#12 Summer


photo is copyright: Taste of Isha e-book


banana popsicles
at the corner store
sweet summer sticky
and you
a back alley vagabond
boa constrictor
slithering through my door
in tortoise shell

Copyright © 2016 Sharon Elliott. All Rights Reserved.

March Senryū 2016

we visit you here | in this place we can’t fathom | with beautiful flowers

grand love
fathers \ daughters.
some, almost perfect, no . . .
there are those who could tell you truths —
to shame

when you’re proud to know | the boy you raised who grew wise | way beyond his years

that kiss was kismet | some past life holdover | now to get over it

wild blackbird warning | then car’s back door flies open | wallet on the ground | Good Samaritan noticed | comes to your rescue saves day

old Havana | has her secrets hidden deep | in layers of paint
mysticwoman | she who sees beyond eyes | who hears the longtime voices

there are don’t ride trains | ones that are going down wrong | sidetracked forever

the eyes have it | true windows to the heart/soul | what do yours say

she works in the dark | hands need no light to create | smooth and soothe the lines

people block the hate | with their bodies and prayers | close down the clown’s cars | until the streets can be safe | once more from this war on us

ancestral knowledge | sure as sunshine and moon rise | we are all welcomed

my dream peeps | are keepers and are not me | have their own lives to live

in shackles and chained | no respect for human beings | illegal they’re not

kindness of strangers | takes you by the arm | welcomes you like family

sad for that hurt feeling | don’t know why people hate | ocean bottom deep

in the morning | she will give thanks for being | for one more day | to become a better human | to pray for health and kindness

tongues for justice | will never be silenced | from ashes rises fire

we geography | the maps and myths of our lives | places and people

beauty of the blush | of new flower bud just born | of sacred promise

new flood warnings | morning woke late and foggy | turned off her alarm

thunder beings roar | gulf waters jump up the shore | downpour on the brink

going inward | to reflect on no reflection | mirror the darkness | seeking out those specks of stars | your love that’s become so small

hair clip
on the sidewalk~
rusty as the years long,
held up some beautiful tresses
back when.

so we dis-agree | about presidents and such | aren’t we family | we’re not that divided | we both want peace and justice

land where you were made | where ancestors lived and died | a full life circle | you piece together the songs | the wrongs no longer matter

a book is a world | enter its doors and go | journeying the unknown

the mother in her | makes them feel comfortable | is what makes them talk | they open up like windows | on a bright sunny day

so much love is soup | simmered steamy with good will | veggies and chicken

hunger food for thought | and a quiet place in woods | where the raven calls

denial does no good | in friendship one must see | their own shortcomings


Copyright © 2016 Odilia Galván Rodríguez. All Rights Reserved.

Journey Home

For FXA,  February 21, 1954 – January 15, 2015


our mother water | cleared this day a greener path | came down in thick ropes


ayer rituales | from that cradle where you grew | all your traditions


rooted in some strong | long ago red earth pregnant | possibilities


of that son you are | true to all you have become | in this world of spines


that would sooner pierce | than heal soul bodies with food | sacrificed from flesh


and the heart of it | is that life is just like that | thorny to shield soft


and vulnerable | though we mimic the strongest | ones rooted firme


deep in the forest | of our lives that don’t last long | we make our own way


don’t regret the turns | taken to get to ends | that always come too soon


watch you breathe ragged | breaths from their shallow nests | you eye me and see


my soul reaching out | to soothe you hermano | as you struggle through


a warriors death | you are present for it all | strong in your resolve


to experience | your passing like your life | to the fullest


now you have taught me | one more thing eye didn’t know | to die with courage


worn out your machine | called a body a temple | and you want to dream


we demand dreaming | to take you into next world | light to guide your way


we pray for comfort | want no fear for your journey | in that place that calls you


