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I love January, but my sweet homeschool kiddos don’t seem to love it quite as much. Thus, a blues poem for my girls and all the students who wish they were still on Christmas vacation… School is in session Equations are flying Students are moaning Brain cells are frying Reading and painting Dividing and…
3 Comments on January Blues…, last added: 1/10/2015
My intent was to hook the preponderantly raza employees on reading, so I stocked lunchrooms with sci-fi, detective novels, a classic or two, and Michele Serros' Chicana Falsa. The most disappeared title was Michele Serros' Chicana Falsa.
One day while walking through an office I heard loud guffaws and poked my head in. One of the executives had picked up Chicana Falsa and couldn't put it down. He was reading instead of working. Michele's chicharrón story had him in tears. Better still, the vato had been one of the company's English-only crowd, and the book softened his heart. Orale, Michele.
Michele Serros had that effect on everyone whom she touched with her rapier wit, cultural insight, and elegant prose. Ave atque vale, Michele.
Que en paz descanses.
In lieu of flowers/gifts, Michele humbly requests you please contribute to her Give Forward campaign. Donations can be made online or sent via mail to: Michele Serros c/o Flacos 3031 Adeline St. Berkeley, CA 94703
Art and Floricanto at Rock Rose Michael Sedano
The phone caller told me she was looking at new-to-her lyrics to Quirino Mendoza y Cortés' Cielito Lindo and had I heard these? Vibiana Aparicio-Chamberlin planned to sing the song, along with Las Mañanitas, at the artists' reception for Images of La Virgen de Guadalupe through the eyes of Aparicio de Guatemala, Vibiana Aparicio-Chamberlin, Pola Lopez, Julie Soto, and Antonio Rael at Highland Park's Rock Rose Gallery.
Coincidence? That is my grandmother's and mother's favorite song. I'd been playing Cielito Lindo daily during the holidays, remembering my gramma and my mom. Vibiana invited me to be the accompanist on Rock Rose's baby grand.
I arrived tempranito so Vibi and I could rehearse. Gallerist Rosamaria Marquez had the piano in tune. We sounded good, though we needed a bit of work. As with many highly popular songs, gente tend to alter the tempo and shift the tied notes to different measures from the score. "De la sie..rra" becomes "De la sierra..." A lifetime of singing it that way is tough to unlearn.
Few experiences match a pianist's joy at hearing voices singing along with one's fingers. Cielito Lindo is a waltz, so I emphasized the 1-2-3 bass and endeavored to keep the melody consistent with the singers' habitual styling. The singing was totally beautiful and together we found our rhythm. Everyone knew the words and the entire audience joined in with broad smiles and sentimental warmth. We did three choruses and I know my gramma and mom enjoyed it. For me, it was puro magic.
Chamberlin--one of the veteranas from the 1973 Festival de Flor y Canto, emceed with excellent improvisation. We skipped Las Mañanitas, a good thing because my plan to segue into Happy Birthday to You depended on my fingers remembering a chord change I invariably mess up.
Vibiana Aparicio-Chamberlin reads and performs "La Llorona." Aparicio-Chamberlin opened her reading honoring her mother Isabel Luna Aparicio (b. 1917).
Luna De Leche by Vibiana Aparicio-Chamberlin
Dedicated to my mother, Isabel Carrasco Luna Aparicio
Sacrificial scent of a bursting moon. Violet and taut are the veins on your forehead. Abundant and clear is the liquid released down your thighs.
From you, I am expelled in spasms of heat and ice, a bruised slippery body.
I am alone. Torn from your velvet womb. My desperate mouth, my tongue, my throat cry out. Searching for you. Mamá. Madre. Luna de leche.
You give me comfort, you give me courage. Your gift is your milk. Warm healing honey.
Each breast, a promise of a brown wooden bowl of flour, shortening, un poquito de agua and a pinch of salt, for an endless meal of warm round tortillas.
Mamá. Mi luz. Source of endless leche, de su ser Persimmons Your blood Mi sangre Cada gota Cada pulso
Miriam Quesada follows with a Spanish language piece as sculptor Aparicio de Guatemala looks on.
Abel Salas, publisher of Boyle Heights' community newspaper, Brooklyn & Boyle, shares a reading from his telephone screen.
John Martinez stepped out of his comfort zone and read his work in Spanish translation. His is a beautiful effort to expand the role of language in poetry for monolingual Chicanos like him. Ajua! John--Juan--for a magnificent strategy.
Poets with sculptor Aparicio de Guatemala stand in front of Aparicio's Guadalupe sculpture, one of two. The second, a standing piece not pictured, he fashioned from red heart wood, acquired locally from a tree-trimmer.
Images of La Virgen de Guadalupe through the eyes of... runs through January at Rock Rose Gallery, 4108 N Figueroa St, Los Angeles, California, (323) 635-9125.
Spanish Novels in English Translation
Hispabooks seeks deeper penetration into the United States' Spanish-Literature-in-Translation movimiento. Editorial Director Gregorio Doval writes, "Ya distribuimos desde hace más de un año a través de Ingram / Lightning Source (en librerías y online, paperback & ebook). Pero el próximo 1 de junio de 2015, nos comenzará a distribuir "on a larger scale" Consortium. Desde entonces nuestros libros estarán ya en todas las librerías que los deseen."
If you're Spanish-challenged, or faltando el Castellano, but enjoy excellent writing from an Iberian imagination, you'll be pleased learning Hispabooks has been distributed in the US by Ingram / Lightning Source. In June, distribution steps up to una escala más grande via Consortium.
From Hispabooks' Facebook About: "Hispabooks is a publishing house focusing on contemporary Spanish fiction in English-language translation, both in eBook and trade paperback format, targeting readers around the world who want to explore the best of today’s Spanish literature."
Already released titles include: "THE FAINT-HEARTED BOLSHEVIK", by Lorenzo Silva "NOTHING EVER HAPPENS", by José Ovejero "THE HAPPY CITY", by Elvira Navarro "UPPSALA WOODS", by Álvaro Colomer "THE HOTEL LIFE", by Javier Montes "THE BIRTHDAY BUYER", by Adolfo García Ortega "THE STEIN REPORT", by José Carlos Llop "ANTÓN MALLICK WANTS TO BE HAPPY", by Nicolás Casariego "PARIS", by Marcos Giralt Torrente "RAIN OVER MADRID", by Andrés Barba "A MAN ON HIS WORD", by Imma Monsó "WOMAN IN DARKNESS", by Luisgé Martín "THE HISTORY OF SILENCE", by Pedro Zarraluki
Forthcoming titles: "THE PLIMSOL LINE", by Juan Gracia Armendáriz "UNPAID DEBTS", by Antonio Jiménez Barca "THE SAME CITY" by Luisgé Martín "LA MALA MUERTE", by Fernando Royuela "OJOS QUE NO VEN", by José Ángel González Sainz "VENÍAN A BUSCARLO A ÉL", by Berta Vías Mahou "LA HORA VIOLETA", by Sergio del Molino "LA MALA LUZ", by Carlos Castán "PADRES, HIJOS Y PRIMATES", by Jon Bilbao "LANDEN", by Laia Fàbregas "INTENTO DE ESCAPADA", by Miguel Ángel Hernández
La Bloga happily shares this news, and hopes the editorial will open its presses to more women writers.
On-line Floricanto: First in 2015 Kai Coggin, upfromsumdirt, Mario Angel Escobar, Odilia Galván Rodríguez, Xico González
La Bloga On-line Floricanto is a monthly feature at La Bloga-Tuesday. On-line Floricanto, now in its fifth year, features poetry nominated by the Moderators of the Facebook group Poets Responding to SB1070: Poetry of Resistance. Founded by Francisco X. Alarcón as a poet's response to the hate legislation spewed by Arizona's legislators in 2010, Poets Responding to SB1070is a living resource for contemporary poetry from a diverse community of like-minded gente.
A second On-line Floricanto in January will feature the Best Poems of 2014.
February's On-line Floricanto celebrates St. Valentine's / Love and Friendship Day. Visit Poetry of Resistance on Facebook for guidelines on submitting for February.
“⌘ Planting An Acorn After A Massacre” by Kai Coggin “An Open Letter To My Daddy Anem” by upfromsumdirt "I can't breathe"by Mario Angel Escobar “We Can't Breathe” by Odilia Galván Rodríguez "Free Birds" by Xico González
⌘ Planting An Acorn After A Massacre by Kai Coggin
When I heard the news of the 132 school children massacred, the taliban suicide bombers in explosive-lined vests blowing up the lights of brightened futures, emptying thousands of shell casings into the heads of innocents, I went outside with my grief, couldn’t hold it indoors, I walked in circles and wondered how the sun could continue this charade, how the breeze could decorate the almost barren trees with dancing dried skirts, quivering leaves. I held the hands of the sky and whispered unknown names into the afternoon silence, as two turkey vultures cut the blue by flying infinities overhead.
I walked. Each step accompanied by the sound of dried leaves crunching underfoot, and fallen acorns shone slick in the light of the sun, some dusted with grains of sand that reflected prismatically into the tiniest rainbows, almost invisible.
I picked one up. It had cracked open, its red root arm reaching out for earth, seed sprout seeing possibility, the process of growth inherent in its nature.
Without question and without fail scores of acorns around me had split open in these cold months, split open and started the process of digging themselves down into the dirt, the brilliant design that unlocks wooden hinges and breaks free.
I thought of the children, their arms reaching toward futures that they could not see but could feel, their brilliant design, their chubby reddened cheeks, their laughter, their learning becoming scattered schoolbooks and bomb-blasted classrooms,
they will not become trees,
they will not get past the point of just barely breaking through, red blood arms shielding faces that wonder how this could be the end, then it is, was, blackness, ending.
The innocents should not die for a God that does not live by the moral code that innocents should not die.
I get lost in all this, the soft breeze, the blood, the peaceful valley of my home, the massacre that touches the same earth floor dirt on which I stand and gather bursting-open acorns, juxtaposition of death and life, my red root fingers dig for the meaning, for the karmic and cosmic balance, and all I can do is find a patch of softened moist soil, a spot that gets good sunlight, and I shovel a small hole with a jagged flat rock and lay the acorn inside the hole with the red root pointing toward the planet’s core.
“Something small must have a chance,”
I say to myself, and I cover the acorn with the supple ground.
I encircle the life burial plot with a mandala of 11 acorn caps, (you know the little hats that acorns wear) I make a circle, because circles are unbroken, because life should be unbroken, because something small must have a chance.
I close my eyes, and let the sun kiss me until I am warmed inside with the red of late afternoon, until I see the mightiest oak tree in my mind, 132 sprawling green limbs reaching up, up, up, for Heaven.
An Open Letter To My Daddy Anem (a non-poem) by upfromsumdirt
maaaan, i really wish yall'da made a world for yall then and not one for us today, because all of our tomorrows are borrowed. i really wish yall'da fought for land (mississippi, georgia, florida, 'bama) places to farm and fort and export... placing Black America on an actual map, an african american Writ Of Existence. maaaaan, with a land your own yall coulda built a car company, "university" universities without the need for culturally enabling signifiers. coulda built museums and rockets and slums as low-end shelter and not slums as black-face-hiders. yall coulda built a wall to stall the racists. a gall divider. green parks and industrial dumps all ours... maaaaan, but naawww... oppression turnt us into pacifists and dream-merchants with new access to pension plans... but no places for us to go in a pinch when those with the most rights are unruly. point blank: i wanna die a surprise and not die the price for equality insufficiently funded. maaaan, i recognize yall did yall's best teaching us to trust a system not built to embrace us. but that was wrong. and i dont want my own son singing this samosong in his letters to me.
I can't breathe by Mario Angel Escobar
In memory of Eric Garner
Officer, officer, My family is waiting for me. Please listen to me.
I can't breathe!
Officer, officer, I don't want to be another anonymous death in the holocaust of indifference.
I can't breathe!
Officer, officer, Don't let me fall on the sidewalk. Dirty pavement where I've been since the days of slave patrol. Ancestral language stripped naked in chains.
I can't breathe!
Officer, officer, people will missed me at the dinner table. I am lifeworthy. Please listen to me.
I can't breathe!
Officer, officer, The soul bleeds. Please don't let darkness open its jaw. Earthquake in my lungs.
I can't breathe!
Officer, officer, Don't deny me of that precious oxygen. This drum still beats strong.
I can't breathe!
Officer, officer, don't dismiss my plight. Don't erase my name. You and I travel together in this floating asteroid. Please let me be.
I can't breathe!
Officer, officer, Every time you see me, you try to mess with me. Please listen to me!
I can't breathe!
We Can't Breathe (no justice, no peace) by Odilia Galván Rodríguez
we witness
that without justice
there can be no peace
without justice
there can be no peace
no justice no peace
when we must raise our children
to be murdered at anytime
on these mean streets
by those whom we pay to protect us --
there is no justice
no justice no
PEACE
Free Birds by Xico González C/S
Black birds And Brown birds And White birds And Yellow birds And Red birds And Multi colored birds And Rainbow colored birds Fly together in rhythm Yearning to be free
Pajaritos y pajaritas Preparan nidos Para protegerse de los elementos Y de los golpes duros de la vida
Little birds prepare nests to protect themselves from the elements and the hard knocks of life
Perseverancia hace fuertes las plumas débiles de nuestras alas y de nuestras almas Volar es nuestro destino Duro es el camino pero se tiene que atravesar
Perseverance transforms feathers of wings and souls from weak to strong Flying is our destiny The trail is rough, but it must be crossed
Pájaros de todos colores No reconocen fronteras Se mueven de aquí pa’allá y de allá pa’ aca
Birds of all colors Do not recognize celestial borders and move freely in the immense sky
Pájaros de todos colores Piden libertad, respeto, Igualdad y justicia social
Birds of all colors Demand freedom, respect, social justice, and equality.
Black birds And Brown birds And White birds And Yellow birds And Red birds And Multi colored birds And Rainbow colored birds Fly together in rhythm United and free.
• Meet the Poets • Kai Coggin, upfromsumdirt, Mario Angel Escobar, Odilia Galván Rodríguez, Xico González
Kai Coggin is a full-time poet and author born in Bangkok, Thailand, raised in Southwest Houston, and currently a blip in the three million acre Ouachita National Forest in Hot Springs, AR. She holds a Bachelor of Arts in Poetry and Creative Writing from Texas A&M University. She writes poems of feminism, love, spirituality, injustice, metaphysics, and beauty. Kai has been published in Elephant Journal, Cliterature, The Manila Envelope, [empath], Catching Calliope and an anthology released summer 2014 called Journey of the Heart.
She released her first chapbook, In Other Words, in August 2013. Her first full-length book of poetry PERISCOPE HEART was published by Swimming with Elephants Publications in September 2014. She is also a Teaching Artist with the Arkansas Arts Council, specializing in bringing poetry and creative writing to classrooms around the state.
Kai knows that words hold the potential to create monumental and global change, and she uses her words like a sword of Beauty. She can be found most Wednesdays at Maxine’s, reading her poems into an open mic, hoping the wind carries her words out to the world. Find more about her at her website.
upfromsumdirt is a visual artist and poet who operates under the grand delusion that he is the spiritual lovechild of singer Nina Simone and artist Pedro Bell. he shares his work and life with author and professor, Crystal Wilkinson. he lives in Lexington, Ky where he is currently running their bookstore, The Wild Fig, into the ground. Eshu help him!
Mario A. Escobar (January 19, 1978-) is a US-Salvadoran writer and poet born in 1978. Although he considers himself first and foremost a poet, he is known as the founder and editor of Izote Press. Escobar is a faculty member in the Department of Foreign Languages at LA Mission College. Some of Escobar’s works include Al correr de la horas (Editorial Patria Perdida, 1999) Gritos Interiores (Cuzcatlan Press, 2005), La Nueva Tendencia (Cuzcatlan Press, 2005), Paciente 1980 (Orbis Press, 2012). His bilingual poetry appears in Theatre Under My Skin: Contemporary Salvadoran Poetry by Kalina Press.
Odilia Galván Rodríguez, eco-poet, writer, editor, and activist, is the author of four volumes of poetry, her latest, Red Earth Calling: ~cantos for the 21st Century~. She’s worked as an editor for Matrix Women's News Magazine, Community Mural's Magazine, and most recently at Tricontinental Magazine in Havana, Cuba. She facilitates creative writing workshops nationally and is a moderator of Poets Responding to SB 1070, and Love and Prayers for Fukushima, both Facebook pages dedicated to bringing attention to social justice issues that affect the lives and wellbeing of many people. Her poetry has appeared in numerous anthologies, and literary journals on and offline.
Xico González is an educator, artist, poet, and a political and cultural activista based in Sacramento, California. He received a MA in Spanish from Sacramento State, and a MFA in Art Studio from the University of California at Davis. González currently teaches Spanish and Art Studio at the Met Sacramento High School.
The work of Xico González seeks to empower people uniting in common cause against a common oppressor disguised in different máscaras. Gonzalez’s silkscreen posters address and support numerous political causes, such as the struggle for immigrants’ rights, the Palestinian and Zapatista struggles, and the right for Chicana/o self determination. González is not only an artist, but is also an activist/organizer that puts his artistic skills to the benefit of his community. Xico’s work contributes to the long dialogue of art, activism and the legacy of the Chicano Art Movement. González has been influenced primarily by his mentors, Chicano artists Ricardo Favela (RIP), and Malaquías Montoya, and by early Chicano art collectives like the Mexican American Liberation Art Front (MALA-F), and the Rebel Chicano Art Front also known as the Royal Chicano Air Force (RCAF).
0 Comments on QEPD Michele Serros. Floricantos Rock Rose and On-line. as of 1/9/2015 3:34:00 PM
Happy New Year!
2015 is off to a great start already. Here is my brand new Poetry Journal for 2015.
I need this journal because... It's time for the Poetry Seven to swing into action once again! This year we have set ourselves up to meet a huge challenge. We are going to work on a different poetry form every month, and post original poems on the last Friday of each month. I am excited
From my heart to yours… May your year be glorious and may you find where you belong May your steps all have a spring and may your lips be laced with song May you always see the good and may your days be filled with grace May your love be overflowing… as you seek the…
3 Comments on NEW YEAR’S BLESSINGS!, last added: 1/3/2015
Enjoyed the illustration and poem. Hot tea and a book sounds like my kind of choice!
Kathy Temean said, on 1/2/2015 3:46:00 PM
Carol,
My plans fell through, so I ended up revising a little on my book and then curled up with a book and watching the ball come down in TV. Couldn’t put the book down, so I didn’t get to bed until 4 am. Have you read Outlander? It is so good, except that she has written 8 books so far in the series and each is over 1100 words. I am on book four. I have a ton of new books that I want to read, but I keep wanting to read the next book of Outlander. Now I am trying to read two books at once. Not sure how that will work out. Wishing you a totally awesome 2015.
Santa is kicking back and enjoying himself the day after Christmas in this stain glass illustration sent in by Christine Brallier. It is from her children’s book, The Night Before Christmas. The illustrations were created by Christine using stained glass mosaics. http://www.cbmosaics.com/book/
This Christmas illustration was sent in by Ana Ocho to help us celebrate the day. Ana has worked with most publishers in Mexico (both private and government), doing picture books as well as school text books. She was featured at the beginning of the year on Illustrator Saturday. http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2014/01/11/illustrator-saturday-ana-ochoa/
Thank you Hally and Robin for sending in your December poems. I will post a couple more tomorrow and a few on Christmas, then you can vote on Friday. Please stop back an vote for your favorite Holiday poem. Have a Merry Christmas.
I thought this Saturday I’d bring you some of the Santa’s from past Illustrator Saturdays. Remember that not every illustrator has done an illustration of Santa. I am sure I missed some Santa’s, so if you were featured on Illustrator Saturday and have a Santa that you would like me to add, please email me with the illustration and I will add it to the celebration of Santa.
On November 24 La Bloga-Tuesday published an advance review of “Skin In The Game” without acknowledging the previous day’s announcement in Ferguson, despite jarringly ugly disconnects between reality and fiction.
Sabrina Vourvoulias remarks in her blog, Following the lede, how she feared a pro-cop sci-fi story she wrote might do harm since it would be published a day after the cop who murdered Michael Brown exited stage right, unindicted.
“Skin In The Game” features chicana detective Jimena Villagran, who strides into the heart of Philadelphia’s most dangerous neighborhoods where something is killing people, ripping them open and eating their organs. “Skin’s” dystopic Philadelphia uncomfortably mirrors the city's neighborhoods. Vourvoulias' journalistic eye further enhances the verisimilitude, the kind that gives good sci-fi its unnerving metaphors.
Both author Vourvoulias and publisher Tor worried that glorifying a monster-fightiing cop hero could damage people already tortured by the failure of process. “Skin In The Game” was to be published on December 2, a week following the November 24th announcement in Ferguson.
Vourvoulias believes words take on a life of their own, that people invest stories with meaning beyond the writer’s influence. She didn’t want her story of a good cop fearlessly fighting for Order and the Good to give a punch in the face to a reader working to make sense of systemic perversions of Justice.
“Skin In The Game” published on schedule, December 2, 2014, because, the editor reasoned, there might never be a week free from news of “hideous injustice”. Was that prescience, or experience?
The day following Tor.com’s publication of "Skin In The Game", New York found no reason to indict the cop in the choke hold murder of Eric Garner. But then, that’s a standard Unitedstatesian value: one hundred fifty years ago, Congress declared the November 29 Sand Creek Massacre an atrocity but allowed the commander to walk away unindicted.
Vourvoulias and her publisher resolved their concerns and published despite the clear contradictions between the fiction and the world as we have it. Similarly, La Bloga’s critical response to this work of art limited itself to the self-contained universe of the fiction.
The open issue screams out loud. Cops are not heroes, why does literature glorify them? Is it harmful to a reader to be rooting for the “good” detective to win when every day news abounds with one dead reason after another to distrust cops?
Persuasion research shows that people are drawn toward favorability of dissonant messages when an admired person advocates for the other side. The latitudes of attitude move away from favorability to the source, but toward favoring the issue. That’s in ordinary persuasion, like politics. Fiction can be perniciously influential. Could it be detective fiction is poisoning the common sense and survivability of a person confronted by a trembling cop with a Glock?
