Huizache Returns. Best Poems of 2014: La Bloga On-line Floricanto

Pachanga Huizachera Launches Fourth Huizache

Michael Sedano

The profesora strides confidently to her place on the stage of the packed lecture hall. Her eyes scan left to right across 800 faces looking back, eager to begin their studies. The lavaliere picks up her well-formed phonemes, her voice sends electrons through the amplifier that shoot through the ether to the dozens of wi-fi loudspeakers until her firm contralto booms out the walls and onto the lined notebooks and laptops of the student body, "This, ladies and gentlemen, is Chicana Chicano Literature" and she holds up a copy of Huizache.

Forty-six years after the first anthology of "Chicano Literature" came to market--El Epejo: The Mirror--Chicana Chicano Literature has a new foundation publication, Centro Victoria Texas' Huizache.

Huizache has published a who's who of chicana chicano and compañera compañero writers and graphic artists including Achy Obejas, Alex Espinoza, Rene Perez, Aracelis Girmay, Benjamin Alire Saenz, Beverly Lowry, Beverly Parayno, Carmen Giménez Smith, Carrie Fountain. , Casandra Lopez, César A. Martínez, Cristina García, Dana Johnson, David Campos, David Garza, Diana Garcia, Domingo Martinez, Eduardo C. Corral, Emmy Pérez, Estella Gonzalez, Gary Soto, Héctor Tobar, Hettie Jones, José Montoya, Joshunda Sanders, Juan Felipe Herrera, Lalo Alcaraz., Laurie Ann Guerrero , Luis J. Rodriguez, Lupe Mendez, Maceo Montoya, Marcelo Hernandez Castillo, Maria Venegas, Matt Mendez, Melisa Garcia, Michele Serros, Naomi Shihab Nye, Rigoberto González, Rio Cortez, Rolando Hinojosa, Rubén Martínez, Sandra Cisneros, Sandra Cisneros, Sasha Pimentel-Chacón, Sherman Alexie, Sheryl Luna, Steven Ramirez, Tameka Cage Conley, Terrance Hayes, Tim Seibles, Tim Z. Hernandez, Tonantzín Canestaro-García, Willie Perdomo, Yona Harvey.

The literary magazine Huizache, fast becoming the definitive journal for contemporary Chicana Chicano writing, and a publisher of record for the movimiento, recently celebrated publication of its fourth volume. The series, which launched coincidentally with the librotraficante caravan in 2012, will continue so long as writers produce quality Chicana Chicano literature.

That persistence is part of the raison d'être of a pachanga at the comfortable hillside home of Virginia Espino and Héctor Tobar. Inside and out, the welcoming space teemed with writers and other well-wishers. Outside, the taco grill had a green chile that sparkled with heat.

Abel Salas, publisher of Boyle Heights' own Brooklyn&Boyle, introduces the journal, and its editor, Dagoberto Gilb.

Gilb cited the endurance of the "wee-zatch" tree, in cowboy jargon. Slash, burn, yank and jerk it around, the Huizache tree holds its ground. Give it a modicum of care, Huizache thrives. When Gilb  assesses the growth and development of chicano literature, he thinks of Huizache, the acacia tree and Huizache the literary journal.

He challenges writers to submit and be rejected first from Huizache. After this, give the Paris Review a shot at your work.

The publication launch event was an evening of definitives. For literature, Huizache. For videography, Latinopia. Jésus Treviño, Latinopia's founder, joined the festivities empty-handed. Normally, Treviño is seen with his video camera in hand, so this foto--with Dagoberto Gilb--is a rare scene. (Don't miss Latinopia's coverage of "In Search of Magulandia," the artists' tribute to the definitive chicano artist and La Bloga friend, Magu. QEPD.)

Order Huizache from the publisher direct, or ask your local indie bookseller to bring in some stock. A subscription is the St. Valentine's Day present that keeps on giving.



Best Poems of 2014: La Bloga On-line Floricanto

Frank de Jesus Acosta, Anne Elizabeth Apfel, Paul Aponte, Antonio Arenas, Victor Avila, Devreaux Baker, Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo, Jesús Cortez, Mario Angel Escobar, Nancy Lorenza Green, Suzy Huerta, Mark Lipman, Elizabeth Marino, Josefa Molina, Joe Morales, Joe Navarro, Robert Neustadt, Gerardo Pacheco Matus, Ramón Piñero, Joseph Ross, Jolaoso Pretty Thunder, Tara Evonne Trudell, Edward A. Vidaurre, Daniel Vidal Soto, by Alma Luz Villanueva

Presented by Michael Sedano and the Moderators of the Facebook group Poets Responding to SB 1070: Poetry of Resistance.


Best Poems of 2014 offers a synoptic reading of chicana chicano poetry published in La Bloga's On-line Floricanto along with a definitive illustration of contemporary Chicana Chicano poetry. What linguistics tipos call an ostensive definition, or I know it when I see it.

The Moderators of the Facebook Group Poets Responding to SB 1070: Poetry of Resistance, this month name twenty-five poets nominated from the poems published monthly in 2014's La Bloga On-line Floricanto. Here are twenty-six ways this community of poets responded to exigencies that pressed upon people of conscience.

One Moderator notes "the diversity of voices and also how they cover marvelous responses to what was going on throughout the year. Ferguson, Ayotzinapa, Gaza, Central American Refugees at the Border, Our Struggle to Save the Earth from the Greedy, GMOs are even mentioned!"

The scope and depth of the poems defines a benchmark in raza literature. The work intersects art, culture, current events, and sentimiento. Tierra, peace, raíces, English, Spanish, dirge, character and ethos impose their motive influences. They lead into understanding how these universal themes weigh upon and are defined by and within the community. In significant ways, these poems are the best possible rhetorical response to the violence of established authority. Where "they" say Arizona, we say "Peace." Where "they" say "illegal" we say "somos." Where "they" say "die" we say aqui estamos y no nos moveran.

Like the enduring Huizache, the 25 attitudes propelling today's La Bloga On-line Floricanto range about in the discourse of their time, but all speak to a unifying value--it's why we speak at all--defined by Alma Luz Villanueva, "Unconquered."

