un montón de madron... y lunasea.
a pnw mestiteXican@ momma and social heartist making sound, soul, magic, and movement, outside of the classroom. out of the box. off the grid. and into cyberspace. tumbling. fumbling. stretching, diving, flinging, soaring, flying squirrel dreams of sea turtle symbiosis and the gravity of streams. reclaiming and reframing hysterical lunatics and every coyote howling for and at me. dig the directions, map the tributaries. cross some boundaries. ebb and flow, let, go, naturally.
un montón de madron... y lunasea.
flor de maiz
dear facebook
do my intersections make you uncomfortable?

Galaxy Coast— Bill Shupp // Flickr

Taken near Bixby Bridge north of Big Sur, CA, this is a 12 shot vertical panorama taken around 4 am this past Monday, when the Milky Way was pretty high in the sky. The glow near the horizon is a lighthouse just around the bend.
All shots are 20 seconds, except the bottom one, which is 3 minutes

Galaxy Coast— Bill Shupp // Flickr

Taken near Bixby Bridge north of Big Sur, CA, this is a 12 shot vertical panorama taken around 4 am this past Monday, when the Milky Way was pretty high in the sky. The glow near the horizon is a lighthouse just around the bend.
All shots are 20 seconds, except the bottom one, which is 3 minutes
in my nature
moore on this later…

After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.

Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
Did this.

I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?

The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.

She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,

Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.

She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.

Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.

Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.

She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering

She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.

To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.

And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.

And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,

With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.

Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.

They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.

Not everything is lost.

Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.” I think this poem may be making the rounds, this week, but that’s as it should be.  (via oliviacirce)
just another
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the first (and hella late) of many more to soon come. …
letters to the “other” politicized pissed off and pregnant poets, prophets, and purveyors of life-giving-truth.  
 naked. brave. and let’s hope and pray that it’s bullet proof.   to the mothers of anyone and everything.   these bursting words are a thirsting offering.  thank you for receiving.

some people say the darndest things and black ink on sunlight white can be blinding i am writing, righting, riting and re.minding what’s essential can, also, some times be confining just like some freedoms can be binding if we forget them

lest we be remiss w/tact and timing lest we forget  that we are bound to one and other bare minimum energetically and so much more infinitely

allow me to count the ways, like 1, 1 trillion, 2, 1 trillion, 3…

the dna of my dialect and the chromosomes released when I pray next time could you perhaps try to describe me phoenetically?

let’s say,  silhouetted in case my words and syllables come out still born or breach it’s clear that being pregnant has effected the way i see, seem, and speak some things are worth restating or reprashing

while others still, you (just) don’t repeat

i’m tired of pals, presidents, press, pundits and partners making puns if nothing-at-all of me

the life I live currently, and one day soon am surely bringing

these days I tuck the fire that used to me in my belly

behind the tip of my tongue tucked between my pages and teeth

some times just barely out of reach

fuck a pedestal, I rock decibels , classrooms, and produce carts

fuck a rigged election or debate

I choose hard truth, love, work, and art

we are whole, embodied and powerful beings

right now I am full and busy with creating

got no time for proselytizing, posturing, nor postulating

got not time for self, other, woman, brown, queer, body, life hating

each moment is precious

pressing us thing into the very best and worst of our being

and whatever else is to be left of us

are who get to sweep up all of our stardust?

I’d rather store milky ways in the warm fat of my chest,

I’d rather genetically encode galaxies inside my very guts and depths

I’d rather sing light speed lullabies while nursing nebulas

I’d rather choose love truth and peace because

I am trembling at the core of me actualizing and tectonically shifting

and expanding both literally and figuratively

I’ve got plates stacking up that need washing and drying in all of my sinks

and wrinkled layers upon layers that need sorting, folding, and ironing

i’ve got to be giving in to gravity

and choosing my force and trajectory more intentionally

noting the vortex of this growth and honor safe and healthy boundaries both within and all around me

while amassing life force worth moving forward for and truly living and of course all ways loving…

what simply pours forth from us…

and especially me

and hold reverently heaven-sent and bent terrain of my heart

both openly and tenderly like madrona bark

great mother beloved

this is me becoming

clinging to rocks and hard spaces

that inevitably crash into bigger sees

and light up in love and pure lunasea

and it becomes me to a t

stephany with a y and never an i.e.

por ejemplo

allow me to bless you slow

as I rise swiftly to the experience of my self

in this. very moment.

…and you aremostwelcome.