Read PDF The Blood Upon the Rose: A Novel of Love and Irish Freedom (Women of Courage Book 2)

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Yes you may take 10 giant leaps dance The olly olly oxen free free free dance The everyone can come to our heaven dance. We have come to be danced Where the kingdoms collide In the cathedral of flesh To burn back into the light To unravel, to play, to fly, to pray To root in skin sanctuary We have come to be danced. In the 16th century, when Portuguese settlers arrived in Brazil, there were about 3 million native people living there.

Now there are only about 1 million. Here, an indigenous man sits on a scorched branch. For the Indigenous. They are destroying you because you are beautiful And you know how to live here; This they have done Since landing in smelly, ill fitting Metal suits And observing that you Already had it down:. Leer Para Los Indigenas. Photo by Alice Walker.

By taking your life, they stole from us. It is the body we have missed; the Spirit expanded to cover us, as you hoped it would. Double Fantasy. Thank you. Alice taking pictures in the house on Alamo Square. Photo by Jean Weisinger, early s. And when time comes We can say that we honored the beauty, The strength, The lovingkindness The formidable grace And fierceness Of Women. That we saw them clearly In their apparently casual Abundance of nurturing, Caring, protecting, All life; Carving out a place For humans That did not at the same time Carve up the planet.

When the time comes We can say: look at this. Look at what we have done. Here you see the faces And read the names Of those who have stood together Against the endless tidal waves Of hatred and destruction: The daily ritual Of despair. Joclyn Elders The faces and bodies of Goddesses, healers, mystics Saints, warriors And those who, while they lived, Appeared to have grown their courage From the very ground on which they stood.

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And this, we know, is the truth of it. For it is Earth, the embodied feminine, That we all are standing on. And so it is with gratitude That we thank the artists, Our magnificent sisters For giving us this vision Of our diversity and power Our strength and our bodies Drenched in light. May the honoring of our artists, those who have inspired us past and present, and our female selves, continue to serve the shift that is needed to save our world. My new typewriter! We met each other through our books.

And then on the road in the wilds of Northern Michigan. You, instantly, to me, another literary daughter. How proud I am of you. You said wisely: I write my books, I only write my books, and anything else, on a typewriter.


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I was beyond happy to hear this. But where, oh where, did I throw my perfectly wonderful Smith Corona? I lamented. I know a place…. And today, it arrived!

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I am beyond thrilled! It sits on my table as if it never left, my beloved Smith Corona. Thank you daughter of our lineage. Thank you writer with the thoughtful mind and generous soul. Your haunting and unforgettable book, An American Marriage, written on a typewriter, was the beginning, I hope, of a long and joyful American Friendship. Long live ancestors who before us shared their twigs. It also leads to the thought of how long trees have been speaking to us.

War, the most frequently overlooked cause of climate change next to polar shift. In a review in which David Icke meets Celie Johnson! We find ourselves in a very dynamic situation with unimaginable potential. We have all the support we need to simply relax and be one with the transitional, in-process quality of our life. We have all we need to engage in the process of awakening.


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Happy Birthday, Fidel! All beings tremble before violence. All fear death. All love life. See yourself in others. Then whom can you hurt? What harm can you do? He who seeks happiness By hurting those who seek happiness Will never find happiness.

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For your brother sister is like you. He wants to be happy.

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Never harm him… Never speak harsh words For they will rebound upon you. Angry words hurt And the hurt rebounds. Like a broken gong Be still, be silent. Know the stillness of freedom Where there is no more striving. Like herdsmen driving their cows into the fields, Old age and death will drive you before them. But the fool in his mischief forgets And lights the fire Wherein one day he will burn. Be harmless, be blameless. The farmer channels water to his land. The fletcher whittles his arrows. The carpenter turns his wood. And the wise man person masters himself.

The world is the altar on which I place my offering. This Is Not a Tweet.

BLOOD UPON THE ROSE ~ Love and Death in 1916 Ireland

Lucky are those whose hearts are broken Regularly. So many cracks appear it is unlikely No light will come streaming through. But not quite. And that is The important thing. All those things you thought you understood! All that pain you thought was over, anyway! Then you have new pain that makes you relive The agony already outgrown. Or so you had thought. Or was perhaps impossible to do. Which I sometimes felt was true. And what of his mother? Caught between the needs of creativity, love, mothering, pushing the race forward, and surviving in a land where not one of us was safe; and her desperation, fear of falling backward, dread that her only son might become another Emmett Till.

Did we fail you, Beautiful Son, because we did not fight long enough, there where you were born? Did not love strongly enough? Did not die from bullets and bombs, broken hearts, depression and soul wounds sufficiently enough? But you have come through, anyway.


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  5. So did we fail completely? In you I see the soul of black folk. As DuBois thought we might. Now that your inner mirror is clear, I know you see this too.