near or far not gone | now the people want to flock | to your side to touch


that flame before it goes out | but not everyone | can be invited


to witness your flight | only the very dearest | for it’s your journey


eye am close but far | or a little distant | for fear of trampling


yesterday as you slept | eye read you Snake Poems | your eyes flew open


you recognized | your own incantations | spilling into the room


like watercolors | of our mother blue | splashing the walls


with our laughter | we chased away the shadows | tears became happy


eye am writing this | how we communicate | curando con palabra


changing their lead | into spun golden prayers | showers of pollen


to sprinkle hope | onto the heads of this world | some so hard can’t see


you take your book | out of my hands and recite | you channel from there


body in flames | a different sort of burning | you down to ashes
| waiting to fly out of them | resplendent in your journey


eye can’t imagine | a world without you in it | brother born of word


you a love warrior | fighting to stay present | to your last breath


eye struggle to know | what to say now that words | no longer matter
| except as prayers | except as incantations


we communicate by breaths | each one marks pain and promise | you still here with us


when eye read your words | tears spring to my eyes and fall | silently streaming


we are about the word | a business that is not one | blessings upon all


you’ve left Francisco | body that housed your spirit | now you’re all angel


beyond borders | you fly home to ancestors | who wait with open arms


Davis, CA 12 – 15, Enero


Copyright © 2016 Odilia Galván Rodríguez.  All Rights Reserved.


Black_Chinned_Hummingbird_PatGaines_FlickrCC_1Pat Gaines/Flickr Creative Commons

August Senryū 2015

For all life’s ups and downs

dream and dance | the blues remind us of joy | life is a see-saw

he says he is next | to go with the ancestors | there’s resignation | in his voice so full of tears | at the last loss of loved ones

his family gone | mother father brother gone | only he remains

there is beauty | in surviving past thirty | in growing older |
in knowing you are knowing | life gives you grays and wisdom

love is better | than bitterness or hate | even when you lose |
you win having had the joy | tremendous in all its pain

she would rather see | instead of be blinded | by sweet talk all lies

be blinded sometimes | revel in the fortune | of his love for you

on her walk today | the crows called not in warning | more of a heads up

in love and war | love is the high road | leads to the heart of what matters

the enemy camp | lonely when you don’t know why | it’s time to escape

the grandest love of all | lasts for eternity | nothing can crush it

eye release you | as you are not mine to bind | free as a bird

she lied to herself | easier than facing truth | which hurts more sometimes

tasting her tears he feels | her heart trembles for him | in echos of time

we sing to the stars | in gratitude for our lives | we sing for life

we are pollen blessed | take flight for our lives | blessed in earth mother’s beauty

she has a broken heart | for the world that bleeds | from being eaten alive

painful regrets | of an unrequited love | misdirected

those who’ve crossed lines | too many times to return | to sanity or love

thunder beings walk | loudly announce the rain | brighten blackest night

extreme pain and joy | two sides of the same love | better to have had both

tries to say with heart | what she knows with her whole being | though mouth wants to scream

she dreams she drinks his tears | dreams his grief as ashes | the wind carries them far

life’s uncertainty | balanced by waking up | healthy and in love

she will wish upon stars | the way her grandmothers have | fire streaking skies

his life seems over | reaching final chapters | but it’s beginning

a story of lost | and found love that won’t die | trying to find balance

an ache for his loss | while feeling her own inside | outcomes uncertain

we should take care | the nature is important | creeks become rivers

six year old wisdom | compassion before judgment | love counts the most

she was in between | here – there mostly there | now she’s gone to ancestors

Copyright © 2015 Odilia Galván Rodríguez. All Rights Reserved.


July Senryū 2015

for the sweet circle of life

calabash of life | whisper your secrets in breath | of birth and of death

Clover turns over | summersaults in her belly | she’s getting ready

your son grows tired | of you moving on | without saying goodbye

now you dwell mainly there | just one foot in this world | here people wait

she is in between | worlds that call to her to wait | the seen and unseen

be-at-ti-tude | supremely blessed is she | with every heart-beat

in complex shedding | of bird’s finery we see | the simplicity

he won’t let her go | no matter how hard she tries | to pull away

citrus and terracotta | jasmine stars explode | their scent’s earth and sky

she is still here | sometimes she opens her eyes | as if she’s only slept |
not in that way when one’s self | travels to the unseen

