text:
There's a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn't change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can't get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time's unfolding.
You don't ever let go of the thread.
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Blog: Brooklyn Arden (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
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There's a thread you follow. It goes among
Blog: a wrung sponge (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
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This month my poetry sisters and I are working on writing Sestinas. It's a very difficult form to get the knack for, partly because the end words are extremely restricted. Each of the six-line stanzas use the same words in a spiral repetition. The best sestinas, IMO, tell a story. My favorite one is this by Elizabeth Bishop. Kelly has a wonderful explanation with tips on how to write one here.
Blog: a wrung sponge (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
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At the start of the year my online group of poetry sisters decided to challenge ourselves with writing and posting poems all year with a different form for each month. January was triolets, and February has been all about Villanelles. I have to confess I have really struggled with this one! I had a story I wanted to tell about my young son and his first taste of hot peppers, but try as I
Blog: WORDS (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
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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…
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.
Blog: La Bloga (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
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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.
Mi luz.
Source of endless leche,
de su ser
Your blood
Mi sangre
Cada gota
Cada pulso
Pleasure sweeps between us.
Stomach satiated.
Soul sanctified.
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.
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
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 SB1070 is 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,
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
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
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,
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
Free Birds
by Xico González C/S
Black birds
Brown birds
White birds
Yellow birds
Red birds
Multi colored birds
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
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
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
Brown birds
White birds
Yellow birds
Red birds
Multi colored birds
Rainbow colored birds
Fly together in rhythm
United and free.
• Meet the Poets •
Kai Coggin, upfromsumdirt, Mario Angel Escobar, Odilia Galván Rodríguez, Xico González
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.
Eshu help him!
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).
Blog: a wrung sponge (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: Friday Poetry, poems, Add a tag
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 excitedAdd a Comment
Blog: WORDS (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: writing for children, Christian poetry, Grace, love, new year, new year's eve, new year's poem, new years day, poems, poetry, salvation, speech, spring in your step, Add a tag
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…
This is absolutely BEAUTIFUL! I love you and am so thankful God blessed your daddy and me with you!
Thank you! You're welcome to lead grace anytime in my presence!
How precious! Thank you. Blessings to you also!
Blog: Writing and Illustrating (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: authors and illustrators, Competition, Poems, Win, Carol Jones, Carol MacAllister, Carol Murray, Donna Weidner, Jane Resides, Kelly Fineman, Pia Garneau, Poll - Vote, Robert Zammarchi, Vivian Kirkfield, Wendy Greenley, Add a tag
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.
Voting is open until November 9th.Take Our Poll
Talk tomorrow,
Filed under: authors and illustrators, Competition, Poems, Win Tagged: Carol Jones, Carol MacAllister, Carol Murray, Donna Weidner, Jane Resides, Kelly Fineman, Pia Garneau, Poll - Vote, Robert Zammarchi, Vivian Kirkfield, Wendy Greenley
Love Michelle's art
Blog: La Bloga (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: Day of the Dead, DDLM, Floricanto Movement, poems, poetry, readings, Add a tag
Memorial Poetry Reading for James Foley
|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:
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
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
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
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
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.
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
sleep doesn't live here anymore
Only a deep flutter of a restless night
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
A beautiful day in the neighborhood
by Sharon Elliott
copper calavera
above blue seas
grey sand
a white flower
coffee cup
at the inlet
drives a car
strewn with branches
leaves are
woven into noise
grate against
too full of sound
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
over a purple pillow
drink a lighted candle
blow wax through her ears
smile toothily
at humans
choosing to ignore her
she decides to stay
Copyright © 2014 Sharon Elliott. All Rights Reserved.
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
mist captured
The women of my clan tossed the family name into the pit
I too burn the bridges
My vision can change with the invisible borders that
I see, then cross
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
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
This is what I am saying
This is the language I speak
My Own Louie
by Paul Aponte
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.
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.
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.
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
about the 8 year old steering it.
He gave me a couple of looks
and on the 2nd gave me his signature laugh:
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.
Facebook website.
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
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
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
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
Blog: La Bloga (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: Floricanto Movement, memoir, poems, poetry, review, veterans, veterans day, Add a tag
Veteranspeak, or 5 Questions To Ask a Veteran
Michael Sedano
|MiG Alley below, Homing All the Way Killers above
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.
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.
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!
By Ashley
You say I am illegal because of my flesh,
Apartheid, a race apart.