La Bloga On-line Floricanto Best Poems of 2014
“Maya’s Gift”/ "Regalo A Maya Angelou" (Honoring Maya Angelou) by Frank de Jesus Acosta
"Prayers...brought us here...” by Anne Elizabeth Apfel
“Grand Canyon State” by Paul Aponte
“Sin Fronteras” by Antonio Arenas
"El Pañuelo Negro" por Victor Avila
“Ten Aspects of the World without War” by Devreaux Baker
“The Boys of Summer” by Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo
“Soy Yo” by Jesús Cortez
“Brown Chronicles” by Mario Angel Escobar
 “Watching Cesar Chavez Sitting in the Center of the Theatre” by Nancy Lorenza Green
“After Shock~” by Suzy Huerta
“The Border Crossed Us” by Mark Lipman
“Asylum” by Elizabeth Marino
“La Llorona / Cihuacoatl” by Josefa Molina
“Nothing Is Right Until You Say It Is” by Joe Morales
“I Understand Peace, Equality, Justice and Hope” by Joe Navarro
“Crossing the Line” by Robert Neustadt
“The Children of La Frontera” by Gerardo Pacheco Matus
“i had a gun” by Ramón Piñero
“For Gilberto Ramos” by Joseph Ross
“Holyhand” by Jolaoso Pretty Thunder
“This Round” by Tara Evonne Trudell
“Los Desaparecidos” by Edward A. Vidaurre
 “The Other Side” by Daniel Vidal Soto
“Unconquered” by Alma Luz Villanueva

Frank de Jesus Acosta

Maya's Gift (Honoring Maya Angelou)

Today a poet became her poems
Soulful songs of the caged bird
Child of Africa, cradle of humankind
Legacy of slavery, an American anathema
Inheritance of hope, spiritual defiance
Heart of conviction, defying abhorrent hate
Unbroken by bigotry, sexism, or poverty
Claiming the inalienable ways of love
Walking a life of advocacy, sovereignty
Inspiring women to rise in inherent divinity
Admonishing men to live in fullness of equality
Spirit pen of justice, revealing painful truth
Lies of history, dogma of tyranny, canons of greed
Envisioning a world with prose of possibility
Verses of healing for wounded generations
Women, mother, sister, friend, warrior shaman
Today you ascend, our guardian lyricist ancestor
Leaving us a literary legacy of eternal living words
Seeds of love; that the poem within us all may rise

Regalo A Maya Angelou
por Frank de Jesus Acosta

Este día un poeta se fundió en la poesía de ella
Tratando de ser el canto del ruiseñor enjaulado
Niña de Africa, cuna de la humanidad
Hija de la esclavitud, de ese anatema Americano
Herencia de esperanza, espirítu rebelde
Corazón guerrero desafiando a los que siembran odio
Inmune a los prejuicios, del sexismo y la pobreza
Reclamando los inalienables caminos del amor
Llevando siempre la bandera de la soberanía
Inspirando mujeres a elevar la esencia de su divinidad
Amonestando a los hombres para que vivan en igualdad
Pluma espiritual de la justicia, revelando la verdad dolorosa
Mentiras de la historia, dogmas de tiranía, cánones de ambición
Anticipando al mundo una prosa de sueños posibles
Versos sanadores para las generaciones llenas de heridas
Ancianas, madres, hermanas, amigas, guerreros, chamanes
Hoy tú asciendes, y eres nuestro ancestro guardián de la palabra
Y nos dejas tu tesoro literario, de eternas palabras vivientes
Semillas de amor
Que el poema que vive en todos nosotros siempre brote
Con la fuerza de tu espíritu rebelde

Traducido del Inglés por Hector F. García

Anne Elizabeth Apfel

Prayers...brought us here...

Because the energy asked
Because I felt their prayers move me
I let my flute...take me there
And what I saw....while standing in the energy
Of what on the surface was pretending to be helpful
What I saw underneath that ...as I stood with my seeds in my hands
Ready to offer them to the wind...My precious seeds......Waiting to find the Earth
Waiting to find a place to grow their roots..and become...the next Generation...
Were drugs and guns...and I began ....to play my flute there
As I stood there in the energy of the prayer of those who had asked
One by one they disappeared...hands filled with cash...trying to survive
And there was no Garden....Only monsters burying the wasted energy...Nuclear
Filling their pockets ....laughing at nothing will grow here now... naming their own seeds after this horrific mess
And you will clean it up...because you saw it...?
Bless You Sir....
And there we stood together with Cuhtahlatah his wife
Until Only the horses were left standing...the old grandfathers....looking Out
From the eyes of horses...saying stand your ground...we are not leaving Either
And so I stood with my flute as the energy washed over me like a wave
I ducked under it...taking my flute with me...and we...lived...to speak Again..
It is not always to confront the energy...with your body...but with your Energy
When you see no way through the energy...do not take on the energy..it's Energy..
It's formless...wait little one.......until your moved to move and then the Energy
Will take you where your going......take a deep breath.......as you form into Spirit.....
Never allow the energy to turn you into its own likeness...or you will Surely Die....
As you become it...The warrior dies...rather than allowing it to turn their Spirit
And if there were no choice in the energy but to live as a dark one or die as The light
Then we as warriors would die...with our spirits poised to return and battle The darkness
This is the nature of human turning to spirit...Doneho

Paul Aponte

Grand Canyon State

The Grand Canyon:

Majestic, riveting walls of time
Encrusted with history and life
Encrusted with aromas of water trickling on stone
& clean, fresh, crisp air.
Encrusted with colors & beauty of the cactus flowers,
wood betonies & red monkey flowers,
songs of Warblers & Western Bluebirds.
Encircled by morphic skies
watching over the flight of Falcons and Condors.
Rushing white waters like our bustling cities,
gentle trickles like restful small towns that care,
flowing strong waters, like our united people,
and restful pools like the knowing enlightened minds.
All rooted-in remnants of wondrous people
having once thrived all around this beauty,
that is in fact a Grand Canyon.

Why then?

Arizona:

Dining tables for giants
home of the Hopi & their history,
unique religion & philosophy.
Lakes, streams, waterfalls,
pine forests, complex formations,
greenery of plenty opening to
shockingly monumental red towers & mountains.
Plain old deserts shamed
by sudden resplendence
of curvaceous flowing low hills
painted by ancient god-artists
with colors that bring tears
at the inconceivable, shocking beauty.

Why then?

This painted desert,
this splendorous beauty,
protecting an “ancient planet”
a separate universe
a forest of reminders
petrified to tell
with hues of all kinds
reminding us
of
our
short
time
as
guests.

Guests.

Guests, with a future likely shorter
than the wisdom of this petrified forest.


Why then?

The state of mind
poisoned we find
by fear, neglect, and pure disdain
of our humanity.

