"builder" poems
I belong to the world.
I belong to the beauty,
To the struggle,
To the joy,
To the wrenching grief,
To the heron,
To the sparrow,
The dweller and
The homeless.
The earth and
The wasteland.
The builder and
Destroyer.
The loved and
Unwanted.
I belong to all of it and
It is mine. For now.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
In the night, those shadows come alive. So little do i know about this heavy doubt.
Cold wind biting the heart. Trying to figure out where I've been.
Dark winter pulls me closer, now theres a place i'm thinking into the air.
A voice calling, "Who knows but that which seems omitted today, waits for tomorrow?"
Nothing is as it seams, just as beauty leans from the earth in a sunset--a harp for the soul to sing.
But You are life and you are the veil.
Beauty is eternity gazing at her self
But you are eternity and you are the mirror.
And if you want to know truth retire of solving riddles.
We wanderers, ever seeking the lonelier way,
begin no day where we have ended another day;
and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us.
Even while the earth sleeps we travel,
back into dreams.
Ay, my bow rests on my chest.
There is the flame spirit among a starry mountainside.
Oh it was but yesterday we met in a dream. You watched as I built a ship towards your shore.
My spirit goes wandering upon the wind, off to the desert sands, deep beneath the ocean's sound.
I am the gypsey and the fortuneteller, liken an honest thief. No I'm the myth builder and dream master.
who laughs with me when I destroy,
the sand castles of my innocence. The
sun warming my back just as the wicked, and drawing my image locked in a shadow.
Here the soul a battlefield, where
reason and passion become one.
they are the sails of my seafaring soul.
There I found the naked body of my dreams, in silent sleep my spriit walked the path.
I am the star-gazer who feels the power of endlessness, Aware of timelessness and
neverending space. The love in me still
present amidst the scattered fires that
burn in black ink.
Just as the caveman draws his fears on lost walls, speaking of misfortune and
treasures gallore. A fantom ghost in Hade's Fate.
Now my ship wanders forever on a pearlous course but never sinking.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 12:47 AM UTC
I am an artist
I draw my life.
I am a teacher
I teach my steps.
I am a doctor
I treat my destiny.
I am a lawyer
I judge my actions.
I am a builder
I build my success.
I am a translator
I translate my opinion.
I am a photographer
I take my memories.
I am a writer
I write my future.
I am a chef
I cook my mood.
I am a businesswoman
I manage myself.
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 9:42 AM UTC
Babylon has fallen! Aye; but Babylon endures
Wherever human wisdom shines or human folly lures;
Where lovers lingering walk beside, and happy children play,
Is Babylon! Babylon! for ever and for aye.
The plan is rudely fashioned, the dream is unfulfilled,
Yet all is in the archetype if but a builder willed;
And Babylon is calling us, the microcosm of men,
To range her walls in harmony and lift her spires again;
The sternest walls, the proudest spires, that ever sun shone on,
Halting a space his burning race to gaze on Babylon.
Babylon has fallen! Aye; but Babylon shall stand:
The mantle of her majesty is over sea and land.
Hers is the name of challenge flung, a watchword in the fight
To grapple grim eternities and gain the old delight;
And in the word the dream is hid, and in the dream the deed,
And in the deed the mastery for those who dare to lead.
Surely her day shall come again, surely her breed be born
To urge the hope of humankind and scale the peaks of morn --
To fight as they who fought till death their ****** field upon,
And kept the gate against the Fate frowning on Babylon.
11k
I am the entourage
Of a fantastic mirage
I am the agent
Of my mind's figment
I am a believer
Of mythical creatures
I am a builder
Of splendid architecture
I am a drunkard
Tripping on futures so absurd
I plan construction
Of my own destruction
I am the feeder
To dreams of grandeur
I am a magician
Of wild, potent concoctions
I am a tycoon
Of emotional typhoons
I am an adept
Skilled in exploiting concepts
I am a parasite
Brandishing fangs that bite
I play host
To a monstrous, hideous ghost
I am an addict
Of thoughts derelict
I am the dreamer
Incapable of anything lesser
I am a diver
Sinking deeper and deeper
I am an insatiable thief
Claiming trophies without grief
I am an emotional hermit
Hoarding my all in a bottomless pit
I am a weaver
Fabricating tales that meander
I am a Neanderthal
Adopting behaviours and habits that appall
I am an ape
Mending wounds that gape
I am but me
I'm blind, fighting to see
I am rhymesmith
I lie through my teeth
Getting hard to breathe
Heart to words, I seethe...
