and her breath-snatching smile; my pushing-ninety granny with her life-pleated skin and sly, twinkling eyes; and the way I feel, high, on top of Stone Mountain after hauling myself out of the depths within the beast.

Bredren, you’ll never catch the exhilaration painted in a passing moment until you are forced to stare at time frozen stiff.

Atlanta Sunset

Taken from Pedal Boats @ Tidal Basin, Washington, DC

Tweet

Related articles

• Stone Mountain (visitgwinnett.wordpress.com)

Marcus' House

(Photo By Jennifer Poyser 2009)

©2010 K. Omodele


Why does Marcus’ house lean
with dilapidated beams
and neglected, time-cracked posts?
Surrounded by rambling goats
hurry come latelys who don’t overstand
the glorious essence Mosiah’s stance
not religion rather Community
uplift… One Aim, One God, One Destiny.

How could we not carry the Trumpet’s Sound
Self reliance, pride: no national bound
until the whole of Africa is free
reciting the words “Self Identity”

Tweet

Related articles

• Great Quotes by Black Leaders About The Right and Honorable Marcus Mosiah Garvey
• Exonerate The Right and Honorable Marcus Mosiah Garvey
• Black Moses Seh: More Quotes from Marcus Mosiah Garvey

• Clear Marcus Garvey's Name (repeatingislands.com)
• Top Seventeen Sayings and Quotes by Marcus Mosiah Garvey (consciouspen.blogspot.com)