Even after the laws change,
Discrimination still exists
Cradling fear and fight of flesh-hood
Same flesh, different color.
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'
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,
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.
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
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
Blog: Writing and Illustrating (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: Agent, Contests, illustrating, inspiration, opportunity, Poems, Agent Alex Slater, November First Page Critiques, Thanksgiving Poems, Two Book Give-a-Ways, Winner of Halloween Poem Contest, Add a tag
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 Zammarchi was 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.
Remember to submit your first pages for this month. It is the last one for this year.
The four winning first pages will be sent to Alex Slater from Trident Media for critique. PLEASE DO NOT SUBMIT IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO HAVE YOUR CRITIQUE POSTED.
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.
DEADLINE: November 24th.
RESULTS: November 28th.
Talk tomorrow,
Filed under: Agent, Contests, illustrating, inspiration, opportunity, Poems Tagged: Agent Alex Slater, November First Page Critiques, Thanksgiving Poems, Two Book Give-a-Ways, Winner of Halloween Poem Contest
Congrats to Robert on the win! And you bet I'd love a book! SPAGHETTI SMILES looks right up my alley! lol
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!
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.
Kathy, thank you so much for doing this! Writersideup and darlenebeckjacobson, grazie mille for joining in the fun! :)
It's OUR pleasure, Margo! :D
Spaghetti Smiles and Greater Than Gold – thanks for the giveaways. I tweeted too.
Grazie mille, sspratt!
Thanks for the inspiration!
I'm a new Dave Harrington fan; would love to win his Spaghetti Smiles book. Thanks for entering me.
Ciao, katmaz2012 and Carol Federlin Baldwin — Grazie for stopping by! Yes, I am a David Harrington fan, too! :) Glad you could be inspired, katmaz2012!
Blog: La Bloga (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: 43, ayotzinapa, Floricanto Movement, poems, poetry, Add a tag
Michael Sedano
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
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.
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
Betty Sánchez
En respuesta a los acontecimientos
ocurridos el 26 de Septiembre del 2014
En Iguala Guerrero
|Photo by Andres Alvarez
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.
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
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
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
made of fir needles
from the forest floor
to keep the horror
at bay
pero a veces esperanza no sirve
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
touches the face
of his beloved
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
notes rain from strings
like pearls and bullets
his throat forms words
nuggets of gold
those waiting
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
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"
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
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
exigiendo justicia como alimento
pero no le dan
Una mañana guardando el silencio
esa misma mujer carga a su arma.
Cuidado con la que ha perdido todo-
ya no le pueden quitar
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
By Daniel Vidal Soto
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
A crushed bag
Bottle of
Bibs and bitings
Teeth inked
Gold badge and copper wire
Silent eye
Talisman crosshair
beyond the fire
Crushed van
Bone paint
Some moan
A splint of femur
In the neck
The neck breathing
Aveoli and
An eye
beyond the fence
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
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
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
"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
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.
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.
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
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.
43 Aullidos del Alma
© by Nephtalí De León
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 !
43 Howls of the Soul
By © Nephtalí De León
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 !
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,
desaparecemos los dinosaurios.
QEPD los 43
Blog: Writing and Illustrating (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: authors and illustrators, Contest, Holiday, inspiration, Poems, Better Than Gold, Carol Murray, Eileen Spinelli, Happy Thanksgiving, Spaghetti Smiles, Thanksgiving Poem Contest, Add a tag
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.
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.
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.
Talk tomorrow,
Filed under: authors and illustrators, Contest, Holiday, inspiration, Poems Tagged: Better Than Gold, Carol Murray, Eileen Spinelli, Happy Thanksgiving, Spaghetti Smiles, Thanksgiving Poem Contest
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
THANK YOU for another year of daily care and information for our industry! Enjoy the day of giving thanks one and all!
Happy Thanksgiving!
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!
Good stuff!
Blog: La Bloga (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: ethnic family toys, Floricanto Movement, poems, poetry, Add a tag
This Is For Puro Fun - Throwback Tuesday
Michael Sedano
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.
1 ea wire coathangar.
1 ea sewing thread.
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.
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.
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,
magical mothers,
furious mothers,
tender mothers,
raging mothers,
mothers of life
and death
and birth
and rebirth,
give birth to our lost
43 sons, you know
their names,
each one,
sing their
each one,
their names,
each one,
remember their
each one,
our 43 lost
sons who wait
at your womb
gate, give
them light,
give them
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.