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 7:28 AM UTC
as a kid
i built my wall with lego's
then later on
i finished it with stones
Dec 5, 2019
Dec 5, 2019 at 4:51 PM UTC
My mother was
a first generation lesbian.
My father,
a first generation divorcee.
His father was the one child
of a public school teacher.
He found my grandmother at 18.
A farm child, one of seven.
A painter, a baker.
My mother's father
a single boy to three sisters.
His aggressive masculinity
kept the line clear and thick.
He found my mother's mother at 17.
A middle of seven Pentecostal children.
A beauty queen, an agoraphobic.
Each had five children.
The door-to-door salesmen/
homemaker and mother of boys duo
bet it all to open a hobby shop.
They were by far the poorest of the
watermelon farming siblings.
They were artists and explorers.
The high school graduate and ladies man,
was a logger before a father.
And the single mother of 25 he left
scarcely left her home at all.
Neither pair made it big.
But they made my father.
A lonely, post middle aged man.
The poorest of his brothers.
A used to be pilot,
and could have been teacher,
a want to be pioneer.
A nuclear family super fan
who never got his way.
And they made my mother.
A nervous, eccentric hippie
who doesn't know how to talk to her siblings.
A woman working her *** off to excel at lower middle class.
A builder, a fighter, a **** good mother.
Even if accidentally so.
She has plans to travel.
He has dreams to live by a lake.
And they made me.
A single girl among three boys.
A quirky, nervous tomboy.
A thinker, a gardener, a climber.
A loser and a dreamer by blood.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 5:20 PM UTC
*transported back into those walls
running down the basement hall
i locked the door so i could hide
and reaching for a 45
with practically no voice at all
i sang along and prayed
to drown you out
does the soul regenerate?
what part of me did you take?
your verbal threats would make me gasp
no one could hear when I called out
record player winding ‘round
i tried to yell
but couldn’t shout
yet something you did cultivate
a plan you helped to propagate
for each and every time i ran
like a builder in a gym
i’d sing a song and sing again
strengthening the chords within
empowering my voice
©2016janetaylor
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 6:46 AM UTC
Surveying
northern autumn afternoon
Pitcherelli, ex-marine, body-builder,
Lussier, long-haired father of three dark-skinned children
and myself, sharp-edged loner, ex-lover of a fair share of
women
are belly-laughing in the dying sun. Clouds.
The crew, in timber.
Laughing
over recent visits to marvelous cities where
we could not keep ourselves from touching the terminal buds
of numerous exotic trees
and attracting ridicule of stylish girls and tame boyfriends.
Pitcherelli before the Albany bus station
shaking hands with a red pine planted thirty years ago.
Lussier, one hand in a child's hand and the other
feeling scabrous bark of urban woody plants.
Myself among partially shaved heads and leathery aromatic
jackets
getting close to the hairy bud of an unidentified poplar or
sycamore.
People
laughed, but we laughed best
back on our mountain
under the blackening weather.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 12:53 PM UTC
I've been ignored and sidelined.
Denied freedom of expression.
Due to poverty, I was laughed at.
I was hurt, broken, and fought against.
Like a bicycle, I kept my balance to keep moving.
Then I won.
I’M THE STONE THE BUILDER REFUSED who’s………..
Passion didn’t come without suffering.
I strived not to be noticed.
I strived for my absence to be felt.
My intention wasn’t waiting for the storm to pass.
The intention was to dance in the rain.
Kneeling before God gave him ability to stand before anyone.
I’M THE STONE THE BUILDER REFUSED whom against all odds:
Forge without questioning.
Loved without condition.
Cared for people without expectations.
Gave without any sparing.
Shared without pretending.
I'm the same stone that turned to be the corner stone.
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 3:01 PM UTC
By all accounts he’s had a lifelong case of OCD.
“Donald was a disruptive tyke”- his teachers all agree.
He was not much of a scholar but, as a youth, excelled in sports.
As a builder and developer he was often seen in Courts.
When it comes to matters of the heart, he sadly is no wiser
He loves them and he leaves them. He’s a noted womanizer.
Oh, he pays them for their trouble; that much I will allow.
Still he’s never had compunction over breaking wedding vows.
Now he is our President and making noise on Trade.
If he doesn’t get his way beware his twitterverse tirade.
He's paying farmers Billions to forgo their tillage.
Hillary was wrong- It takes a child to raze a village.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 4:45 PM UTC
Oh, sad Poet,
cartographer
of the heart,
mapping the geography
where sadness
is the topography
of your soul.
Oh, Cousteau
of the changing tides,
like an oceanographer,
an admiral spying
the enemy on the horizon.
Your sorrow comes and goes.
