Under mists, we march through darkness
to the sound of Aztec drums.
Not conquerors or conquered,
but soldiers of your Sacred Heart.
With gentle words you shaped centuries
as you did thousands of years ago
Transforming cruel, broken misunderstanding
into faith and hope and love.
Holy mother.
Faithful virgin.
Our queen.
And my heart quickens as I think
of how the demons must wail at your presence
at how all evil recoils in self-destructive loathing
as it beholds your purest beauty.
Mary - this day, this life - I dedicate to your Son, my God,
through your humble and perfect intercession.
Pious, poetic handmaiden,
Queen of all eternity -
Pray for us.
2025-12-12
written fairly quickly up to 11:35 AM
I woke this morning
to the thick breath of heat,
a humid Sunday rising slow as regret.
The tulip tree leaves hung there,
backlit like stained glass in a forgotten chapel,
and beneath the sagging feeder,
a ragged pile of feathers—gray, white, brown—
strewn across the grass,
as though something holy had been torn apart
in the night.
Fox, coyote, hawk—
it hardly matters.
Something lived, and something else lived longer.
I stood there,
thinking how easy it is to mistake hunger for cruelty,
but the air was already moving on,
taking the story with it.
From the television in the sitting room,
the voice of a tired reporter cracks
over the flash flooding on the Guadalupe,
bodies pulled from the brown water,
while the ban on transgenders from the military takes hold,
quiet as a closing door.
-----------------------------
Note: Another poem reflecting James Wright's style
La Cavalera Catrina 1910-1930:
An etching by cartoonist and lithographer, José Guadalupe Posada
Of a Garbancera, elegant skull, an upper-class woman of the Porfiriata
Has become a character icon of the Mexican “Día de Los Muertos”
A celebration of life in which it is much believed or “muy fuertos”
That the spirits of the dead are to return to their home
with relatives on these two days to spend time, it’s well known
Writing “calaveritas” which are short, humorous poems shared
With family and friends who show how much they cared
About a living person, how they died, then published to publicize
In magazines and newspapers, mostly celebrities and politicians to satirize
There is art that is added to the light-heartedness of the occasions
Skeletons drinking, dancing, and celebrating, depicted in humorous situations
Sugar skulls or calaveras made as edible or decorative skulls for the day
Another tradition, they are baked from either sugar called Alfeñiques or clay
It is custom to see sugar skull makeup on children, adults in array
to represent departed souls for Day of the Dead and All Souls Day
Chente—mi amigo, compadre, hermano
Troubadour of our pain untold
Minstrel of our abandoned souls
Keeper of our traditions bold
So loved by La Virgen de Guadalupe
That she took you on Her day
Now heaven’s honored balladeer
For Her now, you may play
You leave us with our sorrow
Our inconsolable despair
So, with a soft prayer on our lips
We plead—Volver! Volver!
After Chican@ Literature 100
First of all, you are not going to find this stuff at the mall, sitting on a shelf next to a t-shirt that says, “I only look illegal”. There is no magic potion from the curandera to help you speak in your Father’s native tongue so that Navidad isn’t awkward for your family while you unwrap your tamale in silence because eres una verguenza. But still, you knew, learning math was more important than saying “Gracias” and “si senor” because you could always learn that later. And no, la pinche vecina did not perform brujeria so that one day we would be brain-washed in the classrooms full of gringos and forget about our roots by graduation. And we worked twice as hard as them, and while mami and papi prayed to the Virgen de Guadalupe, we stapled our hearts to every test, every quiz, and every assignment till there was no more room on the paper for failure; and finally, finally, we received our American diploma en la mano.
For many years, there the sphinxes lay
Entombed in decorated silent graves,
Whose reminiscence amaze the present day.
When deities emerge out of nine decades.
The lost city unearthed something else.
Myths entrench in fear by the same wind,
Secret elements of powers and fragile pieces,
Those rare mementos buried in the sand.
Prophecy revives the spells outside
Worlds in code of metaphysical status,
Stand resolute where sand dunes subside,
To unleash the powers of dark recesses.
Elliptical shrines lost in the track of our mind,
Defining age with the archetypal grains,
Dunes of Guadalupe covered in layers of sand,
Timeless images enslaved on silent plains.
Where symbolism of the ancient world
Meet beauty and harmony of the new age
Subliminal entities, interpretation of the soul
Incarnation carved out of limestone decrease image.
Summer,
the Guadalupe River,
at least a couple of decades ago...
A bend in any river,
no matter how slowly that river flows,
erodes the outside of that bend,
digs away at the bank,
separating stones from sand,
nudging them into shallow water
across and down the river,
sorting them by size as it goes,
the smaller, rounder ones
in a layer on top.
That’s where I was that summer afternoon,
on my back, half-submerged in the gravel shallows,
the water so warm I couldn’t feel it,
my arms straight out from my body,
interrupting the flow,
causing almost waves
as the water washed over.
My ears were under water;
I could hear only the flow of water around me.
Above me the leaves and branches
of trees overhanging the river
moved gracefully in the hot breeze.
Somehow the leaves and branches and water
moved at the same tempo,
not like music,
but rather a deep humhmmm
I could both see and feel.
I don’t know how long
I hovered in that flow,
but it wasn’t long enough.
In ways I can’t describe
I’m still there,
bathed in that most elemental of mediums,
moving with the leaves,
lost in a very long moment.
no more buffalo or pigs who speak in
latin
for they have all drowned in the sea of
galilee
or perhaps been flushed down the
Tijuana pipeline.
floating, crossing over to some strange
land.
all that is left now is for their silhoette's to
be
advertised on the sides of cheap diet
soda cans.
they float by together past brightly
enameled
porcelain that seems to mean something
to someone.
the virgin of guadalupe shakes and
foams at the
mouth looking up to receive her vision,
but all she receives is wax and concrete.
no more time for bison or swine who melt
in between
the thin shadows of unreveranced barbed
wire.
miles and miles of rusty wires twisted.
incarcerated in their youth they decide to
cover
their skins with tattoo's.
some have tragic kings and queens
twisted around their hooves.
others have vibrant orange koi swimming
along their spines.
soon however, however soon...
the rains will fall and wash them all away.
maybe a transient on the street
will play the horn lowly.
maybe a priest will make a gesture.
God is guiding us every time
Uplifting our feet
And helping us fly
Devil can never harm us
Angels are here to protect us
Loving and caring for all of us
Urge our self not to be bad
Prevent spreading of words that are bad
Endure the faith so all be glad
The flower i plant
is now dancing in the wind
smiling back at me
Melinde Guadalupe
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