Leave a Comment to share your views. You’ll find the Comments link at the bottom of today’s column.
The Gluten-free Chicano What’s a Good Mexican Girl To Do?
The Gluten-free Chicano has a sweet tooth. Cookies, pies, birthday cakes, conchas, helotes, marranos, polvorones, are all off-limits to Celiacs and others afflicted by gluten intolerance.
Analogs look like edible food but only in one's imagination they're good. Now, poet reina alejandra prado has found what appears to be a productive way to indulge a Celiac's sweet tooth. Prado is the Good Mexican Girl in the eponymous bakery.
Click the link to visit the Good Mexican Girl, an artisanal bakery specializing in unique flavor profiles, says the website.
GMG's website observes, "The cornerstone of our business is a cookie - the one I call 'throw me a wedding shower' cookie, most popularly known as the Mexican wedding cookie or Russian teacake. It's buttery, nutty and just scrumptious with a hint of lemon and sweetness from the powder sugar. We made the original Gluten Free Mexican Wedding Cookie."
Here's the origins of the GMG's commitment to the Gluten-free community:
"� Several years ago, I learned about a gluten-free diet first from my friend Maya. She had to change her diet after under going a series of tests. After I underwent a food cleanse where I could not eat any foods prepared with enriched flour or wheat bread, I became more conscious of what is gluten-free. My awareness of the need for gluten-free products became more pronounced with my business. Clients would ask if I had gluten-free options. In November, with the pan de muerto (Day of Dead Bread), I baked our first gluten-free product.
We continued to produce gluten-free treats with the traditional Mexican sweet bread La Rosca de Reyes and with Mexican Wedding Cookies.
It’s been a joy to meet virtually and in person other Latinas who haven’t been able to eat their favorite sweet breads and now can happily enjoy them again in gluten-free form."
The Gluten-free Chicano isn't uncritical about GMG products, especially the claim "We can make any baked good with gluten-free flour. We make our flour blend that includes Rice Flour or Brown Rice Flour, (whichever one is available), Potato Starch, Tapioca Flour, and Xanthum Gum."
"Any" certainly is possible. But as noted, analogs suck, so the Gluten-free Chicano is not ever again buying "bread" or "cake" or "pie crust" made to be gluten-free. The cookies, now that's a different matter.
Full disclosure: The Gluten-free Chicano enjoys Prado's poetry but has yet to taste her cooking. When he finally has the opportunity to scarf down some GF galletas, La Bloga will report the Good Mexican Girl's success. If it's sweet and dunkable, I'm sure I'll like it. I hope I like it. Oh please.
Faltamos 43! On-line Floricanto Frank Acosta, Ivonne Gordon Carrera, Tara Evonne, Victor Avila, Xico González
“Warrior Poets Rise (Sovereignty, Justice, Peace)” by Frank Acosta “AYOTZINAPA” Por Ivonne Gordon Carrera “Mezcla,” by Tara Evonne "El Pañuelo Negro" por Victor Avila "Semillas de Ayotzinapa" by Xico González
Warrior Poets Rise (Sovereignty, Justice, Peace) by Frank Acosta
The stories are blood flowing thru you Our people’s truth, worthy to be told In solidarity, set us free to awaken The strumming of dormant heart-chords Searching for sacred songs of purpose Your words are those of the ancestor’s Spirit voice returning in wisdom Your offerings of soulful flor y canto The silenced stanza of a departed child’s poem Verses of the lost, to violence, ignorance, greed Tyrannical avarice would still humanity for gold Shackled deep inside the belly of the beast Songs, poems, & prayers of the warrior poet A confluence of hearts, minds, and souls Flesh & spirit, present & past, one great circle Let word and deeds flow in transformative love Sentinels of sovereignty and sanctity of all creation
Frank de Jesus Acosta is principal of Acosta & Associates, a California-based consulting group that specializes in professional support services to public and private social change ventures in the areas of children, youth and family services, violence prevention, community development, and cultural fluency. In 2007, he authored, The History of Barrios Unidos, Cultura Es Cura, Healing Community Violence, published by Arte Publico Press, University of Houston. Acosta is a graduate of University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA). His professional experience includes serving in executive leadership positions with The California Wellness Foundation, the Coalition for Humane Immigration Rights of Los Angeles (CHIRLA), Downtown Immigrant Advocates (DIA), the Center for Community Change, and the UCLA Community Programs Office. He is presently focused on completing the writing and publishing a two book series for Arte Publico Press focused on best practices to improve the well-being of Latino young men and boys. Acosta most recently co-authored a published “Brown Paper” with Jerry Tello of the National Latino Fatherhood and Family Institute (NLFFI) entitled, “Lifting Latinos Up by Their Rootstraps: Moving Beyond Trauma Through a Healing-Informed Framework for Latino Boys and Men.” Acosta provides writing and strategic professional support in research, planning, and development to foundations and community-focused institutions on select initiatives focused on advancing social justice, equity, and pluralism. He is also finalizing writing and editing a book of inter-cultural poetry and spiritual reflections.
AYOTZINAPA Por Ivonne Gordon Carrera
Ayotzinapa, hace poco no podía pronunciar tu nombre. Ahora no sólo lo pronuncio, no sólo lo repito, sino que es una herida abierta en la tierra. Es una violación de la tierra, 43 hijos de vientres heridos claman, Ayotzinapa ya no es una palabra, ya no es un lugar. Ayotzinapa es un monumento a la violencia, es un campamento de jardines descompuestos. Es un grito, un aullido, es cicatriz y carne viva. Ya basta. Ya nos cansamos de tanto ataúd y vitrina.
Ayotzinapa, not long ago I could not pronounce your name. Now I pronounce it, now I repeat it, now it is an open wound of the earth. The ground has been raped, 43 sons of wounded wombs cry out. Ayotzinapa, it is no longer a word, it is no longer a place. Ayotzinapa is a monument of violence, It is a camp of decomposed gardens. It is a yell, a howl, it is a scar of live flesh. Enough, we have become tired of caskets and showcases.
I became the mix of all those before me las abuelitas enduring me de méjico y españa my mix of dark and light all I’ve ever known to be true my red heart beating brown never did I believe mankind this corazón migrating when distraught a daughter trusting life somewhere else when flying sideways I became torn my parts fluttering the effects of long term generational genocide buried under the rubble of mankind all my relations ancestors praying alongside determined to protect women and children I became the written poetry across maps of great divides hate created by mankind I became the shooting star tearing across early dawn sky a woman kind of star dusting trailing for others to follow the collective movement of survival.
Tara Evonne Trudell is a recent graduate with her BFA in Media Arts from New Mexico Highlands University. While in school she developed a passion in combining the many forms of multi media with poetry to address social issues. In this process she discovered her own purpose and commitment to using these medias to create art and movement. It has become her goal to offer work that instills and emotional impact in the viewer. Her work can be viewed at www.taraevonnetrudell.com
"El Pañuelo Negro" por Victor Avila
para mg
Porque yo no tenía el poder de un gobierno corrupto detrás de mí, O la farsa de un medio cobarde que no pudo hablar la verdad en mi nombre. Porque me habían amenazado a punta de pistola pensando que sería suficiente para garanitzar mi silencio - O porque muchos habían desaparecido ya que iba a tener demasiado miedo a levantar la voz. Pero hoy me di cuenta" ¿Qué otra cosa pueden hacer me a mí que aún no lo han hecho?" Las madres de Juárez claman por sus Hijas asesinados Y los fantasmas de los hombres olvidados persigan el puente donde les colgaron. ¿Qué más pueden hacer me? Se llevaron todo de mí y eso fue su mayor error porque también tomaron mi miedo. Y ahora que ya no estoy asustado… Si yo no hable hasta ahora sólo tengo yo la culpa cuando la policía venga llamar a mi puerta. ¿Son esos sus mismos camiones que se aproximan? Y este simple pedazo de tela alguna vez insignificante y que ahora significa algo más. Saludo con la mano en la cara de esos cobardes que tomaron los 43 Enojado levanto en mi puño agitándolo, agitándolo. Ya no voy a utilizarlo para enjugar mis lágrimas o los de mis hermanos y hermanas. Es mi bandera para enfrente a enormes obstáculos. Si me voy del mundo sepan que no estoy derrotado, que México no esta derrotado, y que nos traerá los 43 a casa.
Victor Avila is an award-winning poet. Recent work has been included in the anthology Overthrowing Capitalism and Revolutionary Poets Brigade-Los Angeles. Victor is also the writer and illustrator of the series Hollywood Ghost Comix. Volume Two will be available on Ghoula Press in February of 2015. He has taught in California public schools for twenty five years. This is his eighteenth appearance in La Bloga and would like to thank the moderators of Poets Responding to SB 1070 for that honor.
"Semillas de Ayotzinapa" by Xico González
"Nos querían enterrar pero no sabían que éramos semillas."
Sol, tierra, agua, cuerpo- semilla rebelde que enterraron para luego brotar como rabia y rebeldía
Casas campesinas están tristes Lágrimas corren por las milpas porque los elotes salados de tristeza y dolor fueron cortados verdes con machetes amellados en manos bruscas y ladronas que no perdonará Dios
Ese maíz nunca llegará a ser nixtamal, masa o tortillas Ni nutrirá las mentes y las almas de jóvenes guerrerenses
Mujeres del color de la tierra no tocarán a ese maíz con sus delicadas manos ni lo purificarán en el metate
Las milpas extrañarán a esas mazorcas por el resto de sus días Oh, frutos de vida decansen en la madre tierra hasta volver a brotar y calmar el hambre de justicia de nuestro pueblo.
Educator, artist, poet, and a political/cultural activista based in Sacramento, California.
0 Comments on Is detective fiction killing us? Gluten-free treats from a good Mexican girl. On-line Floricanto: ¡43 Presente! as of 12/9/2014 4:49:00 AM
It’s after midnight when the phone rings. Time for a study break, she commands. I head out for a neighbor’s apartment building, gratified for the distraction from the term paper.
My knuckles tap shave-and-a-haircut on the front door then I listen for someone inside to stomp the floor twice, or call out in two-bits rhythm “come in!” Nothing.
They laugh a lot behind the green door. I hear excited shouts of “Wow!” and "Uu, groovy." People talked like that in 1966. The door's unlocked.
I push open the door to see five people bent at the waist, fingers in their ears, dancing weirdly and laughing wildly. They are swinging wire coat hangars that dangle from their necks, gyrating side to side in a manic dance, striking the wire against furniture and shouting in pleasure.
Interior Gongs
That was my introduction to Interior Gongs.
Undergraduate study breaks went like that sometimes. Wild and out of left field. There was the night we levitated the drama starlet who later ran off with a professor. And the night the swamp creature freaked us out. But those are transitory events, like the night Greco taught Bob Dylan to do the dog. You had to be there.
Nowadays, gente just push buttons on their $500 telephone and replay a movie of everything. Interior Gongs are "old tech" bordering on quintessential rasquasche. In fact, eschewing luxury you'll find few cheaper and easier ways to pass time come that brief December day when weather locks you inside--or during Dead Week and Finals study breaks--than Interior Gongs.
Fashioning Interior Gongs as a group activity gets everyone involved from the git-go, no gloomy gus sitting around watching. Once everyone is swinging their Interior Gongs, even the most curmudgeonly will jump in and do the dance.
Materials 1 ea wire coathangar. 1 ea sewing thread.
Procedure Untwist the hook end of the wire coat hangar and pull apart the ends to form a wire U. Hangars with cardboard tubes are ready-to-tie by removing the tube. Plus, they have half-loop ends. Measure an arm’s length of thread and cut to length. Tie the string to the open ends of the wire. Bend over the wire to ensure the string doesn’t slip off.
Using Your Interior Gongs Wear the string over your head and across your ears. Position string across a thumb or finger tip and gently press and hold the string in the ear hole. Bend slightly at the waist to allow the Interior Gongs to hang freely. Move your shoulders slowly side-to-side until the wire strikes a solid object.
To observers, the action is silent. Your ears are filled with mighty reverberating peals.
Interior Gongs makes a great holiday gift! Make six of them and give as a matched set.
Alhambra Artist Sale at Ma Art Space
Yolanda Gonzalez' studio resides in a quiet industrial park. It's worth the easy drive from anywhere in Southern California. Heck, the quality of art and jewelry at the annual event makes a drive from Arizona or Texas worthwhile.
Gonzalez' paintings command major league prices because they are major league works. She also has smaller pieces and ceramics that have Yolanda Gonzalez style without the MOMA prices.
Luring me to Gonzalez' space is the rare opportunity to see Sergio Flores' silver and gold wearable sculpture. Flores brings three cases filled with pins, aretes, necklaces, bracelets, rings. He work features gems like amethyst, ruby, tourmaline, coral, onyx, fire opals of incredible brilliance. Sergio will design custom pieces. I ask him to convert pierced earrings to clips for my wife's ears.
Gonzalez' niece has a tabletop where she sells watercolors and ceramics. I am going to pick up at least one of her black ceramic skulls for my calaveras collection.
Located at 800 South Palm Ave #1 Alhambra CA 91803, Alhambra, California (626) 975-4799, Ma Art Space is just south of a large Costco so if you've driven from Texas you can gas up at Costco.
San Antonio Aztlán Libre Celebrates Two New Collections
Los Angeles La Palabra Lines Up Poet Laureate & Friends
La Bloga friend Karineh Mahdessian writes:
We are completing my first year of becoming the hostess with the mostest. What better way than to celebrate but to welcome black man of happiness, Peter J. Harris, poet laureate of Los Angeles Luis Javier Rodriguez and singer of Las Cafeteras Hector Flores. Our circle will be round. Our open mic will be open. I will smile, hug and laugh. Please bring money to purchase the new poetry Bless the Ashes publishes by Tia Chucha Press.
On-line Floricanto: ¡Faltamos 43! Alma Luz Villanueva, Paul Aponte, Francisco X. Alarcón, Felix García, Graciela Vega
December opens with five poets joining voices with last month's 13 for Ayotzinapa On-line Floricanto. As with last month, the poems are nominated by Moderators of the Facebook group, Poets Responding to SB1070 Poetry of Resistance.
"Forty-three Lost Sons, Each One" by Alma Luz Villanueva "No estamos lejos de mi México" por Paul Aponte "Ayotzinapa Haikus & Tankas" by Francisco X. Alarcón "El corrido de los 43 estudiantes" por Felix García "Itzpapalotl: Prayer for the Dead" by Graciela Vega
Forty-three Lost Sons, Each One by Alma Luz Villanueva
La Llorona y Coatlique, weeping mother, skull mother, dangerous, alive mothers,
give birth to our lost 43 sons, you know their names, each one,
sing their names, each one, scream
their names, each one, remember their names,
each one, our 43 lost sons who wait at your womb
gate, give them light, give them light,
each one.
**To the 43 so young men teachers in training, massacred in their Mexico lindo y querido--we will remember each one.
Alma Luz Villanueva was raised in the Mission District, San Francisco, by her Yaqui grandmother, Jesus Villanueva- she was a curandera/healer from Sonora, Mexico. Without Jesus no poetry, no stories, no memory... Author of eight books of poetry, most recently, 'Soft Chaos' (2009)- and a new collection, 'Gracias,' to be published in 2015. A few poetry anthologies: 'The Best American Poetry, 1996,' 'Unsettling America,' 'A Century of Women's Poetry,' 'Prayers For A Thousand Years, Inspiration from Leaders & Visionaries Around The World.' Four novels: 'The Ultraviolet Sky,' 'Naked Ladies,' 'Luna's California Poppies,' and the most recent, 'Song of the Golden Scorpion.' The short story collection, 'Weeping Woman, La Llorona and Other Stories.' Some fiction anthologies: '500 Great Books by Women, From The Thirteenth Century,' 'Caliente, The Best Erotic Writing From Latin America,' 'Coming of Age in The 21st Century,' 'Sudden Fiction Latino, and 'Prayers for a Thousand Years.' The poetry and fiction has been published in textbooks from grammar to university, and is used in the US and abroad as textbooks. Has taught in the MFA in creative writing program at Antioch University, Los Angeles, for the past sixteen years. Alma Luz Villanueva now lives in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, for the past nine years, traveling the ancient trade routes to return to teach, and visit family and friends, QUE VIVA!! And taking trips throughout Mexico, working on stories and memoir, always the poetry, memory. www.almaluzvillanueva.com
"No estamos lejos de mi México" por Paul Aponte
Hoy quitan las vendas de sus ojos, desvisten los susurros, sueltan su gran voz, y su son quiebra el cristal transparente de sus gobernantes.
¡Poder a mi México!
La música de mí México es bellísima: Amistades por doquier, fiestas por cualesquier, vecindades entretejidas en sarapes coloridos. Valentía de sobras, y familias de obras. Trabajadores de gran ética, y pueblos de gran estética. Posibilidades económicas para cantar, y todos listos para subir a su albar.
La música de mi México es bellísima y el tiempo de acción es hoy!
Traigan su música a los pasillos gubernamentales, y con su música limpien esas sillas, paredes, escalones y pisos y sáquenle brillo – un hoy y futuro nuevo. La revolución de renovación. El águila devorándose a la serpiente.
Erradiquen las palabras altisonantes, las frases elocuentes que dicen nada, y las explicaciones exculpatorias para que la frase de arriba desaparezca.
Si nomás “tomás” - te vas al “arrás”!
El nuevo lema.
Los que sí quieren justicia, los que sí quieren la paz para todo mexicano, los que sí practican lo de Don Benito Juárez, los que sí escuchan a los Emilianos Zapatas, los que sí toman acciones para un mejor México, los que sí están listos para librar la música de México, son los que deben dar liderazgo a México.
Porque: México grita por justicia. México somos todos. México somos 43. México mide 43x43. México llueve 43, un número primo, único, indivisible.
Paul Aponte is a Chicano poet from Sacramento, California USA. Paul, was a member of the performance poetry group "Poetas Of The Obsidian Tongue" in the 90's, and now is a member of "Escritores del Nuevo Sol". He is the author of the book of poetry "Expression Obsession" published in 1999, and has been published in "La Bloga" and in the book "Un Canto De Amor A Gabriel Garcia Márquez"
"Ayotzinapa Haikus & Tankas" by Francisco X. Alarcón
o burning fire o flower of words – Ayotzinapa!
“Ayotlinapa” — great Pregnant Turtle weeps for her sons
* * * * * * * * * *
oh fuego vivo oh flor de palabras — ¡Ayotzinapa!
“Ayotlinapa” — gran Tortuga Preñada llora por sus hijos
"El corrido de los 43 estudiantes" por Felix García
Cuarenta y tres estudiantes, De noche se los llevaron Policias municipales Al narco los entregaron En presencia de soldados Se hicieron que no miraron.
Amí no me queda duda Es terrorismo de estado Tres niveles de gobierno Estaban involucrados Con sus narcos militares Y el crimen organizado.
Masacre de Ayotzinapa No eres un caso aislado En Acapulco copreros Cayeron asesinados Por pistolero a sueldo Pagados por el estado.
Narco estado mexicano Represivo y criminal De Ayotzinapa, Aguas Blancas Sin olvidarnos de Acteal Son genocidios de estado De lesa humanidad.
Nos han cerrado la lucha Pacífico, electoral Sólo nos queda un camino Que es la guerra popular La autodefensa del pueblo De la bota militar.
De insensato, irrresponsable Vas a llamar mi corrido Si no tomamos a las armas Nos van a quemar los niños En Hermosillo, Sonora La justicia nunca vino.
Guerra sucia no ha parado En este estado costero Desde los años 70s No encuentran los guerrilleros 1200 camaradas Del estado de Guerrero.
La normal de Ayotzinapa Tiene principios muy finos Lucio y Genaro salieron A defender campesinos Genaro Vázquez y Carmelo Te vigilan el camino.
43 estudiantes Son hijos del mundo entero Con un diluvio de amor Te esperamos con anhelo Con cantos de libertad Desde tu pueblo sincero.
Vuela, vuela palomita Palomita de la paz Si vivos se los llevaron Vivos deben regresar Tlateloco los espera Pa’ que vengan marchar.
"Itzpapalotl: Prayer for the Dead" by Graciela Vega
A poem for our 43 young sons whose dreams were cut before the harvest
Tzinaka call into the night prayers for the dead Tzinaka call into the night prayers for the dead Search for our babies until we have them again
Tzinaka flex your muscles sparrow wing soar Tzinaka flex your muscles sparrow wing soar Safe in our homes to laugh and play
Tzinaka find our disappeared with your night voice Tzinaka find our disappeared with your night voice locate their injured bodies to give us peace.
Graciela Vega Cendejas born in Michoacán, Mexico and raised in the Central Coast. She earned a BA both in Film and Video Production and Gender and Feminist Studies. An artist, organizer, educator and cultural promoter Graciela Vega is raising her two children, promoting the arts with Hijos Del Sol Arts, arts non-profit and teaching in a dual-immersion program at Alianza Charter School in Watsonville, CA. Following the example of the National Writing Project philosophy, Graciela Vega models writing in her classroom alongside her middle school students.
On-line Floricanto Bonus
On Friday last week, Manuel Ramos marked the completion of our tenth year. Xánath Caraza, who shares los Monday with Daniel Olivas, contributed a poem that has since become a You Tube hit. Click the link here to read along with the poet as she reads Aterrizando en St. Louis, Missouri por Xánath Caraza.
Today is the first Tuesday of La Bloga's Eleventh Year. A day like any other day, except you are here. Thank you for reading La Bloga.
0 Comments on Interior Gongs Puro Fun. News 'n Notes. On-line Floricanto as of 12/2/2014 5:15:00 AM
Michelle Henninger sent this illustration in to help us celebrate Thanksgiving. Michelle prefers a traditional approach of pen/ink, and watercolor: with a touch of digital thrown in for good measure. She is a member of the Society for Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators, she was a New England SCBWI Ann Barrows Illustration Scholarship recipient. She was the first 2014 featured illustrator on Illustrator Saturday. She is represented by Christina Tugeau at CATugeau.
THANKSGIVING PRAYER
by Eileen Spinelli
Thank you for the world–still sweet.
Thank you for the food we eat.
Thank you for the honeyed sun
that spoons its light on everyone.
