Dear World, dear Earth, dear Angel Of Despair And Joy...January 6, 2011

(Continued from January post)-

Los Angeles, The Angels, at noon,

Angel Of Illegal Immigrants, Spanish,

Vietnamese, Chinese, Cambodian spoken

on the streets, many more, do you

sing in every human language,

Turtle Islands, once the massive

Tortoise emerging from primal,

cellular swirling sea, from

space blue blue blue womb

water, I hear you singing on

the streets of Los Angeles, your

sweet clear voice pierces my

stubborn, persistent, will-to-live

human heart...Angel Of Dreaming

Immigrants, Angel Of Native People

Of This Continent (their drums, their

voices, their rattles, dance, song,

keep us alive, ancient prophecy

coming home, coming home to the

streets of Los Angeles, The Angels, the

Earth, coming home), Angel Of The

Ancient Trade Routes, Angel Of

Shimmering Shifting Borders,

Angel Of The Dispossessed ,

Angel of The Possessive,

Angel Of Diamond Light Eyes,

I hear your sweet clear voice

piercing even the concrete, flowing

over the Pacific, her still fertile,

swelling waves, piercing every

stubborn human heart, our

Angel Of Despair And Joy,

I hear you singing in every

language, I don't know

the words, what I hear/feel,

your harsh, persistent healing.

* * *

Santa Cruz, Holy Cross, ancient

symbol of healing (not the crucifix),

night, oh Angel Of Scattered

Families, oh Angel Of Gathered

Families, how do we stand to feel

so much, I wonder, these gathered

memories from sheltered womb to

open door, the delicious, terrifying,

lush, killing, O beauty, O horror,

this human world,

this perfect Earth,

O Angel Of Diamond Light Eyes,

O Angel Of Terror And Wonder,

O Angel Of Despair And Joy,

O Angel Of Scattered, Gathered

Families, the families we're

born to, birth to,

the families we create,

O Angel Of Endless Weeping,

O Angel Of Endless Laughter,

we heard your harsh, persistent

voice, healing, and we danced,

oh we danced to your song,

terror, oh the wonder,

at the edge of Santa Cruz,

at the edge of Los Angeles,

at the edge of Mexico City,

at the edge of every floating,

rooted Turtle Island continent,

at the very edge of our Cosmos,

O Angel Of Diamond Light Eyes,

keep watch as the ancient prophecies,

the ancient trade routes, come

home, keep singing your harsh,

persistent, healing song, every language,

O Angel Of Despair And Such

Joy.

* * *

(Watsonville, Califas, a few miles south of Santa Cruz...)

My granddaughter works with the

Farm Workers, their children born

two fingers to each hand, im

perfect (as my four children

were born perfect), spraying

of the fields, their parents

with cancers, dying

to pick the food of

millions, fresh cheap

food at the supermarkets,

ICE separating illegal parents from

their legal children- we marched

over thirty years ago, still they

spray the fields (every where, this

Turtle Island), two fingers to a

hand, the im perfect children, to

their parents perfect- my youngest

son works with the families of the

dispossessed, the hungry, no

food or refrigerator to hold it, no

place to sleep (bed, mattress), no

place to sit (couch, chairs), no

table to gather (food food), the

country of wealth, abundance,

one in four children are hungry,

Martin Luther King, "The worst violence

is poverty," O Angel Of The Farm Workers,

O Angel Of Toxic Food,

Angel Of The Im Perfect,

Angel Of The Perfect,

Angel Of Violence,

Angel Of Healing,

Surround each field, unfurl

your wings, tip to tip,

O Angel of Diamond Light Eyes,

the terror, and always

the wonder.

*To my youngest son, Jules...and to my granddaughter, Ashley.

To all the daily human angels, wing tip to wing tip,

every Turtle Island, into

The Sixth World.