Oh, builder of sad dreams
in your house of many rooms,
but one door. Like a grave,
a casket shellacked with
black paint, a mural
of a shadow on the wall.
Architectural sorrow.
Oh, you sad Poet,
open your eyes,
paint us a poem of a rose.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 7:17 AM UTC
Rivalries are an excuse for animosity to be abused.
A tradition to explain the irrational and depraved.
A justification for future insubordination
Of logical arguments by the sane.
Beasts competed with one another through physical altercations,
But we have evolved to call everyone our brother.
So why is it that we must see fighting between one another?
Why is it that we may not all show that we're lovers?
Is there something wrong with the tolerance of each other?
Whatever rationalization is created for the promotion of hatred,
Should be abolished and ashamed,
That it may show its head and become a vein for placing blame,
Is unsettling all the same.
We are all too similar, and that should not promote altercations of an individual,
Rather it should be used as a connection to the familiar.
It should be used in stride with the builder
Of peace, and a reason for all this nonsense to cease.
We have developed into adults,
and it is time to show this with amiable results.
By citing a rivalry as traditional is exactly the reason
It is sinful.
One day we may see the end of this spitefully built fence,
By breaking down the wall separating far too many of us all.
I hope it is my lifetime here, for failing to unite us,
is my deepest of fears.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 5:12 AM UTC
488
Myself was formed—a Carpenter—
An unpretending time
My Plane—and I, together wrought
Before a Builder came—
To measure our attainments—
Had we the Art of Boards
Sufficiently developed—He’d hire us
At Halves—
My Tools took Human—Faces—
The Bench, where we had toiled—
Against the Man—persuaded—
We—Temples build—I said—
4.2k
Brick walls are incredible structures
The builder must realize the need for the wall,
then for many days must painstakingly
place mortar between bricks.
They must build with intention.
If not, it is no longer a wall
it will be left to decay in the rain.
However,
once finished it will stand strong against the weather,
impede prying eyes and thieves,
dissuade creatures and man alike,
The nature of the brick wall is this:
It only takes a single person
willing enough to remove that brick,
to break the mortar and push the brick through.
Their motivation
does not matter
so long as they find the reason for it being built.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
It was raining the Saturday I hired the carpenter, but I think it was acid rain from all the poison you let escape into your body.
He was a drunkard, and he apologized through sips of alcohol. It was the color of your blood when I found you in fits and I begged him to wash them out of the carpet, but through every sip he said your name just like the walls do.
I begged the maid to clean up the razors but she never did.
The maid came in two hours late and she didn't seem to mind my frustration. Much like you never seemed to mind when you said the right things all too late.
She swept secrets under the rugs and listened to the creak in the floorboard whenever any weight was put on this old wooden floor that reminded me so much of your weak shoulders when I needed a place to hold me.
The builder was far too early, and the maid never cleaned up in time. The builder tried desperately to rebuild the walls, but they shook at the weight of another's skin on mine, and the builder whispered "I think you need him back." I dismissed him, and the force of my door slamming (much like the force when you left that night with everything but me) was enough to destroy every wall.
Gardeners came in flustered at the work ahead of them. There were scars on my heart running up the sides like vines and it was far too thick to be cut down.
I envied the fresh dug up dirt encasing the weeds that I so badly wished would hold my body too. You see I tried to burry myself in your mind but you kept pushing me out and now the dirt is the only thing that promises certainty.
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 1:50 PM UTC
It burns in the heart
Of eighth grade girls
Sparkles like diamonds
In the watery eyes of the poor
It is born, kicking and screaming
In toddlers, before they can speak
It slowly dies and sputters
Out in old age
It is the bite and growl
In the dog fight
The motionless upper lip
Of botoxed trophy wives
It is the stacked and ripped
Bicep of the body builder
The clenched back teeth
Of every smiling presidential candidate
It resides in the pits
Of the stomachs of the second place
The money in the pockets
Of realtors
It is the fight to the top
The never give in
The blood boiling revenge in
Every made-for-TV movie
It is the Red, White and Blue
Blood, pumping through
Our country
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 5:24 PM UTC
1
Grey sky greyer sea
a litter of rocks balance
coat bright hat blue mittens striped
as on these November steps
you collect the gifts of the ebb tide
2
Glint green this living tapestry echoes
Jilly’s field with tractor not Devon
but salt-flats rocky revetments moorland rising
a map crossed by a chiromatic line
our destiny marked out on this concrete wall?