Thank you for the leaves that fall
in glowing piles near the wall,
for kindness in a stranger’s face
and every unexpected grace.
Thank you for the starry dark,
for children laughing in the park,
for cozy towns and sleepy farms,
for dreamers, dancers, babes in arms.
Than you for all hearts that sing
of hope in spite of everything.
Fall Favorites
by Carol Murray
Pumpkins, round, upon the ground,
and children playing ball,
Scarecrow tips his tattered hat,
and waves to one and all.
Sleek black cats on fuzzy mats,
reclining, large and small,
and every size has starlit eyes,
like diamonds at The Mall.
Wine is chilled, and home is filled
with friends, both short and tall.
Hooray! Hooray! Thanksgiving Day.
Favorite things of Fall.
by Carol Murray
A Thanksgiving Toast
Here’s to years of happiness
and months of sunny skies,
To weeks of reaching mountain peaks,
and days of caring eyes,
To hours of hope and tenderness,
and minutes of delight,
On second thought, we wish you love,
We’re giving thanks tonight.
Thank you to Michelle, Eileen, and Carol for sharing their work to help us celebrate Thanksgiving. Hope everyone enjoys the day.
Winners:
Darlene Beck-Jacobson won Gayle Aanensen’s book BETTER THAN GOLD.
Joanne Roberts won SPAGHETTI SMILES by Margo Sorenson.
Congratulations! Winner please send me your addresses so they can be sent out.
You may wonder why I did not post the poems for the Thanksgiving Poem Contest yesterday. That is because Carol Murray was the only one to send in a poem for the contest and the default winner. Thank you Carol.
Love Michelle’s painting…making pumpkin pie :) The poems by Eileen and Carol are wonderful, too! Congrats to the winners and a Happy and Safe Thanksgiving to everyone! :D
Chris Tugeau said, on 11/27/2014 5:39:00 AM
THANK YOU for another year of daily care and information for our industry! Enjoy the day of giving thanks one and all!
Helena Bogosian said, on 11/27/2014 6:41:00 AM
Happy Thanksgiving!
darlenebeckjacobson said, on 11/27/2014 7:44:00 AM
What a lovely Thanksgiving surprise! Thanks for the wonderful poems and the gift of reading. Can’t wait to get the book: Better Than Gold! Happy Thanksgiving to all!
CB (@chrisjbehrens) said, on 11/27/2014 9:38:00 AM
When I was in the Army I decided I would kill anyone who faced me in war, but I found myself on a Korean mountaintop and didn't face the truth. My friend Mario Trillo, who was getting shot-up in Vietnam the same time I was in Korea, wrote the other day that each successive kill lightened the load on his conscience. Killing another person, the thought of it even, weighs on a person.
So what is it that allows people to kill forty-three fellow people in an act of pitiless deliberateness? Who gives the orders? And when mass grave after mass grave after mass grave turned out to be not the 43, hope for the missing teaching students dimmed:
43 estudiantes de la Escuela Normal Rural Raúl Isidro Burgos, de Ayotzinapa, Tixtla, en el Estado de Guerrero, México, están desaparecidos desde el 26 de septiembre de 2014. Vivos se llevaron. Vivos los queremos.
The students murdered in Iguala were locals. The narcos were locals. The cops were locals. They saw each other on the street. They'd looked into each other's eyes before. Some grew up together.
The imperial couple were cosmopolitan, de la primera clase. The students, the professor, the campesino--the 43--were los de abajo. They would have been teachers, the victims. They could have been teachers, the gunmen. Two roads diverged not long before Iguala.
Shoulda. Woulda. Coulda. I grieve. You grieve. We grieve. Today, 13 poets grieve the 43. !Faltamos 43!
On-line Floricanto: 13 for the 43 Iris De Anda, Marcela Ibarra Mateos, Betty Sánchez, Sonia Gutiérrez, Xánath Caraza, Sharon Elliott, Viva Flores, Daniel Vidal Soto, Patrick Fontes, Jan G. Otterstrom, Andrea Mauk, Nephtalí De León, Carolina Torres
"Ayotzinapa: Rojo Amanecer" Por Iris De Anda "Mamá, si desaparezco, ¿a dónde voy? / Mother, If I Disappear, Where Do I Go?" By Marcela Ibarra Mateos (Trans. Sonia Gutírrez) "Todos Somos Ayotzinapa" Por Betty Sánchez "Los huesos hablan / Bones Speak" By Sonia Gutiérrez "Espuma Sangrante" Por Xánath Caraza "Semillas de Ayotzinapa" By Sharon Elliott "Lucecitas, para Ayotzinapa" Por Viva Flores "A Poster Asks to Find the Missing 43" By Daniel Vidal Soto "La Llorona Weeps Once More" By Patrick Fontes "Hijos perdidos" Por Jan G. Otterstrom "Mexico, My Mirror" By Andrea Mauk "43 Howls of the Soul" By Nephtalí De León "Nudo" Por Carolina Torres
Ayotzinapa: Rojo Amanecer Por Iris De Anda
tápame los ojos que ya no puedo ver el duelo de mi país otro rojo amancer el gobierno es maestro de oscuridad los estudiantes ejercen la luz es por eso que los de arriba dan órdenes para apagar el fuego del pueblo pues les ilumina su corrupción pero les falla su matanza porque por cada vela que apagan se enciendien 43 más y más y más cuarenta y tres semillas de luz digna rabia se estremece el mundo entero la humanidad está de luto y los 43 viven en su llanto no dejes que te llenen de miedo la justicia es tu arma y el sol tu aliento porque otro rojo amanecer no podemos aguantar sigue luchando mi gente presente la luz es de quien la enciende tu voz es un altar recordamos a los caídos los levantamos en nuestro gritar Ya Basta Ayotzinapa tu sembraste un campo de ideas ahora la cosecha despierta ombligo de México nace tu revancha el gobierno no se queda impune porque el pueblo se levanta levantate hermano levántate ya tus compañeros te apoyan desde el desierto y la montaña cruzamos fronteras unimos las manos tu duelo es el mío y tu noche la mía marchamos con luz de dia exigimos justicia - Abel García Hernández - Abelardo Vázquez Peniten - Adán Abrajan de la Cruz - Alexander Mora Venancio - Antonio Santana Maestro - Benjamín Ascencio Bautista - Bernardo Flores Alcaraz - Carlos Iván Ramírez Villarreal - Carlos Lorenzo Hernández Muñoz - César Manuel González Hernández - Christian Alfonso Rodríguez Telumbre - Christian Tomás Colón Garnica - Cutberto Ortiz Ramos - Dorian González Parral - Emiliano Alen Gaspar de la Cruz. - Everardo Rodríguez Bello - Felipe Arnulfo Rosas - Giovanni Galindes Guerrero - Israel Caballero Sánchez - Israel Jacinto Lugardo - Jesús Jovany Rodríguez Tlatempa - Jonas Trujillo González - Jorge Álvarez Nava - Jorge Aníbal Cruz Mendoza - Jorge Antonio Tizapa Legideño - Jorge Luis González Parral - José Ángel Campos Cantor - José Ángel Navarrete González -José Eduardo Bartolo Tlatempa -José Luis Luna Torres -Jhosivani Guerrero de la Cruz -Julio César López Patolzin -Leonel Castro Abarca -Luis Ángel Abarca Carrillo -Luis Ángel Francisco Arzola -Magdaleno Rubén Lauro Villegas -Marcial Pablo Baranda -Marco Antonio Gómez Molina -Martín Getsemany Sánchez García -Mauricio Ortega Valerio -Miguel Ángel Hernández Martínez -Miguel Ángel Mendoza Zacarías -Saúl Bruno García
Iris De Anda is a writer, activist, and practitioner of the healing arts. A womyn of color of Mexican and Salvadorean descent. A native of Los Angeles she believes in the power of spoken word, poetry, storytelling, and dreams. She has been published in Mujeres de Maiz Zine, Loudmouth Zine: Cal State LA, OCCUPY SF poems from the movement, Seeds of Resistance, In the Words of Women, Twenty: In Memoriam, Revolutionary Poets Brigade Los Angeles Anthology, and online at La Bloga. She is an active contributor to Poets Responding to SB 1070. She performs at community venues and events throughout the Los Angeles area & Southern California. She hosted The Writers Underground Open Mic 2012 at Mazatlan Theatre and 100,000 Poets for Change 2012, 2013, and 2014 at the Eastside Cafe. She currently hosts The Writers Underground Open Mic every Third Thursday of the month at Eastside Cafe. Author of CODESWITCH: Fires From Mi Corazon. www.irisdeanda.com
Mamá, si desaparezco, ¿a dónde voy? Por Marcela Ibarra Mateos
Solo sé que si desaparecieras te buscaría entre la tierra y debajo de ella.
Tocaría en cada puerta de cada casa. Preguntaría a todas y a cada una de las personas que encontrara en mi camino.
Exigiría, todos y cada uno de los días, a cada instancia obligada a buscarte que lo hiciera hasta encontrarte.
Y querría, hijo, que no tuvieras miedo, porque te estoy buscando. Y si no me escucharan, hijo; la voz se me haría fuerte y gritaría tu nombre por las calles. Rompería vidrios y tiraría puertas para buscarte. Incendiaría edificios para que todos supieran cuánto te quiero y cuánto quiero que regreses.
Pintaría muros con tu nombre y no querría que nadie te olvidara. Buscaría a otros y a otras que también buscan a sus hijos para que juntos te encontráramos a ti y a ellos.
Y querría, hijo, que no tuvieras miedo, porque muchos te buscamos. Si no desaparecieras, hijo, como así deseo y quiero.
Gritaría los nombres de todos aquellos que sí han desaparecido. Escribiría sus nombres en los muros. Abrazaría en la distancia y en la cercanía a todos aquellos padres y madres; hermanas y hermanos que buscan a sus desaparecidos.
Caminaría del brazo de ellos por las calles.
Y no permitiría que sus nombres fueran olvidados. Y querría, hijo, que todos ellos no tuvieran miedo, porque todos los buscamos.
Mother, If I Disappear, Where Do I Go? By Marcela Ibarra Mateos
I do not know, son. I only know that if you would disappear I would search between the earth and beneath her. I would knock on every house door. I would ask every and each person who would cross my path.
I would demand each and everyday, every instant obliged to search for you until you are found. And I would want, son, for you not to fear because I am looking for you.
And if they would not listen to me, son;
my voice would grow strong, and I would bellow your name through the streets. I would break glass and tear down doors to find you. I would burn down buildings so everybody would know how much I love you and how much I want you to return.
I would paint murals with your name, and I would not want anyone to forget you. I would search for others who are also looking for their children, so together we would find you and them. And I would want son for you to not be afraid because we are looking for you. If you would not have disappeared, son, as I wish and want. I would bellow the names of all those who have disappeared. I would write their names on walls. I would embrace in closeness and in the distance all those fathers and mothers; sisters and brothers who are looking for their disappeared.
I would walk arm in arm with them through the streets. And I would not allow their names to be forgotten. And I would want, son, for all of them not to be afraid because we all searched.
Translation by Sonia Gutiérrez
La Dra. Marcela Ibarra Mateos es profesora e investigadora de la Universidad Iberoamericana Puebla en el Departamentos de Ciencias Sociales con experiencia de investigación en migraciones transnacionales; jóvenes rurales, participación comunitaria, y migración.
Sus publicaciones y ponencias han sido presentadas en foros internacionales, nacionales y locales. Publicó el libro Entre Contextos Locales y Ciudades Globales. La configuración de circuitos migratorios Puebla-Nueva York, co-coordinado con Liliana Rivera Sánchez y que reúne textos sobre migración poblana. Recientemente publicó el libro Jóvenes, migración e identidad, como resultado de un proyecto de investigación financiado por INDESOL.
Desde sus inicios ha impulsado el trabajo de investigación articulado a iniciativas de desarrollo local. Particularmente en localidades de Puebla se ha desarrollado trabajo participativo transnacional con organizaciones de migrantes y con familiares en sus localidades de origen.
Todos Somos Ayotzinapa Por Betty Sánchez
Mi nombre puede ser el tuyo Yo soy Ayotzinapa Estudiante normalista Residente de Guerrero Padre hijo hermano amigo Culpable del crimen De desear superarme De enseñar en un aula De defender mis derechos Y oponerme a la injusticia
Pienso luego desaparezco En un auto gubernamental En una burocracia a favor Del poderoso e influyente En un sistema municipal Federal y judicial corrupto En un gobierno que vende Impunidad al que puede pagarla En manos de sicarios Al servicio del mejor postor
Protesto luego desaparezco Me encontrarás de rodillas En el patio de la policía preventiva En una fosa clandestina Con el cuerpo calcinado Brutalmente torturado Desollado con las cuencas De los ojos vacías Símbolo del abismo sombrío En que vive mi gente
Mis opresores no dan la cara El Presidente municipal Huye con permiso y gastos pagados El Gobernador niega estar involucrado El Presidente de la República Se dirige a su pueblo Diez días después de lo acontecido Pronunciando un discurso Con cara de aflicción Y balbuceando promesas endebles
El silencio ya no es una opción No soy un caso aislado Soy un crimen de estado Victima del terror blanco El reflejo de una sociedad Donde la muerte violenta Es un asunto cotidiano Noticia internacional Evento del momento Como lo fue Tlatelolco y Acteal
No somos los primeros Pero queremos ser los últimos Ahora somos 43 desaparecidos Antes de nosotros Decenas cientos miles Todos somos Ayotzinapa Su lucha y su dolor son los nuestros Únete a mi grito de indignación Y solidaridad
¡VIVOS SE LOS LLEVARON VIVOS LOS QUEREMOS!
Betty Sánchez En respuesta a los acontecimientos ocurridos el 26 de Septiembre del 2014 En Iguala Guerrero
Photo by Andres Alvarez
Betty Sánchez, madre, maestra, poeta, ciudadana indignada por lo acontecido en Iguala Guerrero en Septiembre del 2014.
Los huesos hablan Por Sonia Gutiérrez
“Ayotzinapa: río de las calabacitas” Los perros se comportaban como si fuera el último hueso. Pero los dueños sabían que había toneladas de huesos almacenados en sus casas blancas, en Los Pinos, y en los palacios de gobierno. Esos patrimonios achicaban las casitas de Ayotzinapa.
Pero los huesos no eran mudos; hablaban. Los huesos se asomaban por los cimientos, y por eso los dueños mandaron crear jardines botánicos para apaciguar su conciencia y distraer a sus invitados importantísimos.
Quinientos años después, debajo de la avaricia y del odio continuo contra nosotros mismos, los dueños nos dejan máscaras rojas sin piel y con los ojos picados. Y desde el río de las calabacitas, los huesos se apoderaron del sentimiento de la nación y lo encendieron.
Pisamos fuerte por nuestros hijos e hijas con y sin huaraches, con tenis o zapatos, con sandalias o botas, este suelo sagrado que nuestros antepasados caminaron, dejando atrás el miedo haciendo temblar a los domadores que olfatean el dinero, el miedo y se arman hasta los dientes.
Está claro; los huesos sí hablan: ustedes, los cuarenta y tres valientes, sembraron semillas sin miedo— existe el sueño mexicano digno de cultivar.
Bones Speak By Sonia Gutiérrez
“Ayotzinapa: river of little squash” The dogs behaved as if it were the last bone. But the owners knew there were tons of stored bones in their white houses, at Los Pinos, in government palaces. Those patrimonies dwarfed the little houses of Ayotzinapa. But the bones were not mute; they talked. Bones peered through the foundations, and for this reason the owners created botanical gardens to appease their conscience and distract their very important visitors. Five-hundred years, underneath continues greed and hate against ourselves, the owners leave us skinned red masks with minced eyes, And from the river of little squash, the bones took over the sentiment of the nation and lit it.
We step firmly for our sons and daughters with orwithout huaraches, with tennis shoes or shoes, with sandals or boots, this sacred ground our ancestors walked, leaving behind fear, making the tamers, who sniff money, fear and arm themselves to the teeth, tremble.
It is clear bones do speak: you, the valiant forty-three, planted fearless seeds— the Mexican dream exists worthy of cultivating.
Sonia Gutiérrez is the daughter of two Michoacanos. She teaches English Composition and Critical Thinking and Writing at Palomar College. La Bloga is home to her Poets Responding SB 1070 poems, including “Best Poems 2011” and “Best Poems 2012.” Her vignettes have appeared in AlternaCtive PublicaCtions, Mujeres de Maíz, City Works Literary Journal, and Huizache. Her bilingual poetry collection, Spider Woman/La Mujer Araña (Olmeca Press, 2013), is her debut publication. Kissing Dreams from a Distance, a novel, is under editorial review. To learn more about Sonia, visit SoniaGutierrez.com.
Espuma Sangrante Por Xánath Caraza
Para los 43 estudiantes de Ayotzinapa
Este mar que lame el arena Olas hambrientas Testigos sonoros Luna de agua con ojos quietos Inmóviles palmeras mudas frente a mí Caminan los rayos del amanecer en las calles Marchan ante el contenido rugido del mar Aves migratorias en el horizonte Con ellas vuelo Arena salmón lamida por la espuma sangrante Mientras cuarenta y tres niños perdidos Gritan en tus líquidas rojas entrañas Aullidos sordos, aullidos sordos En este mar estático que ruge Ruge mar, ruge, ruge sus nombres Para la eternidad
(11 de octubre de 2014, Acapulco, Guerrero, México)
Bleeding Foam By Xánath Caraza
For the 43 missing students from Ayotzinapa
The sea licks the sand Hungry waves Resounding witnesses Moon of water with quiet eyes Mute, immobile palm trees before me Dawn sunrays walk through the streets They march before the restrained roar of the sea Migratory birds on the horizon I fly with them Salmon sand licked by bleeding foam While forty-three lost children Howl in your liquid red entrails Silent screams, silent screams In this static sea that roars Roar, sea; roar, sea. Roar their names For eternity
(October 11, 2014, Acapulco, Guerrero, Mexico)
Xánath Caraza’s bilingual poetry and short story collections are Sílabas de viento/Syllables of Wind (2014), Noche de Colibríes: Ekphrastic Poems (2014), Lo que trae la marea/What the Tide Brings (2013), Conjuro (2012), and Corazón Pintado: Ekphrastic Poems (2012). She writes the column, “US Latino Poets en español”. Caraza is a writer for La Bloga and for Revista Zona de Ocio, and teaches at the University of Missouri-Kansas City (UMKC). She is an advisory circle member of the Con Tinta literary organization.
Semillas de Ayotzinapa By Sharon Elliott I hoped I could construct a barrier between us like surgical gauze or a blanket made of fir needles from the forest floor to keep the horror at bay pero a veces esperanza no sirve
instead a dream came gently on a warm south wind to a room with whitewashed walls worn wooden floors for dancing llena de estudiantes gozando la vida
in one corner an argument loud voices arms gesticulating wildly hands raised in clenched fists above heads sure of themselves como compañeros sure that even if agreement was not reached the truth would be told
in another corner a muchacho with hands soft tender touches the face of his beloved yearning she receives his caricias con una sonrisa and a delicate sigh
at a long scrubbed table a portly guy with a laugh big and jovial like his stomach fills a plate tamales and chicharrones and all the joy it can hold while his friends bring cerveza to wet his whistle so he will tell a joke
on the stage a boy plays his guitar virtuoso notes rain from strings like pearls and bullets his throat forms words nuggets of gold
those waiting outside go for the gold leave their humanity behind
when I wake I know los jovenes son nuestros they are our children still grown though they may be
desaparecidos they might be dead or unable to come back from a different kind of death we may not understand
my lips say “soy Ayotzinapa” my body growls “soy Ayotzinapa” my brain shouts “soy Ayotzinapa”
my heart cries “los jovenes de Ayotzinapa son yo”
“they tried to bury us, they didn’t know we were seeds trataron de enterrar , que no sabían que éramos semillas”
Born and raised in Seattle, Sharon Elliott has written since childhood. Four years in the Peace Corps in Nicaragua and Ecuador laid the foundation for her activism. As an initiated Lukumi priest, she has learned about her ancestral Scottish history, reinforcing her belief that borders are created by men, enforcing them is simply wrong. She has a book: Jaguar Unfinished, Sharon Elliott, Prickly Pear Publishing 2012, ISBN-13: 978-1-889568-03-4, ISBN-10: 1-889568-03-1 (26 pgs); and has featured in poetry readings at Poetry Express and La Palabra Musical in Berkeley, CA. She was awarded a Best Poem of 2012, The Day of Little Comfort, in La Bloga Online Floricanto Best Poems of 2012, 11/2013, http://labloga.blogspot.com/2013/01/best-poems-of-2012.html.
Lucecitas, para Ayotzinapa Por Viva Flores
“Ahora que/vamos a hacer/buscando cuarenta y tres luciérnagas/ con/ frascos de miel/ ahora que/vamos a hacer.”
Dice la alquimia que las esencias se transmutan solo con intención- leña a polvo, polvo a leña los ciclos acaban como se empiezan y no hay materia que se transforma a nada.
Históricamente, el silencio del fuego nunca ha servido para ocultar los gritos de las bocas cerradas y la gasolina no fue hecha para derramar en las caras, en una pila de cuerpos.
Hay una madre en su cama llorando como niña en su infancia, exigiendo justicia como alimento pero no le dan nada. Una mañana guardando el silencio esa misma mujer carga a su arma. Cuidado con la que ha perdido todo- ya no le pueden quitar nada.
México, cuarenta y tres luciérnagas calcinadas han encendido las puertas de tu casa, dieron luz a tu palacio empolvado- un manojo de gusanos retorciéndose por plata.
A Cuauhtémoc le quemaron los pies los europeos pero el Tata nunca se dio. Sus huesitos derritiendo candentes de valor.
Los guerreros nunca mueren solo se transmutan, cambian de color.
Copyright 2014 Viva Flores. All rights reserved.
Viva Flores is a regular contribute at Balck Girl Dangerous. She studied Literature at University of Texas at El Paso.
