The Book of Peace: Intention and Desire by Karin Lisa Atkinson: Zanzibar 2006: Head Above Trees

Zanzibar tapioca lies on the ground, heavy.

It is easy to be a root vegetable, uprooted.
I travel from Kenya to Tanzania to Zanzibar to Ethiopia.
I travel from Ethiopia to Zanzibar to Tanzania to Kenya.
This week borders were closed into Sudan and Eritrea.

As I fly, I notice there is no snow on Mount Kilimanjaro.

In the international media coverage
more people are concerned about bird flu -
than human cargo or families of refugees.
I do not believe in hope,
I believe in simply being what I am, to be.

In my pocket I have a list of endangered fish.

No one I have talked to has heard of this list.

I read it to restaurant cooks, managers,
patrons and fish sellers in open-air markets.
More people are concerned about fowl flu
than marine life and ocean health.
I calculate that birds are tired of high attitude,
while the ocean is simply exhausted.

To be fair the birds are fatigued.
Tired of flying high enough
to survive being targets.
Being the prey of bullets
from hunters hunting.

Being the collateral damage
of Heavenly aimed friendly fire.
Being bodies bagged by cheering soldiers
celebrating their self-proclaimed wins.

I have grown tired of hearing gun fire and fire works.
I now confuse the two, both explosive, both deadly.

This latest round of East African victories
did not reach the front page of the daily news.

Most news deserving readership
seldom travels the length of any page,
particularity the international parched-mental tabloids.

I travel from Kenya to Tanzania to Zanzibar to Ethiopia.
I travel from Ethiopia to Tanzania to Kenya.
This week borders were closed into Sudan and Eritrea.
As I fly, I notice there is no snow on Mount Kilimanjaro.

I meditate on what is the price of humans
their value calculated for their labour,
a mother's worth is never done,
her travail is enshrined for months
within the temple of her heart.

Every time I go swimming,
the flying fish brake the surface tension.
Wings spread, as I trail my hand,

in the turquoise waters of Zanzibar,
my hands become covered in shiny silvery fish scales.
These jeweled waters are transparent mirrors of life.
Time does not travel here, but remains calm, still.

I touch the schooling jelly fish,

and I enjoy being shocked.
The tiny electrical shocks become predictable -
a useful occurrence for me to rebel against,
or submit to, depending on the day -
depending on which way the current travels.
Depending on if my inner peace is full of peace.

Either way, the currents evoke images
of what is inside me that is not still.
The restlessness of not I,
the not mine to carry,
the not-my burden
around my own neck.

Yet, I feel,
I feel my energies weigh down
and baggage my body,
handsomely tiresome,
ionically cumbersome.

I reach inside for my inner peace.
I don't stop until I reach inside and feel my peace.
I don't stop until I reach inside and fill myself with peace.

I travel from Kenya to Tanzania to Zanzibar.
I travel from Zanzibar to Ethiopia to Tanzania to Kenya.
The week borders were closed into Sudan and Eritrea.
As I fly, I notice there is no snow on Mount Kilimanjaro.

An Elder, takes me to the church
in Zanzibar's old town square.

This pink coral Stone Town used to be
the central slave market for East Africa.

The church's cellar housed the slave cells,

the incubative rooms, which divided
mothers from their children
and husbands from their wives.

My guide, in a body, of an older man,
asks me to read and help clear

the energy from this space.

This time encapsulated misery,
which still holds this island haunted -
captivated and enslaved to
grief-stricken poverty-consciousness.

Zanzibar has always been spiritually rich,
a wealth of wisdom from transforming
the knowledge of sages throughout the ages.

I stare at my breakfast,
hot and spicy in this heat and humidity.
Rooftop, of the last Sultan of Zanzibar's guesthouse,
I watch the Masai Warriors below me,
sell their red coloured crafts.

The bright fruits, perfumes and spices
growing on this island plantation
is a mix of scents and sensibilities.
White jasmine mixes with vanilla flowers.
Each morning newly-awoken minds stir,
captured by smells which entrance emotions.
Zanzibar's true wealth is it's knowledge
of how to enslave the senses of the heart.

I stare at my breakfast
served to me just the way I like it,
with a smile and heavy on the spices.
I meditate on the history of being part of history.
I consider what it is simple to consider.
I simplify what is complex about life and living one.

It is easy to break open the shell of an egg
already cracked from the drop at birth -

even cosmic eggs are fractals
of fractional history unified at source
in a solitary individual cell.

Coded at it's core the eggs knows
how to Self replicate, divide
and conquer multiple singularities.
The human is the oddity,

with illusionary desires,
to enslave and control
the uncontrollable.

The extent of heat within
the spicy sauce smothered,
on my fried eggs is amazing.
A delicious that defies explanation.

Astounding is the price of eggs in cafes.

Unless eggs are honoured
and seen for what they truly are -
'an incalculable soft layer of protein

birthed from the bottom
of a chicken’s womb.'
Life exiting via the out door.

I meditate on

'What is the price of humans,
birthed from women -

incalculable value.'
Women, for their soft layers,
make children, Soul's base
housed in protein-enhanced
water-based matrixes.

Enshrined for months
within the temple of a Mother's Soul,

birthed from the bottom
of a Woman's heart.

I travel from Zanzibar to Ethiopia to Tanzania to Kenya.
The week borders were closed into Sudan and Eritrea.

As I fly, I notice there is no snow on Mount Kilimanjaro.

In Kenya I saw a herd of giraffe,
standing heads above the trees.

The sun highlighted their ears, tail twitches,
many spots of different colours.

I closed my eyes and felt
the fur on their necks,

smell of their breath,
I warm myself with their body heat.

They moved with grace,
a swagger and sway

that balanced their truck of a neck
with their suitcase body -

all held up by four legs hoofed
and rooted into ancient soil,
heads and shoulders
above the rest.

Giraffes give birth standing up,
and are silent,
except when looking for their young -
then they cry ~
long sobbing cries.

My eggs crack open,
laid out before me I feel the yoke of it -
the yolk of history runny, not fully formed.
I feel the wind on the bottom of my feet.

Now, if I could only see
the reflection of their giraffe Soul,

in their eyes and tear drops,
when their young go adventuring
head above trees.

When their young go adventuring,
head above trees,
may they see
snow on Mount Kilimanjaro.

~~ Other People's Fingerprints ~~
Sometime after 1929 Martin Luther King Jr. said;
“Take the first step in faith.
You don’t  have to see the whole staircase.  
Just take the first step.”