"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.
México grita por justicia.
México somos todos.
México somos 43.
México mide 43x43.
México llueve 43,
un número primo,
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"
facebook website:
"Ayotzinapa Haikus & Tankas"
by Francisco X. Alarcón
o burning fire
o flower of words –
"Ayotlinapa" —
great Pregnant Turtle
weeps for her sons
* * * * * * * * * *
oh fuego vivo
oh flor de palabras —
"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
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.
Blog: La Bloga (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: Floricanto Movement, gluten free, literary criticism, poems, poetry, Add a tag
Michael Sedano
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
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.
© Ivonne Gordon Carrera (2014)
by Ivonne Gordon Carrera
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.
© Ivonne Gordon Carrera (2014)
by Tara Evonne
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
to be true
my red heart
beating brown
never did I
this corazón
when distraught
a daughter
trusting life
somewhere else
when flying
I became torn
my parts
the effects
of long term
generational genocide
buried under
the rubble
of mankind
all my relations
praying alongside
to protect
women and children
I became
the written
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
for others
to follow
the collective
of survival.
"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.
"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.
Blog: Writing and Illustrating (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: authors and illustrators, Holiday, illustrating, Illustrator's Saturday, inspiration, Poems, Amalia Hoffman, Chanukah, Marie Wagner, Michelle Kogan, Add a tag
Amalia Hoffman sent this in to help us celebrate Chanukah. Amalia was featured on Illustrator Saturday: http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2010/09/18/illustrator-saturday-amalia-hoffman/
Michelle Kogan not only sent in the illustration above, but also the poem below to celebrate Hanukkah.
Hustle of Hanukkah
Michelle Kogan © 2014
Hustle of Hanukkah
somehow squeezing it in
In between holidays
falling often mid week
In between school and work
and numerous car trips
In between tradition
and finding your own way
In between Maccabees
the temples destruction
In between stolen oil
a miracle appears
In between night's darkness
inner warmth radiates
In between lights glowing
throughout cold winter days
In between your mom's arms
and between dad's embrace
Making Hanukkah fit
in between for eight days
The poem below was sent in by Marie Wagner. Marie is an Artist, Author, Publisher, and Web designer. http://fineartamerica.com/profiles/marie-wagner.html?tab=artworkgalleries
Thank you Amalia, Michelle, and Marie for sharing your work with us.
Hope all my Jewish friends around the world have a wonderful holiday!
Talk tomorrow,
Filed under: authors and illustrators, Holiday, illustrating, Illustrator's Saturday, inspiration, Poems Tagged: Amalia Hoffman, Chanukah, Marie Wagner, Michelle Kogan
Many thanks Kathy for a part in your celebretory collection today!
Beautiful poems and artwork!
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JacketFlap tags: authors and illustrators, Holiday, Illustrator's Saturday, inspiration, Poems, Christmas, Santa Claus, Santa illustrations from Illustrator Saturday, Add a tag
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.
Yvonne Gilbert http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2013/11/09/illustrator-saturday-yvonne-gilbert/
David Thorn Wenzel – http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2013/08/24/illustrator-saturday-david-thorn-wenzel/
Glenn Zimmer – http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2013/10/19/illustrator-saturday-glenn-zimmer/
Ruth Sanderson – http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2012/03/17/illustrator-saturday-ruth-sanderson/
Ruth Sanderson – http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2012/03/17/illustrator-saturday-ruth-sanderson/
Michele Noiset – http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2012/09/22/illustrator-saturday-michele-noiset/
David Harrington – http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2014/10/18/illustrator-saturday-david-harrington/
Micheal Garland – http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2013/08/31/illustrator-saturday-michael-garland/
Yvonne Gilbert http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2013/11/09/illustrator-saturday-yvonne-gilbert/
Carlyn Beccia – http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2011/03/12/illustrator-saturday-carlyn-beccia/
Michele Noiset – http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2012/09/22/illustrator-saturday-michele-noiset/
Sarah Dillard – http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2012/08/19/illustrator-saturday-sarah-dillard/
Michael Garland – http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2013/08/31/illustrator-saturday-michael-garland/
Ruth Sanderson – http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2012/03/17/illustrator-saturday-ruth-sanderson/
Karen Romagna – http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2011/05/14/illustrator-saturday-karen-romanga/
Shawna JC Tenney – http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2013/04/20/illustrator-saturday-shawna-jc-tenney/
Susan Detwiler – http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2013/03/09/illustrator-saturday-susan-detwiler/
This Santa was done by Robert Eberz. Robert will be featured on Illustrator Saturday in January, so check back for more. www.roberteberz.com
Merry Christmas! Remember that I will be posting Christmas poems on Christmas Day, so if you have a Christmas poem, please email it to me.
