Poem 1:

The earth as a mother

a blue planet
seeks to rock us to
bliss
in every echo and vibration
under the ground.
We tread here,
but she is the one who magnetizes
our steps to
her heart.

Poem 2:

 A list poem prompt from Ira Sukrungruang that asks you to distill image and metaphor while every line begins with Here.  How’d I do?

Into History

Here in my gut is a molting frog

Here is the land she dwells in, oil slick.

Here is the shade she sits under, resting before the jump.

Here is her glistening eyes, watching stars rise and fade.

Here is her swollen mouth, that says everything even when stuck clenched.

Here is the fly, uneaten, in the sludge.

Here is the browning flower against mother frog’s shoulder.

Here is mother frog’s shoulders, hiding her neck, pulling forward the split in her back.

Here is her back, bright green, unfettered by skin too tight to breathe,

Here is her blighted black skin and the dust from her warts, all is forgiven.

Here is mother frog’s legs, almost strong enough for leaping across history.

Poem 3:

This is from a story that dad told me. It is haunting and couldn’t not write it.

Even The Water Breaks

I remember when I was 13

When I was 13 years old I could swim like a fish.

and I was John Williams and we were going on a road…

I lived in a town house complex called The Woods Of Camelot.

like a mountain…

I didn’t know what that mean, woods of Camelot.

nah, a hill.

I thought it was a fake place.

And you could see the river.

I used to swim in the pool by myself.

And I looked over.

I would jump into the deep side and allow myself to sink to the bottom.

John said, Whatchoo lookin at?

I’d let myself sink to the bottom of 13 feet of water and sit there.

The water?

The water was like a womb

Is it deep?

….it was quiet as a tomb.

“Well go check,” And he pushed me.

I could hear my heart beating. The sun shone down on me sweetly.

And aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh, I ate dirt. Mud.

I thought about life.

I guess you could say I pretty close to dying.

I thought about how to live better.

And all that night…

I thought about how to be perfectly still in the abyss of blue.

I just sat under a tree.

Not even one bubble escaped my gentle lips.

And he just stayed there drinking all night.

No one could see me.

I was close to dying.

No one looked for me.

If I woulda died –nobody woulda…

I tried to speak for myself. Perhaps, the sound would break.

John coulda said anything.

I couldn’t say anything more than a stunted humming noise.

And I thought about all night long without sleeping.

I could have slept like a fetus at the bottom of the pool,

But, then I said, nah.

But then I said, Nah…  running out of air.

I was too young to think about dying.

I was too young to die.

I was scared of dying…

…I was scared of dying.

Poem 4:

I was thinking of poetry while listening to Saul Williams this morning. This poem erupted from my singing along and living in the moment.  I posted it as a Facebook Status Update.

I’ve got a list of demands written on the palms of my hands… while Saul Williams cooks (my breakfast) #We livin’ hand to mouth!

Poem 5:

I spent the day in writing workshops, one of which was called, Writing Against The Workshop with Fady Joudah.  I learned a lot in a very short time, but then I went to a writing workshop with Antoinette Franklin and it was very workshoppy.  I wrote this poem based on four magazine images she’d cut out and glued onto flash cards as writing prompts.  There was a picture of a river flowing over rocks, a tiger crouching or lounging, a fat green frog in green water, and a man painting a wheel on a horse-drawn cart, but only the wheel was showing.  I wrote this poem in ten minutes:

Indian

The blue sky mimics

the puffs of green with white clouds

The trees surround

a river crashing against

copper rocks.

Clean reflections of seaweed wave hello

at the bottom of the shallow break.

His gray hair

the brightest orb

in creation of art.

A halo before the

spinning mandala

red,

blue,

green,

white.

A tiger watches the frog

from fallen log,

only her front paws creep,

while black tail

curls at rest.

The frog sits content

in the shaded sip of green-black speckled water

both frog and water

are camouflage

to each other.

Poem 6:

I’ve been thinking about babies and the trauma of having one… or not having one.

Reabsorbed.

No one cried when my first child wasn’t born.

They said… You were too young to carry it.

Then, he didn’t cry when my second child wasn’t born.

We named him Dream, but Remembering would have been more accurate a title.

There was no one to hold on to

when my husband looked to me for answers;

I looked to him so hard we burst apart like a fetus in utero.

It was reabsorbed, they said.

Dissolved–

like us.

Poem 7:

This poem was written in response to the RiseUP Action held on April 26th against the Texas SB 1128 that seeks to ban Ethnic Studies credit for college students.  This (work in progress) poem is dedicated to Sal Castro and all of his students.

When You’re Grown

When you’re young, I hope someone told you

you can become anything you dream.

I hope they told you about freedom in a cage,

that your name is Joaquin, and that there is a plan (de Santa Barbara)

No sean menso, go to college. Graduate.

I hope someone called you Raza.

I hope they said, “Anything, baby. Anything because your education is your own.”

and now that you’re grown, your college is your home.

I hope you heard someone say, “No.”

I hope you heard Senator Patrick say no to Raza Studies, Women’s Studies, African American, Indigenous Studies!

I hope you heard that misogynist say no!

I hope you heard him say your education is what he deems worthy,

That white-washing gets is the credit –no matter what program you’re in.

I hope you heard him say it as you stood up

Stand up tall Gente.

Grow big, grow mighty.

Our gold-skinned Raza has grown.

The History of our slain never left our memory.

We know, under the fold, which lies were told,

repeated by white-washed misogyny in your American History classes, your colonial Texas history biases. We know.

