They whispered behind the closed door. Some say they were angels some say demons. Because of the way they floated on clouds. They eventually shape shifted from dirt, from the filth, mouth full of lies, sting of the bird pepper and 1000 gutted perch. Transformed first into a Phoenix, then he into the mountain, her the sea. Often times they can be heard not seen. He a pack of wolves. She the descending sound of the canyon wren.
poem copyright © 2015 Jolaoso Pretty Thunder.
All Rights Reserved.
In deep memory the magic mitrochondria ring proclaims
DNA spirals shall blunt Time’s arrow, dull His axe in battle
With fire breath, in an instant women of the serpent lineage
traverse Mound Roads to visit the numen of Grandmother
©2015. J.A. Mitchell. All rights reserved
for belief in love even when it’s imperfect
old as mountains | their love across the ages | steady as beats of hearts
traveling with wings | fueled by waking-dream voices | on prayers and hope
sometimes dreams wiser | than waking up to the pain | of this everyday
seawater escapes | the beaches of her ocean | eyes and round her cheeks
blocking the flow | don’t want you but won’t let you go | time to say so long
ancient bones heavy | in the living my-story | that walk strong in him
the star he gave her | the fifth planet from the sun | brightest in the sky | left of the tympani moon | so she’ll never forget him
she will never raise | theirs who was sacrificed | a story not hers | to fashion in this lifetime | spirit tossed back to heaven
imagine-nation | a world without war and hate | dream it so
the day she was born | they planted one hundred trees | to flower into love
she made him feel | crazy and tender in ways | he’d not felt ever
we all have vicious | it can snap and hurt someone | a small part of us
she feels heavy weight | stuck in a sadness deep place | where slow magma seeps | fills up all vacant spaces | all the path with shouts and wails
people like to talk | her name tastes good on their lips | tongues sharp as razors
we bring our hearts’ strings | and all the tenderest parts | to your feet to be blessed
days that mark the end | times we thought would never | may we remember | original instructions | given to our peoples
you go on dreaming | despite all obstacles | wake up to your truth
right at dawn | when the air smells newly born | women sing children awake
poets of heart | tell truths that are lies only to | dream a new future
she is but a dream | breezes through your life from time | and like Spring thunderstorms | on occasions upsets | best just embrace gifts given
drive by King’s Ranch | reminds how much was taken | a world that belonged | to itself free and alive | before towns and cities cloned
flying I go | flying I return | for as long as there are wings ✿
darkmoon woman | gifts invisibility | to the shape shifters | who know that time is nearer | than anyone ever thought
when we least expect | there is a way that our hope | can move obstacles | our activism makes change | our love changes us for better
nine months while she gestated her | she ate sardines | wee one was born fish | daughter of deepest ocean | blue child come to change the world
she learned the seed songs | sang these life-vine prayers | we are green shoots born | connected to the mother | her brown hands deep in red earth
shadows rise up | they dance around at the sound | of your sweet sweet voice
cawing of crows moon | signals the end of winter | o’er snow covered nests
his thick skin on hers | as if they were one | as if it were yesterday |
to hold them together | forever in a life grip
waxy moon lost | in fog-out gray flannel night | for hibernation
you go back home | to that place that still holds you | in that red womb that birthed all | place of mesquite’s outstretched arms | forever you blue bonnets
trees speak quietly | they channel loved ones voices | whispers in the breeze
poems © 2015 Odilia Galván Rodríguez.
All Rights Reserved.
breath
ain’t nothin’
but
open space
syncopate
drippin’
moanful fiddle strings
way gone midnight
under cemetery tree
owl in a branch
call out by
rovin’haints
closed up
in dusty picture
frame
settin’
on
white lace
dry good
mantel piece
empty house
bound round
with cotton thread
poem copyright © 2014 Sharon Elliott.
All Rights Reserved.
Vera Hill, 5 years old, cotton picker, Comanche County, Oklahoma
for mom
hope you’re dancin’
honey moon’s just for you
on your first not here birthday
poem copyright © 2014 Odilia Galván Rodríguez.
All Rights Reserved.
Honey Moon June 13 2014
Anise Aquila Reid Forrester
1890-1931
Ibae baentonu
gift of healing
to imagine my mother as ‘Quila’s child
her nickname was quail
Quail
small brown bird
with quick feet and a stylish hat
always
always in a skirt
she stoked the wood burning kitchen stove
set bread to rise in the warming oven
smelled like dough and butter
fragrant and warm
a pot of flowers
sat on her wooden table
daisies
the table was round
so we could sit with each other
instead of across from each other
outside the purple window
flew green birds
against a yellow sun
she knew how to love and care for children
she made them wear asafoetida bags
when they had the flu
learned to root doctor
from the black woman down the street
she infused Africa in her progeny
but died too young
to teach them where it came from
or how to use it properly
jealousy and strife
grew among her daughters
her son was a cipher
and when her oldest daughter
needed her from beyond the grave
her granddaughter
called her
she came
bringing the power and magic of her kitchen
swirling her skirts through the room
she enveloped her injured child
in an embrace of love and healing
sang in gratitude to her granddaughter
who had learned how to call her
without the intimacy and affection
of a face to face meeting
she baked her bread and fed it to them
ashe-o
Copyright © 2010 Sharon Elliott. All Rights Reserved.
We make home
multiply dreams
write powerful poemes
liderle y corridos
of our own
and our mother’s mothers’
stories and songs – no?
inmigrantes un zeyer kind
siempre tienen
muchas casas
warm places
for our souls
to live
Copyright © 2013 Malke Singer.
All Rights Reserved.
I.
she spreads her wings
soaring
wind rushes past
her ears
eyes peeled
like an onion
an orange
a red apple
a cry grows
strident
turbulent
in her throat
a tall tree
ancient
strong
fragrant
stands before her
she dips
circles
swoops
climbs
the staircase
of air
using her cry as feet
reaching the top
a branch presents itself
offers a haven
a rest
looking inward
a bell rings
sweet within her chest
rhythm of the stars
heart parallel
to the moon
orange
frozen
II.
she sees the people
in the fields
knows
that in their haste
they will leave
abundance for her
that they don’t share with each other
she will glean the fields
survive the dark
unrelenting season
prey on small creatures
going after the grain
she will eat
keep her body strong
in anticipation
of her next children
III.
if they are eagles
she will teach them to fly
if they are poems
she will teach them to weep
if they are 4-leggeds
she will teach them to run
if they are fish
she will teach them to understand
if they are trees
she will teach them to shelter
if they are stones
she will teach them to hold prayers
if they are rivers
she will teach them to cleanse
if they are soil
she will teach them to give life
if they are fire
she will teach them to dance
if they are lightning
she will teach them to be compassionate
if they are wind
she will teach them to destroy
if they are 2-leggeds
she will teach them to share
Copyright © 2012 Sharon Elliott. All Rights Reserved.
The Line
I walk a fine line in and out of a trail left by my people
This line is so fine like the hats of Great Aunt Clemmie
It dips and curves like arms akimbo of my grandmother Lela
This line is like lightening striking to illuminate the unknown and to wrap
its rays of protection around me
I imagine the lines my great great grandmother used to escape the tangle of oppression
Or the lines my grandfather used to seduce my grandmother
This line goes way way back
Back to the center of the world the beginning of the beginning
This line is the first sound on earth that was my ancestor that was your ancestor that is me
Copyright © 2012 J. Phoenix Smith. All Rights Reserved.
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