Oh my dear poets, readers, and friends, I had every intention of following my usual custom of sharing a poem a day for National Poetry Month aka NaPoWriMo, right here... But being a person who moves and lives from place to place on a regular basis - know one ever really knows where I might be from month to month; I've decided to dedicate a blog to Spring, to April, and to National Poetry Month by putting up my poem a day in it's own new home. So to find me and much of my writing for April, go here: April Blooms, hope you'll be glad you did!
Sunday, April 07, 2013
Sunday, March 10, 2013
just for today she forgets | preciousness taken | what can never be
she wants to stay | away from all who knew her | before time moved on |
and took her seedling away | wants no talk of it ever
nights she cannot sleep | for baby's incessant cry | forever silenced
the best medicine | is her child's catching laughter | keeps her tears at bay
sun smooths its way | past dark hostile clouds | enters her heart with joy
death is absolute | though some believe in return | she believes spirit
homespun men and women | once backbone of a nation | that's turned its back
on its people dependent | on parasitical life
stark and angled planes | the midwest has mystery | hidden by its trees
willows weep their loss | green flowing hair in moonlight | branches wisps of whips
winter a long sleep | bone white and stark as stones | speaking in tongues
time heals pain | of grief that rips us so deep | in agonizing moments
inept a system | that treats people with motives | far-flung from healing
nightmares walk the day | endless cruel reality | will erase with time
there's a sweet princess | buried in every evil | queen that seems all bad
fairytales come true | the moral of the stories | stare you in the face
snow turns to grey slush | cold rain soup covers the streets | cars skate over ice
a walk with wee one | down to almost frozen creek | reminds her to cry
skip stones across water | after flailing around | the surface deepens
memory a painful maze | all paths seem dead ends | lead back to anguish
incipient snow | fall smothers future's promise | spring seems faraway
if she could fold light | she'd harness starshine | back into herself
ignite the spark of life flow | stay the sadness she must face
she unbraids her hair | unloosens the tears | sheers off years of sadness
he came in smelling | the kitchen fogged delicious | of snow and outdoors
while mourning his loss | she tried not to lose her mind | cut off all her hair
the past is just that... gone
she wants Spring to fill | her days with flowers and song | sun to wash winter
he could not give | her even a sign | of love still broken
laid to rest before | little angel hovers | his time cut too short
she has no problem | getting older it's a sign | of survival
love and convenience | an itch that needs scratching | an egg that needs salt
Friday, February 08, 2013
a birthday deferred | celebration of rainstorms | everyone stays home
her mind stuck on | a fearful future | promises cloudy horizons
she has ripened | past the size of full moon | beyond bursting
apprehensive of | birthing a premature dream | something going wrong
howl what's in your heart | shout what's in your soul | full wolf moon is listening ♥
though never idle | the people now stand larger | wearing their prayers
we worry for tomorrow | instead of living | today is right now
a mind plays tricks | when it's lived a life of lies | denial and avoidance
being between | east and west a middle | child trying to fit
growing up "American" | with no connection | to your ancestors |
is like being severed | from the roots of your core
solidarity | is not only feeling | with all your heart |
but also lending your voice | acting on your convictions
sometimes we are magnets | for trouble looking | for a place to land
a round dance revolution | invite everyone | trade your guns for drums
brave woman starving | while carpetbaggers play dumb | for diplomacy
while people starve | the fat cats rub their stomachs | satisfied with lies
the beasts of the world | cloaked in money's shiny things | hide their ugliness
s/he who dies for someone | without question | is blind or a warrior
finally awake | the long sleeping | seek out the princess to thank
memory of a minute | ago seems like last year | fades fiercely
she relives | a childhood that never was | being old before her time
the grilled cheese | smiles at the tomato soup | sun melts between bread
snow powders the streets | lakes and ponds want to freeze | over the winter
a thaw of no consequence | temperatures soar | fools only humans
momentary lapses | become a void | of confusion
will she forget | everything even her name | and no one to blame
some days your heart breaks | you cry and little one asks | are you happy now?
