Sunday, September 26, 2004
Ode To Savannah
I will be leaving here soon. This place they call the pretty lady with a dirty face.
I was talking to Mali on the IM last night, more like this morning and she really got me thinking bout North vs. South. Thanks for the convo sis! But I was trying to IM lines of a poem I wrote bout the south and how I see it, rather feel it. And my fingers wasn't working right. Then I started diggin for the damn poem. And I couldn't find it anywhere on a disk, my drive or hardcopy for that matter. But this is one I remember off the dome so it wasn't too hard digging it up outta the ultimate storge space...my brain. Here it goes.
Migratin' Home
My soul always was a southern grrrl.
Sultry but humid with tears
high barometric pressured smile that breaks with torrid storms,
weathered by my ancestors.
Here is where I listen to voodoo tunes of Oyas thunder
dream Changos lightning
where Yemaya bathes me in her ocean
and as a token Elleggua summoned me past the Mason-Dixon line.
The sublime of the south deep within my soul and heavy on my song
even though grandma wanted me to believe I always been a yankee
as she ran that underground railroad to freedoms northern winters.
My soul is the south
where it's always 85 degrees
clouds are cumulous
and ancient sunshine keeps me deep
brown
Like the south in me
where men are magnolias
clean scent that don't last long
morning glory bronze blooms
here through June
gone by September.
Them sweet petals pacify the south in me.
Where the tides of Africa surge onto the shores of Savannah
where my peach is always sweet succulent and juicy
bees pollenate time
and butterflies defy seasons
supernatural is reason
and roaches fly
the mosquitos eat you live
all to survive
like I
got that south in me.
Grits, collards, cobblers, crab legs, and greasy spoons
keepin' thighs thick and fingers licked
runnin' number grandmothers
are old wives that tell true tales
where superstition prevails
and keeps you skraight.
It was my fate
to feel that south within me
telling me who I was
reminding me who I will be
calling me from where I've been
whisperin' one mo' gin
who I am
arguing to my world
that my soul
Always was a southern grrrl
With all my bitchin and moaning bout the south,
it's still a part of me and a part of my heritage.
I'm happy to have lived here for the time I have.
yankeeluv.
I will be leaving here soon. This place they call the pretty lady with a dirty face.
I was talking to Mali on the IM last night, more like this morning and she really got me thinking bout North vs. South. Thanks for the convo sis! But I was trying to IM lines of a poem I wrote bout the south and how I see it, rather feel it. And my fingers wasn't working right. Then I started diggin for the damn poem. And I couldn't find it anywhere on a disk, my drive or hardcopy for that matter. But this is one I remember off the dome so it wasn't too hard digging it up outta the ultimate storge space...my brain. Here it goes.
Migratin' Home
My soul always was a southern grrrl.
Sultry but humid with tears
high barometric pressured smile that breaks with torrid storms,
weathered by my ancestors.
Here is where I listen to voodoo tunes of Oyas thunder
dream Changos lightning
where Yemaya bathes me in her ocean
and as a token Elleggua summoned me past the Mason-Dixon line.
The sublime of the south deep within my soul and heavy on my song
even though grandma wanted me to believe I always been a yankee
as she ran that underground railroad to freedoms northern winters.
My soul is the south
where it's always 85 degrees
clouds are cumulous
and ancient sunshine keeps me deep
brown
Like the south in me
where men are magnolias
clean scent that don't last long
morning glory bronze blooms
here through June
gone by September.
Them sweet petals pacify the south in me.
Where the tides of Africa surge onto the shores of Savannah
where my peach is always sweet succulent and juicy
bees pollenate time
and butterflies defy seasons
supernatural is reason
and roaches fly
the mosquitos eat you live
all to survive
like I
got that south in me.
Grits, collards, cobblers, crab legs, and greasy spoons
keepin' thighs thick and fingers licked
runnin' number grandmothers
are old wives that tell true tales
where superstition prevails
and keeps you skraight.
It was my fate
to feel that south within me
telling me who I was
reminding me who I will be
calling me from where I've been
whisperin' one mo' gin
who I am
arguing to my world
that my soul
Always was a southern grrrl
With all my bitchin and moaning bout the south,
it's still a part of me and a part of my heritage.
I'm happy to have lived here for the time I have.
yankeeluv.