Talk tomorrow,
Filed under: authors and illustrators, Holiday, Illustrator's Saturday, inspiration, Poems Tagged: Christmas, Santa Claus, Santa illustrations from Illustrator Saturday
It's amazing all the different depictions. I would guess Santa is probably the most illustrated fiction characer ever! LOVE all the illustrations :)
Love these!
these are such fun! some from our past and some lovely and new….thanks for including our Michele Noiset! ;)
Just like the collection of Santa ornaments on my tree, there are so many wonderful variations on a familiar figure. So well done!
Wow! What a fabulous collection of Santas!! Love these, thanks for sharing
Blog: Writing and Illustrating (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: authors and illustrators, Holiday, inspiration, Poems, Christmas Poems, Hally Franz, Lauren Gallegos, Mark Meyers, Robin Jordan, Add a tag
Lauren Gallegos sent in this cute illustration that rings so true. She is a Children's Book Illustrator who was featured on Illustrator Saturday: http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2012/11/03/illustrator-saturday-lauren-gallegos/ www.Laurengallegos.com Twitter: @laurengallegos
Here are two holiday poems. More tomorrow and Christmas Day. Voting will start on Friday.
The Tasting Tree
By: Robin Jordan
Busy hands stained juicy, red.
Berries strung. Needle 'n thread.
Draped around a fragrant pine
Over, under branches fine.
Popcorn seeds shake, shake, shake, then
Burst into a snowy flake.
Loosely sewn all in a row
On the festive tree they go.
Vanilla scents thrill the nose.
Cookies tied with shiny bows
Sprinkles shimmer, precious gems
Dot the sweeping verdant stems.
Shepherd crooks, a sweet delight
Twisted stripes. Some red, some white.
Candy canes hung by their hook
Help create a gleeful look.
My tasting tree's now complete.
Leaving Santa lots to eat.
Working hard all through the night
Must stir up his appetite!
The above illustration was done by Mark Meyers. He was featured on Illustrator Saturday in 2012. Here's the link. http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2013/10/05/illustrator-saturday-mark-meyers/
Christmas Movies and Meaning
By Hally Franz –
On the Twelve days of Christmas I hoped I could see,
The classic holiday movies I'd missed on TV.
So many favorites make me smile, laugh, and cry,
But the days left for watching are flying right by.
Day one, I will start with some time spent with Clark,
Though his house was lit well, he was left in the dark,
'Bout what grand or glum bonus would come his way,
And what crazy cousin Eddie would do that last day.
Day two, it's time for a freckle-faced kid,
And the tale of what the two robbers did.
Left all alone, but helpless he's not,
For few have the tricks clever Kevin has got!
Day three, I must visit a lodge in Pine Tree,
For Vermont is a lovely white place one should be,
On lyrical holidays with Danny and Bing,
Engagements and soldiers, all the songs they will sing.
Day four is saved for a swelling single dad,
Who put on the suit and left the life he once had.
Shaving and gaining, graying and growing,
He flew to the North Pole where elves he's employing.
On day five, I'll enjoy a sugary treat,
A Caan-Ferrell combo is one hard to beat.
Jovie leads carols, gets Santa's sleigh off the ground,
In a place folks think no Christmas cheer can be found.
From sweet to a sneak on day six, I will go,
When I watch the green guy with the heart yet to grow.
He seemed determined to ruin Christmas for young Cindy Lou,
Until Dr. Seuss taught him a lesson compliments of the Whos.
By seven I travel across the pond to hear,
Tales of Mark and Daniel and Bridget dear.
Their accents are lovely, their troubles quite mad,
The kiss in the snow leaves me a Colin Firth fan.
Now when on day eight, loves turns to divorce,
It's time for "delousing babies in Burma," of course.
Though they try to avoid crazy families, they find,
Even spray cheese and spending limits are better than "lies."
Though Peter B. helped produce my selection above,
He's rabbit-costume-hating Ralphie in one we all love.
