FURY MEMORY BIRTH (BEAUTY)

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.)