Alma Luz Villanueva

San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

Dear World, dear Earth, dear Angel Of Despair And Joy... January 6, 2011

Early morning, as we land in Mexico

City, I see the immense angel, I

blink my eyes, I stare and

stare, it doesn't disappear, it

remains firm, hovering at the

edge of Mexico City's sprawl,

Cloud Angel, Spirit Angel, Angel

Of Despair And Joy, Begging Angel,

Starving Angel, Murdered Angel,

Tortured Angel, Child Prostitute

Angel, Angel Of The Well Fed Loved

Child, Angel Of Loving Parents,

Angel Of Those Who Feed The Hungry,

Angel Of Those Who Give To Beggars,

Angel Of Those Who House The Beaten

Human Body, Angel Of Those Who

Weep For Mercy Compassion

Harvest, Angel Of Those Who

Rage For Poverty's People, Angel Of

The Unashamed Who Bellow, Angel Of

The Shamed Who Whimper, Angel Of

Our Humanity, Angel Present Alive

Every Where, Angel At The Edge Of

Mexico City, I didn't know you

were there until this morning,

December 9, 2010, if I flew

city to city, country to country,

continent to continent, I would

see you firm, hovering, your

immense wings folded softly,

fiercely, your speed of light

eyes balancing the terror,

the wonder, of being

human, you temper our

blindness, give us sight,

Angel Of Diamond Light

Eyes, watching, weeping, gazing,

our strange, stubborn human

beauty, we persist because of

you, Angel Of Despair

And Joy, at the edge of

Mexico City, every city, town,

village, every Turtle Island,

our Earth.

To the city of Tucson, the nine-year-old angel, Christina Green, killed on January 8, 2011- all the wounded, slain. May Gabrielle Gifford heal, the others wounded. May the Circle Of Angels Of Despair And Joy unfurl their soft, fierce wings, tip to tip, around Tucson at this time...

*This is the first section of this poem, it's much longer as it journeys to Los Angeles, Santa Cruz, Califas...(the 'Dear World' series in its 15th year, previous books)...but this one is for Tucson today as we ALL journey into the Sixth World. Gracias to my students at Antioch for your grace, beauty, so much humor, at the December residency...gracias to mi familia who love my heart for what it is, and I theirs also...into the Sixth World con mucho amor, the harsh, healing gaze of the Angel Of Diamond Light Eyes.

TABOO LIFE

Teen with spiky blue

tipped hair, sells me

my first marigolds, sees

my dragon tattoo, says

he wants one, wants to

go to Japan, learn

kung fu, his words,

desires, tumble out, he

is poor, makes maybe

40 pesos a day, maybe

he'll get the dragon

tattoo, his eyes freshly

crushed hope, is this

you uncle Ruben,

you who left the body at

twenty-one with so many

young man's desires, your

talents (entire violin concertos

by memory), your taboo

lovers in the 1930s Los Angeles

(other young men), your

passions, I imagine to

travel to Paris, Venice, Tokyo,

other wonders- I just

returned from Paris, whispered

your name upon seeing the

Eiffel Tower, and I know

I'll reach Venice, even

Tokyo, so for you, the

teen boy with spiky blue

hair, whispered wonders-

a piece of your spirit

always with me, secret

stories from your mother,

sister, the brilliant boy,

young man, burning with

taboo life, know I

embrace who you were,

who you longed to be,

who you may be. Now.

To mi tio, Ruben Villanueva

Dia de Los Muertos, 2010

San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

Life/death/life/death/life into the Sixth World...

IN PARIS

"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

Paris.

* * * *

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.

COATLIQUE

"The soul's needs are governed by Coatlique, the Aztec Goddess of female self-sufficiency, who gives birth squatting and square on her feet. She teaches about the lone woman's life. She is a maker of babies, meaning new potential for life, but she is also a death mother who wears skulls on her skirt, and when she walks they sound like the rattles on a snake, for they are skull rattles, and because skull rattles sound like rain, through sympathetic resonance, they draw down rain for the earth. She is the protectoress of all lone women and so magia, so filled with powerful thoughts and ideas, they must live out at the edge of who-knows-where in order not to daze the village too much." From 'Women (and men) Who Run Con Los Lobos'...Dr. Estes

Every time I read this, I smile and then I laugh at the final sentence, 'in order not to daze the village too much.' During the years my kids were growing up (four in all), I used to wake up at 4am to write...sneak out to the kitchen, make coffee, light a candle, one good lamp for the writing on the kitchen table, and soft Native flute music. I used to feel like I was the only human being awake/alive in the entire world, and I loved it...that being so alone (the ancient meaning, root- 'all one'). And so 'all one' women and so magia, so filled with powerful thoughts and ideas, that's exactly how I felt in those early mornings, as though I were hiding from the village, and I was. For the sheer joy, in those hours, which also included the fear of having nothing to say, or saying something already said/written, or simply telling my own truth...but the joy was like an underground river that kept pulling me to the wide open ocean, that freedom. To stand at the shore 'all one,' to count the stars 'all one,' to witness the waxing, full, waning, new moon 'all one,' and to watch the pulse of Sun fill my eyes 'all one.' Writing each word, each line, each stanza (for poetry), each paragraph (for fiction), 'all one.' My only audience in those hours...my great hunger, great thirst to hear it all as clearly as possible, that music in my silent soul. The mute soul of my childhood that bore witness but didn't sing it out loud...so Coatlique dragged me from my dreaming bed most mornings, the sound of her skull rattles laughing as I protested, "Go away, maybe tomorrow." Her skulls whispered, "Who says you'll live until tomorrow, the only time is now," and she was right. I think every writer/poet is protected by this terrifyingly beautiful Goddess..."Who says you'll live until tomorrow, now." The one who brings the clouds, the thunder, the lightning...rain. All one. All one.