women who birth new nations | come together | no hesitation
holidays | overdone indulgences | continue to bloom
roasted chile poblano | smokes up the kitchen | our food has memories
we pray for the brave | who have no earthly fear | entering spirit world
you can not get through | life without any scars | your spirit lines
Copyright © Odilia Galván Rodríguez. All Rights Reserved
Friday, January 04, 2013
idle no more | we march further for future | like our ancestors
our reality | is living in a dreamtime | of our own making
she has turned whispers | into thunder her voice sounds | people heed the call
because we are | all related in this great world | we struggle for peace
we must lift our voices | demand justice | for the people
she knits love | into scarves to keep her loved | ones warm
on the night before the day | she prayed for peace | happy for her life
Victoria | we salute you fearless | woman of courage
we ask ourselves why | all the time knowing there's hate | and despair awaits
a silent snow melts | into sorry ground soaked | their precious life spilled
innocents become martyrs | of a world gone mad | where war is response
mothers sacrifice | their children without consent | to warmonger madmen
how many sacrificed | in war and madness | one is too many
sorrow cuts deep | a nation built on horror | bloody ground
can we forgive ourselves | for staying mute | in the face of massacre
they were innocent angels | so close to the peace | returned
they say guns do not kill | but people do demon's work | they are the tools
her mother says | there have always been madmen | they are on the rise
babies are mowed down | people want to know why | truth too much to bear
a plane goes down | dreams dashed linger there | in fragments of a great life
we come in spirals | dancing into the world | head first without thought
we relent on cue | commitments too big to fit | when our world's falling
first snow fell silent | tiny feathers of white light | melted as it hit
he will always live | suspended in amber | in her bitter heart
too many years passed | she aches for the ghost of him | he is not that man ✿⊱╮
at almost eighty-years-young | she believes she's old | then takes on the role
the circle of life | contains all living beings | what we do to ourselves
poets converge | joined together they share songs | on life and living
the people move | from resistance to offensive | when they are not heard
words mean so little | compared to actions | love's rays are everywhere"
she stands lakeside | staring at the glass green lake | prays for good journeys | her mother stares out windows | buscando la luna
Monday, December 17, 2012
When my son asked me to join myspace back in 2005, so that I could keep up with the latest on his musical career, I had no idea what I was in for. Since delving into the world of social media, I have met a lot of marvelous folks and have become good friends with many outstanding writers all over the planet. Rosemary Nissen-Wade, whose blog is SnakyPoet, is one of those people. I have contributed many a haiku to her myspace blog, Haiku on Friday, and in a Facebook group she started, Haiku and Things. Actually, I attribute to her the fact that I have continued to hone the skill of writing senryū and now use it as an abbreviated form of journal writing. Among other great things, Rosemary is a poetry powerhouse. I feel a lot of kinship with her because I too consider myself someone who loves poetry and spread its seeds wherever I go.
Here are Rosemary's "Next Big Thing," questions and my responses.
Rosemary: What is the working title of your book or project?
Odilia: The title is "The Color of Light"
R: What sparked the book off?
O: I have wanted to do a collection of poems for some of the Orisha and Mexica [Aztec] deities for sometime now. I have been interested in Mexican traditional spiritual practices since I was a girl and have studied what was available since then. In 1997, I was doing research on African Traditional Religions and saw many similarities between the Orishas, deities from the Yoruba traditional religion of Ifa, and the Mexica deities, and wanted to explore these similarities in a book, which includes poetry.
R: How would you describe your project/book/piece of work?
O: It is an exploration of the Orisha and Mexica deities mainly in poetry, but also in an extensive description of the journey of being called to them.
R: How long did it take you to find your own style and voice?
O: I started writing in my early teens. I was never very confident about my writing and didn't really share it until I began taking part in writers' workshops. The first group of writers I worked with in the 80's was Centro Chicano/Latino de Escritores, in the Mission District of San Francisco. Here I was helped my fellow writers to hone my skills and not be afraid to share my writing with an audience.
R: In what ways do you think 'writer you' differs from or has similarities to the everyday you?
O: I really don't see much of separation between the writer and the everyday me. I consider myself an artist/activist, and for me, these two ways of being are inseparable. The artist helps to bring in the spiritual aspects of who I am, and the way I like to walk in the world - with lots of compassion for my fellow human beings. The activist in me is always seeking balance, fairness, and justice. I believe a lot in talking things out instead of acting them out. I wish our leaders would do much more of this, maybe then, we'd have peace instead of so much war and hatred in the world.
R: Who or what makes you pick up that pen or start typing at the keyboard?
O: I have a daily writing practice, no matter where I am or how I am feeling, I write something. It may be a senryū, a longer poem, or if I am lucky, a chapter of my novel. I am always telling my creative writing workshop participants that if one is going to call themselves a writer they must write - and I walk my talk.
R: Imagine someone waved a magic wand and you were only able to write one book in your lifetime and you knew it would be perfect and say exactly what you intended and be understood and appreciated by everyone; what would you write about?
O: That is a difficult question Rosemary. I guess I would have to say that I would write whatever came to me to write about. I believe that my ancestors play a big role in what I am inspired to write and I honor and believe in that.
Thanks again Rosemary for all you do in the world to encourage folks to write!