Dear World,
dear Earth,
dear Ixchel,
March 1, 2013
The taxi driver takes the long
route, I'm irritated until
I begin to see (again) small
stores with oranges, papaya,
mangoes, bananas, broccoli, avocados,
tomatoes, fresh corn, fresh squash,
fresh strawberries, watermelons
from neighboring fields, some
plowed by horses- everything
tastes like it self, earth
born, not the killing laboratories
where false food becomes
chemicals that stunt our
children's brains, bodies,
spirits, and then medicate
them, they're hyperactive,
autistic, so-called spectrum.
The vendor on the corner, his
small cart, laughs as he
swiftly slices papaya, mangoes,
watermelon, pineapple, in
containers, lime/chilie on
top, the young woman
roasting her small chickens
(no growth hormones) under
an open flame, she'll spoon
free roasted potatoes, onions,
jalapenos into the plastic bag,
freshly made salsa, a small
store selling handmade
tortillas, freshly roasted
corn into plastic bags,
the vendor on the corner with
her still warm chicken/pork
tamales, hot atole, science
doesn't intrude on the
streets here, only a muted
human joy, meeting eyes, greeting
this one, that one, "Buenos dias."
I follow fully feathered
dancers, women, children,
teens, men burning copal, guitars,
full throated singing, drumming
guides the feet, alive
human joy revealed,
feathered dancers turn
toward newborn Sixth
Sun Spring, a large
man painted entirely blue
sky, lighting bolts appearing,
Thunder Being Kachina-
a tattooed teen hidden in
fangs, eagle/owl feathers,
kneels both knees, tourists
rush to photograph him-
"He's praying," I say-
"Looks like he's posing to
me," they say- they focus
on his sacred passion,
his Beloved Spring, and when
he suddenly screams, a
jaguar, they scatter, I
laugh, he continues to dance,
kneel, pray, dance, his Beloved
into being. Into being.
The children turn on the
cobbles, little rattles creating
rain, the drummers creating
thunder, the young women,
girls creating beauty, the
tattooed teen dancing passion,
womb of Spring,
praying passion,
womb of Spring,
into being, that we
may live.
* * * *
Not in the infertile test tubes of
science, but in the endlessly
fertile, wild womb of
Ixchel, our Beloved Spring,
that we may
live, that our
children live, dear
World, dear
Earth, dear
Ixchel, dear
beloved jaguar
spring.
San Miguel de Allende, Mexico
Alma Luz Villanueva (c)
**The painting, Frida Kahlo, Casa Azul.
RIPENED ROSE
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.
FIERY WOMBS
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.
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
one...
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
songs.
Alma Luz Villanueva
San Miguel de Allende, Mexico
ALEGRIA
Returning a mi casita,
students glowing joy light,
family children holy fire,
old friends volcano
core and ash filling
the sacred Sixth
Sun, I was sad,
all alone, all one,
the word rose out
of me, womb to heart
to throat, a cry,
ALEGRIA, Yaqui rattle,
red rose, green leaves
painted, gourd handle,
I began to cry/sing,
"Alegria alegria alegria,"
rattle song, each
room, mi casita, up
the stairs, bedroom,
bath, more stairs, the
roof, "Alegria alegria
alegria," flocks of
white winged birds tipped
their wings, laughing, my
ancestors laughed/wept,
joined me, "Alegria alegria
alegria" esta vida of
sorrow joy sorrow joy,
let me swim oh swim
its vast glittering ocean,
let me dance each
step as though
for the first time,
let me kiss each
beloved face, the
first time, alegria,
let me remember
simple love of
children's tender fingers
around my neck, baby
scent crown chakra,
lover's sweat merging
mine, shy trusting
eyes meeting, each
friend a flower
dazzling eyes and
heart, to the lovers
who were first
friends pistil stamen,
the letting go of beloved
body, not the Spirit,
returning in dreams,
we know each other
not by names (although
I name you), not by
faces (although I
remember you), not
by scent, laughter, voice
(I remember, always will),
we know
each other
alegria
simple love
alegria...
Alma Luz Villanueva
San Miguel de Allende, Mexico
January 2013...'13' the Mayan number
of magic, Sacred Self, Sacred Other...
**To Meliza Orantes, who danced on
table tops in Paris, her dazzling smile,
Spirit, always alive...
Circular pan dulce,
Rosca de Reyes,
Ano Nuevo, New Year,
we begin (oh again),
cutting, biting carefully,
sweet bread, the
surprise baked in,
break your tooth in
half, surprise, gift,
cut/bite carefully,
the Sacred Child
emerges in clay,
the Sacred Child
emerges in us all,
bite carefully, kiss
tenderly, s/he emerges
laughing/weeping
into the Sacred
Sixth Sun, the
next 5,200 years,
the Sacred Child
so alive, singing
us home, singing
us Home.
Alma Luz Villanueva (c)
San Miguel de Allende, Mexico
January 1, 2013
*#13, Sacred Mayan number, magic/mystery unfolding... Sacred Self, Sacred Other, Sacred Child...one planet, one people, into the Sacred Sixth Sun...
(To my son, Jules, who works daily with families, children, teens at risk in California, his work inspires me, his stories. He knows the families with no food, no furniture, teens of color who are in (great) danger of going directly to prison- he counsels them and also finds them food, furniture, and they give him JOY. And to all those who do this daily hero/hera work...Sacred Self, Sacred Other, Sacred Child alive in the world, gracias, amor, mas milagros (miracles)....
CEREMONY
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
laugh.
* * *
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
ceremony.
* * *
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
human.
* * *
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
together
together
together
Alma Luz Villanueva
Teotihuacan, Mexico
October 4, 2012
Into the Sixth World...