A Poster Asks to Find the Missing 43 By Daniel Vidal Soto
I
You’ll never find them Take the posters And wrap them in a sailboat Headed to the moon Across la frontera through the bridge To America’s house
Weep even for those who cross in safety Safe enough to begin a family For the kids, weep again Into the realization The American Dream does not exist The schools really are also a prison If we survive even this
Do it because Alhambra has forgotten Nahua’s agua through the well Take the poster into a solid dream Write poems and death notes Stepping stones Drowned beyond tomorrow
II
A crushed bag Bottle of Bibs and bitings Teeth inked Beyond Gold badge and copper wire Silent eye Talisman crosshair Silentium Silentium beyond the fire
III
Crushed van Bone paint Some moan A splint of femur In the neck The neck breathing Aveoli and An eye beyond the fence
IV
Mayor’s wife Cheaper than Yesterday’s piss Golden locks And thinking She’s white Uncle Sam’s Cock sucker Ass bender Money fucker Spirit twister Cold eyed non-sister Hope the furnace forgive What the earth And all our – not your – children Can sing again in bigger choir
V
I see My friend Being arrested And I tell him It’s no different Jamaican, Trinidadian Dominican, Haitian Puerto Rican Moreno, Indio, Mestizo The Trinidadian Parade Announced We Ready Habibi has already played Through the warm Egyptian air
VI
There’s a beat Coming in my stomach My fingers touch Through the cotton Singing incantations What was it she said – Sana, Sana Taking the knife And cutting away the cloud An egg shell appears Brighter and more promising Than the eye It is an oval and white As is its halo
Daniel Vidal Soto is author of "Demon in Plastic", and has been published in Cloudy City Press, Brooklyn Paramount, thosethatthis, La Bloga Floricanto, and the Nerds of Color. He currently pursues an MFA in poetry at Long Island University - Brooklyn, where he teaches and is working on his second book of poetry. He roots himself in Acuña, Coahuila, Mexico and the North Side of Fort Worth, Texas.
"La Llorona Weeps Once More" by Patrick Fontes
Last night I heard La Llorona weeping Echoes along the shores of Texcoco In anguish along Chapala The Pánuco And Rio Grande Her hands bloodied Stained with the sangre of her hijos Slain in her madness in Guerrero
Copyright 2014 Patrick Fontes. All Rights Reserved.
Currently I am a PhD candidate in history at Stanford University. My research involves border issues, Mexican religion, the Virgin Mary, immigration into the Southwest, and the criminalization of Chicano culture.
I grew up in Fresno, in a working class Chicano home. During the Mexican revolution my great grandfather, Jesus Luna, crossed the border from Chihuahua into El Paso, then on to Fresno. In 1920 Jesus built a Mexican style adobe house on the outskirts of the city, it is still our family’s home and the center of our Mexican identity today. Nine decades of memories adorn the plastered walls inside. In one corner, a photo of Bobby Kennedy hangs next to an image of La Virgen de Zapopan; in another, an imposing altar to Guadalupe.
The smells, voices, sounds, hopes and ghosts of familia who have gone before me saturate my poems.
HIJOS PERDIDOS por Jan G. Otterstrom
Tengo siete hijos no se encuentran entre los desaparecidos, pero en una pausa momentánea comparto el dolor de padres, madres, su carga preciosa carne de su carne pequeñas voces riendo pateando sus balones oraciones sinceras cuando los pusieron a dormir, asegurando el amor de una familia ahora en peligro o para mal Padres indefensos solamente pueden recurrir a Dios.
Poet, Jan Otterstrom Fonnesbeck, born 1944 in San Francisco, California presently living in Costa Rica, Central America. Retired: BA Brigham Young University (English) Hart-Larson Poetry prize 1967. J.D. Gonzaga, University 1972, MBA INCAE Costa Rica 1992, Poetry books "Ibis Of Imaginings A poetic Diary 1965-1994" Costa Rica; "Telar" 2005 Ediciones Union UNEAC Cuba; "Suite De La Habana" 2008 Coleccion Sur UNEAC Cuba; "Gatherings Collected poems 2006-2011" 2011 Xlibris, USA: "Portal Fragments of Journal Entries 2011-2012" Y Mountain Press BYU; "To Return Home" 2013 Y Mountain Press, BYU; "Eleven Degrees North" 2014 Y Mountain Press BYU 2014; "Often There Post-Script and Orchid" Y Mountain Press 2014. His books are available at Barnes and Noble, Amazon, BYUBookstore.com, UNEAC, La Habana Cuba and Cuban Bookstores. “Telar” is in a second edition of 5000 copies and sold in South America. Web page: www.janotterstrom.com
Mexico, My Mirror by Andrea Mauk
If I did not believe in divine connection between everyone and everything I could write this poem solamente about 43 43 from Ayotzinapa, Guerrero 43 estudiantes innocentes 43 normal teachers to be pobres destined to teach más pobres, not unlike me, but I can no longer see one incident isolated individually There are 43,000,000,000 stars above that tell me it isn't so, y ya me cansé.
I must peel the cataracts from my eyes, unstitch the lips silenced by promised kisses of butterflies, patch together my heart cut to pieces by control and lies. I can cry for the parents, wail with los abuelos, stand in shock con las novias, in despair with los hijos. I feel the pain of towns full of citizens that clang together hollowed with fear, the people that watch over their backs each day in narco states, those that now pray for faster relief from blinged out narco saints, I can question Our Lady as to how can she let this be, but I cannot stop there. Ya me cansé.
Mexico is my mirror that shines on the world. I slide it up, turn it towards our 50 states, examine one side of the coin in exchange for the other, Grand white houses and bellies filled with greed reflect upon each other. People starved of caring and meaning and faith Silenced by a system that rules with the gun But no longer represents, And all of us normales fragmented like splintered stars scrapping to fight for this cause or that, grappling for change that's just beyond reach, not able to unburden ourselves from history's scars.
Leaden soldiers have no hearts, puppet leader have no brains and whoever runs the show is buried at the core of the nesting dolls that we've yet to discover. And the drug trade that exists for whom?
(Long Pause) y ya me cansé.
My eyes no longer jaded, stitches removed from my lips, the smoke in my mirror has vanished. I can take it no more. No more senseless poverty, judgment, death or war in the name of God or glory or power or oil. And the meek shall inherit whats left of the earth for La Revolución 43 has begun. Ya me cansé en Mexico. Ya me cansé in the Middle East Ya me cansé in Africa Ya me cansé in the deadly American streets.
The dust of 43,000 crushed bones and 430,000 dientes pulverizados and uncountable fragments of hopes and dreams float above this world of chaos, marking the unknown graves. The universe forms clouds of shame, persistent memories of war. Doesn't that truly reflect who we are...
Connect the stars. Connect the dots. The mirror reflects back on us.
November 13, 2014
Andrea Garcia Mauk grew up in Arizona, where both the immense beauty and harsh realities of living in the desert shaped her artistic soul. She currently calls Los Angeles home, but has also lived in Chicago, New York and Boston. She has worked in the music industry, and on various film and television productions. She writes short fiction, poetry, original screenplays and adaptations, and is currently finishing two novels. Her writing and artwork has been published and viewed in a variety of places such as on The Late, Late Show with Tom Snyder; The Journal of School Psychologists and Victorian Homes Magazine. Both her poetry and artwork have won awards. Several of her writings are included in the 2011 anthology, Our Spirit, Our Reality. She currently teaches elementary theatre for the Los Angeles Unified School District. She is producing an original musical with her 5th grade students this December in Cudahy, CA. She is also in the midst of a cookbook project in which she seeks to make recipes classic healthier. Visit her cookbook website at http://www.corazonenplatillo.com
sad pigeons in Iguala wept in Juan Álvarez Street when the government police shot at Ayotzinapa Aldo was hit on the head busloads of students were dead 43 of them corralled prisoners taken ahead
vuela vuela palomita limpia tus lágrimas de oro dí que’l más grande tesoro las joyas de Ayotzinapa las mutilaron del mapa
cerca de Cocula un río lleno de ranas y peces tiemblan pero no de frío es el llanto de un hallazgo bolsas de plástico hundidas gente desaparecida
fue el 28 de Septiembre del año 2014 un tiempo sin igualdad como duele recordar allá por Iguala Guerrero cuando entregan a los presos 43 normalistas al cartel de los Priístas que´s que Guerreros Unidos degenerados bandidos
a Julio Cesar lo hallaron desollado de su cara his eyes and his skin were missing sin ojos ni piel en cara y el presidente de lujo paseando por el mundo entero ni al propio gobernador se le ocurrío penar luto the national signs of mourning were Mexico´s tears next morning
dígame gobernador diga señor presidente dónde los 43 si vivos se los llevaron ¡ vivos los quiero presentes !
tristes palomas de Iguala por calle Juan Álvarez lloran al ver policías del gobierno con balas para Ayotzinapa una en la cabeza de Aldo muertos camiones de alumnos 43 ya redados prisioneros del estado
take wing little dove take wing wipe off your teardrops of gold tell the world of the treasure the jewels of Ayotzinapa massacred without measure
close to Cocula the river trembles with fish and with frogs it shivers but not with the cold there´s 43 howls in the waves plastic bags full of remains lost in their watery graves
on the 28th day of September in the year 2014 it hurts me so much to remember the things of inequity days when in Iguala Guerrero the 43 Normalistas by police they were delivered to Priístas and Cartel Guerreros Unidos both bandits degenerates all from hell
when Julio Cesar was found his face was peeled back unbound two empty holes in his sockets where his eyes should have been found the president in full luxury travels around the world not even the governor said there´s mourning and we´re all sad el dolor se hizo presente de México al día siguiente
governor will you tell me Mr. President will you tell me where are the 43 you took them from us alive alive do we want them back !
Nephtalí De León, is a poet, author, playwright, and muralist painter. A migrant worker, he published his first book while a senior in high school, which was the last experience with formal education that he cared to be involved with. Some of the author´s publications are: Chicano Popcorn (poetry), Chicanos: Our Background and Our Pride, (essays in prose), -- Coca Cola Dream; Hey, Mr President Man! (both, poetry), I will Catch the Sun (for children), and others. Translated into Chinese, Russian, Arabic, Catalan and other languages, he has been published in USA, Mexico, France and Spain. His latest activity has been collaborating with the making of movie “Vamos al Norte” in Spanish with English subtitles, awaiting theatrical release. His dream is to have Mexica Chicano Natives de-colonize themselves from misnomers such as “Latinos” and “Hispanics,” which he says hold us as psycho/physical hostages of ourselves in a self-colonizing perpetuity that needs chains broken.
Nudo Por Carolina Torres
Hoy te gritaré con la desesperación de 43 voces hasta que incontables puños encendamos los cerillos que desaten la esperanza, arderá el amor y no necesitaremos más carteles con fotografías empapadas en llanto de madres, nunca más será domingo así no tendrás permiso de muerte, ni bala, ni fuego, ni fosas, no, no habrá verde olivo con pestilencia de Estado capaz de atravesarte, hoy correrás a los brazos de la ternura y ya no tendremos que clamar por vivir o morirnos, hoy desaparecemos los dinosaurios.
Carolina Torres. Tegucigalpa, Honduras (1989). Estudiante de la carrera de Medicina en la Universidad Nacional Autonoma de Honduras. Su poesía ha sido incluida en Honduras: Golpe y Pluma, Antología de poesía resistente escrita por mujeres (2009-2013), Miembra del Movimiento poético Las de Hoy. Miembra activa de la Asociación Nacional de Escritoras de Honduras, ANDEH. Ha participado en Festivales internacionales de Poesía de Centroamérica.
QEPD los 43
0 Comments on ¡Faltamos 43! as of 11/18/2014 2:59:00 AM
Gayle Aanensen’s new 88 page novella, GREATER THAN GOLD hit the book shelves this week. It is now available on Amazon and will appeal to anyone who celebrates Christmas.
Greater than Gold is the story of two troubled boys and their two Christmases—Oscar in the present day, and Omar way back in biblical time. A good description would be The Polar Express meets The Book of Luke. After all, if a magical train ride can restore a boy’s belief in Santa Claus, why can’t an angel time-travel Oscar back to Bethlehem, where he discovers the peace, joy (and danger!) of the very first Christmas. Twelve-year-old Oscar Olsen is missing his soldier Dad, and he wants nothing (repeat, nothing) to do with Christmas this year! He acts out his anger on his Mom, his friend, Melissa, and even the strange new kid in church, Albert. A young, inexperienced angel, still struggling to control her wings, appears in Oscar’s bedroom. She tells Oscar that her official alphanumerical name is too long, so he can call her Earth Angel 10. She whirls him back to 2,000 years ago, where he becomes Omar, an orphaned camel-boy, riding with the Magi. Omar is a brand-new person in the traditional nativity story. Young readers will be drawn into the boys’ two parallel stories, told in alternating chapters.
Ten days ago, I featured Margo Sorensen new book, SPAGHETTI SMILES and forgot to offer everyone a chance to win a copy her wonderful book illustrated by David Harrington who was featured on Illustrator Saturday. So we are offering the book give-a-way this week.
So if you leave a comment to this post you will automatically have a chance to win GREATER THAN GOLD OR SPAGHETTI SMILES.
If you reblog, tweet, post on your facebook page you will get an extra ticket with your name paced in the hat. This will definitely up your chances for winning one of the books. You can comment now and then do the other things later, but please come back before the deadline and let me know how many things you did. Both will make a nice gift for the holidays. Good luck!
The Unusual Stew by Robert Zammarchiwas voted as the best Halloween poem.His prize is a featured post right here on Writing and Illustrating. He can choose to use it right away or hold on to it for when he wants to talk about something special. Thank you to everyone who submitted poems and to everyone who voted.
I think everyone enjoyed this, so I am going to do the same thing for Thanksgiving. If you have a poem or an illustration inspired by the holiday, please email it to me at: Kathy(dot)temean(at)gmail.com – Please put THANKSGIVING POEM or THANKSGIVING ILLUSTRATION in the Subject Box.
Agent Alex Slater
Remember to submit your first pages for this month. It is the last one for this year.
Here are the guidelines for submitting a First Page in November:
In the subject line, please write“November First Page Critique” and paste the text in the email. Please make sure you include your name, the title of the piece, and whether it is as picture book, middle grade, or young adult, etc. at the top.
Plus attach your first page Word doc. to email. Format using one inch margins and 12 point New Times Roman font – double space – no more than 23 lines. First page should not be submitted with two pages. Send to: kathy(dot)temean(at)gmail(dot)com.
PLEASE FOLLOW THE GUIDELINES: Last month a number of submissions were taken out of the mix, due to not following the directions for both the pasted email and the attached Word doc.
Congrats to Robert on the win! And you bet I’d love a book! SPAGHETTI SMILES looks right up my alley! lol
darlenebeckjacobson said, on 11/14/2014 8:16:00 AM
Who wouldn’t want a chance to win one of these awesome books. I tweeted, posted to FB and reblogged. Best of luck to the authors!
darlenebeckjacobson said, on 11/14/2014 8:17:00 AM
Reblogged this on Darlene Beck-Jacobson and commented:
For a chance to win one of these great new books, go to the website and leave a comment.
Margo Sorenson (@ipapaverison) said, on 11/14/2014 8:46:00 AM
Kathy, thank you so much for doing this! Writersideup and darlenebeckjacobson, grazie mille for joining in the fun! :)
writersideup said, on 11/14/2014 10:04:00 AM
It’s OUR pleasure, Margo! :D
sspratt2010 said, on 11/14/2014 12:41:00 PM
Spaghetti Smiles and Greater Than Gold – thanks for the giveaways. I tweeted too.
Margo Sorenson said, on 11/14/2014 1:32:00 PM
Grazie mille, sspratt!
katmaz2012 said, on 11/14/2014 1:51:00 PM
Thanks for the inspiration!
Carol Federlin Baldwin said, on 11/14/2014 3:53:00 PM
I’m a new Dave Harrington fan; would love to win his Spaghetti Smiles book. Thanks for entering me.
Margo Sorenson (@ipapaverison) said, on 11/14/2014 4:39:00 PM
Ciao, katmaz2012 and Carol Federlin Baldwin — Grazie for stopping by! Yes, I am a David Harrington fan, too! :) Glad you could be inspired, katmaz2012!
I’ve been a Veteran since August 1970, forty-four years since I walked away from Ft. Lewis Washington, discharge in hand but still in my Class A uniform. In a curious parallel, that was early in the predawn darkness, just like that January day in 1969 when my busload of inductees stood in the predawn fog of Ft. Ord.
Ever wonder what to say when you learn someone was once boots on the ground? Veterans of my era will spin you some memories to one or more of these conversation ice-breakers. I was Army, other services have similar answers. Kids from Bush and Obama’s Iraq and Afghan wars are likely to understand the questions--the answers are the cement that links a majority of Veterans with one another.
What was your MOS? Military jobs have code numbers, the Military Occupational Specialty, M.O.S. The best known is eleven-bravo, 11B, Infantry. Me, I was trained as an oh five bravo intermediate speed morse code radio operator, a defunct trade in military communications, even then. Assigned to a rugged anti-aircraft missile site guarding MiG Alley at the Korean DMZ, I worked an oh five charlie field wireman's job. Mid-tour I lucked out and took a job in the Colonel’s office, writing military propaganda as an acting 71Quebec Information Specialist.
Short and Shorter. Sedano 3d from right, with shades.
When did you DEROS? Short, short-timer. We counted the days until we would “get back to the world.” Upon arrival overseas, clerks calculate your Date Estimated Return from Overseas. If all goes as planned, you’ll be heading for the airport on your "dee-rhos" date. Not every Veteran served overseas. A stateside post meant serving the full two year hitch. Draftees doing one of the hardship tours—Vietnam and Korea—often put in a thirteenth month in order to earn discharge upon DEROS. I put in thirteen months, two weeks, three days, seventeen hours seven minutes and thirteen seconds in Korea, but who’s counting, que no?
RA or US? Did you sign up, or were you Drafted? Draftees were assigned US serial numbers, volunteer tipos were Regular Army. On the sidelines were ER and NG, Enlisted Reserve and National Guard. The latter pair did Basic Training then went home. Everyone in today’s military are RA, or in barracks vernacular, Lifers. For a long time I knew my serial number by reflex. It was stamped on the dog tags to identify our bodies. I've forgotten the number now, and that's a good thing.
Would you want to see your grandchildren in uniform? Not involuntarily.
Would you do it again? Gente I know, to a man and woman say, Yes. I told an Army recruiter friend that I would go if I could take the place of one of the kids he was signing up. No way in Hell would I volunteer for the Draft, but if they called me again, I'd go.
Veterans and active duty wearing a uniform get free chow at a number of chain restaurants today. A DD214 gets you fed, too. So there's that.
Veterans get to understand important yet amorphous concepts like Duty and Honor. I remember telling a friend about my cannon fodder post had the north invaded. The friend asked why I would hold my ground instead of running before it was too late? I told him it was my Duty. His eyes told me I was a fool. Así es.
Not short.
Take This Man Grossly Captivating Memoir
Review: Brando Skyhorse. Take This Man. NY: Simon & Schuster, 2014.
ISBN 9781439170878
Michael Sedano
Take This Man, along with its author Brando Skyhorse, occupy a unique spot along the continuum of U.S. ethnic literatures. These people, Brando and his mother, aren’t chicanos, but could have been. And they aren’t Indians, but they’re passing. His mother prefers fantasy history and invented Indianness, she becomes Running Deer Skyhorse, her son Brando Skyhorse, son of a chief. This is Identity run awry.
Take This Man revolves around Maria Skyhorse’s story, but at the memoir’s core lives a boy looking for a father in the men his mother regularly brings home. They all leave. Then she finds a replacement. Herein lies a challenge for readers: don't judge.
Maria’s acts gouge with such ferocity they steal the spotlight from Skyhorse’s more intimate explorations, overwhelming the author’s memories in his struggle to sort out identity and family and fatherness from his mishmash of an upbringing.
Skyhorse engrosses his reader with sordid details that make it tough to like that woman, Brando’s mother. While disgusted readers will grow furious at events, the author denies them an ally in their feelings. Skyhorse's tone is nearly emotionless, he refuses the reader's escape valve for the horror. The only release is turn the page, there's more.
It’s hard not to judge the people Skyhorse had in his life, not to want to spread chisme about those lowlife fathers, so consistently awful the child’s memory of fathering is a guy ferreting out hiding places, robbing piggy banks to buy a night’s drinking and gambling. Mother's not dumb but the easy way out is her route, such as her work-at-home telephone sex worker job. It brought in good cash and she didn't have to give up her food stamps. Marie laughed, ate well, and grew fat.
The little boy’s life is so gutwrenching I find myself wondering that people like this live among us, asking myself, he can’t be making up this stuff, can he? Skyhorse pulls off a tour de force voicing disarming neutrality. Animated wit and punch-line paragraphs add depth to the mostly fast-moving account. It’s a challenge separating the creative from the nonfiction. Just turn the page.
The crud just piles up for this boy. Five husbands, lots of boyfriends, flings on the road, Vegas, Reno, Tahoe, ritualized humiliations. One example suffices to illustrate the savagery of Brando’s mother, her insanity, and Skyhorse’s own neutrality as he recounts a time he couldn’t produce some coupons to pay for a bus.
The mother shouts, I’ll just leave you here! You’ve taken enough of my life from me! Mother’s fury and hatred for men finds at-hand Brando easy pickings, normally with her mouth. In this instance, however, Maria gets lethally physical.
My mother grabbed my throat. Then she pulled me across the trailer the way a girl would drag a lifeless doll up a flight of stairs. She threw me shivering onto the bathroom floor and then snatched one of Nakome’s leather knife holsters and stabbed at my neck with it…. My mother wrapped her hands around my neck again and pushed my face in the toilet water while I flailed my short arms trying to reach the flush handle.
After Maria locates the boxtops she explains to the son how his carelessness led to the bathroom incident. Skyhorse matter-of-factly clarifies her logic for the reader, Not being given the box tops wasn’t an excuse; I should have asked for them.
The slight bitter aftertaste here is among the few instances where the memoirist’s otherwise controlled voice deviates from its straightforward, low-affect style. This son does not judge his mother. The author, ever a good son, won’t have readers criticize her, either. That’s just the way she was, this is what is available to remember.
Which, of course, is not what happens. Brando Skyhorse, the writer, isn’t disingenuous in what he’s chosen to recall and detail. That mother so burdens his life it takes over the book. The son-writer runs out of room for his main goal, and only skims the surface of the boy’s understanding of fathering and his relations with his biological father and daughters. Then again, the author notes, he hasn’t got this worked out yet.
