Writing Truths

I had a great evening with my sister, son, and husband. Gathered at the dinner table our conversation led us to the indigenous languages of Nahuatl, Yacutec Maya, and Purépecha. We candidly spoke about what it's like when you're American and one of your parents was born on foreign soil, what that means as far as identity and connection and how people treat you differently on both turfs even though either will go to great lengths to prove otherwise. 

We spoke of travel, education, and culture.  My son worked on his mathematics and reading homework.  We asked him if he learned about Columbus.  He said he had learned a bit about Columbus, but the teachers were sure to tell him that Columbus did not discover America.  A fact that I was proud was being taught to my fifth grader.  This could also be respective to the area in Texas where we reside.

It was a beautiful evening as we wrapped up the conversation and the laughter when we took it outside to water the matas (plants).  It reminded me of being at my grandmothers.  How each evening we'd spend long hours at her home and she'd take us outside in one sweeping gesture so that she could water her dear plants.  The conversation always turned lighthearted and carefree as she spoke about different plants and different animals that attacked her plants.  

I found myself in a pleasant déjà vu last night.  I am becoming the matriarch in small and careful steps as God wills it.  Stories continue to riddle my lips and l find it is my duty to keep these stories alive in the best way I know how, speaking and writing my truth.  

Witness

In the most ravenous parts of me
The fleshy wounded parts I want
To offer lips that don’t shout back
For and through I take bitter words
Salt the air before the entrance
When I fall heavy in places quieted
With unfamiliar rest the day presses
On my eyelids with force and grit
I have seen too much, I know more
Than they intended.

A [Space] of One's Own

The desk that we found at a yard sale was supposed to be chic counter space and hallway decor; however, last night it became my writing space.  Writing at home just became possible as I face the wall so I don't become distracted by the household chores.

I armed myself with headphones to drown out the activity surrounding me.  It's cozy and is exactly what I needed.  A map of our journeys is plastered above me to remind me of stories I've collected along the way.

Journals to which I've submitted hang on my wall.  They will either come down or stay up depending on rejection on acceptance.  Quotes from my children offer inspiration taped with washi tape to the wall in front of me.

A candle sets the mood and the reason for it all sits right beside it, a frame with my children's names on it. Loose leaf paper is the only way I write these days.  Journals have become too cramped.  Drafts hang behind the candle.  Call it superstitious.

I'm sure the space will evolve.  Right now I'm just elated to have it and use it.  Happy writing, friends.  Do you have a space?  What does it look like?

#WritingeverydayinSeptember

Sunday Evening Chili

Listening to Mos Def, cooking
lentil chili on low, ready in the morning
rays of day crash onto your face

Your lips part, emcee see say hey
volume on low, passion on high
the kitchen pulsates

Tomato, beef, taco seasoning and every
season of aroma in here, slow cooker
slow cooking, turn up the heat.

Yard Sale Finds - San Antonio, Texas

$7, 108 degrees, and 4 hours of yard sale hilarity with my mother, my husband found this gem.  Nothing was needed save for a bit of poetry and orchids.  It goes perfect in our hallway.  The joys of owning a home and shopping smart.  Thank you, San Antonio!

Off Social Media Production

Sometimes it begs to be told in different colors.

Writing everyday.

Writing Life (Non-Fiction)

I found a gap in today and began to write. 
My hands are not as flexible as they once 
were so my handwriting has become lazy. 

I don't want to have to go all the way up 
to make an I in cursive and I don't put two 
humps in my n's and fall short of 
completely looping my o's. Rereading this blurb 
I notice that the r's and f's are also lazy.

Protein. 

More protein.

The Acentos Review

Thank you to Dr. Raina León at The Acentos Review for considering and publishing my poem, "Cantarito."  Congratulations to all my fellow writers in the May 2015 issue.

Click here for the May 2015 issue of The Acentos Review

Giving Back

I often feel helpless when the world won’t stop taking punches.  I constantly dig for the good.  I can never stop digging.  This is the reason for hope.  My poetry brings into the light all that is hidden beneath the tarmac of politics.  It needs to be said; it needs to be written.  Those words tend to leave me breathless, angry, fist raised in the air and something inside of me begins to hush.  Although, I will never stop writing about things that need to be said, I need to find the good in me that reconnects me to the joy that is quenched when I tear back the tarmac.

My sister/friend, Robin, expressed to me that she needed beanies made for preemie babies.  I have been knitting moreso now that we take many roadtrips that allow me the luxury of reading novels or knitting beanies for adults.  I thought to myself, "I can teach myself how to make a preemie beanie.  It's only less stitches!"  I attempted to use my regular sized circular knitting needles and found it impossible to knit such a small circle.  This is when I realized how tiny the babies are that would wear these beanies.  Nothing made it more real than showing Erasmo that the circle was just too small.  It made my heart warm and a lump lodged itself in my throat.  I put the project down for a couple of days until I was able to purchase smaller 5 pointed knitting needles to complete the tiny beanie.

