San Miguel de Allende

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

Monday, February 25, 2013


Woke up to a bird
flying out of my
body, a ripened
bird of

joy, water guy
delivering water, flute
player sharpening knives,
warm blue tortillas

soon, joy joy
joy...young man,
immense bucket of
rainbows on his

shoulders, I buy
my share, he smiles,
the woman on the 
corner, warm tamales

wrapped in Madre 
Maiz, Mother Corn,
hot thick chocolate
atole, breakfast,

my granddaughter gave
birth to her first
child, beautiful boy,
my granddaughter a 

healer, may her son be a
healer, as my youngest
son, my granddaughter's
age, a healer, a lover

of Earth, Madre Mar,
Sweet Sky, the families
he heals, his own
family, now

a man, the world-
bring me the daily
sorrows, my own,
the world's- do you

think the rose suddenly
just bursts into bloom,
it begins as a dream
at the very tip of the

thorn, the one that demands
blood- this is how the
rose is born, blooms,
ripened joy. 

To Logan Pauvan Preto, blossomed,
born, his mother's blood, February 18th, 2013.
To my amazing granddaughter,
Ashley Preto. 

Alma Luz Villanueva
San Miguel de Allende, Mexico
(c) All writing copyright on this blog.

Friday, February 15, 2013


My grandmother, Jesus, full blood
Yaqui, a curandera/healer from
Sonora, who popped the paper
sack with her hand at the 

border crossing, the rude
officer emptying all her carefully
packed luggage, boxes, pregnant with
my mother, crossing legally with her

minister/poet husband to a church in
East Los Angeles, she popped the sack,
shouting, AIRE MEXICANA, I can
see her eagle eyes from my

childhood, defiant to her
molten core, her heart, her
spirit, her fiery womb- I read this,
that women are born with their

ovaries, all their eggs, so a part
of us in our grandmother's, great
grandmother's, great great, their
wombs, their fiery wombs,

in my daughter, my granddaughter,
my great great, yes, grandson,
my sons born from these fiery
ancestor wombs, we are.
        *        *        *        *
Yesterday in line for my FM-3 to 
live in Mexico, I saw the
photo they chose, among the
smiling, friendly ones- I look

like I have indigestion, someone's
trying to fuck with me, someone
won't let me travel the ancient
trade routes, the I-don't-need-no-

stickin-badges-look, not pretty,
believe me, and I start to laugh,
"I look like a damn criminal,"
I say to the customs guy, he protests

that I don't look like a criminal-
"I'm a border crosser, so I
must be," I laugh louder. "Ayyy
senora," he shakes his head. We

Villanueva women, Jesus Villanueva,
cross our borders with Kokopelli's 
ancient flute in our ears, laughing,
shouting, dancing, fiery wombs.

                                        Arizona's SB 1070 give me indigestion,
                                            One people, one planet the next
                                            1,000 years, QUE VIVA....
                                        Alma Luz Villanueva (c)
                                        San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

Jesus y Pablo, wedding day, Sonora, Mexico...

my great-grandmother, a well known curandera
in Sonora at that time, refused to name her daughter
the feminine, Jesusa, I love that, her fiery womb.

**All postings/poetry on this blog copyright- 
contact me via the email shown here for 
publication requests, as I've received some,
gracias. This poem will be published in my 
new book, 'GRACIAS,' fall 2013- will post
info toward summer 2013. As well as my novel, 
'SCORPION HUNTER,' The Twins, the same
publishing date. 

Friday, February 1, 2013

Dear World, dear Earth,
dear La Ixchel,
dear Sacred Mockingbird,
                                                           January 2013
You must not kill a 
Sacred Mockingbird
because they sing 
for us sun to moon

to sun, learning up
to 200 songs in their 
life time, they sing
their tiny hearts out

for us till they cease
to fly the wind into
sunlight, moonlight, they
mark our moments, our

days, our dreams,
fresh songs, memorized
pulsing hearts, they
ask for nothing, only

sun, moon, wind, berries,
to fly sun to moon to
sun, learning songs, to
simply live, within our

dreams, our human
memory, their berry
rich songs, up to
200 in a life time.

I wonder, oh I wonder,
what songs, their voices,
each voice, each dream,
each fully lived life,

their 200 songs ripened,
each one had to sing
sun to moon to sun, their
flight cut short, each

Charlotte Bacon, 6 years old
Daniel Borden, 7 years old
Olivia Engel, 6 years old
Josephine Gay, 7 years old
Ana M. Marquez- Greene, 6 years old
Dylan Hockley, 6 years old
Madeline F. Hsu, 6 years old
Catherine V. Hubbard, 6 years old
Chase Howalski, 7 years old
Jesse Lewis, 6 years old
James Mattioli, 6 years old
Grace McDonnell, 7 years old
Emilie Parker, 6 years old
Jack Pinto, 6 years old
Noah Pozner, 6 years old
Caroline Previdi, 6 years old
Jessica Rekos, 6 years old
Avielle Richman, 6  years old
Benjamin Wheeler, 6 years old
Allison N. Wyatt, 6 years old

In the beautiful film, To Kill A
Mockingbird, Scout says, about 
harming another, "It's like killing a
mockingbird, isn't it?"

**To the twenty little birds killed in
Newton, Connecticut, and the parents
who will not hear their so sweet, ripened

Alma Luz Villanueva 
San Miguel de Allende, Mexico