Guanajuato, Mexico...Costa Rica
Saying goodbye to mi
casita, shuttle drive
through cobble streets,
La Virgen murals, altars,
everywhere, the beauty
of goodbye- can
I ever live without La
Virgen, her presence, beauty;
on the highway, Sunday
markets, the small towns,
families gathered outside
church, cradling babies, a
fresh maize stand, kids
waiting, slathered in butter
(real butter), mayonaise, chilie
sprinkled, some lime, Madre
Maiz devoured with joy,
aguas frescas, strawberry,
pineapple, watermelon for
thirst; I say goodbye
with my eyes, my heart,
my taste buds, memories
of my children when they
were home, barbeques on
the beach, enormous
appetites, healthy children,
their friends; I remember
full moon walk on the
beach, north coast Sonoma
County, our farm, the
quiet, the stillness, gentle
high tide full of light, the
light leapt into darkness,
glittering with furious
life, a salmon remembering
her way home, full of
fury, memory, birth. This
is how we live, I think,
waiting for my plane in Mexico,
if we are fully awake,
darkness into light. (I glance
down from the shuttle, small
ribbon of light, pure white
crane sipping light, a man
sitting, dark earth,
awake, witnessing
the fury of
beauty.)
Manuel Antonio, Costa Rica
White face monkeys outside
my room, I offer water
melon, one bears her
sharp little teeth, following
me, she wants my
plate, all of it, I
laugh, "No way, little
monkey dude," she
feels like my mother's hungry
ghost, not properly mourned,
hard to love, though I
mourned her, remember the
best in her, but can't
give her my plate; no one
gets the plate, no one, we
can share, take less than
half, but no one gets the
whole plate; I remember you,
mother, little greedy monkey,
such lonely needs, and
offer you watermelon, banana,
and laugh at your
daring, your best, where
I inherited my playful monkey
dance.
Sacred crescent beach,
womb waters, salty,
warm; surfers, swimmers
being born by the
minute, deadly rip tide
holding Shakti's balance,
watchful dark brown skin life
guard blowing his whistle, waving
us back, Don't die today,
don't fight the tide,
don't fight the womb
waters, come back, come
back, don't die today,
be born, be born, this
second, beauty.
* * *
What makes us want to
live, I ask the little
monkey...Shakti, watchful
life guard...is it
fury, memory, beauty,
birth, or is it Shakti,
ever present...live live live
now, oh beauty,
oh killing
beauty,
oh furious
beauty,
oh birthing
dying endless
sexy terrifying
Shakti Beauty.
The Healer
She comes soft, strong,
always the signal of
the healer, her massage
table close to the tide,
she feels like my daughter
at this age, her twenties,
this soft strength power,
the healer- she has her
small daughters with
her, each one beautiful,
future healers, soft light
power in their eyes, not
encouraged in my country,
small daughters dressing like
small sad sexy women,
the center of their eyes, light,
gone hard, false power;
soft healing power not
honored, not encouraged,
not recognized by their
mothers with eyes, light
gone hard, gone bitter,
gone lost, what chance
for the daughters to know
their own soft light
power, the healing.
I lay under her hands,
she feels my life, I feel
hers, she finds my sorrow,
my pain, my joy, fierce
memory of my body, years,
and, yes, beauty gathered;
her healer meets
my healer, her
memory, my
memory, soft
light power,
furious beauty,
this moment,
now,
why I
was born,
face to salt
sea womb,
oh Shakti,
oh fierce
memory, beauty,
oh healer,
soft light power,
born in
me,
born in
you,
the healer
my healer,
Beauty.
The Waterfall, Sacred Rainforest
Riding Sargento to the
waterfall, I think they
gave me el caballo,
the horse with a mind of
his own- the others
drink from the creek,
I wait, he doesn't, the
horses shouldn't eat, the
others don't, Sargento stops
to pull leaves from branches, I
try to stop him, he laughs, I
pat his stubborn brown
hide, tell him (in Spanish,
Costa Rica), he's a good
caballito, gracias for the
ride through heat, sacred
rainforest, he begins to allow me
to ride him, guide him, stop,
go, he reminds me every
being has their dignity,
their yes, their no, as
Che the tour leader bellows
information, knowledge, like a
professor in his classroom,
stories to and from the
waterfall, the pool so
cold from a hidden source,
cold in this heat, this
cold beautiful yes/no, I
swim because Sargento
brought me here, guided by
Che's stories, his
knowledge of sacred
healing plants. I tell
him he's a teacher, "No, I'm
always learning," he smiles.
"That's why you're a teacher,
we teach, we're taught, otherwise
we become dead," I smile with
him. "OR STUPID!" Che booms,
laughing loudly, his
eyes softly furious, his
eyes holding memory, birth;
Sargento quivers, tosses his
head with laughter, wild
caballito, I have not tamed
him, or him me. We simply
gather yes no Beauty.