With Take This Man, Brando Skyhorse should have exorcised the demons of his mother and fathers. He said good things about most of the men. He was kind to his mother and in that way gets back at her. Now the author can rekindle the spark seen in Madonnas of Echo Park, and hinted at in the Bukowski homage of this memoir, to drop the "creative non-"and get on with it.
On-line Floricanto for November 11, 2014 Elizabeth Cazessús, Henry Howard, Ashley Garcia, Jackie Lopez, Iris De Anda
Los Rehenes, Elizabeth Cazessús Guilty of Being Brown (Showdown in Arizona), Henry Howard Illegal, Ashley Blessing for James' Place, Jackie Lopez #bringbackourgirls, Iris De Anda
Los Rehenes Por Elizabeth Cazessús
…el viento del crimen a la altura del delirio. Rodolfo Hasler
es la hora de escribir un poema acerca del mundo de diagnosticar las formas en que amedrenta con su odio y deslava el rostro de la sinrazón para justificar mil malabares políticos
es hora de escribir que estamos al acecho de ladrones, de gangsters, de la avaricia de la falta de libertad y la zozobra de la mezquina relación de las entelequias
es hora de callar lo escrito aquello que no tiene razón en la sobremesa congestionadas las entropías mediáticas ante verdades telúricas y tan llanas
es hora de nombrar en lo oscuro la íntima ejecución de los días la denuncia, el porvenir y la esperanza con un silencio atroz que no deje dudas
es hora de contar metrallas, muertos, a los que corren, de ver la película en las calles y al desnudo dilucidar acaso en la espesura de ciertas e inexplicables densidades
es hora de escribir un poema acerca del mundo de éste y no del otro repleto de metáforas ya no podemos escapar, no hay letras de salva Somos rehenes de la impunidad que nos cohabita.
(del libro Hijas de la Ira)
Guilty of Being Brown (Showdown in Arizona) By Henry Howard
I had a nightmare the other night. I dreamed I went to buy the morning paper, And the headline screamed For all the world to see, “SB1070 Declared Fully Legal!” And I cried, because I knew I was now legally unwelcome here.
My mother took the paper and milk from me With trembling hands, And told me in her soft Mexican voice That Papa had been arrested on his way to work. For the crime of driving without a Green Card, He was found Guilty of Being Brown.
We did not have time to kiss him goodbye, Or even make him a sandwich On his way back to a country he had not seen In twenty years.
I woke with my heart pounding, And my eyes full of tears. I slowly relaxed, Realizing it was just a dream.
Then I drove to the store in my first car, And the morning paper screamed For all the world to read, “SB1070 Declared Fully Legal!”
It was my 16th birthday, and now I, too, Had been found Guilty of Being Brown.
I am a Los Angeles activist and Peace Poet, whose literary focus has been on human rights since 2001. Published most notably as a featured writer on Quill and Parchment.com, and the legendary Sam Hamill's global anti-war poetry protest, Poets Against the War (beginning in February, 2002), my most recent work was published as a full-length compilation of peace and justice poetry called "Sing to Me of My Rights: Poems of Oppression and Resistance" (editor/publisher Mark Lipman, Vagabond Books 2014). Immigrant rights have been a focus of my street-level activism since 1980, when I learned in college of the murder of El Salvador Archbishop Oscar Romero--followed, of course, by the rape/murder of the four U.S. churchwomen that December. I was active in the Sanctuary Movement from 1984-98, and a member since 1986 of Refuse and Resist! and La Resistencia. I have never been to our Southern border, but it looms large in my consciousness. The horror of our country's involvement in the collective Central American slaughter, and the residual xenophobic policies towards immigrants, both documented and undocumented, reflected in legislation such as SB1070, haunts me to this day, and inspires me to take to the streets. I have one philosophy that sums up all my activism, including my writing: NO HUMAN BEING IS ILLEGAL!
Contact me about the poem or order my book. I am also available for readings at public and private events, and will travel to Arizona, Northern California or Nevada to share my work at open-mic events. EL PUEBLO UNIDO! JAMAS SERA VENCIDO!
Illegal By Ashley
You say I am illegal because of my flesh, Racism-pigmentocracy, Separation-marginalization, Apartheid, a race apart. Even after the laws change, Discrimination still exists Cradling fear and fight of flesh-hood Same flesh, different color. Illegal, So is it my flesh, my body, or my being?
You say I am illegal because of the land I stand on. I do not belong here. The land sits underneath the sky, Shall we fight over clouds? However, this is no different than the land I was born from. Migration to illegal immigration, I am, me, the im- in immigration, The prefixed knot in the rope, The prescribed not of ‘im’ and ‘il’ Illegal, So is it the land, my body, or my being?
You say I am illegal because of love, An endearing criminal at best, Same heart, different passion, Love is not a crime. What matters is within: not the shape of our skin 377: I went sleep in 2013 and woke up in 1860, Illegal, So is it my heart, my body, or my being?
You say the I of me, the me of I is- Illegal. The law versus: Land, love, and life, No! No being is illegal, Neither my body, flesh, nor heart, Not even my soul, It is time, To set my soul afire and let it free.
This poem was first published on Orinam on Dec 20, 2014 at http://orinam.net/illegal/ and is being republished with permission of the author
Ashley was born and raised in Southern California. Her parents are from Mexico. Ashley has been published both online and in-print. A poet, aspiring writer, and is currently learning classical dance. This poem "Illegal" was first published on Orinam on Dec 20, 2014 at http://orinam.net/illegal/ and is being republished with permission of the author
Blessing for James' Place By Jackie Lopez
James, I bless you from the tip of my hat to the bottom of your feet. James, never covet another’s house because your place is blessed for having feasted. I do believe you are entitled to a blessing. I do believe you become disjointed at the ends when I don’t come around. Don’t worry. I will come around every Thursday night at 7 in between meals. I happen to have happiness around. I happen to have a misnomer claiming that I am “mad,” but that is how it should be because I am quite the crazy little pajama party girl. The mockingbird is singing outside of your studio. The melancholy moon is twisting in her bed. She heard you have blasted fun. The pavement to your studio has been watered by daffodils. The encouragement of the nonchalant is ever present. There’s an artistic renaissance running around naked in your studio. There’s a show girl at your doorstep. There’s a criminal lurking around, but you know better, there is never a love that can be considered a crime. If you watch your watch words, you will find me misbehaving.
When I was lost and had no matrimony to offer, you took me in. When the painters, poets, musicians, prophets, dancers, and one-night-stands came by, you gave them an apple dessert to eat. It so happens that I have come a long way from my home, and I am able to salute you on a happening basis. When the ticket to the train I was going on fell through, I took to hiding in between the sheets. Now I have you to call friend. If ever you need a helping hand, if ever you are lonely and blue, call me telepathically. I shall send the angels to rescue you because you deserve it, James Watts-and you, too, Juan Pazos. Thursday night dinner is for dancing and being ludicrously in love. It is for harnessing a misbehavior and going about town. It is for the young at heart and for the philanthropists. I summon all the powers of the Universe Complete to bless your studio now and forevermore or for as long you endeavor to stay home. When I saw your rocket scientist artwork, I became a lucid woman. Simple things mean so much more when they are shared with friends. So, keep on trucking. I shall meet you on the other end of a transcendence.
Jackie Lopez is a poet and writer from San Diego. She was founding member of the Taco Shop Poets and has always pursued a study of history of which has influenced her writing. She has taught in San Diego City Schools and has been published in several literary journals. She has just finished her Magnum Opus titled “Telepathic Goodbye” described as a long poem of 25, 333 words. She is now looking for a publisher for this. You can catch her work on facebook under “Jackie Lopez Lopez” where she shares her work with a daily poem. She has a radio interview that will come out later this year. Her email: [email protected]
#bringbackourgirls By Iris De Anda
ruby rage shouts escape as our young girls disappear there is no sleep when night falls without them near days and days and days have passed can you remember their bright eyed brilliance forsaken flowers with petals that wither under boots of beatings and men with guns they are killing them softly raping them daily silencing their spirit every time one of them dies can you feel it in your body walk around so heavy carry unseen sadness on the bridge of our backs they are our future failing mountains crumbling deserts flooding stars extinguished after lightyears of shining blood moon tainting the night sky mothers wailing to the goddess bring back our schoolgirls bring back our daughters they are the martyrs of this modern plague where men get away with murdering women while the world looks away closed eyes to our girls plight makes the whole world blind you do not want to see what you would rather neglect because it’s not your daughter, sister, or niece you pretend to respect can you protect morning dew from the blazing sun the young woman from the older man a system that teaches a girls life is worth less than his pen there is no gentle here where our daughters cry only rivers of pain flowing back to the Niger years of disdain growing darker by the hour bring back our sisters bring back our feminine bring them back backdrop of africa blackout of femicide backbone of generations backyard of transgressions giveback our girls payback our pain paperback our stories comeback our angels we are waiting arms wide open feet tired from running with you and for you tongues chanting all the ways we could pray for you hearts broken night and days we wait for you bring back our girls bring back our girls bring back our girls
Iris De Anda is a writer, activist, and practitioner of the healing arts. A womyn of color of Mexican and Salvadorean descent. A native of Los Angeles she believes in the power of spoken word, poetry, storytelling, and dreams. She has been published in Mujeres de Maiz Zine, Loudmouth Zine: Cal State LA, OCCUPY SF poems from the movement, Seeds of Resistance, In the Words of Women, Twenty: In Memoriam, Revolutionary Poets Brigade Los Angeles Anthology, and online at La Bloga. She is an active contributor to Poets Responding to SB 1070. She performs at community venues and events throughout the Los Angeles area & Southern California. She hosted The Writers Underground Open Mic 2012 at Mazatlan Theatre and 100,000 Poets for Change 2012, 2013, and 2014 at the Eastside Cafe. She currently hosts The Writers Underground Open Mic every Third Thursday of the month at Eastside Cafe. Author of CODESWITCH: Fires From Mi Corazon. www.irisdeanda.com
0 Comments on Veterans Day 2014 • Review: Take This Man • On-line Floricanto Eleven Eleven as of 11/11/2014 2:52:00 AM
Among LA's hardest-working poets, Luivette Resto, Iris de Anda, Gloria Enedina Alvarez
La Bloga friend and fútbol poetry contributor, Yago S. Cura, sends news that will have gente circling their calendars to remind of a spectacular reading of Los Angeles poets. Here's Yago's email:
Gente/Folks!
On Sunday, November 23, from 2-4 PM the La Palabra reading series will host a reading for American Journalist, James Foley, at Avenue 50 Studios (131 N Avenue 50, Los Angeles, CA 90042 / (323) 258-1435) in Highland Park.
The reading hopes to celebrate Foley's work as a combat journalist, fiction writer, and English teacher. The event will also serve as an opportunity for people to donate to the James Foley Legacy fund and the James Foley Scholarship at Marquette University in Milwaukee.
Please come celebrate his legacy with some of L.A.'s hardest-working poets: Dennis Cruz, S.A. Griffin, Billy Burgos, Annette Cruz, Millicent Accardi, Matt Sedillo, Luivette Resto, Angel Garcia, Ashake M. Jackson, oConney Williams, Ryan Nance, Rebecca Gonzalez, Gloria E Alvarez, Daniel Sosa, Iris De Anda, Karineh Mahdessian, and William Gonzalez
On-line Floricanto for Día de los Muertos
"If I Could Weigh My Memory" by John Martinez "Baile" By Jose Faus "Two Dia De Los Muertos Tales" By Odilia Galván Rodríguez "Ancestor Dreaming" by Christine Costello "A beautiful day in the neighborhood" by Sharon Elliott "Holyhand" By Jolaoso Pretty Thunder “My Own Louie” By Paul Aponte "CALAVERA A GRACIELA B. RAMÍREZ" Por Betty Sánchez "Tinta roja"/"Red Ink" Por Sonia Gutiérrez "Altar en el desierto / Altar in the Desert" by Francisco X. Alarcón
If I Could Weigh My Memory by John Martinez
If I could weigh my memory Like a sack of something, It would have the weight Of my loving dead
My Uncle in an empty church, Red carpet beneath Pressed soles
My mother holding her arm Like a wounded baby
My brother, opening Another door to a lesson, Still seated in the center Of his room Where loss and imagination Are riddled about And the exhale of the dying, Is distant and furling Through trees
If I could weigh my memory, On the scale, Like a gunny sacks of chili's And beer hands reaching, And burning sun Scorching our skin Browner than brown, I would weigh it with a smile
Because the weight Of my memory, Summons a sum paid
And so I walk away With the grin of a child, Walk into a perfect landscape, With my reward secure In my dusty pockets
(c) John Martinez 2014 All Rights Reserved
john Martinez has published poetry in several journals, including, LA WEEKLY, EL TECOLOTE, Red Trapeze and this will be his 17th poem published in LA BLOGA. Martinez studied creative writing in the early 80's at Fresno State University under, the now, U.S., Poet Laureate, Phillip Levine and has attended seminars with several established American poets. For the last 30 years he has worked as an Administrator for a Los Angeles Law Firm and has recently complete his long awaited Manuscript of 60 poems entitled PLACES, which will be published by IZOTE Press.
Baile by Jose Faus
She came to my door last night like so many times before At first I do not see her hiding in the bushes Turning back into the living room her bony legs trip me and I land on the floor
I love it when that happens She laughs and heads for the altar helping herself to the ofrendas on the shelf Hey what gives señorita You know these are for the souls that will come tomorrow night Do you really think I am a señorita She smiles coyly the blush coloring her bleached bones Of course my lovely
And for the umpteenth time since we first met I lead her to the table and serve her tamals baked in banana leaves a tall glass of avena with a hint of cinnamon On the stove arroz con pollo spiced with cloves and littered with green olives simmers
I pour her a cup of vino de casa and in the dim light we reminisce Tio Jaime and tu primo Sancho send their regrets Emerita tu abuelita cries over her Cuco Give me a picture to take to her Then she takes her finger and slowly strokes my beard and with the hollow of her eyes looks deep into my heart
You know someday I will come for you
Don’t think of work tonight my dear I reach behind her on the table and grab the long stem rose She puts it in her mouth and stands apace I push the player to shuffle and in a tight embrace we sway to boleros and tangos the rattle of her bones an eerie metronome I ply her with vino until she is tipsy in my arms Any moment she will fall asleep and then suddenly she glides awkwardly across the floor stops and holds the rose on the tips of her weary bones
These advances are so nice to feel and be what I was once but it is futile to resist someday I will come for you and what will have been the point of this
Nada chica nada But you can’t blame me for trying Besides how many can claim to have danced with such a lovely death cheek to cheek in a tight embrace Alma de mi vida you can really shake and bake
José Faus is a founding member of the Latino Writers Collective and Writers Place board president. He is a 2012 Rocket Grant recipient for the community project VOX NARRO. His writing appears in the anthologies; Primera Pagina: Poetry From the Latino Heartland, Cuentos del Centro: Stories From the Latino Heartland, Raritan, Whirlybird Anthology, Luces y Sombras and I-70 Review. He is the 2011 winner of Poets & Writers Maureen Egen Writers Exchange award.
Two Dia De Los Muertos Tales by Odilia Galván Rodríguez
La Calaca's bones rattle make sounds como when los músicos play la marimba Calaca dances down the hall looking for people to mesmerize with its fancy jiggly steps it dances street and wise La Calaca wants to steal anyone’s last sweet breath and twirl them dazed into its bony arms of death
ஜ ஜ ஜ ஜ ஜ ஜ ஜ ஜ ஜ ஜ ஜ ஜ ஜ
La Llorona they say drowned her children because their father left her and she lost the love of her life but others say it was because she could no longer provide on a single mother campesina’s wages
didn’t know how to care for them on so little that was not the life she had envisioned she despaired for her children’s future and went crazy from so much worry about how to pay for care for them while she was at work or sometimes even where their next meal would come from
one night after crying and crying and ravaged with so much guilt and fear she decided it was better to return them to the water so they’d swim happily back to that calm calm place where all life begins again
Odilia Galván Rodríguez, eco-poet, writer, editor, and activist, is the author of four volumes of poetry, her latest, Red Earth Calling: ~cantos for the 21st Century~. She’s worked as an editor for Matrix Women's News Magazine, Community Mural's Magazine, and most recently at Tricontinental Magazine in Havana, Cuba. She facilitates creative writing workshops nationally and is a moderator of Poets Responding to SB 1070, and Love and Prayers for Fukushima, both Facebook pages dedicated to bringing attention to social justice issues that affect the lives and wellbeing of many people. Her poetry has appeared in numerous anthologies, and literary journals on and offline.
Ancestor Dreaming by Christine Costello
(Idle meandering thoughts of an insomniac)
Eyelids flutter as my curtains blow to the same beat Flutter whoosh whoosh Window open like a restless mind The wind seeks sleep perhaps a dream Flutter snap wind A dream awaits A shadow passes by in the hall A spirit conjured by the wind paces back and forth Waiting for the sound of tires on a wet street dripping with a hope of rain. Dream. Flutter. Storm. Spirit.
Insomnia holds me captive under the weight of a dream waiting to be released to a sleeping mind Ancestor I hear your whispers Ancestor I feel your strength Ancestor sleep doesn't live here anymore Only a deep flutter of a restless night Dancing. Flutter. Snap.
Sweet slumber I beg you to quick grab the key The key It opens to the dream Please open Wrong key Missing is the slumber the evasive sleep I crave Is there a key I can't remember
Born and raised in San Francisco Christine Costello is a 6th generation San Franciscan who grew up in the Mission District. She was the recipient of the Benny Bufano Art Scholarship and attended the San Francisco Art Academy majoring in Fine Art. She has been keeping illustrated journals for 40 years. Christine still resides in the City's Duboce Triangle neighborhood. Christine was a union labor activist for many years, working for various unions after being inspired by the farm workers movement, For the last 14 years she served as Business Agent for Theatrical Stage Employees Union Local B18, Christine volunteered her services for many years as the event planner for Instituto Laboral de la Raza’s annual fund raiser. An early retirement due to a disability has once again spurred her writing, journaling and illustration. She is a priest of Yemaya practicing the Lucumi traditions as well as an espiritista.
A beautiful day in the neighborhood by Sharon Elliott
copper calavera helicopts above blue seas grey sand
gyrates a white flower coffee cup dance at the inlet
drives a car strewn with branches green scarlet periwinkle
leaves are woven into noise grate against ears too full of sound
bird of unknown origin calls to children playing in the street they shout at each other without answering her
wings gifted to the calavera stop her tortuous flight allow her to settle on a skylight blocks away knock three times dissolve through it fluff her bony caderas over a purple pillow drink a lighted candle blow wax through her ears smile toothily at humans choosing to ignore her
Sharon Elliott was born and raised in Seattle and lives in Oakland. Four years in the Peace Corps in Nicaragua and Ecuador laid the foundation for her activism in multicultural women’s issues. Her book, Jaguar Unfinished was published in 2012. She was an awardee of the Best Poem of 2012, The Day of Little Comfort, by La Bloga On-Line Floricanto; and has been featured in poetry readings in the Bay Area. She is an initiated Lukumi priest of Scot/Sámi/African Carribbean ancestry; ally to people of color and to the earth.
Holyhand By Jolaoso Pretty Thunder
I am saying datura grows in colonies on abandoned roads on the hips of the interstate I do don't remember what she says lost several hours, days even ghost rattle I am saying the dumb sky above looked down on my galvanized roof, my castle and two bucks locked antlers In front of the house 03:00 am dragging each other 150 feet I call the dream helper by name It's that time again dirt ash mist captured The women of my clan tossed the family name into the pit I too burn the bridges goodbye My vision can change with the invisible borders that I see, then cross Trespassing Yet further I push it, reach the edges, some kind of darkness that brightens Don’t look in the skeleton closet you will find me there The town dump, ocean, ravine, last stand of redwoods I am the rubbish of the compound Being eaten by the village chickens I shapeshift into the sailor, a crossroads Then the common wife, the storm flower, perfect whore, your queen I am on the porch tethered to a cinderblock that lays in the crabgrass This is exile self chosen I nap in the sun Irresponsible Drawing it out with a stick in the dirt I am the green hoop around the sun on far away days I see you in your manner I speak in your Way Dressing the house in tea and cakes Spirit plates left for the dead I know the songs for war, love, invisibility and undoing the sorcery I tie knots in the rhythm I say outright you have abandoned your own self I say to you, those matching dishes and pillows are your spirit, malnourished That formal garden, the same I speak that I fear my own black magic and what I can do what I have already done I say I know these trees and which way to glance to accomplish it all Blood in the hollow 1234567 This is what I am saying This is the language I speak
Jolaoso Pretty Thunder is an initiated Apetebi and Orisa priestess of Oya in the Lukumi tradition. She lives in the woods of Northern California with her two dogs Rosie Farstar and Ilumina Holydog. She is a certified practitioner and student of herbal medicine (Western, Vedic, TMC and Lukumi) and is an ordained minister of First Nations Church. She is a well traveled poet and loves southern rock, porch swings, pickup trucks, cooking, camp fires, lightning, steak, long drives, hot cups of coffee, gathering and making medicine and singing with her friends and family.
My Own Louie by Paul Aponte
Andábamos en su ranfla
down Capitol Avenue. You know, Capitol Avenue en SanJo.
Way Before some güey decided to express it by demolishing cantones and turning it all into a cesspool of boiling concrete & cars.
Anyway, Andábamos en su ranfla down Capitol Avenue. El Louie was driving Dad's 46 Plymouth Coupe From Story Rd down Capitol Avenue approaching el Payless. Payless: with the huge drive-in type parking lot where jainas and vatos hung out at night, listened to "Angel Baby" and "Hanky Panky". . but right now it was daytime, and two of his buddies con su ranfla chingona came up right next to his window. . With lip-bobbing cigarette he said: "Ey, Louie you got a match!" "Órale. Hold on. Poly, drive the car. "Qué?" Just grab the steering wheel! El Louie sat on the window sil paper matches in hand lit up three together to make sure, lit the vatos trola, and sat down before the carrucha complained about the 8 year old steering it. . He gave me a couple of looks and on the 2nd gave me his signature laugh: "Puh-th-th-thuh". He drove me to Mark's Hot Dogs, the place with the juiciest, crispiest and most delicious dogs, making me feel welcome again. . My summer vacation from el Defe, starting off pretty well. . He'd been there, himself. Got a tough guy reputation in a place filled with the toughest. Constantly came back to our Tlatelolco apartment beat up for taking on too many at once. I imagine they called him el Tlate-loco. So the uncles had to send him back to SanJo.