We’ve grown… por El Plan.

~VV

Viktoria Valenzuela and Gemini Ink are pleased to host 100 Thousand Poets for Change founders, Michael Rothenberg and Terri Carrion on Sunday Feb. 17th, 2013! 3pm-6pm. Come for the live music and selected artists, stay for Poet On Watch from Austin as well as the open mic poets!

*Flier design by Will Bermudez of Willpowered Studios —

I’d bought raspas from a vendor on Zarzamora St.

another damned car commercial bellows about not being undersold

My heart breaks at the high cost of living.

A pecan tree canopy armors us from a scathing Sunday

Sweetly, tiger’s blood quenches our thirst and salted lust simultaneously

A made for TV movie draws us in for the kill. Still

we have all the fun.

May is half schematics, half slumber.

The natural nectar of fruit and ice on a hot day.

She is characterized as troubled and vulnerable against economics but

the frugality of a mother’s embrace is forever.

Partly cloudy sunshine still streams in the windows here

The raspas melt while we eat them.

Law and Order chimes in time to a child sitting upright

she sips the juice, laughing.

I am very proud to announce that I have the distinct honor of curating a “San Antonio Feature” of art and poetry for the world-renowned digital magazine, Big Bridge.  Those works selected will be published for one year then archived.

San Antonio artists and poets ONLY will be considered for publication.  Please send 10 of your most current works for consideration to:

———>   viktoriavalenzuela@yahoo.com

Guidelines:

• Artist/ Author photo
• One Bio of no more than ten lines.
• One high quality images of each piece with full title on each image.
• Artist’s statement must also include title of each piece with explanation of media, concept, and series title if any.
• Author’s statement should include any previous publications.
• No work (writings nor art) may have been previously published.

Deadline for submissions is February 20, 2013!

~VV

A solemn expression before we enter
Catholic Mass.

Slip a skinny finger
into the golden bowl at the door.

Take water with you
and bow before Jesus.

One knee strikes the red carpet.
Just like Gramma showed you to.

Respect.

Our finger touches
the head,
heart,
right then, left shoulder.

A kiss for a thumb
crossed over.

There is a place next to Gramma waiting

Kneeling and whispering in Spanish
She sounds stronger than ever

More serious than
when she asked me limpa la casa.

Clasped are her hands,
a white rosary between them.

A black lace mantilla
covers her silver hair-

Nearby,
four flames burn blue
for Grampa and three of her children gone.

The head and heart of her life.

She touches a finger to
her head
heart
right then left shoulder.

A kiss for a thumb
crossed over.

Gramma looked to the Priest,
her hands sit still in her lap.

Her posture does not slant,
she is radiant

as we stand
and receive repentance.

We’ll follow Gramma up there,
She is

crossed over
with ashes of yesteryear’s palm fronds.

As a solemn society,
we are the heart

from here to
tomorrow

until the cross over
on Ash Wednesday.

Rest in peace, Juanita Gonzales Valenzuela

Diana L. Joe on her way through to Califas 2010

Diana Sits With Mountains

Smiling stoically,

she doesn’t have to say a word

to signal,

Don’t fear me! Fear my ancestry!

The intensity of her jawline beckons

without cracking the smooth slip of her cheekbones;

atonement slopes and juts

on slanted trails in the bedrock.

Diana is the face of mountain meadows.

Armed with inherent knowledge of what makes good medicine,

her healing comes in the heat of a glance.

She’s got eyes that lie only to the cops

not that they don’t know the difference.

Her honesty is not as comforting

as her graciousness.

She whispers:

the stars over there were closer to the

mountains,

and the stars

over here

are closer to

the moon..

I’m climbing

the mountains….

She gives me pecans and mangoes and onions

The birth of my own children

is what I give back.

.

My children walk here.

barefoot, brown-skinned, and thirsty.

A river runs through here;

cool water springs forth.

  .

Momma?

.

Misty Joann Marie Prestwich (9/26/1945 - 9/8/2011)

For All That You Held

Family, children, friends,

and storytellers

hold hands

to re-tell your history.

Many have faces

that resemble yours;

from every age

you ever were.

I remember

the rasp to your voice,

the reassuring pat

of your hand on mine.

Every burden

you lovingly shouldered

lightened the struggle

for the next.

Like paper dolls,

you held my hand,

so I could hold

the rest…

Your table is where

I came to;

where I dreamt and grew into

the me you knew I could be.

Kind mother,

dear friend, my personal historian,

from here into infinity,

you knew me so well.

Longing for

some comfort

through

this glowering loss,

my hands remember

the flicker of a pat…

and keep alive

your kindness.

Misty

memory holds

each storytelling

in the hand of the next.

~by Viktoria Valenzuela

It’d only been one week away from my kids.

My guts ached with longing for them.

Tia Belinda promised to bring me to Frank’s

if Momma could bring the children from Houston.

The half-way point

between Houston and San Antonio.

Momma and Tia Belinda split a giant cinnamon roll;

remembering their sisterhood.

The middle of me unclenched while holding the hands of my children.

~~~   ***   ~~~

A postcard poem by Viktoria Valenzuela

8-25-11

A silver foil banner

is strapped

to the Gothic molding

of the framed passage;

Colorful letters read “Happy Birthday”

The reflection of the room

is obscured

by one glint of sunlight

on the crimped banner;

as we celebrate the day of your birth.

~by Johnny Angel and Viktoria Valenzuela