The 7 Powers — Orishas

Poems by D. Medina

Author’s Note

These poems arrived to me not as mere words, but as whispers—echoes carried through dreams, intuition, and an inner sense I cannot quite explain. I am not one for regular religious practice, nor do I hold any title. Yet in these verses, the Orishas—keepers of paths, guardians of tides, mothers of endings and beginnings—seemed to ask for their presence to be named.

I walk most closely with Oya, whose storms and veils claim me as her chosen daughter. Through her, I began to listen, to see, to write what stirred in silence.

Perhaps I am only a vessel. Perhaps I am simply listening. What I know is this: each poem is a fragment of the unseen, a reflection of strength, love, and power woven into myth and memory.

Thunder in Veils — Oya

When she dances,
she evokes trances—
her nine-colored veil skirt
entrapping you
in her storm of thunder.

She walks between worlds,
guardian of thresholds,
her silence heavier
than the roar of men.

She guards the doors to light,
yet her toll takes a life;
not all are embraced in her charm—
only the daughters of thunder
bow to her crown.

Winds bow at her breath,
lightning bends to her hips.
Her name is change,
her touch undoing,
her gaze the storm’s decree.

Oya—
mother of endings,
keeper of beginnings,
queen of veils,
queen of death. She is thunder in veils,
the hush before collapse,
the tempest after silence.
She is storm made flesh.

When Obatalá Walks

In my dreams,
a white horse once walked my path,
a creature so peaceful,
pure of light.

Its presence invoked authority,
an emblem of protection,
a promise,
a whisper to those seeking wisdom.

Around him, silence grew sacred;
even the restless winds bowed low.
His steps resounded—
not heavy, but certain,
marking the ground,
restoring order.

No weapons—
only the weight of justice.
No crown—
yet the air itself
bent to his calm command.

Obatalá walks.
Peace is not weakness—
it is strength refined,
guidance given,
a father’s hand outstretched.

Obatalá walks.
His light lingers behind him.
The air shimmered white,
silence ringing like a hymn.
The white horse,
keeper of dawn,
walks on—
but leaves his wisdom in me.

Obatalá walks.

Mother of the Seven Seas — Yemayá

Mother of oceans,
your voice is the tide—
a lullaby that rocks
the bones of the earth.

Your skirts ripple blue,
woven with shells and moonlight,
each wave a prayer
to the children you cradle.

Your name heals
and nurtures the souls of the lost.
Your voice echoes
through the tides of the seven seas.

Your light is warm—
a gentle embrace—
yet ice when raged,
a storm none can withstand.

You are the swell that carries ships,
the tide that swallows grief,
the endless rhythm of beginnings,
the song of return.

I have sailed your tides
and felt the depth of truth—
a silence vast as eternity,
a love fierce as the storm.

O Yemayá,
mother of waves,
queen of the deep—
your waters command,
your tides decree,
your name shall echo
for eternity.

---

Oshun’s Grace

Oshun—
your love heals to the core,
flowing deep beneath our souls.
Golden mother of rivers,
you cradle destinies in your hands.

Oshun—
you nurture the broken into wholeness,
protect the weary with sweetness,
wrap sorrow in honey,
and turn tears into song.

Oshun—
your laughter shimmers like sunlight on water,
your touch is balm,
your gaze is blessing.
Where you walk,
life blooms.

Oshun—
keeper of beauty,
giver of love,
mother of the golden path—
to call your name
is to remember grace.

---

Shango — The Thunder’s Crown

He was once mortal,
but became immortal—
his deeds carved in storms,
his battles a path of fire.

A force so fierce,
it instills thunder,
that thunder the chest holds,
beating like war-drums.

Shango, roar of the heavens,
walker of whirlwinds,
your fire splits the dark,
your lightning crowns the sky.

A warrior of domains,
and of love the same—
your heat burns,
your touch restores.

Shango, ember unquenched,
the strike,
the blaze,
the storm that ignites the sky.

Those who dare stand against you
find their veils torn,
their shadows split
by the brilliance of your crown.

You are not just thunder—
you are its decree.
Not just flame—
but the forge of its reign. O Shango, immortal flame,
your roar reminds us:
power lives in the heart,
and the storm bows to no one.

---

Eleguá’s Watch

His trickster demeanor was imminent,
appearing before me in a dream,
seated across, steel in hand.
Yet his stance was not of malice—
always protective, always the same—
the gatekeeper between danger and path.

Two shadows rose behind him,
not of flesh but of fate,
smoke-woven guardians,
silent and unnamed.
They moved only when he willed it.

The air bent between us,
heavy with choices unspoken.
A laugh flickered in his eyes—
not mocking, but knowing.
His riddles were truth,
his silence a decree.

Behind him, doors shimmered—
wood, iron, bone, and light.
Each waiting, each listening.
It was he who held the keys,
he who knew the turn.

Eleguá, child and elder,
the first and the last.
Eleguá, whisper of chance,
roar of certainty.

And as the dream dissolved,
I understood:
no path opens
without his gaze.

Eleguá.

Shaped in Silence — Ogun

Maybe Ogun is shaping me in silence.
For nothing in my path has been easy—
every step carved through tears,
through long nights of study,
through the ache of work without validation.

And yet, I walk.
I endure.
I rise again.

Perhaps Ogun waits,
not absent, but watching—
measuring strength not by what is given,
but by what is carried.

Ogun, the iron-bearer,
the path-maker,
the one who clears the way—
perhaps he is here already,
forging me quietly.

When the time is right,
when the iron of my will
meets the iron of his road,
I will know.

Until then, I walk forward—
and even in silence,
Ogun’s shaping becomes strength.

Closing Reflection
Seven voices, seven powers—yet one truth runs through them: strength comes in many forms. In storm and silence, in love and iron, in beginnings and endings. The Orishas remind us that power is not only to be feared—it is to be carried, honored, and remembered.

Disclaimer

These poems are my own artistic reflections—born of dreams, intuition, and imagination. They are not formal prayers or teachings, but personal expressions of what I felt called to write. Take them as fragments of story, spirit, and symbol. If they speak to you, you are welcome to share them—just kindly give credit to D. Medina / In Ivy & Ink.