I never saw any meanness. I only saw crazy funny, or quiet, wistful, pensive Louie. Though, most times he was out and about. . Even so, I do have some memories. Like that hot summer night when he was stuck at home for some reason. He gave me a note, and instructions: "All you have to do is knock on the window. When Sylvia opens it, tell her Louie sends this. Now, go!" I knock, and Sylvia opens the window immediately grabs the note without asking and tells me to wait. She comes back out with her thick eye-liner, and puffy hair with the flipped out ends and straight cut bangs barely above her brows. she gives me another note to give to Louie. Then I become a ping-pong ball on the table of grounded teenagers. I know at some point it stopped, but I actually don't remember that moment. I think the ghost of me or parallel universe me is still out there doing it.
. He was definitely the ladies man, and even though he was tall & studly, with light skin & light blue eyes, he liked them gorditas, prietitas y bien Chicanas. Le gustaba la guitarra just like Dad, and he impressed the ladies just like Dad. . The summer was over. Back en el Defe things began boiling. Just like everywhere around the world and the U.S. . 1968 came around - a horrific year. The beginning of the Tet Offensive in Vietnam. Labor strikes and riots in Poland, France & Italy. Race riots throughout the U.S. President Johnson refused to run for re-election. Martin Luther King - assassinated. Bobby Kennedy - assassinated. Student riots in Mexico City. Estudiantes contra granaderos. In Tlatelolco where I lived -- many students were murdered. and in 1968 ... Mi carnal Louie died. He was 18. He died March 30th, 1968. . The newspaper said he drowned in Coyote lake. Maybe he drowned in sorrow after his good friend committed suicide. Maybe he abused his body and just couldn't come back out. Maybe, as they say, he was involved with gangs and was killed when he chose to lead a different gang, beaten up and thrown in the water at a supposed "going away" party. . Don't want to know. . Years after: My sister's daughter was born ... on March 30th. My son was born ... on March 30th. There is a supernatural feeling about that. . I think it was 1970 cuando me retaché a mi dulce hogar for the summer. I remember getting a high fever, almost delirious. In the depths of my illness I actually felt myself feeling like I might die. Casi estiraba el teni. Then I had a dream. I was in the middle of the main road in a typical western town of the old wild west a strange town, unknown to me deserted dirt streets rolling tumbleweeds. I realized I was going to be in a gun fight. The other guy showed up at a long distance on this main town road in a hero's style cowboy outfit with a red scarf blowing in the wind I knew it wasn't my town I knew this man meant business and I had no business being there. His arms slightly out, hands wide open by the holsters. Then I saw it was Louie. His message was “this town, his town, ain't big enough for the both of us”. . After I recuperated from my fever, and was playing outside on a windy day, I thought I heard in the wind, his signature laugh. "Puh-th-th-thuh".
Paul Aponte is a Chicano poet born in San Jose, California USA, and now a proud citizen of Sacramento. Paul, was a member of the performance poetry group "Poetas Of The Obsidian Tongue" in the 90's, and now is a member of "Escritores del Nuevo Sol". He is the author of the book of poetry "Expression Obsession" published in 1999, and has been published in "La Bloga" and in the book "Un Canto De Amor A Gabriel Garcia Márquez" which was put together by Alfred Asis from the country of Chile to honor Gabriel Garcia Márquez with poems from around the world with 31 countries represented. Through his many poems in English, Spanish, and Spanglish he conveys a connection to his culture that transcends the material. He does this while retaining a voice that is very clearly his own, one which he commands with sincerity and a truthful, even wise sense of humor, and of self. Facebook website.
CALAVERA A GRACIELA B. RAMÍREZ por Betty Sánchez
Se ha esparcido la noticia Usted no lo va a creer Graciela Brauer Ramírez Ya ha dejado de ser
Con el Creador hizo un trato De llegar a los sesenta Pero al llegar a esa edad Se fue a comprar indulgencias Y rebasó los ochenta
Se murió placidamente Esbozando una sonrisa Logró lo que tenia en mente Cruzó esta vida sin prisa
En vida fue muy activa Practicaba el Tai Chi Tenia otras perspectivas Eso apenas descubrí
Tres maestrías completó Se la pasaba leyendo Sus memorias registró Como le hizo no lo entiendo
La muerte llegó en carreta A recoger sus huesitos Vio dormida a la poeta Y se robó sus escritos
El sol de los escritores Se ha eclipsado de momento Muy tristes le llevan flores Perderla es el peor tormento
Los ángeles y el chamuco Por su alma se pelean Han armado un emboruco Uno y otro forcejean
Ni pa’ ti ni para mi Dijo el demonio enfadado Esto ya lo decidí Echémonos un volado
La parca que no es paciente Les arrebató a su cliente Se fue directo a los cielos Para evitar mas recelos
En la puerta la esperaban Con maracas y tambores José Montoya y Phil Goldvarg Para hacerle los honores
Tremenda pachanga armaron Que les costó el paraíso Al infierno los mandaron Para volverlos sumisos
En la tierra los mortales Añoran a su poetisa De vez en cuando hay señales Que nos visita la occisa
En México se aparece Por la calle Bucareli Ahí transcurrió su infancia Sus recuerdos no perecen
Alguien asegura verla En las aulas de Sac State Acaso eso nos sorprende Si por veinticinco años Su enseñanza aun trasciende
El averno esta de gala Se organiza un floricanto La calaca se acicala Luciendo su mejor manto Graciela es la invitada Que a todos deleitará Con su épica chicana
Si una grulla ven volando No es una pájaro cualquiera Es ella que esta extrañando Sus hijos nietos y amigos Los árboles y los ríos de ésta su amada ciudad Que aun sigue visitando
Adiós viejecita linda En mi corazón te llevo Con respeto se te brinda Ésta plegaria que elevo.
Con todo mi cariño y admiración para mi querida Graciela B. Ramírez 28 de Septiembre de 2014
foto:Andres Alvarez
Betty Sánchez, miembro activo del grupo literario, Escritores del Nuevo Sol desde Marzo del 2003.
He colaborado en eventos poéticos tales como el Festival Flor y Canto, Colectivo Verso Activo, Noche de Voces Xicanas, Honrando a Facundo Cabral, y Poesía Revuelta.
Ha sido un privilegio contribuir en la página Poetas Respondiendo al SB 1070, Zine 10 Mujeres de Maíz y en La Bloga.
Tinta roja por Sonia Gutiérrez
“Si tú mueres primero, yo te prometo . . .” —Julio Jaramillo, “Nuestro juramento”
Hace unos minutos vino mi Lola. Estuvo aquí. Sentí su presencia como un zarape cálido sobre mi cuerpo, y sus colores como rayos de luz llenaron mi corazón.
En el cuarto junto a mi alcoba, donde nuestros cuerpos florecían y perfumaban las noches, ella misma encendió la música con su llanto.
Me visitó mi Lola para que juntos escucháramos la guitarra, las palabras, y los gemidos de nuestra canción. Y entonces las paredes y los santos recordaron nuestros besos, nuestras caricias.
Estoy contento. Estuvo aquí mi Lola; cumplimos nuestra promesa, y Ay como le agradezco su visita para que ella vea que tomé la pluma roja y recordé nuestro juramento.
Red Ink by Sonia Gutiérrez
“Si tú mueres primero, yo te prometo . . .” —Julio Jaramillo, “Nuestro juramento”
A few minutes ago, my Lola came. She was here. I felt her presence like a warm zarape over my body, and its colors likes rays of light filled my heart.
In the room next to my bedroom, where our bodies flowered and perfumed the nights, she herself turned on the music with her cry.
My Lola visited me, so together we could listen to the guitar, the words, and the moaning of our song. And then the walls and the saints remembered our kisses, our caresses.
I am happy. My Lola was here; we kept our promise, and Oh how much I appreciate her visit, so she could see that I took the red pen, and remembered our oath.
Translation by Sonia Gutiérrez
Sonia Gutiérrez is a poet professor, who promotes social justice and human dignity. She teaches English Composition and Critical Thinking and Writing at Palomar College. La Bloga is home to her Poets Responding SB 1070 poems, including “Best Poems 2011” and “Best Poems 2012.” Sonia recently joined the moderators of Poets Responding to SB 1070.
Her vignettes have appeared in AlternaCtive PublicaCtions, Storyacious, and Huizache. Her bilingual poetry collection, Spider Woman/La Mujer Araña, is her debut publication. Kissing Dreams from a Distance, a manuscript written in the Tomás Rivera and Sandra Cisneros literary tradition, is under editorial review. “Tinta roja” first appeared in Tijuana poética #7 / octubre 2014.
Altar en el desierto / Altar In the Desert by Francisco X. Alarcón
foto:Javier Pinzón
foto:Javier Pinzón
Francisco X. Alarcón, award-winning Chicano poet and educator, was born in Los Angeles, grew up in Guadalajara, Mexico, and now lives in Davis, where he teaches at the University of California. He is the author of thirteen volumes of poetry, including Borderless Butterflies / Mariposas sin fronteras (Poetic Matrix Press 2014), Ce • Uno • One: Poems for the New Sun (Swan Scythe Press, 2010), From the Other Side of Night / Del otro lado de la noche: New and Selected Poems (University of Arizona Press, 2002), Sonnets to Madness and Other Misfortunes (Creative Arts Book Company, 2001), Snake Poems: An Aztec Invocation (Chronicle Books, 1992), Of Dark Love (Moving Parts Press, 2001). He is the author of six acclaimed books of bilingual poems for children on the seasons of the year originally published by Children’s Book Press, now an imprint of Lee & Low Books. He has received numerous literary awards and prizes for his works, like including the American Book Award, the Pen Oakland Josephine Miles Award, the PEN Oakland – Josephine Miles Award, the Chicano Literary Prize, the Fred Cody Lifetime Achievement Award, the Jane Adams Honor Book Award, and several Pura Belpré Honor Book Awards by the American Library Association. He is the creator of the Facebook page “Poets Responding to SB 1070.”
0 Comments on On-line Floricanto for DDLM as of 11/4/2014 2:07:00 AM
Almost missed sharing this wonderful illustration sent in by Michelle Kogan. She is an illustrator/painter/instructor and writer from the Chicago area. Here is her website: www.michellekogan.com Her cards are available in her Etsy shop – www.MichelleKoganFineArt.etsy.com
Last Thursday I posted the Halloween Poems sent in for the holiday. I was impressed with the talent out in the audience and will repeat this for other holidays. I decided to create a poll and let everyone chose their favorite poem. I left out Eileen Spinelli on purpose.
I will give the winner of the favorite Halloween poem a chance to be interviewed by me on this blog and show off their work: Book, illustrations, Poems. The winner can hold on to the win for when their book comes out or they can use it immediately. So if you had a poem on last Thursday’s post or have a friend who had their poem posted on October 30th, vote and tell all your friends to vote, too.
Illustration by Ana Ochoa: Featured on Illustrator Saturday 1/11/14
HAPPY HALLOWEEN
by Eileen Spinelli
No howling cats.
No “Boos!” No bats.
No creaking chairs.
No cobwebbed stairs.
No goblin stew.
No ghostly brew
this year for you.
My Hallowish is new:
a day of fun,
a pumpkin pie,
a bed of leaves
on which to lie,
a moon that’s spooning
orange light…
sweet autumn dreams
to last the night.
Eileen Spinelli is a well-published author. She has written seventy-two books that are still in print.
When she is not writing poems, stories and books for children you might find her . . .pouring tea. . . trying on hats. . . picking herbs. ‘. . painting in her dream journal. . . browsing in thrift shops. . . dancing barefoot. . . waiting for the mailman. . . star-watching with my husband . . . curled up with a novel. . . taking a nap on the back porch. Zzzzzzzz…..
The Witches of Fairy Top Hill
by Vivian Kirkfield
On Halloween eve up on Fairy Top Hill,
a trio of witches, Pam, Tamsin and Lil,
were practicing magic and chanting out loud,
“Bat-candy, bat-candy…rain down from that cloud!”
“Kaput and Kabob!” Pam invoked with a shout,
The sky quickly filled with a hover of trout.
“Kibosh! and Pish-posh!” Tamsin yelled with finesse.
A chorus of frogs joined the fish-slippy mess.
Then bold Lil spoke up, “This is Trick-or-Treat night,
and children get candy and Turkish delight.”
Costumed as young children…with treat bags to fill,
the trio went guising, Pam, Tamsin and Lil.
Writer for children – reader forever…that’s Vivian Kirkfield in five words. Former kindergarten teacher turned parent-teacher workshop leader turned author, Vivian believes that communication, consistency and compassion are key ingredients in any successful relationship. Plus a sense of adventure – she’s already ticked off skydiving, banana-boat riding and parasailing from her bucket list…what will be next?
To find out more about her mission to help young children become lovers of books and reading, please visit her website, Picture Books Help Kids Soar.
OCTOBER
by Carol H. Jones
That crazy October!
It’s really not sober.
It’s so dizzy with yellow and orange and red.
Like a quilt full of color pulled over your head.
And the store that was featuring back to school gear
Is where witches and goblins and ghosts first appear.
They give you the willies!
They scare you half silly!
But of course, we all know that there’s nothing to fear.
That’s what really is fun about this time of year.
Carol is a former elementary school teacher, a grandmother, and an SCBWI member. She’s been writing picture books (none published yet) in both prose and poetry for over five years. Some of my titles are The Three Little Pigs Sing Again, Olaf The Troll And The Billygoat Ambush, My Fly Is In A Jar And The Jar Is In The Car, The Brainkeeper Team, Benny Can Do Anything, Edgar and Gretta: Big City Here We Come, Quit Your Bickering, The Scary Veggie Lady, Octopus Wishes, Princess Pippa, Fox Guards The Henhouse, and Oh, No! Peas!
WITCH
by Jane Resides
I made a tall black witch’s hat
Then snuck the kitchen broom
My wand was brother’s hockey stick
I pilfered from his room
I leaped onto the jaggy broom
And sailed right off my bed
This witching isn’t going well.
Just see my bandaged head!
WHICH WITCH?
Which witch should I become this year,
the good one or the bad?
Good witches wear gold crowns and gowns,
But bad ones I must add,
Although they’re wart-nosed, dressed in black,
They have a lot more fun.
They cackle, snarl, and frighten kids
Kids shriek! They scream. They run.
A crystal ball is what I need
I think that would be dandy.
I’d gaze into that ball to see
Which witch would get more candy.
Jane Resides, a graduate of Pennsylvania State University, writes poetry, picture books, and historical fiction.
She has published stories, articles, and poetry in Highlights, Once Upon a Time, Penn & Ink, and When I can’t Get to Sleep, a West Chester Library poetry book.
Her husband and grandson are beekeepers, and her article “Emme Loves Bees” was published in Highlights.
That Magical October Sky
by Wendy Greenley
Momma Mouse saw harvest moon.
Little Mouse saw pie.
Momma Mouse said, “Come in soon!”
Little Mouse said, “Why?”
“It’s time for bed,” Momma warned.
“Back soon!” said Little Mouse,
Running toward the broomstick
He’d left beside the house.
The broomstick creaked and sputtered.
Little Mouse took flight,
Headed for a pumpkin treat
Before he said goodnight.
Past the trees,
Through the stars,
Little Mouse rose high,
Aiming for the scrumptious shining pumpkin in the sky.
The voyage was untested.
The landing pad untried.
Dropping to the orange orb,
Little Mouse was pie-d.
A childhood prankster who finds it hard to change her ways, Wendy Greenley is an aspiring children’s book author, writing for picture book and middle grade audiences.
Illustrated by Laura-Susan Thomas
Scary Things Come Out at Night
by Kelly Ramsdell Fineman
Scary things come out at night
Ghosts that boo! and bats that bite;
Warlocks cloaked in purple capes;
Satyrs wearing wreaths of grapes.
Sometimes you might spy a witch
Or a hunchback with a twitch
Don’t be frightened by this scene –
After all, it’s Halloween!
Kelly Ramsdell Fineman is a children’s author and award-winning poet. Her picture book, At the Boardwalk, came out from tiger tales books in 2012. Her children’s poems appear in National Geographic’s Book of Nature Poetry, ed. by J. Patrick Lewis (coming in 2015), Dare to Dream . . . Change the World, ed. by Jill Corcoran (2012), National Geographic’s Book of Animal Poetry, ed. by J. Patrick Lewis (2012), Write Your Own Poetry by Laura Purdie Salas (2008), and in Highlights for Children magazine, as well as other places.
Carol is a published poet and author of several books for children. She has been a teacher for over thirty years with students, aged three years (Wee Wigglers) to ninety-three (Elderhostel). She taught English and Speech at Hutchinson Community College for twenty-five years and has also taught Creative Writing, Poetry, Interpersonal Communications, and Children’s Literature.
Her picture book titled, The Cricket in the Thicket being Illustrated by Melissa Sweet and published by Holt will hit bookshelves in Spring of 2016.
A Demon’s Treat
by Carol MacAllister
Fresh newt’s eyes and frog legs flinch
while boiling in the brew,
Spells are cast on howling winds,
There darts a trick or two.
Trouble lurks at every turn,
unknowing victims race
from moaning dead, banshee cries,
monster’s snarling chase.
Autumn’s rustling branches drone
at demons overhead
on ancient brooms, phantom steeds,
Rousing up the dead.
Strange, how innocence is lured
to wander through dark streets,
Each year, a few just disappear,
Snatched! – a demon’s treat.
Carol MacAllister holds an MFA in creative writing with a concentration in poetry and fiction. She has been widely published in poetry for years on both a children and an adult level. Her poems have won many awards and have been presented in public venues. Her book RIPASSO is a privately published collection of poetry by others and includes Robert Pinsky, and other poet laureates, as well as her own work. She judges the annual Federation of State Poetry Societies competition, as well as others.
The Green Witch’s Brew
by Pia Garneau
Organic, non-toxic
Biodynamic
All natural, sustainable
Biodegradable
The Green Witch is brewing a nourishing stew
with wholesome ingredients for her little Sue.
Six silver eyes of humanely-farmed newts
Fangs from a bat ground with seasonal roots
Fine golden locks from a gluten-free child
A pesticide-free rodent grown in the wild
A bunch of greens (fresh triple-washed frogs)
Two coiled tails from hormone-free hogs
The old door creaks. L’il Sue walks in.
“Come mix with the broomstick,” Witch said with a grin.
“Mom, what’s that smell?” Sue said with dread,
wishing she smelled pumpkin pie instead.
When she’s not brewing a green stew, you can find Pia Garneau brewing picture book stories instead. She seasons her stories and cooks them just right in hopes that a publisher or agent will gobble it up and ask for more.
You can also find her chauffeuring her two gluten-filled boys around, who are good sources of inspiration…and protein.
For kidlit tweets, follow her on Twitter:@piagarneau.
A HALLOWEEN TREAT
by Donna Weidner
‘Tis All Hallows’ Eve and in true scary fashion,
The wind is a’ howlin’ with fury and passion.
The moon’s begun waning, but still lights the way,
For our loved ones who’re now on the ‘other side’ of the bay.
Up from the floorboards, through ceilings and walls, They knock on the windows and shriek down the halls. There’s laughing, and singing, and regular howls. If we didn’t know better, it might clench our bowels.
‘Tis their annual visit. They come once a year— The thirty-first of October, when it’s easiest to appear. Two Anns and one Otto, three Roses and Abe, Aunt Zelda and Tina and Vito, a.k.a. Dave. The Willys and Johnnys, the Franzes, Gwinnells, With Weidners and Omi, they assure us all’s well.
More souls arrive. We party into the night With swooping and swaying, a paranormal sight. Till just before dawn, when the ruckus calms down, Not only at home, but all over town.
The candles, still burning, flicker twice then stretch high, When Mom clears her throat, then begins with a sigh, “For all gathered here, this eve’s been a treat— “Though for you, our dear loved ones, perhaps ’tis bitter-sweet. “So let me assure you, we are always nearby, “Just put out your hand and close your eyes. “Feel our breath in the wind, hear our words in a song, “The trick is to know us—have faith — you are strong. “We whisper in dreams, in a butterfly’s flutter, “In brooks we may babble, or sigh — sometimes, mutter. “We send you our love through the smile of another— “Friends, neighbors, strangers—even someone else’s mother.”
Then as fast as they came, they disappear in a second, Leaving us alone—or not—what do you reckon?
Donna is a Writer, Reiki Master, Wisdom Keeper, all around adventuress and everyone’s cheerleader. I also love anything that deals with archery, armor, and swashbuckling. I can especially appreciate a good sword.
The Unusual Stew
by Robert Zammarchi
Illustrated by Robert Zammarchi
Oh no, its that witchy poo spotted with gooey goo and her unusual cat
On Halloween fright night she turns on her night light and bakes an unusual batch
Her evil, disgusting, highly mistrusting usual potful of stench
She feeds it to children who travel so pilgrimed to see this unusual wench
She sprinkles in hob-nobs and boils it with gob-gobs and all her unusual rinds
And all of the children will come by the millions to sample her usual grinds
She tosses in bones of goblins and moans “I love my unusual stew!”
“But this year needs something to make it more frightening beyond all the usual goo.
“She looks all about, but there’s none to find out that is past all her usual stuff
“Something unusual, highly excusable, natty and dratty and rough.”
“Something so rotten, it won’t be forgotten beyond just the usual mourn.”
“Something so ugly, unusually fugly, it shouldn’t have even been born.”
She looked all around and what this witch found was unusual even for her
She flinched for a bit with her wickedly wit, then she heard that unusual purr
Goodbye my dear kitty You never were pretty! I’ll miss your unusual eyes
She picked up her cat and went, “plop in the vat” Her unusual stew did a rise
But when word got out that the cat was in doubt, unusual things did occur
The children no longer came far by to wander inside her unusual door
It wasn’t the witch after all, that the kids came to see with unusual fervor
It was the old cat on his natty, old mat they found to their usual favor
Now witchy-poo groaned, she mourned and bemoaned this unusual turn of events.