I bought a wonderful black and white likeness of Coatlique over thirty years ago in Merida, Mexico, on my honeymoon; also, a solitary woman/Goddess diving into the sea, surrounded by hungry looking fish. A dangerous dive. An enticing dive. The woman/Goddess had dark hair to her waist, flowing in the water, and she's adorned with Mayan symbols. The cloth print of Coatlique was fierce, uncompromising, as she squatted to give birth (yes, square on her feet), her powerful female body straining with effort, her face a grimace. Of pain. Strange joy. Every time I looked at her I thought, 'Yes, that's birth alright, that's how it is.' And though it was somewhat awe-ful to look at, it was also comforting. The truth. Of birth. The Diving Goddess would have to grow on me, as I didn't exactly know what to do with her, or what she wanted to do with me. But I longed to know. That hunger. That thirst. All one. All one.

Twenty-four years after my honeymoon in Merida, Isla Mujeres, Mexico City...the climb to the top of the Pyramid of The Sun, carrying the clay Quetzalcoatl flute I'd bought from the vendor before the climb, and playing shy notes to the blaze of Sun over my just-married head, my then husband beside me...getting drunk in Isla Mujeres, crawling and laughing in the sand...arriving in Merida at 2am, finding a coach with a single horse, the driver laughing at my request to take us for a ride, but he did it, took us for an eerie, empty-street, early morning ride...he should have been home in his warm bed, next to his sweet wife, his children dreaming in the next room...so perhaps Coatlique whispered in his ear, "Who says you'll live until tomorrow, now." And so, twenty-four years later as my marriage to my then husband ended, my fourth child, ours together, went off to university, Coatlique sang in my ear, "Who says you'll live until tomorrow, now," and I moved alone (all one) to Santa Fe, New Mexico. I'd been my children's daily mother for (literally) forty years...from fifteen to fifty-five...so Coatlique was really calling my poet/writer's bluff... 'All one, are you...' I was used to being surrounded by teenagers, their noise, their jokes, their general daily chaos, and being called 'dude' by my son's friends (it was a compliment)...many came to live with us for various personal, family reasons, so we often had one of his friends staying with us, or they gathered in the front room or his room, the sound of their uncensored laughter. Then they'd suit up to go surfing in the morning, the afternoon, sometimes at midnight on a full moon...they looked like mythical beings filing out the door in their various wetsuits, going out to meet La Madre Mar and what swam in her, the scary hungry fish (sharks). Once after a morning attack of a great white, the guys were suited up in the afternoon to go surfing...of course, I freaked out, "Are you all crazy!" My son, Jules, looked at me very calmly, "Mom, the sharks live in the ocean." He was right, off they went. I tried to memorize his back as he walked away...but he returned hours later so happy, so alive. All one. All one.

My second week in Santa Fe brought the most intense lightning storm I've ever experienced, and I'd experienced some whoppers in the Sierras, where I lived for five years...but this was non-stop lightning, as though the sky was being tested, as though the earth was being tested, and surely I was being tested. I'd never (ever) been so sad in my entire life...this didn't feel 'all one,' this felt terribly alone. No teenagers to listen to, worry about sharks, curfews, who's drinking, who's driving...no husband to fight with, make up with, breathe the same air with...my entire life was 'all one.' I went out to the patio to watch the bone-jolting lighting, thunder, no rain yet...back to the couch to read, the room in darkness except for one small reading light over my head. I felt limp, sad, depressed, and wondered where the damn rain was and if the fucking lightning was ever going to stop, as in ever, that night...when I saw it. A perfect, tiny, glowing-white lightning bolt appeared in the darkness over my bare feet, and it quickly, smoothly sliced into my left foot...an energy I'd have to learn how to use, channel throughout my body without thinking I was having a fucking heart attack, which happened twice until I learned. To allow it. To allow it. To bring me. Rain.