It has festered.

We see it in the horrific stench
of pundit’s turd words
of formulaic "News people"
reporting on nothing
but
to incite extremes
of the regurgitation by otherwise fine people
Slowly decomposing before our eyes.

The grand canyon growing wider
between the living and the dead.

One …
unwilling …
to let the true light in.

Spin, spin, spin.
Foghorn blowing in your face.

Now I realize
our true divine evolutionary path can be stunted and
we only get one chance.

Tiny Alice
in Wonderland
walking in a Grand Canyon
of beautiful flowers
of beautiful “people”,
So she thought.

“We don't want weeds in our bed!
… Move along, move along!” they said.
Flowers creating hatred, divisiveness, a grand canyon,
for no loving reason.

Spin, spin, spin.
Foghorn blowing in your face.

We yearn for the simple life
for simple thinking,
but something is stinking.
Because de-evolution is not the solution.
Respecting WWE reactions
without sanctions,
Hating jobless and homeless,
thereby providing less
is just a mess, non-sense
Screaming at hard working people
merely for being within sight
is not right.

Borders made by hoarders.

Spin, spin, spin.
Foghorn blowing in your face.

They keep trying to obfuscate,
The enlightened must keep trying to eliminate …
this grand canyon state.

The Grand Canyon
Towering sculptures of time, history, and life.
At the bottom
the tears of its true owners

moving fast away
applauded by those
In this grand canyon state.

Antonio Arenas

Sin Fronteras

Sin fronteras caminamos por el mundo,
Gritando a los cuatro vientos,
Que viva la paz entre hermanos,
Y liberando nuestros sentimientos.
Libertad de pensamientos,
Libertad de expresión,
Libertad de correr bien fuerte,
Por la emoción,
Como vuelan libres las aves,
Cantando un estribillo,
De paz y amor,
Y Teniendo de coro a un pueblo,
Que canta con el corazón,
Queremos paz en la tierra,
Sin fronteras en ninguna región,
Sin discriminación de razas,
Ni convicción política, ni religión.
Sin fronteras jugamos al fútbol,
Sin fronteras nos inventamos los juegos,
Sin fronteras escuchamos la música,
Que viva el idioma de los pueblos.
Regresan las aves a sus nidos,
Porque no podemos regresar a nuestra tierra,
Si es una tierra de hombres libres,
Un manantial de paz y belleza,
Donde se respira un aire puro,
Que no tiene fronteras.

Victor Avila

El Pañuelo Negro

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.

Devreaux Baker

Ten Aspects of the World without War

This is the morning soldiers dismantle guns
And abandoned tanks become nesting grounds
For cranes and starlings

This is the morning that trees are planted in the ruins
Of village streets and bunkers become seed exchange
Stations for non-gmo farmers

This is the morning that prayer flags fly
From the highest buildings in cities
That ring the world with chants or songs

This is the morning that snipers learn
The ancient recipes for baking bread
And distribute their loaves for free

This is the morning long tables are set
In the middle of rubble strewn fields
And musicians gather to welcome everyone

This is the night where stars are recognized
In the deepest recesses of space
As a saving grace

And men, women and children
Drift into sleep where there are no longer
The faces of war…but only the sound of wind
In trees, or water forming waves
Against some forgotten
Shore

Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo

The Boys of Summer

Carpinteria, CA, July 2014

In Carpinteria, California a golden preteen in red shorts
runs down a clouded over beach to play at junior lifeguard.
He is lost in a sea of boys and girls just like him
all smiling and learning lessons on how to be safe.

In Brooks County, Texas a boy with a note pinned to his shirt
addressed to an aunt in New Jersey wrestles
with his mother’s hopes pinned to his shoulders.
Dehydration pins his cramping leg muscles together.

On a beach in Gaza four cousins play soccer.
One calls Messi while another calls Neymar before the injury.
The score is tied. They set up penalty kicks on the edge
of the surf. A boat in the distance sets up its shot.

The boy digs toes into sand and waits for his turn
to relay to a solo buoy bouncing in the water.
He asks the cute and sunny blond in line next to him,
“If you could live anywhere, where would you live?”

Alone in the desert, the boy lies down in the dirt.
As he closes his eyes he dreams of the home he is to build
for his mother and sister where he will watch all the T.V.
he wants, and no one worries about being killed.

On a beach in Gaza the four boys are blown to Jello-y pieces
of matter, and now they’ll never know a life without fear.
The mothers and fathers gather outside the hospital and scream
into the air because they couldn’t give their boys a safe place to play.

Jesus Cortez

Soy YO

Antes de ser ilegal, mojado, soñador, indocumentado,
americano sin paepeles, hijo bastardo de amerika
hijo abandonado, cruzado cruzando fronteras,
antes de ser ridiculizado por nuestro ingles,
antes de ser temido por mi piel color de tierra fertil,
antes de que las esposas pudieran cortar mi piel,
antes de que las noches se llenaran de luces
de falsedades que le llaman civilizacion,
de ciudades fabricadas con mentiras y explotacion,
antes de ser todo esto

mi abuela fue

llamada india, fue insultada por ser mujer,
la trataron de domar, la trataron de matar por dentro,
la trataron de usar, de cambiar

y dejamos de ser Indigenas para ser mexicanos,
y fuimos odiados igual, y fuimos abandonados
con hambre, con lombrices que no perdonan edades,
con piojos que no perdonan las ganas de dormir

y ahora? Que somos? somos hijos adoptivos,
hijos no queridos de dos banderas, de una tierra
que alguien dividio para separarnos,
y llamarnos como quicieran...

y ahora?

Soy nada de lo que dicen,

SOY Yo

pesadilla caminante, poeta sin tapujos,
llanto de alegria, llanto de frustracion,
llanto de amor, llanto de muerte

llanto de vida

soy YO, no soy lo que digas TU.

Mario Angel Escobar

Brown Chronicles

If you ever want to walk
the corners of your streets,
Be ready to put your hands up
because the pigmentation of your skin,
Has already made you guilty.
Be ready to hold your last breath
because eyes with a sense of supremacy
will stalked you
following your foots steps.
Don’t hold anything in your hands
Open them like roses in the spring
accelerating their process
because if you don’t
the law will drop a white blanket
on a puddle of blood
covering a history
that has been deny
over and over again
but why cry
if the tears will continue to blossom
everyday
flooding with sadness
our sunsets.
Wherever you go
Sirens
Will stalked you
suffocated your path
with the scent of your
dead ones
If you ever want to walk
the corners of your streets,
Be ready to put your hands up
because a single phrase
I am not guilty!
I am not guilty!
I am not guilty!
Will not do
and in the vortex
of the hourglass sand
you will find
that the dream
still a dream
in the corners
of your street.