On day nine it's Red Ryder BB guns and lady-leg lamps,
Frozen tongues, broken glasses, and little guy scamps.
My nostalgic mood continues on ten,
When I'll watch my old black-and-white friend.
George questions himself and thinks his life's been a waste,
Clarence reveals he's made Bedford Falls a fine place.
Dickens's story, reincarnated has been,
But, any version works fine on day eleven.
Visions and dreams appear as in our story above,
Unlike good-guy George, Scrooge must learn how to love.
Day twelve is reserved for one from way back,
A short film of a child and the love he did lack.
A poor boy he has only his drum he can play,
For the newborn king on that most glorious day.
Thank you, Hollywood, for movies we enjoy year after year,
For stories of love, life, and lessons held perennially dear.
But, if one studies the list, I think you will find,
Few of the flicks bring the true meaning to mind.
The most known films are sweet and funny, it's true,
But fail to bring Mary, the manger, and Jesus in view.
Tinsel Town, try addressing man's internal crave,
And, give us more to see about the son that He gave.
It's a story that's true, compelling, and brave,
Of One born to die, our sinning souls to be saved.
Consider my list, along with my request,
While I reveal answers to the above test.
"Christmas Vacation" should not be spent "Home Alone,"
Unless it's a "White Christmas" and you're talking by phone.
But, then "The Santa Clause" and his "Elf" won't find you around,
If in spite of "The Grinch that Stole Christmas" down the chimney they bound.
If left stranded deep in snow read "Bridget Jones' Diary" for fun,
Are remember "Four Christmases" are rarely better than one.
Tell "The Christmas Story" for one or all who are near,
Be thankful "It's a Wonderful Life" whether you're there or you're here.
Sing "A Christmas Carol" or two with joy in your heart,
And, one called "Little Drummer Boy" is a great way to start.
Blessings to all at this Christmastime,
And, thank you for reading my ramble-ing rhyme.
In summary, I say watch those movies we love,
But save time for the Savior sent from above.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
This was sent in by Margo Sorenson. She doesn't know who wrote it, but it is a very well-known in Hawaii.
"Da Night Bafo Christmas" Was da night bafo' Christmas, and all ova' da place,
Not even da geckos was showin' their face.
Da stockings was hangin' on top da TV
('Cause no mo' fireplace in Hawai'i )
Da kids stay all crashed, my old man too.
They leave all da work for you-know-who.
So me, I stay pickin' up alla dea toys,
When – boom! – outside get only big noise!
I run to da window, I open 'em up,
I stick out my head and I yell, "Eh! Whassup?!"
And then, I no can ba-lieve what I seen!
Was so unreal, you know what I mean?
This fat haole guy get his reindeers in my yard!
And reindeers not housebroken,
you know, as' why hard!
But nemmind, this Christmas,
so I cut 'em some slack.
Plus, had uku pile presents pokin' outta his sack!
So I wait 'till he pau tie up his reindeer,
Then I yell out da window,
"Huui! Brah, ova hea!"
An' I tell 'em first thing,
when I open da door,
"Eh, Hemo your shoes! You going dirty my floor!"
He take off his boots, he tell, "You know who I am?"
I go, "Ho! From the smell, must be Mr. Toe Jam!"
He make mempachi eyes and he go, "Ho, ho, ho!"
By now, I stay thinking this guy kinda slow!
He look like my Tutu, but little less weight,
And his beard stay so white, mo' white than shark bait!
He stay all in red, specially his nose,
And get reindeer spit on top his nice clothes!
But him, he no care; he just smile at me,
And he start fo' put presents unda-neath da tree.
I tell 'em, "Eh, brah, no need make li'dat,
And watch where you step! You going ma-ke da cat!"
Then, out from his bag, he pull one brand new computah,
Choke video games, and one motorized scootah!
He try for fill up da Christmas socks too, But had so much pukas,
all da stuff went fall troo.
When he pau, I tell 'em, "Eh Santa, try wait!
I get plenty leftovahs, I go make you one plate!"
But he nevah like hang, he had so much fo' do;
Gotta make all them small kids' wishes come true.
So I wave 'em goodbye, and I flash 'em da shaka,
And I tell 'em, "Mele Kalikimaka!"
When he hear that, he stop…and I telling you true,
He go, "Garans ball-barans! Merry Christmas to you!"
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.