The tiny, glowing-white lightning bolt took me to Bali, a place I'd wanted to visit for over twenty years...and I went three weeks after '9/11', the bombing of the World Trade Center, the attack on my country. And of course, Bali is surrounded by the largest Muslim population in the world, but I'd bought my tickets, made reservations, almost six months before. When I arrived in San Francisco, from New Mexico, for my connection to Taiwan, then Bali, all my reservations had been cancelled...I was a pretty innocent traveler in those days and didn't know about checking flight status online, so there I was fighting, begging, fighting for my reservations, and I got them. A young Chinese guy became a computer whiz, fixed my reservations, and walked me to the gate, smiling, waving goodbye...the plane was boarding. Myself and a man were the only non-Asian passengers, so I was thoroughly scrutinized then allowed to blend in. I had three seats to myself to sit, stretch out and read, sleep, and the stewardesses were all truly beautiful and wonderful to behold as they bowed to us, the passengers. And the passengers bowed back, as did I from their example...namasate, The divinity in me sees the divinity in you.

After more fighting, begging, fighting, I finally landed in Bali, picked up at the Denpasar Airport by a young Balinese guy whose name translated to 'Love,' he told me...an air conditioned van, the air outside was a thickness/heat I'd never felt, breathed. And the traffic was horrifying as two lanes became three, four, five, sometimes six, with entire families on one motorcycle, no helmets, the baby balanced on mom's lap...the people walking on the sides of the road with enormous bundles on their heads, people on bikes, families holding hands, pregnant women with swaying hips wrapped in rainbows...everyone apparently unafraid, fearless, as I kept wanting to scream, "Watch out, Love, watch out!" But I didn't, although I did keep saying things like "Ohmygod ohmygod you'vegottobekidding ohmygoddess"...Love just laughed, that wonderful Balinese laugh. "These people are fearless," I said to Love. "What does that mean, fearless?" Pause. "It means you're not afraid to die." He laughed louder, namasate. Days later, I ended up wandering around in the Ubud Temple, courtyard after courtyard, where it seemed many dancers and artists live...the engraved stone, winged, roaring beings over each arched doorway made me stop to bow my head slightly in greeting. Purple and white orchids trailed a tall, graceful, wooden statue of Saraswati, the Goddess of music and literature (of course), small ponds with small fish swam in them, beautiful flowers everywhere, and terrifying, carved, vividly painted, wooden, winged demons, so beautiful, in surprising places...there was actually a huge winged demon right over my bed at the hotel, had to get used to that and then I fell in love with it, kind of like the lightning, that crazy, dangerous energy that wants to kill you, heal you, kill you, heal you. I walked into a courtyard with an immense bird in a steel cage; the 'ankle' of the foot/claw/talons circled by a steel clamp. Owl, hawk, eagle, it was huge, whatever it was, it broke my heart, that hunter of the skies, to see it clamped, caged. I walked closer to the cage and the bird met my eyes, split second...red red red fire in-human, a free thing caged. "Don't get too close," a woman's voice warned me, I turned to meet the same eyes. "He's my eagle, no problem." She offered me tea in her pavilion, to see her stunning amber jewelry, deep gold jewels with the captured sun at the center. I finally asked, "Why isn't the eagle free?" Her red red red fire eyes met mine, "What is freedom, madam?" She told me, very patiently, with no apology, she's a trance healer and that her eagle helps her heal, in dreams. "What is freedom, madam?" Is this the voice of Coatlique...is this why I fought, begged, fought, traveled to Bali, to hear these words.

The one who brings the clouds, the thunder, the lightning...rain. With her skull rattles, rain. "Who says you'll live until tomorrow, now, now now now." And the diving Goddess, I came to learn was Ixchel, her island Isla Mujeres...the Goddess of childbirth, healing, ecstasy...she whispered in my ear (as I laughed, crawling on the sand), "One more child," and she taught me to dive even deeper, where the scary, hungry fish live, where the stories live at the bottom of the clear turquoise sea. Off the shores of Isla Mujeres, her home. The one who brings the clouds, the thunder, the lightning...rain. "What is freedom, madam?" Now now now now, into the Sixth World now...

****I have a tiny gold/glowing lightning bolt tattoo on my left foot, exactly where it sliced through- will show you if you ask, when we meet sometime. ****