Then she walked in her dread to her usual bed and never was heard from again.
Robert Zammarchi is an award-winning freelance illustrator who has worked for a wide range of clients over the past 20 years in various mediums. At this point in my career, however I am most interested in pursueing the whimsical world of the children’s illustration field, where my heart truly lies.
On 27th October 1914 Dylan Thomas was born in Swansea, South Wales. He is widely regarded as one the most significant Welsh writers of the 20th century.Thomas’s popular reputation has continued to grow after his death on 9th November, 1953, despite some critics describing his work as too ‘florid‘. He wrote prolifically throughout his lifetime but is arguably best known for his poetry. His poem The hand that signed the paper is taken from Jon Stallworthy’s edited collection The Oxford Book of War Poetry, and can be found below:
DYLAN THOMAS
1914–1953
The hand that signed the paper
The hand that signed the paper felled a city;
Statue of Dylan Thomas, Maritime Quarter, Swansea, by Tony in Devon. CC-BY-2.5 via Wikimedia Commons.
Laureate Closes Term Poetically: The Most Incredible & Biggest Poem on Unity in the World
Michael Sedano
The “crown jewel” of the University of California system shifted from Berkeley to UC’s Riverside campus last week, where faculty member and California Poet Laureate emeritus, Juan Felipe Herrera
Stephen Cullenberg, Dean of the College of Humanities, Arts and Social Sciences, rounded up a cohort of sponsors to give the event first-class cachet from entry onto campus to the siting of the free lunch, poetry tables, and presentations on a main campus walkway. Hundreds of passersby, if for only the minute’s traverse, shared The Most Incredible & Biggest Poem on Unity in the World.Click here for sponsor details.
A major bugbear of attending University public programs is paying nine bucks parking to attend a free event. UCR took care of it, free parking. Organizers set aside the closest-to-campus parking lot for poetry. Making sure drivers find their free parking, directional signs line the highway approaching campus.
This superb planning put smiles on faces following the signs to the fiesta a quarter mile distant. Reaching the walkway, the first tent greeting visitors is the free lunch. A soft tacos bar—three per eater, asada, pollo, vegetables--with the trimmings.
In the shady park, multiple hydrating stations offer iced water, juice, coffees. Another proof of top-notch planning, there’s ample supply of cups.
Ambience goes unnoticed in events like these, and this is the curse and compliment of being among the organizing staff. The curse is not being noticed for your crucial role, the compliment is visitors aren’t supposed to notice planning, preparation, attention to detail. Nothing staff can do about the intense desert sun. Empty rows of folding chairs close to the speeches and readings weren’t enough to lure any but a few gente from the cooling lawn and deep shade.
Herrera, Chancellor Wilcox, Dean Cullenberg, Winer
The speeches met their epideictic obligations but the speakers kept their style informal and affectionate. They spoke of Herrera the poet, Herrera the person. Mixed in were accolades for the Laureate, the Professor, the Friend. Dean Cullenberg read his remarks bilingually. It was heartfelt and it worked. Chancellor Kim Wilcox and Andrew Winer, chair of the Department of Creative Writing, also took the lectern.
African-Colombian music from UCR’s Mayupatapi ensemble opened the preliminaries, but poetry was the order of the day. The ceremonies begin with 4th and 5th graders from Mary McLeod Bethune Elementary in Moreno Valley.
The kids perform a beautiful choral reading of their composition Roses are red violets are blue There's only one unity between me and you! The poem was composed by the students as an element of the Poet Laureate’s The Most Incredible & Biggest Poem on Unity in the World Project.
The highlight of the fiesta is the Unity Voice Choir assembled from myriad regional poets and writers, including La Bloga friends Liz Gonzalez and Iris de Anda, along with La Bloga’s Michael Sedano.
Improvising from a chapbook assembled from the Unity poem, the choir performs call-and-response voice music. The bass and drums of Trokka Rhythm & Spoken Word Percussion Group, featuring poet John Martinez on congas, add to the enjoyment of both the choir and the audience. Martinez lays down some complex beats.
Herrera has invited poets from across California to join him today. They form the heart of the Unity Voice Choir. Herrera begins the aural feast by reading off the chapbook page. The choir follows along, guided by the book. Inspiration conquers page and Herrera calls out rhythmic and singsong variations, short gasps or multisyllabic chant, puro a la brava taking off on rhyme and reason that have the choir laughing to keep up. The words call out all manner of inspiration from fruit to vegetable to love.
Puro fun, this closing segment of the California Poet Laureate Project, The Most Incredible & Biggest Poem on Unity in the World.
Video by Concepción Valadez
The Unity Poem Fiesta sent-off the California Poet Laureate in grand style and highest spirits. Herrera’s work as Laureate lends significant prestige to the University, one more signal of UCR’s rapid coming-of-age as a major cultural force for the Inland Empire. Read about the Unity Poem Project here.
Click here to read the California legislation creating the California Poet Laureateship.
Luis J. Rodriguez Named Los Angeles Poet Laureate
A nourishing sign of poetry continuity arrives even as Juan Felipe Herrera closes his two years as the California Poet Laureate. The day after the UCR fiesta, the Mayor of Los Angeles announced the Los Angeles Poet Laureate is Luis J. Rodriguez.
A candidate for Governor of California, Rodriguez lost in the primary despite articulating a philosophy of unity and opportunity. The Los Angeles Laureateship reminds gente that foremost Rodriguez is a poet. Given Rodriguez' activist nature, Los Angeles should look forward to eye-opening poetry initiatives that reflect the City's objectives for the Poet Laureate program:
Enhance the presence and appreciation of poetry and the literary arts in Los Angeles; Create a focal point for the expression of Los Angeles culture through the literary arts; Raise awareness of the power of literature, poetry, and the spoken word; Inspire an emerging generation of critical thinkers, writers, storytellers, and literary artists; Bring the literary arts to people in Los Angeles who have limited access to poetry or have few opportunities for exposure to expressive writing; Encourage both the reading and writing of literature; and, Create a new body of literary works that commemorate the diversity and vibrancy of the LA region.
La Bloga sends abrazos and felicidades to Luis J. Rodriguez, Poet Laureate of the City of Los Angeles.
News & Notes Teatro Summit Sweeping Los Angeles
The Los Angeles Theatre Center in the heart of Los Angeles is the site of an historical gathering of professional raza theater companies from across the nation. If LATC's publicity sounds ambitiously chingón that's because they stand behind their work.
A vibrant company that hires local actors and develops plays by local writers, LATC recognizes an obligation to widen the artistic horizons of what people get to see on stage. Per LATC's website, Encuentro brings
a month-long celebration of Latina/o theater from October 12 through November 10. This groundbreaking month-long event is the first theater festival in the U.S. to bring together more than 19 theater companies and 150 artists from the U.S. and Puerto Rico to present 19 works that represent the multi-faceted Latina/o experience on stage – from violence at the border and pressing immigration concerns to the complexities of romantic relationships and families.
The UNM Department of English hosts distinguished writer Ana Castillo to deliver the 5th annual Rudolfo and Patricia Anaya Lecture on the Literature of the Southwest, on Thursday, Oct. 23 at 7 p.m. in George Pearl Hall room 101. A reception will follow. George Pearl Hall houses the School of Architecture and Planning and is located on Central and Cornell NE. The lecture is free and open to the public.
On-line Floricanto for the 14th of the Tenth Victor Avila, Richard Vargas, Oralia Rodríguez, Jeff Cannon
Looking Through Chain-Link at McAllen Station by Victor Avila
Although this young girl is not Ruby Bridges and has never heard her name she has the same heart of forgiveness for those looking to blame this anonymous child for every ill in the world as she tries to get sleep in McAllen Station.
In her dreams she looks into the eyes of an ambiguous nation and sees two completely different faces. One speaks with empathetic eyes that understand her suffering. While the other face...speaks about God's love and mercy but seemingly, only on Sundays.
She's awakened by the hum of fans on the ceiling- beside her, a younger sister who is still sleeping. She notices a orange butterfly just outside the window. She wonders what it would be like to have wings that could fly over any wall or any border.
No, her dreams of becoming a butterfly will not be denied. Certainly not by those who shout venomous words that she can't understand. She's beginning to learn that forgiveness is greater than hatred found in some hearts. And that humility is a sign of true strength no matter the circumstance.
It's as if God has polished her heart and it now reflects His light for the world to see. Her love is His love and a beacon for all including those who protest her presence through ill-conceived notions. Yes, the butterfly has flown and left McAllen Station And flutters northward beyond the reach of ignorance and hatred.
Victor Avila is an award-winning poet. His poetry was recently included in two anthologies: Occupy SF-Poems From the Movement and Revolutionary Poets Brigade-Los Angeles. He is also writes and illustrates the comic book series Hollywood Ghost Comix. Volume Two will be released in November through Ghoula Press. Victor has taught in California public schools for twenty-five years.
song for Shenandoah… for Luis Ramirez by Richard Vargas “The Devil has the people by the throat…” Annina, explaining to Rick why she is leaving her country. Casablanca
I. oh Shenandoah, strip mined and bare by the sweat of men cursing in broken English as coal-black dust streaks their European faces with eyes on the look-but-don’t-touch prize
mother to Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey who gave our soldiers big band swing music as they dodged bullets on the way to victory over Berlin and Tokyo
land of Mrs. T’s Pierogies and a meager slice of the American dream worth $12, 562 per capita income at the start of the 21st century
Shenandoah some say the name Shenandoah is derived from indigenous tongues Shenandoah means “beautiful star daughter”
II. small town once proud once thriving thirty thousand strong today’s headcount barely five thousand Shenandoah hangs on like another forgotten whistle stop crying out for new blood new people until we heed your call
we climb your walls and wade through muddy brown river we walk and run across deserts hide in bushes and seek shade while drinking warm water from discarded plastic Coke bottles tied to our waists with twine
we die with swollen tongues from border heat we smother in the trunks of cars and asphyxiate packed like sardines in 40 ft. trailers left to bake in the noonday sun for the jobs you don’t want and the wages you refuse
III. the grass will always be greener the grass will always be greener the grass will always be greener
Shenandoah, we claim you cut your lawns bus the tables wash your dishes take out the garbage sweep your sidewalks shore up crumbling walls patch the cracks in your weathered face with flowers that bloom in the spring
Om-pah-pah Om-pah-pah the bass of a tuba vibrates dirty windows shakes the dust off worn and faded curtains we bring tortillas and pico de gallo to your table Tecate and pan dulce the laughter of children breaking open Spider-Man piñatas on birthdays we are grateful because for us a day’s hard work is a gift from God
IV. Shenandoah, your children walk the streets angry and drunk on the sweet lies of corporate media mouthpieces singing empty and false: The Mexicans are coming! The Mexicans are coming! The Mexicans are here!
a man’s head kicked hard with the force of a hate unleashed from the dark side of fear and loathing will crack like a melon dropped on the pavement and its juices will slowly leak and stain the street
a religious medal hanging from the neck and stomped into a man’s chest will imprint the holy face of the savior deep into the skin brand him in the name of twisted salvation
Jesus salva he convulses Jesus salva he foams at the mouth Jesus salva he is still
hiding behind screen names on the internet a new generation of minutemen join in take aim and post comments: “these boys sacrificed their futures in much the same way a marine sacrifices his life on the battlefield we are being invaded if i was on the jury no way these boys would be convicted more dead illegals will discourage future border jumps”
V. sometimes a moment is an hour, a week, a year sometimes a decade or a century passes in the blink of an eye when all it takes to recall the history of our people buried deep in our genes is the sound of one word wetback is the humiliation of tired and hungry ancestors enduring its ugly sound while picking Texas cotton and California grapes from sunup to sundown wetback is the mean reminder of all that can never be and all that will be denied wetback is the neighborhood where houses can be rented and the side of the railroad tracks that are off limits after dark wetback is long drives down dusty roads looking for crops to pick and ditches to dig in a strange land where wages are determined by skin color
VI. and still we come again and again
Shenandoah, why are you weeping why are your shoulders hung low do not hide your face in shame your sad cry rolling through the valleys and bouncing off the mountains is not in vain no matter how many miles there are between us how many walls are raised to keep us out
we are coming home coming home
coming home to you
“This poem began to take form while I was a student of Prof. Jesse Aleman at the University of New Mexico. He provided early criticism that helped me shape the poem into what it is today. A few years later, at the National Latino Writers Conference, (National Hispanic Cultural Center, Albuquerque, NM) I had a one-on-one session with poet/teacher, Francisco X. Alarcon, and he gave the poem an in-depth critique that led to the final edits. I am grateful for their consideration and professional input.”
Richard Vargas was born in Compton, CA, attended schools in Compton, Lynwood, and Paramount. He earned his B.A. at Cal State University, Long Beach, where he studied under Gerald Locklin and Richard Lee. He edited/published five issues of The Tequila Review, 1978-1980. His first book, McLife, was featured on Garrison Keillor’s Writer’s Almanac, in February, 2006. A second book, American Jesus, was published by Tia Chucha Press, 2007. His third book, Guernica, revisited, was published April 2014, by Press 53. (Once again, a poem from the book was featured on Writer’s Almanac to kick off National Poetry Month.) Vargas received his MFA from the University of New Mexico, 2010. He was recipient of the 2011 Taos Summer Writers’ Conference’s Hispanic Writer Award, and was on the faculty of the 2012 10th National Latino Writers Conference. Currently, he resides in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where he edits/publishes The Más Tequila Review.
He will be reading at the following Midwest venues in Oct. 2014: 10/15: Left Bank Books, St. Louis 10/16: The Kurt Vonnegut Memorial Library, Indianapolis 10/17: Rainbow Bookstore Co-op, Madison, WI 10/19: City Lit Books (w/Diana Pando and Carlos Cumpian) Chicago
GAZA/2014 por Oralia Rodríguez Tumultos de cenizas ríen, al no poder llorar, los cuerpos se volvieron flores deshojadas son llevados en brazos por el viento, la muerte danza, danza en un eterno letargo, las bombas marcan su ritmo. Las sombras se abrazan al escuchar los alaridos de los jazmines mutilados, el dolor vuelto a nacer, el estómago es un nido de alacranes, ¿Dios, Dios, aún estas ahí?. La humanidad se viste de indiferencia las palabras son menos que sal, mientras el cielo vomita lumbre, el laúd esta de luto, ahora guía al cortejo de trozos de ilusiones, sueños y esperanzas, que ni la embriaguez diluye, los gobiernos como perros se disputan, muerden, ladran, engañan en la tierra de nadie. La Tierra cual cántaro de sangre, las bestias, se jactan, besan los trozos que encuentran a su paso de humanos. Cuando la mar se seque sabrá del dolor, que muerde mis adentros, la verdad, ¿cuál verdad? Tan simple, tan llano son genocidas.
MARIA ORALIA RODRIGUEZ GONZALEZ. Poeta y pintora, nacida en Jerez Zacatecas, radicada en Tijuana B.C. Estudió la Licenciatura en Informática en el Instituto Tecnológico de Tijuana, y la Licenciatura en Educación Primaria en la Normal Fronteriza Tijuana. Trabaja como docente de educación básica. A participado en antologías en México y Argentina , en encuentros literarios. Actualmente estudia la maestría en Cultura Escrita en el Centro de Posgrado Sor Juana y el Diplomado de Creación Literaria del INSTITUTO NACIONAL DE BELLAS ARTES en el Centro Cultural Tijuana.
Before the Darkness by Jeff Cannon
I fold a homeless leaf weary writing to the air
Then your distant light falls on me potent fire thread I uncurl from that brown devouring mouth Eating me Swallowing me into the sad stomach of its Detroit trashed home where boarded windows weep life less rooms eat me with their endless moans the food betrayed dreams can only place on empty tables
Lift me poet light from this dungeon i am alive must speak despite the words that fail me words no longer moist more brittle autumn whispers than volcanic passion that rose before the clamp darkness pressed against my throat
Save me poet light warm me by your sounding the way Neruda passed the vibrant ocean to everyone imprisoned
I am your wounded kin my fleshless palm still presses against the open wound spurting what’s left of me against dead concrete side walks angry roads, death fumed cars, mad driver driven
Since the vocabulary of love got stopped at the border the guards couldn’t find its number sent love back into the desert to die
Well my word brothers, my verse sisters i may be sinking ankle caught but not ready yet to descend into oblivion without at least another swing before the bullets
Besides the honor of this second poem in La Bloga, Jeff Cannon appears in Boundless 2014 and in Goose River Anthology: 2014. Jeff is the author of three books of poetry: Finding the Father at Table and Eros: Faces of Love (2010, published by Xlibris Corporation), Intimate Witness: The Carol Poems by Goose River Press, 2008, a testament to his wife’s courageous journey with cancer. He first appeared in the anthology celebrating parenthood, My Hearts First Steps in 2004. He has been a featured poet at Manchester Community College, CT and at local Worcester poetry venues as well as in New Hampshire. He is the father of two daughters, retired and “can’t stop writing” although he does not read out as much as he would prefer.
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Pockets® is a 48-page devotional magazine for children ages 6-12, published by The Upper Room®. They pay $.14 a word. If you want to write for children and are open to writing for a Christian Magazine, then this could be an opportunity to get published and earn some money. The themes for articles are listed at the bottom of this post.
Launched in 1981, the magazine began as a response to parents and grandparents who wanted a devotional magazine especially for children. The magazine is published 11 times per year. (January/February is a combined issue). Pockets is designed for the personal use of children to help them grow in their relationship with God. The magazine is distributed by individual subscriptions and standing orders to churches, which provide the magazine to the children in their congregations. Pockets includes full-color photos, stories, poems, games, mission-focused activities, daily scripture readings, non-fiction features, and contributions from children who read the magazine. Writer’s Guidelines
What is Pockets?
Designed for 6- to 12-year-olds, Pockets magazine offers wholesome devotional readings that teach about God’s love and presence in life. The content includes fiction, scripture stories, puzzles and games, poems, recipes, colorful pictures, activities, and scripture readings. Freelance submissions of stories, poems, recipes, puzzles and games, and activities are welcome. The magazine is published monthly (except in February).
The purpose of Pockets is to help children grow in their relationship with God and live as Christian disciples. It is written and produced for children and designed to help children pray and to see their faith as an integral part of their everyday lives. The magazine emphasizes that God loves us and that God’s grace calls us into community. It is through the community of God’s people that we experience that love in our daily lives.
What should I write about?
Each issue is built around a specific theme with material that can be used by children in a variety of ways. Submissions should support the purpose of the magazine to help children grow in their faith, though all submissions do not need to be overtly religious. Seasonal material, both secular and liturgical, is appropriate. Most of the magazine’s content is written by adults, but we also welcome submissions from children.
Copies of our themes are also available by mail with a SASE. Please note deadlines for each issue; late manuscripts cannot be considered.
Pockets is inter-denominational, and our readers include children of many cultures and ethnic backgrounds. These differences should be reflected in the references that are made to lifestyles, living environments (suburban, urban, rural, reservation), families (extended families, single-parent families, and blended families as well as more “traditional” families), and individual names. Stories should show appreciation of cultural differences.
What ages are Pockets readers?
The magazine is for children 6–12. Though some children may share it with their families or use it in church group settings, Pockets is designed primarily for children’s personal use.
What type of material should I write?
Fiction and scripture stories should be 600 to 1000 words. Our primary interest is in stories that can help children deal with real-life situations. We do not accept stories about talking animals or inanimate objects. Fictional characters and some elaboration may be included in scripture stories, but the writer must remain faithful to the story.
Stories should contain lots of action, use believable dialogue, be simply written, and be relevant to the problems faced by this age group in everyday life. Children need to be able to see themselves in the pages of the magazine. It is important that the tone not be “preachy” or didactic. Use short sentences and paragraphs. When possible, use concrete words instead of abstractions. However, do not “write down” to children.
Poems should be short, not more than 20 lines. Both seasonal and theme-related poems are needed.
Non-fiction articles that are open for submissions include: theme-related quizzes; Kids with a Mission profiles of children involved in charitable, environmental, community, and peace/justice issues; biographical sketches of persons, famous or unknown, whose lives reflect their Christian commitments and values; and Family Time activities for families to do together (seasonal or theme-related). The length of these features varies greatly, and we strongly suggest sending a SASE (please send 6 x 9 size envelope) to receive a sample copy of the magazine if you are interested in submitting any of these.
Editorial Philosophy
The primary purpose of POCKETS is to help children grow in their relationship with God and to claim the good news of the gospel of Jesus Christ by applying it to their daily lives. POCKETS espouses respect for all human beings and for God’s creation. It regards a child’s faith journey as an integral part of all of life and sees prayer as undergirding that journey.
Special note: In addition to receiving regular submissions, Pockets sponsors a fiction contest each year.
How should I submit my writing?
Contributions should be typed, double-spaced, on 8 1/2″x 11″ paper, accompanied by a SASE for return. Writers who wish to save postage and are concerned about paper conservation may send a SASP for notification of unaccepted manuscripts, and we will recycle the manuscript. Please list the name of the submission(s) on the card. Because of the volume of manuscripts we receive, we do not accept manuscripts sent by FAX or e-mail.
How will I know if my submission will be used?
If we use your submission, we will notify you before publication. Along with your letter of acceptance, you will receive a contract and a W-9 (IRS form) that must be completed, signed and returned in order for us to process your payment.
Submissions not chosen for publication will be returned only if they are accompanied by a SASE. Because of the number of submissions we receive, we are unable to check the status of submissions.
Send all submissions to:
Pockets Magazine
ATTN: Editor
PO Box 340004
Nashville, TN 37203-0004
Upcoming Writing Deadlines
June 2015
Deadline: 11/01/2014
Caring for Creation
Being good stewards of God’s creation is not only a matter of our self-interest or good intentions. It is a basic way of honoring our Creator. The aim of this issue is two-fold: a celebration of the wonder of creation and a challenge to look at practical ways we can address the earth’s problems. Typically this theme draws many stories on recycling and litter pick-up. While these are certainly important efforts (and we may feature one such story), we encourage writers to think more broadly about realistic ways children can have a positive impact on the environment. The tone should be hopeful and show that we can accomplish great things when we open ourselves to God’s power working through us.