3
Beached clinkered double-ender
a bay-courser sjekte strand-crunched
fit once for Viking raiders two abreast
now daubed with tin ends of patriotic paint
a sea-steed hobbled hard on the shore
4
Bow faced a sea helmet thrice rope strapped
slow moulded over the boat builder’s ribbanded jig
a spanglehelm of wood
curved sheer straked plank bilged a tuck stern
raising its proud head seaward
5
Viewed from the air a map rolls out
north to the tilted curve of the horizon’s rim
cloud scattered mountained red
betwixt seas sun chalked wine-stained a volcanic isthmus
provokes desert the western waste land of a brooding city
6
Oh face of ropes knot eyed!
you blue cheeked wide smiler
wild wild your head of hair
beachcombed and splayed
wrapped on the sternest post
7
She sewed sugar kelp on the sea shore
a sporophyte with sheltered frond
strap-like stem stiff and smooth
of the species saccharina a spring-tide
stalk set among substrates shells and stones
8
I the camera turned and caressed
by her slight fingers (the pinky raised)
my viewfinder close to her blue grey eye / I
focus on this kelp-needled novelty feel her breath
wait for the thumb press the electronic click
9
Here is the beach walked in darkness
the fishermen shadows against the moonstruck ebb
fingers laced the sea’s breath in our ears
wave upon wave un-folding on the sand and later
we unfold then draw back in love’s relentlessness
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 4:09 AM UTC
We flip the page and write out our goals,
But yet we end up falling in the hole of circumstance,
Constantly been consumed by our own thoughts,
We are all familiar with that thy voice of confusion,
Apparently i was once in that uncomfortable position,
Were you have no mental authority ,
Were your first thought becomes your final decision,
Authoritatively speaking you can gain full & total control of your mind,
First, you have to believe
nothing works without believing,
Build your mind in a more organised & profound way,
Understand that your body is a vessel which respond to instructions,
And where does that instruction come from?,
The brain,
Your brain is the most sensitive and delicate part of the body,
Nothing is achieved without the use of the brain,
Now let's reflect back to where we started from,
We are about to work on your brain,
Now, understand that no matter the amount of thoughts that runs through your mind,
You have the ability to control it and pick the ones that best suit your condition,
Focus, without focus your can't achieve or attain your goal,
Now close your eyes and create an image in your mind,
The image may be what you want to achieve within certain period,
Eg,if you are saving your hard earned money in other to purchase a house,
Now close your eyes and create an image of that house , in a beautiful way..
Now let's go back to reality,
A friend comes to your house and tells you he found a beautiful car which is been sold at a very reasonable price,
You see,now your brain starts working,
You may totally forget about the house you are tryna purchase,
Due to the fact that the car is been sold at a cheaper rate,
But due to the fact that you have created an image in your mind of the house you want to get,
in such a way you have already seen yourself living in it,
There is no way anyone can change your mindset or persuade you in purchasing the car,
That is what is called,mind builder,
Apply this steps to your everyday life,
And you will see everything will start falling in place for you.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 7:04 PM UTC
You take your throne as winter comes,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
Secrets rest as the Dead rise up,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
We the Lost who few can see,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
We hear your call of winter winds,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
A fire lit that once was cold,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
On winter winds you find your own,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
The year grows nigh as time does stop,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
The time has come for cold Misrule,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
The Gates of Life and Gates of Death,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
Flutter open to part the Veil,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
Speak to me, oh cold Cold One,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
Whom once rode forth all teeth and eyes,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
Your time has come, the dice are cast,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
Coils of ice and coils of snow,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
The Serpent form among the trees,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
The moving sway of Serpent hips,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
The Ice Queen sits as Hallow's Eve,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
Finds its way to All Hallow's,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
The Regent sits high in the North,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
And know her time has come again,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
Hail to you Keeper of the Lost,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
Hail to you who brings the tears,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
The pale Blue Flame of Winter's Night,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
We know your face and Serpent's Tongue,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
The cold Black Altar in the Hall of Stone,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
The Cutter there before the Black Gates,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
Her Black Knife raised to cut the threads,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
And Death's wings spread beside the Gates,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
To guide the Living and the Dead,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
For now the Veil is open wide,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
The Gates are open and swing both ways,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
The Mighty Dead we praise tonight,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
The Blessed Dead we call your names,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
The pulsing call of Bloodline blood,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
The pulsing call of Loreline blood,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
The pulsing call of Fateline blood,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
Blood does call, it calls to Blood,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
Bones do wake and speak once more,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
Memory sleeps in sleeping Bones,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
And Blood awakens the sleeping Bones,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
And quickens now what once was dead,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
On altar top and in the Halls,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
We call you now to come to us,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
To breathe again the breath we breathe,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
And speak this night and speak again,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
And as the Darkness now recedes,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
The Darkling Twin awaits the Bright,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
Misrule reigns and all is Öð,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
Öð and odd, and Wyrd and weird,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
And may the Hunt now pass us by,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
Or may we ride the frightful ride,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
By Winter's Night and crossroad light,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
And ghost roads stretch into the night,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
And troll roads strange and faerie roads,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
That lead out there between the worlds,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
Guide our way with lantern bright,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
We are the Lost, you children tonight,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
Toss your dice for us just right,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
And may the year we now head to,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
Find the dreams the Dreamer dreamed,
Hail, oh, Builder of Storms,
This year manifest this next.