Talk tomorrow,
Filed under: authors and illustrators, Holiday, inspiration, Poems Tagged: Christmas Poems, Hally Franz, Lauren Gallegos, Mark Meyers, Robin Jordan
Lovely poem, Robin!
Thank you, Heather! 🎄🍪🎅
Blog: Writing and Illustrating (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: authors and illustrators, Holiday, inspiration, Poems, Ana Ochoa, Andreja Peklar, Carol Murray, Eileen Spinelli, Add a tag
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/
This happy North Pole Illustration was sent in by Andreha Peklar. She was featured earlier this year on Illustrator Saturday. http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2014/07/12/illustrator-saturday-andreja-peklar/
DECEMBER'S LIGHT by Eileen Spinelli
It's the slanted light of a silver star,
soft candlelight in a quiet room.
It's lantern light from house to barn
swaying bright against the gloom.
It's the light of home across the miles.
It's the puddled light of moon-on snow.
It's the light in eyes…in smiles…in hearts.
It's the sweetest light of all I know.
Thank you Eileen and Carol for the Christmas cheer. Hope everyone is having a wonderful day. Merry Christmas!
Talk tomorrow,
Filed under: authors and illustrators, Holiday, inspiration, Poems Tagged: Ana Ochoa, Andreja Peklar, Carol Murray, Eileen Spinelli
Merry Christmas, Kathy! :-)
Merry Christmas!!!
Merry Christmas, Kathy! :)
Merry Christmas Kathy, thanks for the heartfelt poems and Illustrations!
Blog: Writing and Illustrating (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
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This illustration was sent in by Andreja Peklar to help us ring in the new year. She was featured earlier this year on Illustrator Saturday. http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2014/07/12/illustrator-saturday-andreja-peklar/
Have a happy, safe celebration. If you take any pictures and want to share them, I will post them this week.
Here is a poem sent in by Hally Franz:
An Introvert's Dilemma
It's New Year's Eve, and I have not a clue,
As to what I am doing, so I'll run it by you.
Shall I put on heels and make-up and glitz,
For a glamorous evening down at The Ritz?
Or shall I stay home with Ryan Seacrest,
Dressed in my blue jeans instead of my best?
Perhaps dinner and dancing for a romantic night,
My hubby and I might stay out 'til daylight.
Thought sometimes it's hard to stay out so late,
When it's been twenty-five years since you've been on a date.
We'll have some friends over for board games and soup,
My skill in Balderdash will throw them all for a loop.
Of course, I'll have to cook yet another meal,
And, if I liked to cook, it would be no big deal.
It's New Year's Eve, so communing is key,
One more chance to socialize, how lucky are we?
More time and friends, more time with fam,
Another minute might put my head in a jam.
Thanks for your input, thanks for your ear,
I've made a decision on how to ring in the year.
I'll cozy up with my jammies, book, and hot tea,
And spend the whole festive evening with little old me.
Check back on Friday for Erika Wassell's Guest Post.
Talk tomorrow,
Filed under: Holiday, Poems Tagged: Andreja Peklar, Best of, Top 10 2014 Non-Fiction Books, Top 10 Fiction Books of 2014
A very happy New Year to you! :)
Enjoyed the illustration and poem. Hot tea and a book sounds like my kind of choice!
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.
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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/Take Our Poll
Hope you will participate with picking out the winner and wishing that you will have a day to rest after all the work of the holiday.
Talk tomorrow,
Filed under: Contest, Poems Tagged: Carol Murray, Christine Brallier, Hally Franz, Holiday Poems Voting, Marie Wagner, Michelle Kogan, Rob Zammarchi, Robin Jordan
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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.
July 2015
Deadline: 12/01/2014
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.
August 2015
Deadline: 01/01/2015
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.
Filed under: article, children writing, earn money, magazine, Places to sumit, Poems Tagged: Children's Christian Magazine, Pockets Magazine
Blog: La Bloga (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: chicano photography, Floricanto Movement, poems, poetry, poets laureate, Add a tag
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
Unity Poem Fiesta.
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.
|Herrera, Chancellor Wilcox, Dean Cullenberg, Winer
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.
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.
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.
Visit the teatro's website for tickets and curtain times.
News & Notes
Anaya Lecture Slated for Albuquerque
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
The Moderators of the Facebook group Poets Responding to SB 1070; Poetry of Resistance commend four poets in the second of this month's pair of La Bloga On-line Floricantos.
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.