I've since made two and am working on a third one with potential to don a tiny flower or an adorable bow tie right up top.  Knitting something so small for such a small baby has made me realize how important it is to keep giving back.  This fills my heart with joy.  I don't know which preemies will wear these small hats, but I do know that I will make each and every one of them with as much love as I can give.  When tomorrow brings a poem that will kick me to the ground and leave me with fists held high, I will grab my needle and yarn to give back what I can to this world.

Family Tree

Before we find peace

We find sticks

Use them as weapons 

Before collecting them 

To build something more

We pry open tombs

Wage wars within ourselves

Then blame it on the tomb

Milagros

We don't hang snakes from our fence anymore -
An invitation to hard rains for the crops

We don't hang metal on our bellies -
Full moons threaten cleft lips

We don't put glasses of water under our beds -
Keep the espiritos away and out of our dreams

We don't rub eggs on our bodies anymore -
Sweep the ill spirits from our bodies

We don't touch babies on their limbs -
Transfer of spirits so that we don't give them ojo

We don't heat up olive oil for the bottom of our feet -
 Keep out the resfrio from our skin

We don't pray like we used to
 What do we believe in now?


Day 13 of the 30 Day Poetry Challenge for National Poetry Month is to write a poem that a child would like.  I deviated from that prompt and instead wrote about childhood memories.  These are memories that I miss and that I do not experience anymore.  These are traditions that I wished we kept alive.  

Seis



Art By Edel Rodriguez


LADY

LAZARUS

SKIN

AND

BONE

PRONE


Day 12 of the 30 Day Poetry Challenge for National Poetry Month is to write a poem using 6 words to tell your life story.

Tumors Tremors Trains

It’s held up to me – a contusion of words

a laceration of ego

a clod of tissue

a before mentioned thought

an indecency

a murk of blazoned heart tubes  

a woman – spineless figure

a pearl on edge of string

a crate on plastic pendants

a nervous tick, tickets galore

a fantastic field of fury

a small girl – hide and seek

a tumor, brain button puke

an extraction on live TV set

a pretend it didn’t happen

a prayer to end the day

Day 11 for the 30 Day Challenge for National Poetry Month is to write a list poem.

C.A.R.O.L.I.N.A.

Crippling passions 
Abbreviated ambitions seek 
Refuge - esoteric 
Occam's razor
Leads through blindfolds
In shapes of vivacious concentrated 
Negligence on behalf of
Another persuasion


Francesca Woodman, photographer


Day 1 of the 30 Day Poetry Challenge for National Poetry Month 2012 is to write an acrostic using your first name.  The poem must not be about oneself.

Underground Library Celebration



Photography Credit:  Moon Maiden

 Last night, Renee and I attended the inauguration of San Antonio's Underground Library.  It is one of four that has now been established by the Librotraficante movement in which they have vowed to bring banned books back into Arizona.

Arizona shamelessly eradicated Mexican American Studies at the Tucson Unified Schools overlooking the program's 98% graduation rate.  The highest graduation rate of any Latino/Native American/Hispanic community.  Politicians also proceeded to take books that were "unpatriotic" out of the hands of students.  Those books were many including: Shakespeare, Leslie Marmon Silko, Luis Alberto Urrea, Junot Diaz, Pulitzer Prize recipients and or Natives, people born and raised on that land.

Last night the wind was cool and so was the guy handing out free copies of his short films, the lady who unloaded crates of banned books, and the 6 year old little girl who kept telling her mom, "Look!  Look!"
There were belly dancers, prose writers, musicians, artists, and poets sharing a common goal:  to bring literature back into the state that had abolished it.  I, along with my friend Viktoria, read our responses to this banning, this set back in the continuing struggle for civil rights. 

People chanted as Viktoria raised her fists in the air declaring we fight back!  She introduced me to come to the mic and I was a little terrified.  My blood pressure started to rise, my heart began to beat faster, my palms were begining to sweat, and my face felt as warm as the temperature earlier that day.  I couldn't find the right angle for the microphone, but I just went with it.  I stuck my gum in a nearby planter and began to read "The List".  Choking up always takes over my voice when I'm reading something that is so important to me.  Soon, I finished reading the words that had, two weeks prior, sent my body into toxic shock.

I placed the mic back into its stand and took my place on the cement with the others.  Other poets made their way to the mic, spitting and rhyming and pointing and declaring.  It was time to go and as I began to make my way out a woman stopped me to express her very intimate feelings about my poem.  It was then that I was overtaken by emotion.  I knew in my heart and in my soul that I could never again write about things that do not matter. 

As artists and as humans we have an obligation to each other and to our communities.

Un Regalo De Lengua

Te regalo mi lengua

So that you can use it

On Thanksgiving

Te regalo mi lengua

So that you can wear it

Like a pearl necklace

Bien fancy como la tia Lourdes

Vieja boracha

I give you my tongue

So that you can charm the snakes

And hide them in your maletas

I give you my tongue

So that you can tell people our stories

That are buried in that tomb of a throat