~Hail, oh, Builder of Storms, a Hallow poem by Bethany "Lorekeeper" Davis, November 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 5:39 AM UTC
Prayer of St. Joseph
Dear St. Joseph most chaste spouse of the Blessed ****** Mary and earthly father to our Lord Jesus let your soft and strong spirit be upon us this day. You were a quiet and reflective man. You were humble and modest. In a world that in this day does not place a high value on such virtues that you portray, we look to you St. Joseph as a shining example of what fatherhood and manliness can truly be. You were a carpenter, a builder, a worker. Yours were strong hands; rough and calloused from work, but they were also gentle and loving hands. Surely each piece you built was a work of love and crafted with great care. The hugs you must have given Jesus were so strong and gentle. You taught your son how to build as well. It is of little wonder then that the cross he would suffer and die on would become a great bridge connecting us to each other and to your son in heaven. Yours were warm loving eyes. Eyes full of sadness, pain, and incredible joy. Was there a time when it was revealed to you what your son must endure? I can’t image what that would’ve felt like knowing what was going to happen, desperately wanting it not to, and still knowing it was God’s will. Even with all of that you said “Yes Lord. Okay. Let your will be done. I trust in you”. I only hope we might have the smallest bit of the faith, the peace, and the quiet strength that you had. Be with us St. Joseph that we might learn how to better love, better serve, and better protect the sanctity of marriage and of the family. Be with us St. Joseph in our jobs that we may remain humble in the good work that we do. Let all the work that we do, be done with great love. Bless us St. Joseph and especially those that work with their hands. Bless us St. Joseph and bless our eyes so that we may see and love others in a more profound light and that our vision would not be clouded by pain and sadness. Bless us St. Joseph and bless our minds and our hearts that we might have the grace and strength to be pure and chaste as you were. Bless us St. Joseph and bless our souls that we might obtain some of the peace, the quiet strength, the faith to say “Yes” to your son and “No” to the wiles of this Earth. Bless us oh Most Holy St. Joseph that one day we may come to know you and be with you and the Holy Family in Heaven for all eternity.
Amen
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 10:43 PM UTC
I was the architect of my own fall.
It had been easier to open my hands helplessly
than to clench fists against bullet-scarred walls.
Transgression: naivety in passivity.
Penance: the loss of trust
that I could shine with my own pure light.
I withdrew, leaving behind the space I had carved.
I hid, healing myself in silence,
for in that place, dreams were safer.
Hunger remained hunger,
longing remained longing.
I chose to carry guilt myself
rather than admit that I had been broken:
the stubbornness of a frayed razor
that could not cut through the page.
I was the builder of my suffering
by my own will, seeing the glow in others.
I was warm water,
shimmering in a thousand drops.
The world didn’t end.
The sun stayed, the wind still blew,
and the trees stretched out their arms to me.
Everything that came after was easier,
no longer hurting so much.
I am sitting on a bench in the gold-red park,
watching the leaves, watching this life,
which, in my mind, was different months ago.
But this time I take my face in my hands,
with tenderness to myself,
rebuilding my home, my place.
I know I always deserved it.
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 3:29 PM UTC
The creator of the universe
Our whole existence
Our tradition and way of life
The beginning and the end
The divination and religion
Of our people
Odu Ifa our literary corpus
The grand priest of Ifa
The mantle of Olodumare
The builder of the Ifa Oracle
Ile-Ife your city of abode
Orunmila,
Orirun ile Yoruba
The master of Aseda and Akoda
The Aalafin of Yoruba land
The Ooni of the Yoruba mantle
Our spiritual system of existence
Orunmila,
The supreme being
The Orisa of all orisas
Esu bows at your feet
Obatala trembles at your voice
Ogun makes an obeisance at your sight
Osun lays down at your coming
Yemonja proclaims your might
The divination of Ifa
The prophecy of the Yoruba heritage
The founder of earthly beings
The Ese Ifa
Orunmila
The principal Odu
Written by Tosan Oluwakemi Thompson
Mar 18, 2020
Mar 18, 2020 at 12:26 PM UTC