San Miguel de Allende

San Miguel de Allende
Roof rainbow...San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

Sunday, October 24, 2010


"Look long at what pleases you.
Look longer at what displeases you."
La Colette (French writer)

Outdoor cafe facing fountain,
light rain, students
without umbrellas laughing,
children dancing between

rain drops, gathering gold
leaves to wave like
flags, beautiful women
wearing boots, dark ponies,

one in skin tight, black
leather leggings, tiny skirt,
over the knee black leather
ponies, black leather jacket,

long purple feather earrings,
shiny black mane, galloping-
a man saunters toward the
fountain, laughing to himself,

turns, arms raised to
each rain drop, all black,
bright red shoes, he
leaps and turns, stealing

my smile, my gaze,
echo of Artaud, Anais
Nin, Colette, Proust, the
bright red shoes they wore,

the magic of this city on
his feet, he dances,
twirls, leaps, laughs,
arms raised for a moment-

I want to follow him,
photograph him, the bright
red shoes, his laughter,
but I let him go, the

magic of this city,
timeless sensuality, joy,
Colette's full mocking gaze,
her wonder, I see.
* * * *
Beautiful African man,
car next to me, me in a
tour bus, he in a sleek
suit, smiling up at me, such

charm, such confidence,
I look away, what I usually
do, then glance back,
he's still smiling, I

meet his gaze, smiling,
he blows me a kiss,
drives away, hey the
brothers in Paris are

fiiiiiine, no memories
of being strung up,
sold on the block,
castrated, the slavery

DNA, wow, I smile to
myself, that's what a
free African man feels like,
yet the black men of my

country slowly transforming
the sorrow, the poison,
as are my brown brothers,
into the joy, the confidence

to blow a kiss
to the human
of their choosing,
oh beauty oh beauty

oh beauty,
I blow you all
a kiss from
* * * *
Brown, black sisters, their
stilettos, knee high boots,
drum their stunning dance,
the street hums with

celebration, I hear Shange's
words in their passing, "I
found god in myself and I
loved her. I loved her

fiercely." Slavery, rape,
genocide, hatred, healed
oh healed in that strutting
confident walk, I murmur,

"Work it, sister, yeah
work it," smiling as they
strut by- low cut
black dress, black

nylons, stiletto heels,
gold hoop earrings,
gaze of a queen, a
Goddess, I'm staring,

look around, quick glance,
a few men. This morning, my
birth day, men waving at
me, smiling as I pass, why

aren't they gawking at this
20 something surreal beauty,
I wonder, I ask the man next
to me, our conversation (pretty

stunning himself, black
leather to his boots, small
diamond right ear)- "Why
aren't men falling off their

chairs with this kind of
beauty passing by..." I
pause, gather truth... "and
why are men flirting with me,

old enough to be her mother,"
(really grandmother, my
granddaughter 29 as is my
youngest son, I keep this

to myself), ah vanity, I
laugh, "in the USA she'd
have to hire armed guards."
He smiles, taking me in, "Here,

we love the ripened woman
and the ripened man, a
rarity, that integration of
wisdom and innocence. That

refusal to become bitter, I
hope to achieve that, and
this is why you write, no?"
"Yes," I laugh,

tears stinging my eyes,
yes, and he pours
me white wine from
his bottle, 11am-

"To the ripened woman,
to the ripened man,"
he smiles, and we drink
to that.

"I found god in myself
and I loved her.
I loved her fiercely."
Work it.
* * * *
Wearing my Santa Fe black
Panama hat, Paris morning,
men smile, blow me kisses,
the word chapeau I recognize,

they love my hat, where
else in the world do men
love your chapeau- elegant
older woman on Metro,

Dior glasses, Dior purse,
outfit, elegant cane,
meets my eyes, smiles with
approval, briefly...

The Pantheon, Voltaire's
bones are here, the
ones that held him up
to walk, write, love,

just his bones, yet
the glowing dust of
his bones, the one
who wrote, "Paradise is

where I am," is gone,
the bones don't speak,
his spirit, his words,
speak, and Colette, she's

not in the Pantheon with
all the honored men, she's
buried in the earth
she loved, become earth,

air, the sky we breathe,
flying things soar on
her breath, and Jim
Morrison sings harmony...

"Paradise is where we
are, paradise is where
we are, oh paradise
is always

is always
is always
where we are are are
par a dise we are..."
* * * *
Luxembourg Gardens,
a magical nymph pond,
sculptured fairies and
demons, grandmother trees

loosing leaves to be
come young in spring,
surrounded by arches of
trained ivy, sedate, spoiled

ducks in pond, a small
boy tosses a love letter
to the indifferent ducks,
he screams with delight

as they peck it once,
not food, swim on-
you grab a metal
chair, sit where you

wish to view the magic,
shadows, last Sun sings
to the fairies and demons...
Soon they'll be gone, you'll

be free to bathe, make love,
create beauty, chaos,
until they come with their
metal chairs

to witness
the magic
you weave
toward dawn.

I come closer to the
fountain, the large
faun/demon hovers
over the pool menacingly,

lovingly, below him
two lovers entwined,
making love for-ever, a
young couple sits next to

this beauty, warning, she
sits in his lap, laughing, he
holds her intimately, laughing,
they pay no attention to

the faun/demon, why
should they, this is the
moment to love, this perfect
moment. This garden.

I stumble on. My last
day. In Paris. This enchanted.
Pool. The faun/demon
(blesses me). He does.
* * * *
And I realize, for
once, I look longer
at what pleases,
the simple beauty

of love, I look
longer at what
pleases me, my last
day. In Paris.

Alma Luz Villanueva
October 2010

**Even when I was (very) poor, I always found ways to find joy/ecstasy, even if I had to steal it...may we steal it, bless it, share it, pass it on, the gift of JOY, to look longer at what pleases us, the simple beauty of love...
into the Sixth World.