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
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
some say the name
is derived from indigenous tongues
means "beautiful star daughter"
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
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
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
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"
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
is the humiliation of
tired and hungry ancestors
enduring its ugly sound
while picking Texas cotton
and California grapes from
sunup to sundown
is the mean reminder of
all that can never be and
all that will be denied
is the neighborhood
where houses can be rented
and the side of the railroad
tracks that are off limits
after dark
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
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
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
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,
el cielo vomita lumbre,
el laúd esta de luto,
ahora guía al cortejo
de trozos de ilusiones, sueños y esperanzas,
que ni la embriaguez
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
Cuando la mar se seque sabrá
del dolor,
que muerde mis adentros,
la verdad, ¿cuál verdad?
Tan simple, tan llano
son genocidas.
© Oralia Rodríguez
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
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
Blog: OUPblog (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: *Featured, Arts & Humanities, Biography, British, History, Literature, 1930s, aaniversary, birth, centenary, dylan thomas, dylan thomas festival, jon stallworthy, lit, oxford book of war poetry, poems, Poetry, Swansea, Wales, war poetry, Add a tag
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:
The hand that signed the paper
The hand that signed the paper felled a city;
Five sovereign fingers taxed the breath,
Doubled the globe of dead and halved a country;
These five kings did a king to death.
The mighty hand leads to a sloping shoulder,
The finger joints are cramped with chalk;
A goose's quill has put an end to murder
That put an end to talk.
The hand that signed the treaty bred a fever,
And famine grew, and locusts came;
Great is the hand that holds dominion over
Man by a scribbled name.
The five kings count the dead but do not soften
The crusted wound nor stroke the brow;
A hand rules pity as a hand rules heaven;
Hands have no tears to flow.
The post The 100th anniversary of Dylan Thomas's birth appeared first on OUPblog.
Related Stories
Blog: Writing and Illustrating (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: Poems, Carol H. Jones, Carol MacAllister, Carol Murray, Donna Weidner, Eileen Spinelli Poem, Halloween Poems, Jane Resides, Kelly Ramsdell Fineman, Pia Garneau, Robert Zammarchi, Vivian Kirkfield, Wendy Greenley, Add a tag
by Eileen Spinelli
My Hallowish is new:
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.
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!
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 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.
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.
You can visit her at her eponymous website, www.kellyfineman.com, or her blog, Writing & Ruminating, at http://kellyrfineman.livejournal.com
by Carol Murray
Jack-o-Lantern's laughing,
up and down the hall.
Jack-o-Lantern's leering,
hanging on the wall.
Spooks and spiders lurking,
Black cats can be seen.
Ghosts are flying through the sky.
It's Halloween.
Boo! On the wicked witch.
Her hat and cape are black as pitch.
It seems like she mad a little glitch.
And dropped her broomstick in a ditch.
So now I know what I will do.
I'm doing more than saying, "Boo!"
I'll grab that broom this very day
and sweep the monsters all away.
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
All natural, sustainable
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.
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
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.
Robert Zammarchi's Childrens' Illustration Website http://www.robzammarchi.com
Thank you to everyone for your poems and illustrations. It really is a great gift to help us celebrate HALLOWEEN!
Talk tomorrow,
Filed under: Poems Tagged: Carol H. Jones, Carol MacAllister, Carol Murray, Donna Weidner, Eileen Spinelli Poem, Halloween Poems, Jane Resides, Kelly Ramsdell Fineman, Pia Garneau, Robert Zammarchi, Vivian Kirkfield, Wendy Greenley
What a fabulous cauldronful of spooktacular poems! Happy Halloween!
Honored to be part of this great bunch today! Thanks for the Halloween spirit, Kathy.
Great work everyone! I'm in the Halloween spirit, but not sure I'm ready for the big spooky day yet!
What a terrific bunch of poems to be included with! And a beautifully done post, too! Thanks, Kathy!
Happy Halloween, Kathy! Your post is a beautiful opera…and I'm thrilled to be one of the singers. :) Thanks for the opportunity to join in!
These were great. Perfect for a 15-minute break from writing. Now, back to work. Thank you, everyone!
All of these are great! Thanks for the treat of Halloween spirit.
What a lovely sampling of Halloween treats! Thanks Kathy!
Love them all. Thank you for the opportunity to be part of it. Happy Halloween!!
What a wonderful Halloween collection to get us in a spooky mood. Thank you, ghouls and goblins!
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