the nature of things | being in the moment | a dance between raindrops

preparing to live | parents make nests for their egg | swollen with pride

moving through the aperture | of life and death | a love labor

union in sound | drum voices thunder singers | spiral in motion

pastel skies that pass | days fly by fast flapping wings | as time moves on

sensuous pieces | that fit together | an elaborate puzzle

an almost baby | sleeps dreams and swims inside her | she prays for the best |
all life has to offer | a blue child being born green

madrugada calls | sleep talk she thinks is a dream | it’s him from afar

new moon intentions | a wish and invocation | your heart’s desires

sun breaks through to find | brain fog that refuses to | burn off

baby overwhelm | a child trying to raise one | young woman alone

silly assumptions | about appearances | a game of all wrong

Clover dreams color | sees the world through mother’s eyes | visions the future

his mom’s on her journey | he saw E on the corner | dressed in red and black |
sharp and dapper lookin’ | all pied piperish | but he don’t want her to go |
not even with E | who’s showin’ the road | no she was the first woman |
who ever loved him | though like BB say | she could be jivin’ too

niño Fidencio | de agave espadín | medicina viva

the last was the first | on his mind he closed/opened | listened with his heart

watery spirit | now you see there now you don’t | moving between worlds

a molehill sometimes | a mountain to be climbed | feelings magnified

another run | a chance at a different life | beginning again

Bree because you’re free | you climb and tear down their hate | decry their limp rag | symbol of supremacy | of cowards that have no hearts

Poems copyright © 2015 Odilia Galván Rodríguez. All Rights Reserved.


I Am The Fifth Wind

I am the fifth wind
I am here, here, and here
Ebb tide
Dark moon
I pull the roots down deeper
Yank with my teeth
Hunt down sickness in its hiding place
Stop lying
I will level the village
Wearing fire for a skirt
I bathe in the dust
Dancing counter clockwise
Don’t follow me where I go
You, The Dead cannot trouble me
For I am the blue deer
And can capture all your medicine
From my mouth comes the fog
Lighting born
I gather the waste and remove it
Yerba Santa and Grindilia
           combined is my Medicine

Copyright © 2015 Jolaoso Pretty Thunder.  All Rights Reserved.

Artiste : Noémie Capon | Voir ses œuvres |


Time Traveling

The future is not made yet. When I try to time travel there, I just end up in some weird version of the past  Uncertainty is where we live.

So a few weeks ago we rewound our relationship, turned the boat around and started heading back to the dock. We hadn’t known our destination anyway. We just hopped on for the ride.   The week started abruptly.

“I don’t want to be polyamorous.” I blurted

It was a roller coaster ride. It was a boat on high seas.   We are two older women so swollen with heat for each other. We decided to stop sleeping together but then started having sex in public on the dance floor – you dancing me to the edge of moaning. We kept sliding our tongues past our decision to make deep kisses off limits.

We were free floating.   I listened hard in the park on a Saturday. Your words like floating icebergs against the hull of our relation-ship, breaking up or changing course. Who knew?

But now I want to wake up with you a million times, spend love for currency, be reckless, and live, be that spike thing that you pound into sheer rock, tie your rope up on in a strong knot for hauling yourself back up, hand over hand to the top when you fall into time traveling down the sad years.

“If you have to go, take some water” I say. “Water is healing.”

They say you can’t change the past but I can. The first few times I went back on purpose to that room where I was raped over and over again, I was big, and bad, and brave. I started by bringing bowls of water but then I just flooded the whole damn place. The walls couldn’t hold together. There was so much water. I just grabbed my own little girl hand, and we swam up out of there together. That’s how come I’m alive and so free to love you now.

Still I’ve been in the habit of being in more then one place at a time for too long. I finally understand when you say for the n’th time how I’m channeling ghosts, and you want to be alone with me when we make love.     So here we go now walking, our uncertain footsteps into the present.

Copyright ©2015  Malke Singer. All rights reserved

A Serpent Song

I have been called wayward
for seeking the Path
that is found in the round
I have been called willful
for being driven by an energy
à rebours, not to be ignored
I have been called witch
when I refuse to keep silent
Wayward, willful, witch
I take these words as
compliments, sobriquets
for neon women in the dark

Copyright ©2015. J.A. Mitchell. All rights reserved.

Snake Wmn