Nancy Lorenza Green

Watching Cesar Chavez Sitting in the Center of the Theatre

The film projects slivers
of so many people’s lives…my own
working in the fields
silenced voices of women and children
modern slavery alive and well
The power of transformative vision on film—
the amazing craft of seasoned actors
who project their spirits to sense
and feel and articulate profound meanings
Memories of everyday life
So many working families struggle to survive,
yet thrive on the knowledge that honest work
feeds a nation, nurtures the collective will
to live a peaceful, healthy life
A flood of tears when the film ends
Tears of longing for social justice
Tears of anger at the ignorance and injustice that prevails
Cathartic response to a call for action from beyond the grave:
Empowerment, self-determination reaffirmed

Suzy Huerta

After Shock

Tonight, prayers the people of Fukushima
will escape the unnatural breath

of radiation. Four burning reactors and acid
rains hang overhead. Together, we walk this coastline

of nuclear meltdown. The living cry for having outlived
tsunami explosions, and I decide I won’t cry death

that can, at the whim of wind and
ocean currents, take over, seep slowly

into expectant lungs and belly. Before the final seizure,
cancer born of hyper-energy and fabricated sun, I declare

my right to battle. 50 plant technicians stay behind
when levels spike into dangerous territory, more dangerous

than centuries of plate tectonic tension, and surging waters.
Like them, I focus on the fixing. I will not spend energy

this night at my desk, eyes on screens, on newsreels
of broken spirits: mothers to new babies,

70 year old husbands who couldn’t hold on
to waterlogged, drifting wives. I take their gaping wounds

like a bullet in protest, demand something better
and walk with their torment like a lover, saying goodbye

in this balmy, California sunset. Loose steps glide on
downtown, potholed pavement. Returning home, I discover

purple and yellow bulbs, ripe and blasting brilliantly,
growing spring into dying, winter skies.

Mark Lipman

The Border Crossed Us

I step onto land
where my ancestors
planted our family tree
over 1,000 years ago.

I have known no other sand
between my toes
under my feet
this is my only home.

One day though
a stranger arrived
sat down at our table
drank our wine
ate our bread
raped our women
burnt our village
then declared me illegal.

The color of my skin
the language on my tongue
the god that I chose to believe in
demonized in order to justify their cruelty.

The freedom that I enjoyed
my right to self-determination
gone, victim to yet another
military occupation.

My peace,
simply a broken olive branch
cut from the tree they tore down.

My home,
rubble, beneath the tracks
of their bulldozers.

All I have ever had
all that I’ve ever known
all, taken from me.

My blood,
turned into their gold.

My heart,
broken from generations
of lies and betrayals.

If you cut me, do I not bleed?

Crushed, beneath the boot of technology
by persons with no soul or body to touch

with no heart to feel

eyes, blinded by hatred
ears, closed to any reason
mouths, shut out of fear

comfortably tucked away in their beds
while human beings die in the streets
under the batons and artillery shells
of a militarized police state

Wrapping oneself in a flag
worse yet, a religion
while making excuses for genocide
sanctioning the murder of children.

News actors continue to blame the victims
force feeding us lies, calling us terrorists
because we were born onto the land that they coveted.

Who is the real enemy,
the one who believes in something different than you,
or the one who uses what you believe in to change who you are?

There is no escaping the soul staring back in the mirror
regardless of the shifting lines on some map
human rights have no borders.

Elizabeth Marino

Asylum

Another sleepless night,
and bad television
is still not calming.

My mind has drifted back
to Charlie and his blue
plastic boat, shared at St. Vincent
Orphan Asylum in Chicago.
His hair was wondrously full
and he made my belly laugh
as we waited and drifted.

The dormitory cribs were
far different from the blue vinyl
mats on the concrete floor
of the women’s wing of the
shelter. Each places of shelter
and transit, an end time
at any time.

And I see these pictures
of the children stacked up like
cord wood, relatively safe
compared to the Pakistani children
stacked up like cord wood
in ox carts, after a drone attack.

It is difficult to shut off
these images on the screen
of the mind’s eye. The browser sticks,
and keeps refreshing itself.

In the morning
I must go out the door
and decide to be alive.

Josefa Molina

La LLorona/ Cihuacoatl

Let me drop the withered bodies of my young
at your doorstep, children eaten
by the Beast or left to die in deserts
next to bone dry water tanks shot full
of holes by local cowboys with
delusions they were sheriff.

Let me drop my dying children at your feet,
praying for refuge from the coyotes that follow,
that you've fed, that salivate
over the fear-filled scent of frightened children.
Coyotes call, promising home, then slit
small, smooth, brown throats and devour their prey.

Let me drop my ghost children at your border,
hoping for compassion in a land where full~ bellied,
ranting "Patriots" want to send them back
to the slaughter they've risked life and limb to escape.
"Patriots" cursing and spitting out jagged shards
of hate that dismember with a familiar terror.

I howl with anguished cries as I mourn
my sons and daughters. If only I could feed them
with my withered breast and let them drink salty tears,
I might save them. Instead, I'm left to wail
each dread full night, as I gather up the remnants
of their souls and softly call them each by precious name.

Joe Morales

Nothing Is Right Until You Say It Is

You, dreamer that cries in heartbreak
whose voice wails with the injustice of it
whose voice echoes against a wall of grief
gathering round the coffins
in the long sleepless watches of the night

traveler from ancient places,
you praise the finger pointing north
in awkward persistence
if you walk far and hard enough
will the sweet smell of freedom follow?

you of time, you of silent merit
you relinquished of childhood
fair flower how do you so calmly grow?
even as you are among us, you're about to let go
even if your disrespected you’ll forgive
even if you act responsible you'll be criticized
even as you walk away you’ll remember

you’re one acquainted with the night
coyotes and vampires glisten in your window
making their morbid and evil way
hacking through old neighborhoods
while slithering through, accumulating slime,
hopelessness littering the horizon

about suffering you were never without
for you all human nature seems at odds
you see violated ones with gentle hearts die
too eager for the predictable, too late for change

you’ve been standing in line patiently, quietly
too long to measure, while others perished
you’ve now raised your voice
for weary hearts and ears to hear

for all who’ll lend a hand
for those who will fight
who'll challenge the injustice, hypocrisy
give credence to inalienable rights
knowing humanity grows if nurtured
you lend your voice