Competition for Pockets readers could be many things: striving to make the best grades, wanting to have the coolest clothes, trying to be the best player on the soccer team or in the school orchestra, or consistently vying to be the center of attention. Competition can be healthy when it encourages us to do our best, but it is unhealthy when it causes us to make “winning” too important. We want this issue to help children examine their motives for competing and the role of competition in their lives. Does competing make them feel energetic and excited? Do they like to be with other competitors because of their shared interest? Or does competition make them anxious or cause them to dislike those with whom they are competing? Do they find themselves thinking that being first or best is more important than anything else? We want to invite children to view the competitive arenas of their lives (as we want them to view all of their lives) in light of the gospel of Jesus Christ.
One of the paradoxes of our age is that we are, arguably, both more connected and more isolated than ever. One of our Kids’ Advisory Board members reported that other children she encountered in an on-line game (with the benefit of anonymity) made comments questioning whether anyone truly cares about them and expressing the wish that someone would love them. Sad as this is, it’s perhaps not surprising. In our highly mobile, extremely busy, increasingly impersonal society, many people are lonely. Many of us live far from extended family and may not even know our neighbors. Technology encourages us to interact with others through devices instead of face-to-face. Violence causes us to spend more time behind locked doors, and even then we may be suspicious of others. Consequently, we find ourselves increasingly isolated from one another. Children do not escape this phenomenon. Perhaps they have difficulty making friends. Perhaps their families are too busy or in too much turmoil to offer comfort and companionship. Perhaps the families themselves are isolated from the larger community. Through this issue we want to help children understand that they are never truly alone, that God is with them always. We want to offer them comfort as well as creative ways to deal with their loneliness.
The Gluten-free Chicano's Arepa Antoja Michael Sedano
Traffic noise thrums with a different urgency that morning. I look up the avenue and see traffic cops and barricades. An NYC tianguis has popped up on the boulevard where I intend a stroll and some chow. Cops entertain themselves blowing their whistles at thronging cars. Through the rumble of buses and countless taxicabs it’s unlikely closed windows and stereo sound systems let even the shrill xrii-xriii reach the drivers. Traffic complies with the gesturing cop’s finger and detours left or right. It's life in the big city.
I step off the sidewalk and into the middle of Fifth Avenue. Pop-up booths line both sides of the closed-off block. I do not need sunglasses and more sunglasses. I don’t own an iPhone so I don’t need iPhone gadgets. Alpaca carpas and sweaters catch interest for a moment but I’m quickly distracted by the aromas of Italian sausage and peppers, Mexican asadas, and, from a few booths up, Arepas. Whatever that is.
The cocinero explains Arepa ingredients are puro corn and no flour nor wheat nor barley, nor in any of the meats and cheese. That sounds safe and The Gluten-free Chicano is about to order his first ever Arepa when gluten-free terror strikes. The whatifs win--what if I get sick when I’m in New York city for fun?--and I walk away, all antojado for the Venezolano specialty.
That was last year, a trip to enjoy the Poets Forum activities at the Academy of American Poets (link). This week serendipity rewards The Gluten-free Chicano with his first assuredly gluten-free Arepa and sabes que? It won't be the last.
Three bites short of a whole Arepa
I'm off to a camera show, and my walk takes me past some new businesses. There's a yogurt place, something else, then a hand-printed sign in a storefront makes me hitch a step. On my return walk I'm on the look-out for that “Gluten-free Sandwich” window.
Amarais on Raymond Street in Pasadena, next door to the large municipal parking lot, first 90 minutes free. It's a short walk from the Gold line's Del Mar station.
Amara prepares coffees, sweets and sandwiches. Their website features their choclatier and coffee specialties, along with arepas. The proprietor assures me he's familiar with el celiaco, era médico back home. In his new home, he's a restaurateur. Así es, pero ni modo. This is his place, and Alejandro knows celiac issues. No whatifs at Amara.
I order La Propria. Arepa names both the bun and the inside, a synecdoche of the whole for the part.
Manna from heaven must have been an Arepa. Split the arepa, spoon in some carne deshebrada, add creamy gouda cheese morsels, and The Gluten-free Chicano knows he’s been delivered from the wilderness of bread-like analog food.
The pan element of the Arepa at Amara is light, fluffy, and delicately flavored. Made with P.A.N. corn meal and water, this pan is an incredible discovery for gluten-free eating and cooking.
Alejandro and Amara welcomed The Gluten-free Chicano with incredible warmth and hospitality, which appears the standard at this worthwhile enterprise. Next time you're in Pasadena, the Arepas are on me.
Amara holds an arepa
Mail bag Heritage Studies Celebrated in SanAnto
La Bloga friend Juan Tejeda, a principal in the daring Aztlán Libre Press, invites gente to come to San Antonio Texas for the epitome of cultural tourism. La Bloga urges travelers to select intriguing activities and plan a few days drinking in Texas' best city and Palo Alto College's engaging seminars.
Click the poster for a larger view, or, mejor, for a full list of scheduled events including times and locations, visit alamo.edu/pac/NAHHM. You may request information through the Office of Student Engagement and Retention at 210-486-3125.
from Juan's email:
We have been working hard since this past summer to organize Palo Alto College's inaugural Native American/Hispanic Heritage Month Celebration 2014 in San Antonio, Tejas. We have a great schedule of activities that includes scholarly presentations, workshops, a free Chicano Batman and Sexto Sol concert, film series, readings and book signings by prominent poets and authors.
The focus of this over-a-month-long celebration is engaging our students and community on the important fact that we are Indigenous/American Indian first and foremost, and native to this continent now called America, otherwise known as Cemanahuac, Abya Yala, Turtle Continent. In an age when most of our students call themselves Hispanic, the issue of our Indigeneity has not been addressed properly, nor our mestizaje and connection to the Indigenous populations of the Americas and our positions as Mexicans, Xicanas/os and Latinas/os in the U.S.
All events are free and open to the students and community, except for a small fee charged for the Luchadora! theater production for those 19 years and older. And there is free parking and free aguas frescos.
Late-breaking News! Poet Laureate Laurie Ann Guerrero Free Workshop
San Antonio Poet Laureate and Palo Alto College Poet-in-Residence, Laurie Ann Guerrero, will be conducting a free one-month Creative Writing Workshop beginning Oct. 14. Details on image, click to enlarge. Guerrero is an alumna of Palo Alto College.
On the Eastside of the city of La, at the juncture of the 10 and 710 freeways, lies California's semi-official raza university, California State University Los Angeles. CSULA, through the leadership of La Bloga friend Roberto Cantu, holds a significant annual conference exploring junctures of las culturas on ambos sides of the frontera. 2014's theme was Rudolfo Anaya. Next up, los de abajo.
October On-line Floricanto: First of Both Betty Sánchez, Joseph Ross, Robert Neustadt, Joe Morales
La Bloga and the Moderators of the Facebook group Poets Responding to SB 1070: Poetry of Resistance share two sets of poems this month. Today, it's La Bloga's pleasure to share the first four of the month's dual delights.
Carne De Cañón por Betty Sánchez For Gilberto Ramos by Joseph Ross Crossing the Line by Robert Neustadt Nothing Is Right Until You Say It Is by Joe Morales
CARNE DE CAÑÓN por Betty Sánchez
Me llaman niño sin acompañante Aunque ese no fue el caso Cuando salí hace meses De mi tierra Mirando siempre adelante
Mi madre vendió un riñón A su ambiciosa patrona Para pagarle al coyote Mi pasaje al infierno Alias el norte Que de libertad pregona
Mi tía Evelia se despojó De su parcela y sustento Para enviar a sus dos hijos Al país de la abundancia
Rosita la vecina de mi infancia Lavó ajeno tres veranos Para escapar del abuso De su padrastro y su hermano
Rogelio el hijo del cerrajero No deseaba terminar Como los demás del barrio Siendo mara salvatrucha Lloró incesante a su padre Y obtuvo su bendición Para irse al otro lado Por ésta te juro viejo Dijo besando la cruz Que dólares mandaré En cuanto consiga asilo
Mercedes la de la esquina No conoció a su mamá La dejó siendo pequeña Al cuidado de su abuela La anciana al enterarse Que viajaríamos en grupo Sacó dinero de un jarro Para que fuera a buscarla
Con esperanza y con miedo Nos brindaron triste adiós Sin siquiera sospechar Que al dejarnos ir solitos Nos convertían sin querer En ser carne de cañón Al frente de los peligros Vulnerables al abuso Y la vejación de extraños
Partimos de Honduras Cargando en el morral Sueños y demonios Derramando lágrimas Emprendimos la ruta migratoria Ignorando el infortunio Que nos seguiría Como una sombra funesta Sobre nuestras cabezas
Tan pronto como Abandonamos el hogar Pisamos suelo hostil Y actitudes áridas Por nuestro atrevimiento De anhelar un futuro mejor
Cada tramo de terreno Que logramos recorrer Arrastraba una historia De miseria consigo
Cruzar las fronteras No fue el desafío Atravesarlas constituyó Un acto de fe y valentía
El hombre de aspecto duro Que nos sacó de San Pedro Nos abandonó en Corinto Sin podernos regresar Proseguimos el camino Hacia un futuro inseguro
Guatemala y México ignoraron Nuestra condición de niños Aduaneros y civiles Nos trataron por igual La fatiga y la desdicha Se incrustaban en los huesos Buscábamos refugio bajo los puentes En lugares solitarios y oscuros Cubriendo nuestro dolor Con cartones malolientes
Rosita y Mercedes Vendieron su inocencia Para saciar el hambre Rogelio escapó de las pandillas Pero no de la muerte Por disentería y fiebre En un albergue en Tabasco
Mis primos y yo hicimos Trueque de pintas de sangre Por un par de mantas Para cubrirnos del Escalofriante temor Que nos producía Viajar en el tren Que llamaban la bestia Un monstruo de mil cabezas Semejantes a la nuestra
Perdimos cuenta del tiempo Las semanas y los meses Perdieron todo sentido Eran solo pesadillas Repetidas y con creces
Los que corrimos con suerte Llegamos a la línea fronteriza Junto a tantos otros miles Queriendo cruzar de prisa Para encontrar familiares Otro hogar trabajo y visa
Pobres ilusos Nosotros y nuestros padres La bienvenida esperada Se torno en una réplica Exacta de lo ya acontecido Carne de cañón de nuevo Hacinados en jaulas Durmiendo en el piso Considerados indeseables Objetos de escrutinio público Temas de agendas políticas Crisis nacional Números, casos, estadísticas
Nos llaman niños sin acompañante La estampita de la virgen de Suyapa No cuenta en los reportes
Los derechos de los niños Son solo un papel decorado Con frases dignas sin valor alguno La ley no nos protege ni nos acusa Nuestros parientes no protestan Por riesgo a ser deportados
Los que quedaron en el camino Son olvidados Nadie reclama Sus huesos calcinados en el desierto O bajo las vías de un ferrocarril Que carga en sus lomos Vidas engarzadas Destinos similares Otros mas se pierden en la indiferencia De un mundo que no reconoce su humanidad
Tú que me lees Y me ves a través de una pantalla Que lloras al pensar en mi desgracia Que me discutes en los medios sociales Y me envías libros y juguetes para Hacer mi estadía en esta prisión Más llevadera Que harás cuando sea enviado De regreso a mi patria A enfrentar la muerte Que se disfraza de pobreza De desempleo De violencia …
En honor a los niños indocumentados y en recuerdo de mi propia travesía que recorrí cargando sueños y demonios
Madre, abuela, maestra, poeta…en ese orden. Residente del condado de Sutter; trabajo como Directora de Centro del programa Migrante de Head Start. Soy miembro activo del grupo literario, Escritores del Nuevo Sol desde Marzo del 2003. He sido invitada a colaborar en eventos poéticos tales como el Festival Flor y Canto, Colectivo Verso Activo, Noche de Voces Xicanas, Honrando a Facundo Cabral, y Poesía Revuelta. Ha sido un privilegio contribuir en la página Poetas Respondiendo al SB 1070, Zine 10 Mujeres de Maíz y por supuesto en La Bloga.
For Gilberto Ramos by Joseph Ross
15 year-old Guatemalan boy who died in the Texas desert, June, 2014
Before you left, your mother draped you with fifty Hail Marys,
a rosary of white wood, a constellation she hoped might
guide you. But Texas does not know these prayers. It knows
that desert air is thirsty and you are made of water.
It drank you slowly. Your name only linked to your body by the string
ofaves still around your neck, the small cross pressing against your
wooden skin, the color of another cross. You left home on May seventeenth
with one change of clothes and two countries ahead of you, your brother’s
phone number hidden on the back of your belt buckle so the coyote
couldn’t find it. The coyotes pray in the language of extortion.
The phone number was eventually found by a Texas official whose name
your brother couldn’t remember. She called and spoke in the language of bones. He translated
her news into “pray for us, sinners, now and at the hour of our death.”
His prayer meant “brother,” a word he kept moist, just beneath his tongue.
Published in the Los Angeles Times 8/31/14
I was born in Pomona, California, just outside of Los Angeles. After studying English at Loyola Marymount University in Los Angeles, I taught high school in Southern California and then went on to receive an M.Div. at the University of Notre Dame. I taught in Notre Dame’s Freshmen Writing Program before moving to Washington, D.C. in 2000, where I founded the Writing Center at Carroll High School, taught at American University, and currently teach in the Department of English at Gonzaga College High School. www.JosephRoss.net.
Crossing the Line by Robert Neustadt
Little children cross the line. Thousands, legions of children, seeking the love of a mother, a father, a place to be. A place where you can eat. A place where you can stare at your feet, or clouds that look like bunnies, and not have to worry that they’ll cut your throat, or rape your sister, or rape you and cut your sister. Thoughts. Thoughts of nine year olds? Such are the thoughts of little children riding the train, with hungry bellies, cutting lines across thousands of miles, riding rails on top of box cars. Miles and miles and, yes, occasionally smiles. Dreams of mami.feel the wind, it feels like we’re flying. Rails of worry, wheels of Beast. Don’t sleep, they’ll throw you off. Don’t slip, labestiawill suck you in and slice off your legs.
Swim the river, cross the desert, Find the Migra, find Mamá. We’re here, we made it, the United States!. Have we arrived? New York, is near?
Cages. Children in little cages. It’s like the zoo with children-as-animals-- sad young polar bears, locked inside refrigerated cages in a desert zoo. No children with balloons on strings, no squeals of laughter, no organ grinder music. Just kids, never-smiling, inside cages. This is no American Dream, rather another segment of an endless nightmare.
Green-clad agents watch, with guns on their belts, and tasers and clubs, they guard the little brown children, who dared to cross the crooked lines that divide us from them. Those who have and those who don’t have the right to eat, to stare at their feet, to find happy dreams in clouds, to be.
Thousands of children crossed a line of water and sand.
Do we really want to hold that line? Incarcerate children like dogs in the Pound? Do we really want to cross that line from human to inhumane, shifting in shape from human to soulless steel-gutted beasts?
Robert Neustadt is Professor of Spanish and Director of Latin American Studies at Northern Arizona University. Over the last four years he has been taking students on field trips to the US/Mexico border. He co-produced and contributed a song to Border Songs, a double album in English and Spanish about the border and immigration (http://www.bordersongs.org). All contributors donated their work and the project donates all of the sales revenue to a humanitarian organization, "No More Deaths / No más muertes." Each album of Border Songs purchased provides 29 gallons of water for migrants in the borderlands. So far the album has raised approximately $65,000 for humanitarian aid.
Nothing Is Right Until You Say It Is by Joe Morales
You, dreamer that cries in heartbreak whose voice wails with the injustice of it whose voice echoes against a wall of grief gathering round the coffins in the long sleepless watches of the night
traveler from ancient places, you praise the finger pointing north in awkward persistence if you walk far and hard enough will the sweet smell of freedom follow?
you of time, you of silent merit you relinquished of childhood fair flower how do you so calmly grow? even as you are among us, you're about to let go even if your disrespected you’ll forgive even if you act responsible you'll be criticized even as you walk away you’ll remember
you’re one acquainted with the night coyotes and vampires glisten in your window making their morbid and evil way hacking through old neighborhoods while slithering through, accumulating slime, hopelessness littering the horizon
about suffering you were never without for you all human nature seems at odds you see violated ones with gentle hearts die too eager for the predictable, too late for change
you’ve been standing in line patiently, quietly too long to measure, while others perished you’ve now raised your voice for weary hearts and ears to hear
for all who’ll lend a hand for those who will fight who'll challenge the injustice, hypocrisy give credence to inalienable rights knowing humanity grows if nurtured you lend your voice
Joe Morales is an artist, poet, writer, singer/songwriter and producer from Boyle Heights now living in South San Gabriel. Married and has three children. Retired but continues to expand boundaries, generate interesting projects and cultivate new friendships.
0 Comments on Ajua Arepa • News 'n Notes • On-line Floricanto as of 10/7/2014 2:31:00 AM
The final, quiet days of summer before the turning of the season and the chill of back-to-work autumn are a perfect time to slow down, turn off the electronics, and refresh the soul by reading poetry. On the other hand, what could be more fun than an internet quiz about cats?
We sat down with Oxford Scholarly Editions Online, and fired up the search, looking for cats stalking the pages of literature. We found some lovely stuff, and something more – a literary reflection of the cat’s unstoppable gambol up the social ladder: a mouser and rat-catcher in the seventeenth century, he springs up the stairs in the eighteenth century to become the plaything of smart young ladies and companion of literary lions such as Cowper, Dr Johnson, and Horace Walpole.
Inspired by Kenn Nesbitt’s, “My Brother’s not a Werewolf”. Hope you enjoy. Tale of the WeirdoWolfBy Donna Earnhardt He transformed in the daytimeavoiding moonlit nightsHe cringed at his own shadow,fear brought him no delight He was a vegetarian.He loved to draw and paint.And when he howled,No one was cowed*,Except for him… He’d faint. …
7 Comments on for the kid in me, last added: 9/11/2014
By: msedano,
on 1/5/2015
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By: Andromeda Jazmon Sibley,
on 1/1/2015
By: Kathy Temean,
on 12/30/2014
Using Your Interior Gongs
Yolanda Gonzalez' studio resides in a quiet industrial park. It's worth the easy drive from anywhere in Southern California. Heck, the quality of art and jewelry at the annual event makes a drive from Arizona or Texas worthwhile.
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Gayle Aanensen’s new 88 page novella, GREATER THAN GOLD hit the book shelves this week. It is now available on Amazon and will appeal to anyone who celebrates Christmas.
Take This Man revolves around Maria Skyhorse’s story, but at the memoir’s core lives a boy looking for a father in the men his mother regularly brings home. They all leave. Then she finds a replacement. Herein lies a challenge for readers: don't judge.
I am a Los Angeles activist and Peace Poet, whose literary focus has been on human rights since 2001. Published most notably as a featured writer on Quill and Parchment.com, and the legendary Sam Hamill's global anti-war poetry protest, Poets Against the War (beginning in February, 2002), my most recent work was published as a full-length compilation of peace and justice poetry called "Sing to Me of My Rights: Poems of Oppression and Resistance" (editor/publisher Mark Lipman, Vagabond Books 2014). Immigrant rights have been a focus of my street-level activism since 1980, when I learned in college of the murder of El Salvador Archbishop Oscar Romero--followed, of course, by the rape/murder of the four U.S. churchwomen that December. I was active in the Sanctuary Movement from 1984-98, and a member since 1986 of Refuse and Resist! and La Resistencia. I have never been to our Southern border, but it looms large in my consciousness. The horror of our country's involvement in the collective Central American slaughter, and the residual xenophobic policies towards immigrants, both documented and undocumented, reflected in legislation such as SB1070, haunts me to this day, and inspires me to take to the streets. I have one philosophy that sums up all my activism, including my writing: NO HUMAN BEING IS ILLEGAL!
Writer for children – reader forever…that’s Vivian Kirkfield in five words. Former kindergarten teacher turned parent-teacher workshop leader turned author, Vivian believes that communication, consistency and compassion are key ingredients in any successful relationship. Plus a sense of adventure – she’s already ticked off skydiving, banana-boat riding and parasailing from her bucket list…what will be next? 
Carol is a former elementary school teacher, a grandmother, and an SCBWI member. She’s been writing picture books (none published yet) in both prose and poetry for over five years. Some of my titles are The Three Little Pigs Sing Again, Olaf The Troll And The Billygoat Ambush, My Fly Is In A Jar And The Jar Is In The Car, The Brainkeeper Team, Benny Can Do Anything, Edgar and Gretta: Big City Here We Come, Quit Your Bickering, The Scary Veggie Lady, Octopus Wishes, Princess Pippa, Fox Guards The Henhouse, and Oh, No! Peas!
Kelly Ramsdell Fineman is a children’s author and award-winning poet. Her picture book, At the Boardwalk, came out from tiger tales books in 2012. Her children’s poems appear in National Geographic’s Book of Nature Poetry, ed. by J. Patrick Lewis (coming in 2015), Dare to Dream . . . Change the World, ed. by Jill Corcoran (2012), National Geographic’s Book of Animal Poetry, ed. by J. Patrick Lewis (2012), Write Your Own Poetry by Laura Purdie Salas (2008), and in Highlights for Children magazine, as well as other places. 
Carol is a published poet and author of several books for children. She has been a teacher for over thirty years with students, aged three years (Wee Wigglers) to ninety-three (Elderhostel). She taught English and Speech at Hutchinson Community College for twenty-five years and has also taught Creative Writing, Poetry, Interpersonal Communications, and Children’s Literature.
Carol MacAllister holds an MFA in creative writing with a concentration in poetry and fiction. She has been widely published in poetry for years on both a children and an adult level. Her poems have won many awards and have been presented in public venues. Her book RIPASSO is a privately published collection of poetry by others and includes Robert Pinsky, and other poet laureates, as well as her own work. She judges the annual Federation of State Poetry Societies competition, as well as others.
She picked up her cat
By: Hannah Paget,
on 10/27/2014
Now who wouldn’t be cheered up by that promise!
Happy New Year, Donna!
After those treats, they’ll all be ready for naps which may help eliminate some griping too.
Cool – like, totally.