San Miguel de Allende

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

Thursday, November 8, 2012


Climbing the Sixth Sun,
Sacred Sun Pyramid,
straight up, warm
Sun, cool morning

Wind God pushes me
up, I pause to
breathe deeply,
drink water, a boy

of four behind me
begins to cry, he's
thirsty, forgot to
bring him water, I

offer mine, he smiles
and drinks- work at
the top, not able
to climb to the top, a

great-grandmother in her
eighties is helped to
the almost top, her
family bracing her,

no one's bracing me, it
seems to be my path,
to climb the Sacred
Pyramid of the Sixth

Sun alone, the only
(grown) child I miss
is my youngest, but
la vida calls him,

as it should, his own
family, families in great
need, a daily warrior
in the world, and I

needed to come alone,
all one, to greet
the Sacred Sixth
Sun, and one thirsty

four year old boy.
Unable to climb to the
top, I circled my
rattle singing, next

year I will be a 
great grandmother and
no one will brace me,
yes, they will love me,

that's allowed, maybe
in my eighties when I'm
a great great grandmother,
maybe, right now the 

waiter's read my mind,
plays native flute, drums,
rattles, my birth 
day gift, so

well deserved, bird
song, rattles, all day
sacred white butterflies
followed me, yellow

monarchs, little bees,
brash young men, "Hola 
hermosa...I have a 
special gift for you...

Take it, it's free," I 
don't do my usual come
back, "I'm old enough
to be your grandmother," 

now I'm old enough 
to be your great grandmother,
I just laughed- right now
the music is only rattles, 

the sound of sweet 
bones, the ancestors
winging home, I'm
a baby, I'm an 

ancient, I'm not
born, I'm dead/transformed,
I'm newly born, always
to the song of rattles,

sweet bones winging us
home, dancing us home-
I just told the waiter, 
my youngest son's age, 

"This music, flute, drums,
now only rattles, is
perfect, gracias."
"It suits this place,

your presence (he
doesn't bullshit me
with senorita, I've
been called senorita 

all day, I laughed, they
want some thing, my
smile, my money, my
life)- he's an eagle 

dancer, a deer
dancer, a wind
dancer, a Sun
dancer, I know

his mother loves him,
he loves his mother,
the women in his 
family, sacred, he

knows I need the 
sweet bones of the
ancestors, a pure
chocolate cake woven

with fruit, drizzled
with honey, chocolate,
a perfect birth day
cake- I sit by

the pool, too cold to
swim, a clay flower
painted senorita, I
        *        *        *
An older man, probably
my age, asked me if
I'd done ceremony on
the Pyramid of the Sun,

without thinking I answered
yes, the two silver bracelets,
symbols of Quetzalcoatl,
Sacred Sixth Sun,

I bought 50 pesos 
each, the third a
gift, he smiled, "Fuego,"
fire should always 

be a gift, the 
entire day a
ceremony, the gift of
water and fire,

I hear the laughter of
my four grown 
children, grandchildren,
great grandchild in the

cosmic womb dreaming,
the ancestors singing
the rattle song, all
my friends, some over

thirty/forty years, my
students seeing me whole,
I seeing them whole, we
are the gift, we are the

        *        *        *
White butterflies,
ancestor souls,
guide me/us to
Quetzalcoatl's Temple,

some know it,
some don't,
yet we all 
arrive, Quetzalcoatl's

Spirit laughing in the
young grass, the
large rocks tiny
red ants carry to

their mound, bleeding
cactus fruit/flowers,
ancient clouds/air
Quetzalcoatl breathed,

laughing, I hear him
laughing, some times
weeping, for his
children, I sit

facing steps that 
he climbed (still climbs
    Full Moon Mother
blessing him), flanked

each side Sacred
Snake, Sacred Jaguar,
Sacred Eagle, Sacred
Shell, I hear him

laughing, take out my
bird rattle, Quetzalcoatl's 
flute I bought here
thirty-four years ago

at the foot of the Pyramid
of the Sun, lone vendor,
almost sunset, newly 
married, we climbed to the

top that day, each
playing it, we became
God/Goddess, today I play
bird rattle, snake/eagle

flute, weaving tears and
laughter, loss and gift,
folly and wisdom, marriage
to the Other, marriage

to the Self, silence
and song, stillness
and such dancing, today
I become fully

        *        *        *
We all
we all circle
we all circle the
we all circle the Sacred
Pyramid of the Sun
rattles in hands
flutes to our lips
laughing weeping silent
singing limping dancing
we all
we all enter
we all enter the
we all enter the Sixth
we all enter the Sixth Sacred Sun
we all enter the Sacred
Sixth Sun
bracing each 
other up

                                           Alma Luz Villanueva
                                           Teotihuacan, Mexico
                                               October 4, 2012

                                               Into the Sixth World...