Joe Navarro

I Understand Peace, Equality, Justice and Hope

I understand peace, equality,
Justice and hope
Paz, igualidad, justicia
Y esperanza, even though
They sometimes remain
Elusive, the same as
Catching clouds and rainbows
The ideals are etched in
My vocabulario, en dos idiomas
I think of them in English
And español in hopes that
Two languages can cross
The threshold of oppression
I stopped dreaming in
Abstract lofty ideals that
No one can achieve without
Struggle, without un movimiento
This is what I learned that from an
Inspiration that roared from
The mind and lips of
A gentle man who stood
Unwaiveringly, face to face
With with the anti-human
Racial construct that declared
Itself superior to all on la Tierra
I was one of those chavalitos
Who listened to the spiritual discourse
For humanity against the dangers
Of racial, ethnic and international
Domination through violence,
Brutality and subjugation
I listened to the revolutionary cry to
Value la gente, human beings
Over commodities and a denunciation
Of crass materialism and racism
I listened to a giant, rich of corazón
A humble man who loved toda la gente
But despised the haters and dominators
A man who was a powerful orator
Who spoke out, even against
The threats of the most powerful
Nation on Earth, I learned from
The wise man, The Reverend Dr.
Martin Luther King, Jr who lived and died
Awakening the humanity of
People who were tired of living
Under the heels of others
Then fear and loathing traveled
From the barrel of a gun into
His physical existence on la Tierra
Yet he arose again as winged
Consciousness, a free spirit that
Traveled far and wide into the
Hearts and minds of those
Who would listen and learn
Someone, like me

Robert Neustadt

Crossing the Line

Little children cross the line.
Thousands,
legions of children,
seeking the love of a mother,
a father, a place to be.
A place where you can eat.
A  place where you can stare at your feet,
or clouds that look like bunnies,
and not have to worry that
they’ll cut your throat,
or rape your sister,
or rape you and
cut your sister.
Thoughts. Thoughts of nine year olds?
Such are the thoughts of little children
riding  the train, with hungry bellies,
cutting lines across thousands of miles,
riding rails on top of box cars.
Miles and miles and, yes, occasionally smiles.
Dreams of mami. feel the wind, it feels like we’re flying.
Rails of worry, wheels of Beast.
Don’t sleep, they’ll throw  you off.
Don’t slip,
la bestia will suck you in and slice off  your legs.

Swim the river, cross the desert,
Find the Migra, find Mamá.
We’re here, we made it,
the United States!.
Have we arrived?
New York, is near?

Cages. Children in little cages.
It’s like the zoo with children-as-animals--
sad young polar bears, locked inside refrigerated cages in a desert zoo.
No balloons on strings,
no squeals of laughter, no organ grinder music.
Just kids, never-smiling, inside cages.
This is no American Dream,
rather another segment of an endless nightmare.

Green-clad agents watch,
with guns on their belts, and tasers and clubs,
they guard the little brown children,
who dared
to cross
the crooked
lines
that divide
us
from
them.
Those
who
have
and those
who don’t
have the right
to eat,
to stare at their feet,
to find happy dreams in clouds,
to be.

Thousands of children crossed a line of water and sand.

Do we really want to hold that line?
Incarcerate children like dogs in the Pound?
Do we  really want to cross that line
from human to inhumane,
shifting in shape from human to soulless steel-gutted beasts?

Gerardo Pacheco Matus

The Children of La Frontera

we are the children of la frontera
left to live, to rot and to dream en el desierto

day and night, we follow the old coyote’s shadow
through this dry world of cacti and rattlesnakes

en el desierto, the dead speak to us
disguised with our father and mother’s voices---

we listen to their feeble hearts
beat as soon as they tell us
the old coyote left them to die
alone and thirsty en el desierto

some dead children smile too glad to see us
others cry and shriek like crows
too fearful to see the old coyote
guide us through this wasteland

day and night, we follow the old coyote
through this labyrinth of bones and shadows
hoping we will live
free en el gabacho

we wear La Virgen de Guadalupe’s medal
for protection
so mother Death knows
we are the children of la frontera

day and night, we wait en el desierto
chewing and gnawing at dry cactus roots
until la migra breaks our spell…

day and night, we wait for la chansa
de cruzar la linea, no matter what…

as we are the children of la frontera

Ramón Piñero

i had a gun

i had to shoot him
yer honor,
he unrespected me
i thought he had a gun
it was dark
it was loud
they were black
they were very black
listening to that
rap music they all like

i had a gun
they unrespected me
i had to shoot
they were black
so very black
and i had a gun

they were so black
and that booming bass
i could do nothing else
i had a gun
they did not
they unrespected me
with their music filled
joy; unaware that
i had a gun

i had a gun
i had to shoot him
i had to stop any
future thuggery
they were black
so very black

i had a gun

Joseph Ross

For Gilberto Ramos

15 year-old Guatemalan boy who died
in the Texas desert, June, 2014

Before you left, your mother
draped you with fifty Hail Marys,

a rosary of white wood,
a constellation she hoped might

guide you. But Texas does not
know these prayers. It knows

that desert air is thirsty
and you are made of water.

It drank you slowly. Your name
only linked to your body by the string

ofaves still around your neck,
the small cross pressing against your

wooden skin, the color of another cross.
You left home on May seventeenth

with one change of clothes and two
countries ahead of you, your brother’s

phone number hidden on the back
of your belt buckle so the coyote

couldn’t find it. The coyotes pray
in the language of extortion.

The phone number was eventually
found by a Texas official whose name

your brother couldn’t remember. She called
and spoke in the language of bones. He translated

her news into “pray for us, sinners,
now and at the hour of our death.”

His prayer meant “brother,” a word
he kept moist, just beneath his tongue.