Manuel Antonio, La Mar
"La mar viene...the Goddess comes,"
the teen picks up my lounger,
slides up the sand, my
favorite restaurant; I order
tacitos, cerveza, the troubadour
sings for us, for me, songs of
love, we all join in, "Besame, besame
mucho..." as the Goddess
finds my
feet, warm
salt, one
more swim,
back to eat,
to sing, songs
of love, 2 for 1 margaritas,
la mar viene, Beauty.
The young woman has
wings on her back, I have
wings on my back, she
looks sad and alone, I'm
happy and alone, final
day, Shakti's warm salty
womb, home, I give her
my second margarita, she
laughs, lights up, gifting me
a daughter's smile, we toast
my final day, la mar, we toast
her first day, la mar; and
we laugh, this moment
of surprise, this lovely
young woman with wings,
we toast. This Beauty.
La Madre Volcano, Alive
Her hair swirls with heat
and ash, visible to all
eyes- "Usually misty this
time of day, we're lucky,"
I'm told- I feel her
mountain fiery womb
creating earth, creating
planet, creating furious
memory birth beauty,
she holds my heart, my
womb, as I walk down
fiery flowered trail to her
hot springs, her gift,
womb to womb. Silence.
No one else. Blue Morpho
Butterfly flutters. No one
else. La Madre
Volcano, alive.
Silence. Birth waters.
Blue Morpho wings.
Womb to womb.
Memory. Fury.
Heat and ash.
Our beauty.
Madre Volcano, alive.
Our beauty. Furious.
Womb to womb.
Birth. Beauty.
San Jose, PURA VIDA
Barb wire everywhere, every
house, every business, late
night drive to hotel, a teen
face down on cement, I
want to stop, driver
smiles, "He'll wake up,
senora." I return two weeks
later, rainforest, la mar, to
barb wire, packed streets,
foot in hole, I fall,
people stop to pick me
up, pointing out the holes all
the way down the street,
I laugh, "Okay," walk into
the main immense plaza, policia
on scaffolds, watching, angels
on theatre roof top, watching,
bird sculptures, pages on
wings, books, pages turning
in the afternoon wind-
peace bird with golden
children reaching for wings,
small children with butterflies,
stars, sun and moon, painted
by clown, parents laughing,
bride and groom, so young,
smiling at the camera, ragged
poet shouts his poetry, sees
me listening, gains courage-
"You need me to shout these
words, you need me to shout these
words to you, and so I do
until you listen, listen..." (in Spanish)
I fall in love, right there,
this barb wire city, drug
induced teens, balanced by
PURA VIDA, the poet who
shouts his words, his frightened
audience, yet they listen,
lost ancestors
in his loud
desperate courageous
insistent jagged poetry
barb wire. Beauty.
Mexico City Airport, March 20, 2012, 12:30pm
I love the power of the
Mother, as she begins to
dance, arms raised, her feet
stamping swaying swimming
"You are my guests,
don't forget," she sings
full-throated, "I am
the Mother that makes
your life possible," she
stamps her feet, laughing,
arms raised, "I am the
one holding your heart."
The waiter pouring my wine
stops, I say, "Feels like
an earthquake," he leaves
me the bottle, I pour a full
glass of cabernet to go with
my Greek salad, people
running out the door, children
in hand, I don't feel
the deep stamp of her foot
so I stay sipping, eating-
a woman who walked in with
black plastic garbage bag
continues to sit, her and I, we
seem to be holding the moment,
La Madre's dance, we smile,
people return, people weep,
we smile, this woman
and I, holding the
moment, terrifying
wonder. Beauty.
San Miguel de Allende, Mexico
An ancient woman climbs
the hill to the central
plaza, bunches of pure
white lilies strapped to
her back; I chase her,
I chase mi Mamacita, now
dead, spirit transformed,
55 years ago, but I
chase her, her pure white
lilies strapped to her
back...she turns her face to
meet mine, an eye patch over
her left eye, her right
eye meets mine directly...
she takes the pure white lilies
into her hands, showing me,
telling me (in Spanish), "I picked
these this morning, how many,
hija?" I think I chased her
for this word, this simple word,
hija...I pick two bunches,
pay her 100 pesos, she never
smiles, her right eye meeting
mine. Only once have I seen
this direct, wild gaze, this
burning eye; in the mountains
I picked up a dazed Merlin
Hawk, crashed into my cabin
window, woke up, talons
perched on my open palms, I
held her weight close to my
womb, slowly slowly to tree
trunk, I saw my palms
ripped open to bone, slowly
slowly, she hopped, perched,
rested, spread her three foot
wings, flew. Terror.
Wonder. Burning eye.
I am the daughter of
lilies. Beauty.
Alma Luz Villanueva
San Miguel de Allende, Mexico
March 2012
(All work/writing copyright.)