Tuesday, July 31, 2012


I live in Mexico
because fireworks wake
me up pre-dawn,
Quetzalcoatl shimmering through

sky window, these
fireworks sound like 
gunfire, someone's 
died, left the body,

someone beloved, they
explode, they weep
for two hours, through 
the day, and no

one calls the police, every
one understands some
one's left their body, some
one beloved is gone. I

dream through explosions,
wake to loud joyous 
mariachis in the distance,
a marriage, family gathering,

I live in Mexico
because death and
life hold hands
dancing, singing, exploding

with grief and joy-
I live in Mexico
because every car stops
for the funeral procession,

a singer/guitarist sings
the beloved's favorite
songs on the way to
the cemetery, where

families will gather, Dia
de Los Muertos, to
welcome their tender Spirits
home, from babies to 

elders, a feast on the
graves they decorate,
joy/sorrow equally,
beauty, song, candles,

tiny stars flicker all
night long as Spirits
come to taste tamales,
tacitos, tequila, cerveza,

fresh limes, oranges,
sweet cakes, where
the father of his Spirit
teen, grave decorated with

little cars, dancing
muertos, bottles of
empty Victorias (his
favorite), some full,

proudly shows me his
handsome boy, I can't
weep, his smile of
pure joy-

I drove to Mexico
in spring 2005, the
fear color codes of
my country, endless

wars on some enemy,
my dreams filled with
mourning women, holding 
Spirit sons, daughters,

only sorrow, only grief,
no graves of marigolds,
feasts, sorrow/joy,
death holding hands

with life, dancing, singing,
weeping, exploding
pre-dawn journey of
the beloved, all day

into the night, mariachis
leading a wedding party to
more joy, holding hands
with life death life-

I live in Mexico
to remember,
to witness
simple human

joy sorrow joy,
those without my
country's great entitlements,
the leaders, the shameless

1% who would haul
off the mourner with 
explosive weeping, singing,
who allow one in five

children in my country to
be hungry, who prefer
the poor to die (very)
quickly, while mouthing

how much they love their 
country, care for its people,
send the neediest young to
kill/die for their oil wars,

want to control the
sacred wombs of women,
the constant enemy,
the constant fear,

unhinging our young, our
unbonded to our Mother
Earth young, bringing
automatic weapons to

schools, universities,
playgrounds, now
theaters where the masses
go to dream, the manufactured

dream of Holly Wood,
dream, all humans need to
dream, many have forgotten
how to dream, vision-

I live in Mexico
because a Huichol family
in full brilliant rainbow
dress motioned me in front

of them, the market, I 
thanked them but no, their
rainbow smiles insisted,
and the woman helped

me unload my full
cart, their few carefully
selected items waited, she
smiled her rainbows, I

smiled mine, "Gracias,
gracias, gracias," 
I kept saying, why
I live in Mexico.

I live in Mexico to feel
full sun on my face,
full moon light/shadow,
Quetzalcoatl's radiance.

San Miguel de Allende, Mexico- July 2012
Alma Luz Villanueva

Monday, June 4, 2012

Dear World, dear Earth, dear Mother Ixchel... (Karma)

Mother Ixchel,
bring the children
Mother Ixchel,

bring the children
home, the little
ones, the trusting
ones, who knew

only tender touch
from mother, father,
grandmother, grandfather,
sisters, brothers,

shot, slaughtered, cut
down, still tender-
Mother Ixchel,
bring the children

home that we
may feed them in
the morning, little 
birds, undying song.

May the men who
slaughtered carry this
karma, dreaming
life times, tender souls,

Mother Ixchel, you are
tender, ruthless, loving,
pitiless, wise beyond

understanding, when
will they learn,
Mother Ixchel, bring
the children

Little birds.

What I do
to you
I do
to my

To the children in Syria, their families, May 2012...
fifty tender children under the age of ten slaughtered.

Alma Luz Villanueva
San Miguel de Allende, Mexico
Turtle Island, our Earth

Sunday, May 20, 2012


The villagers call you
father, brother, uncle, son-
I call you lover, my
ancient lover- flying in

to Mexico City I saw
your snowy peak, you
didn't fool me, I felt
the heat of your body,

your lava, your core,
your longing for my
touch, ancient lover,
the Earth danced beneath

my feet, our Mother, la
Madre, she knew nothing
could keep me from you,
your body, your lava,

your core, the ancient 
memory of our union.
I dream your body, gift
from Earth, Sun, Moon,

every Star, I see
your molten eyes,
your molten mouth,
your molten hands,

your molten sex, lava
bright, meteor bright, first
eruption, genesis of
our longing. I am coming,

wait for me, I am dreaming,
wait for me, I am singing,
wait for me. I am dying
to receive your burning

body. Lava. 

**Flying in to Mexico City, March 20, 2012, Popocateptl's snowy peak-
then, la Madre danced beneath my feet, no turning back, that memory of 
surrender. As the planets line up, May 20, 2012, that gift of FIRE, memory,
ancestors. Two weeks after la Madre's dance, Popocateptl began to sing 
to his lover with fire and ash. Into the Sixth World...

Alma Luz Villanueva, San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

Sunday, April 8, 2012


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

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

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 it

fury, memory, beauty,
birth, or is it Shakti,
ever live live
now, oh beauty,

oh killing
oh furious

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,

why I
was born,
face to salt
sea womb,

oh Shakti,
oh fierce
memory, beauty,
oh healer,

soft light power,
born in
born in

the healer
my healer,

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.


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.)