Jolaoso Pretty Thunder

Holyhand

I am saying datura grows in colonies

on abandoned roads on the hips of the interstate
I do don't remember what she says
lost several hours, days even
ghost rattle
I am saying the dumb sky above looked down
on my galvanized roof, my castle
and two bucks locked antlers
In front of the house
03:00 am
dragging each other 150 feet
I call the dream helper by name
It's that time again
dirt
ash
mist captured
The women of my clan tossed the family name into the pit
I too burn the bridges
goodbye
My vision can change with the invisible borders that
I see, then cross
Trespassing
Yet further
I push it, reach the edges, some kind of darkness that brightens
Don’t look in the skeleton closet
you will find me there
The town dump, ocean, ravine, last stand of redwoods
I am the rubbish of the compound
Being eaten by the village chickens
I shapeshift into the sailor, a crossroads
Then the common wife, the storm flower, perfect whore, your queen
I am on the porch tethered to a cinderblock that lays in the crabgrass
This is exile self chosen
I nap in the sun
Irresponsible
Drawing it out with a stick in the dirt
I am the green hoop around the sun
on far away days
I see you in your manner
I speak in your Way
Dressing the house in tea and cakes
Spirit plates left for the dead
I know the songs for war, love, invisibility and undoing the sorcery
I tie knots in the rhythm
I say outright you have abandoned your own self
I say to you, those matching dishes and pillows are your spirit, malnourished
That formal garden, the same
I speak that I fear my own black magic and what I can do
what I have already done
I say I know these trees and which way to glance to accomplish it all
Blood in the hollow
1234567
This is what I am saying
This is the language I speak

Tara Evonne Trudell

This Round

this round
will go
to mother earth
she who
prevails
and survives
pain
she who
takes destruction
and rebuilds
finding her
way to grow
continually
defying
all odds
against her
she not trying
to hide
her beauty
pure
in nature
giver of life
battling
jealous gods
and bible words
forever
captured in
man's greed
and corruption
the pain
of persecution
inflicted
never leaving
her awareness
in layers
of the not caring
upon ground
she provides
a place
for humanity
to stand
over and over
again
all source
of inspiration
her gift
of being
unconditional
and providing
life
for all those
around her
raising fists
in the air
earth wins
this round.

Edward A. Vidaurre

Los Desaparecidos

Everyone has the gift of invisibility,
even the borderwall goes unnoticed in June after a
month that drains us of life. The scent of knives
on a hot summer is the only constant
amongst the news of frontera tragedies and a poetry
reading in a stick-to-your-skin humid bar in a small South Texas town.

We all have the gift of going missing,
like the breath of a collapsing lung,
like a whisper from behind, a shooting star.
Or do we just hide reading a newspaper upside-down
when the new Sheriff arrives?

Puede ser que tambien los periodicos se convierten
lanchas que se lanzan en un rio olvidado, en aguas
color a sangre de tantos que casi por las yemas de los dedos
tocaban tierra Estadounidense.

The missing,
they recite Howl across the Rio Grande
but not the Ginsberg lament for his brethren
but the howls of suffering souls crammed in stash houses
across our children's playgrounds, those left
for dead in sweltering sardine packed vessels,
-those left alive to remember hell is real.

Los desaparecidos,
quieren ser encontrados
aun decapacitados y sin lenguas.

Siguen gritando porque el silencio es fuerte en sufrimiento.

We will keep them alive and find them!

Through art, poetry, music, stories that scare the night,
and lullabies that make our children sleep tight.

Cuando los cantos se vuelven agua
el olor de cuchillos en el aire
bailan con la bungavilla trepadora
descendiendose seis pies bajo la tierra sin nombre
-solo una alabanza que fluje entre la tierra agrietada

Daniel Vidal Soto

The Other Side

We began in our old neighborhood
Three o’clock comes and we take off
before the rooster realizes we’re gone

We move out the cluster of houses
with their barred windows and doors
from the neon signs

To the outskirts
where fields of horses
stand still in sleep

Looking up, the sky is a map
the crisp air rushes with dawn
and the sun looks like a bleeding marigold

We drive south, intermittent with hustling
cities and empty roadways
nothings and crowded too muches

There are bridges just above
dirt roads lie ahead
and in between, fields of sunflower

Too many petals and stems and roots
for the farmer
to hack away

Still in Texas
we stop at the mercado
where the roof is paper cuttings

Our legs are sore
and the tires have hummed
us children to sleep

Mariachi on the ride home
until the hills become bigger
and we notice a cross on every top

Mexico’s inching close
and we know we’re almost
on the other side

The hills are balding with cactus
they ride higher by the mile
and father says they’re graves for gods

The city just outside the border
electrified all around
a halo hiding this little town

There are hotels by the street
and we’re told
no where is a place for children

We dare not cross
now that the moon chimes away
the footsteps and rust

When morning comes
we see a man
with three dogs

He has skin like me
but an angry voice
and angrier badge

Cars lined like humans
we sit and wait
until we’re called

Just inside the fence
a sign
two eagles sharing a snake

Bronze, proud, broad chests
and shoulders
who have known many flights

They keep our bodies in their mouths
only swooping from the sky
when the snake has grown its wings

braved against
the grounding earth
and reached the other side.

Alma Luz Villanueva

Unconquered

I eat breakfast
and watch Moctezuma's
throat be slashed, the
conquest unfold,

Sor Juana at the
top/edge, encircled in
violet, her poet's
heart on fire, La

Virgen carried on a
banner, Coatlique in
disguise, her skulls
hidden under her

gentle dress, a
woman giving birth
with great IxChel's
help, as all women

are, umbilical cord
dangling from vagina,
child alive, survivor of
the conquest, I am

a survivor of the
conquest, a wild
mestiza child, my
poet's heart on

fire, I am the
dreamer, one of
thousands, Moctezuma
slaughtered, terrified of

our dreams, our visions,
now I sit, centuries
later, my dreams,
visions, memory,

intact- I see the
Great Books burning,
I weep, this I know,
dreams can't be

burned, I see
Sor Juana's
poet's heart on
fire,

as the woman's
vagina burns with
birth, IxChel singing,
"Dreamers, you have

survived, each century
your voices stronger,
sweeter, your poet's heart
unconquered, dream

new words,
new stories,
new Great Books, on
fire."

Villauueva writes this mural at Instituto Allende inspired the poem

Meet the Poets

1. “Maya’s Gift” (Honoring Maya Angelou) by Frank de Jesus Acosta
2. Prayers...brought us here...” by Anne Elizabeth Capful
3. “Grand Canyon State” by Paul Aponte
4. “Sin Fronteras” by Antonio Arenas
5. "El Pañuelo Negro" por Victor Avila
6. “Ten Aspects of the World without War” by Devreaux Baker
7. “The Boys of Summer” by Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo
8. “Soy Yo” by Jesús Cortez
9. “Brown Chronicles” by Mario Angel Escobar
10. “Watching Cesar Chavez Sitting in the Center of the Theatre” by
Nancy Lorenza Green
11. “After Shock~” by Suzy Huerta
12. “The Border Crossed Us” by Mark Lipman
13. “Asylum” by Elizabeth Marino
14. “La Llorona / Cihuacoatl” by Josefa Molina
15. “Nothing Is Right Until You Say It Is” by Joe Morales
16. “I Understand Peace, Equality, Justice and Hope” by Joe Navarro
17. “Crossing the Line” by Robert Neustadt
18. “The Children of La Frontera” by Gerardo Pacheco Matus
19. “i had a gun” by Ramón Piñero
20. “For Gilberto Ramos” by Joseph Ross
21. “Holyhand” by Jolaoso Pretty Thunder
22. “This Round” by Tara Evonne Trudell
23. “Los Desaparecidos” by Edward A. Vidaurre
24. “The Other Side” by Daniel Vidal Soto
25. “Unconquered” by Alma Luz Villanueva

Frank de Jesus Acosta is principal of Acosta & Associates, a California-based consulting group that specializes in professional support services to public and private social change ventures in the areas of children, youth and family services, violence prevention, community development, and cultural fluency. Acosta provides writing and strategic professional support in research, planning, and development to foundations and community-centered institutions on select initiatives focused on advancing social justice, equity, and pluralism. In 2007, Acosta published "The History of Barrios Unidos," and is presently authoring and editing a book series focused on issues related to boys and young men of color for Arte Publico Press.

In “Prayers Brought Us Here,” by Anne Apfel, the writer mixes in words from two languages. Cherokee and Seneca, the word Cuhtahlatah is the cherokee word for wild hemp and the word Doneho is a Seneca word for I am done. The poem follows a flute journey of a girl who is trying to pray for the seeds to grow and runs into some dark energy of guns and drugs and nuclear waste that is holding back her prayer; so she begins to get angry at the energy and ends with some strong words for those polluting her earth and some hope too upon meeting a man working with wild hemp to help clean up the mess on the earth and the minds of the people who don’t think before they create these messes. Anne is the author of one poetry book, “Infinity Entwined” and one Children’s book, “ Introducing Ellie.”

Paul Aponte is a Chicano poet born in San Jose, California USA, and now a proud citizen of Sacramento. Paul, was a member of the performance poetry group "Poetas Of The Obsidian Tongue" in the 90's, and now is a member of "Escritores del Nuevo Sol". He is the author of the book of poetry "Expression Obsession" published in 1999, and has been published in "La Bloga" and in the book "Un Canto De Amor A Gabriel Garcia Márquez".
Through his many poems in English, Spanish, and Spanglish he conveys a connection to his culture that transcends the material. He does this while retaining a voice that is very clearly his own, one which he commands with sincerity and a truthful, even wise sense of humor, and of self.

Webpage - https://www.facebook.com/wolf.fox.54/notes

Victor Avila is an award-winning poet. One of his poems was recently included in the anthology Overthrowing Capitalism. His poem A House Full of Light was chosen as one of the best of 2012 by the moderators of Poets Responding to SB 1070. He has also written and illustrated several comic books. Hollywood Ghost Comix Vol. 2 will be published in February by Ghoula Press. Victor has taught in California public schools for twenty five years.

Devreaux Baker was awarded first place in the 2014 Barbara Mandigo Kelly Peace Poetry Awards from the Nuclear Age Peace Foundation for her poem, “In The Year Of The Drone.” She has published three books of poetry, with a fourth, “out of the bones of earth”, to be released by Wild Ocean Press in February 2015. She has taught poetry
workshops in France, Mexico, and the United States; and Poetry in the Schools through the California Poets in Schools Program. Her awards include the 2011 PEN Oakland/ Josephine Miles Poetry Award, the Hawaii Council on Humanities International Poetry Prize, and the Women’s Global Leadership Initiative Poetry Award.

Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo was named the 2013 Poets & Writers California Writers Exchange poetry winner and her manuscript, Built with Safe Spaces, was a 2014 Andres Montoya Poetry Prize finalist. She has poetry published in The American Poetry Review, CALYX, The Acentos Review, and The Los Angeles Review. A short dramatization of her poem, Our Lady of the Water Gallons, directed by Hollywood director and Chicano activist, Jesús Salvador Treviño, can be viewed at latinopia.com. She is the curator of the HITCHED reading series at Beyond Baroque Literary/Arts Center, and she is a co-founding member of Women Who Submit.

Jesus Cortez is an undocumented immigrant writer from West Anaheim, California. He believes that art and culture are needed in order to create true social change. His hope is that his work will contribute at least a small percentage to that change.

Mario A. Escobar (January 19, 1978-) is a US-Salvadoran writer and poet born in 1978. Although he considers himself first and foremost a poet, he is known as the founder and editor of Izote Press. Escobar is a faculty member in the Department of Foreign Languages at LA Mission College. Some of Escobar’s works include Al correr de la horas (Editorial Patria Perdida, 1999) Gritos Interiores (Cuzcatlan Press, 2005), La Nueva Tendencia (Cuzcatlan Press, 2005), Paciente 1980 (Orbis Press, 2012). His bilingual poetry appears in Theatre Under My Skin: Contemporary Salvadoran Poetry by Kalina Press.

Suzana de Jesus Huerta is a writing instructor currently living in San Francisco. She dedicates most of her energy to the California community college system and its inspiring student body. A Bay Area native, Suzana was born of apricot dreams on Del Monte Cannery conveyer belts and raised on picket lines and in union meetings among the dying orchards of San Jose, Ca. She is a VONA alum and her work has appeared in The Packinghouse Review, La Bloga, El Coraje, Poets Responding to SB1070, and Sunrise from Blue Thunder. Other works forthcoming in the anthologies Poetry of Resistance: A Multicultural Anthology in Response to Arizona SB1070, Xenophobia and Injustice and She Did It Anyway.

Mark Lipman, founder of VAGABOND, is a writer, poet, multi-media artist, activist, and author of six books, most recently, Poetry for the Masses; and Global Economic Amnesty. Co-founder of the Berkeley Stop the War Coalition (USA), Agir Contre la Guerre (France) and Occupy Los Angeles, he has been an outspoken critic of war and occupation since 2001.

In 2002, he became writer-in-residence at Shakespeare and Company in Paris, under the guidance of its founder George Whitman. In that year he worked with Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Jack Hirschman and the Italian poet, Igor Costanzo, in Back to Beat, a Fluxus art and poetry event in Breccia, Italy.

He is currently a member of POWER (People Organized for Westside Renewal), Occupy Venice and the Revolutionary Poets Brigade. www.vagabondbooks.net

Elizabeth Marino is a poet and educator, based in Chicago. She conducts a creative writing workshop for GLBTT seniors at the Center on Halsted. She was proud to see her work re-appear in the national Latino blog of culture and literature "La Bloga" in 2012, along with the FB page "Poets Responding to SB 1070." The MUse of Peace will reprint "Asylum."

Joe Morales is an artist, poet, writer, singer/songwriter and producer from Boyle Heights now living in South San Gabriel, Ca. Joe is a member of the Here and Now Poets from El Sereno, Ca., published in Heartbreak Anthology,  Latino LA and La Bloga. Joe is married and has three children, retired but continues to expand boundaries, generating interesting projects and cultivate new friendships.

Joe Navarro is a literary vato loco, teacher, poet and creative writer whose writings are inspired by the daily experiences of people who struggle daily for social, political and linguistic justice.

Robert Neustadt is Professor of Spanish and Director of Latin American Studies at Northern Arizona University. Since 2010 he has been taking students on field trips to the US/Mexico border. He has written about these experiences in an article in UTNE Reader: http://www.utne.com/politics/humanitarian-crisis-of-border-politics-zm013mjzbla.aspx. He co-produced and contributed a song to Border Songs, a double album in English and Spanish about the border and immigration (http://www.bordersongs.org). All contributors donated their work and the project donates all of the sales revenue to a humanitarian organization, "No More Deaths / No más muertes." Each album of Border Songs purchased provides 29 gallons of water for migrants in the borderlands. So far the album has raised approximately $75,000 for humanitarian aid.

I am Gerardo Pacheco Matus, a Mayan native. I was born in Huhi, Yucatan, Mexico. I crawled through The United States’ border at age 16. My Mayan and Mexican heritage influences my writing, which deals with migration's social and cultural hardships. My poems have appeared and are forthcoming from La Bloga Online Magazine, Grantmakers in the Arts, San Francisco Foundation, Spillway Magazine, Transfer Magazine, El Tecolote Newspaper, Cipactli Magazine, Amistad Howard-University, Blue Print E-Zine, “OCCUPY SF, poems from the movement,” “Feather Floating on the Water-
poems for our children,” Poets Responding to SB1070, and The University of Arizona Press. The San Francisco Foundation awarded me the distinguished Joseph Henry Jackson Award. In 2015, Black Lawrence Press will publish my firs literary essay, “Institutionalized: My Influences as an American Poet.” I was also selected to participate on “The Pintura:Palabra National Ekphrastic Workshops, in tandem with the Smithsonian American Art Museum’s Travelling Exhibit, “Our America: The Latino Presence in America Art.”” My first Poetry book, This Is Crow Land, will be published in 2015.

Ramon Piñero. "Ex Bay Area poet living in the buckle of the Bible Belt, aka Florida. Where good little boys and girls grow up to be republicans who vote against their own interest. Father of three and Grandfather to six of the coolest kids ever. Nuff said.

Foto:Ted Schroll

Joseph Ross is the author of two poetry collections: Gospel of Dust (2013) and Meeting Bone Man (2012). His poems appear in many anthologies and literary journals including Poet Lore, Tidal Basin Review and Drumvoices Revue. He has received six Pushcart Prize nominations and is the winner of the 2012 Pratt Library / Little Patuxent Review Poetry Prize. He serves as the 23rd Poet-in-Residence for the Howard County Poetry and Literature Society in Howard County, Maryland. He teaches English and Creative Writing at Gonzaga College High School in Washington, D.C. and writes regularly at www.JosephRoss.net.

Jolaoso Pretty Thunder is an initiated Apetebi and Orisa priestess of Oya in the Lukumi tradition. She lives in the woods of Northern California with her family and two dogs Rosie Farstar and Ilumina Holydog. She is a certified practitioner and student of herbal medicine (Western, Vedic, TMC and Lukumi) and is an ordained minister of First Nations Church. She is a well traveled poet and loves southern rock, porch swings, pickup trucks, cooking, camp fires, lightning, steak, long drives, hot cups of coffee, gathering and making medicine and singing with her friends and family.

Tara Evonne Trudell studied film, audio, and photography while in college at New Mexico Highlands University. She is a recent graduate with her BFA in Media Arts. As a poet and mother of four children, raising them to understand her purpose to represent humanity, compassion, and action in all her work is her dedication to raising them with an awareness of their own growing identities.
Incorporating poetry she addresses the many troubling issues that are ongoing in society and hopes that her works will create an emotional impact that inspires others to act.
Edward Vidaurre has been been published in several anthologies and literary journals among them La Bloga, La Tolteca Zine, Bordersenses, Interstice, La Noria Literary Journal, Boundless Anthology of the Valley International Poetry Festival 2011-2013. He’s had two books published -'I Took My Barrio On A Road Trip' (Slough Press 2013) and ‘Insomnia’ (El Zarape Press 2014). He also co-edited TWENTY-Poems in Memoriam and Boundless 2014 the Anthology of the Rio Grande Valley International Poetry Festival

Edward Vidaurre has been been published in several anthologies and literary journals among them La Bloga, La Tolteca Zine, Bordersenses, Interstice, La Noria Literary Journal, Boundless Anthology of the Valley International Poetry Festival 2011-2013. He’s had two books published -'I Took My Barrio On A Road Trip' (Slough Press 2013) and ‘Insomnia’ (El Zarape Press 2014). He also co-edited TWENTY-Poems in Memoriam and Boundless 2014 the Anthology of the Rio Grande Valley International Poetry Festival

Daniel Vidal Soto is author of "Demon in Plastic", and has been published in Cloudy City Press, Brooklyn Paramount, thosethatthis, La Bloga Floricanto, Latino Rebels, and the Nerds of Color. He currently pursues an MFA in poetry at Long Island University - Brooklyn, where he also teaches an English Composition course in the subjects of Racism, Poverty, and Gentrification, and is working on his second book of poetry. He roots himself in Acuña, Coahuila, Mexico and the North Side of Fort Worth, Texas.

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 'Califlora, A Literary Field Guide.' The poetry and fiction have 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 ten years, traveling the ancient trade routes to return to teach, and visit family and friends, QUE VIVA!! And taking trips throughout Mexico, working on stories and memoir, always the poetry, memory. www.almaluzvillanueva.com