Ojos

Ojos

These eyes once belonged to a little girl
Who dreamed of having a child
She would name her, Paloma.

These eyes shed tears
From the kicks and beatings
She endured by drunken hands
And feet
And belts
And buckles.

These eyes saw grandmother
Being choked when she tried to intervene.

These eyes saw mother too afraid
To do anything but whisper,
"No viejo."

These eyes saw doctors treat her as if she was a thing.

These eyes saw doctors led before
Her to look at her naked body
Like a sideshow freak.

These eyes saw pity
And she despised it.

These eyes saw shame for being born different:
"Dios mio! What are people going to say!"

These eyes cried from the angry faces
Telling her to "get over it."

These eyes cried from loneliness.

These eyes were afraid of discovery so they showed shame.

These eyes saw racism,
"Get that dirty indian bitch outta my way" at the grocery store.

These eyes saw bullying for being poor,
For living in a "dirty indian town," for wearing guarachis on her feet, instead of cute shoes.

These eyes cried because she wanted to bleed yet the period never came, no child was ever born, no reproductive organs to bake a life.

Yet, these eyes saw love
In the sun
In the moon
In the stars
Across the skies
In the flight of birds
In the desert

In his eyes.

These eyes see joy.

These eyes are at peace...

(c) 2015 Diana Noquetzal Garcia

THE EARTHING

The Earthing

with bare feet she greets copper and verdigris skies

she stands upon the soft grasses of her yesterdays

looking up to catch glimpses of him in the blinding rays

she feels the heat rise from earth mother

like growing vines

molten, it rises upward through her toes and high arches

spinning like lightening to her core

it is a quickening

the prisms shooting through amber leaves

of the giant sentries

dance on the feathers in her hair

she is transported to the sand dunes

of her ancestors

a citrine immolation of her soul

a purification

it is eternal

she begins to sway 

the roiling ichor is in tune

they are the stories of her grandmother

the hawk circling overhead 

shrieks out her jubilation

and plunges and arcs 

in synchronicity with her movement

she leaps like a waterfall 

to dive into the cenote of memories

she longs to live there

where she died long ago

in el Lago De Los Siete Colores

all she can now see is the sheen of his hair 

that hides his face as he lays her to rest

in this long ago life

she gave birth to sons and daughters of the sun

she is a descendant of herself

she is her grandmother all over again

the daughter of life

a being of breath and whispers

this she understands with clarity 

as the energy force now settles within her

in harmony and balance

it is what she sought, all along

she bows in thanks for these gifts

the hawk lands on her arm

and she turns back through the shadowed pathway

to begin a new day

© 2015 Diana Noquetzal Garcia

ODE TO MENOPAUSE

ODE TO MENOPAUSE © 2015 Diana Noquetzal Garcia Her fan cuts the air The flutter of angry bird wings In terror flight, into the gloom of night She embraces the CHANGE With sweat, Hair drips, And a vociferous, "Puta madre!" Echoes, echoes. Skin, a sacrificial immolation An offering to the Diosa de las Viejas. Coyolxauhgui -- goddess of the moon -- has abandoned her, Carried off on the flush and whiffle of wings, Returned to the glorious moon where lovers reign The golden bells on her cheeks, faded Replaced with the folds Of her Earth Mother, Coatlicue Ancient rocks and crevices Filled with secrets Filled with song Memories, the trail on her journey Like ribbons and seeds left behind To mark her sojourn, As evidence, that She was moist with wetness, Once. This pinche cosa called, MENOPAUSE No vieja sleeps tonight A guardian of dream shadows Seca, Peppered with brownish-rose colored spots Where things were once supple and smooth, In her salad days. When golden light embraced, Those in proximity of her. Yet, youth was nothing but the larvae Of the real beauty to emerge This stage of being, a chrysalis, Like the browns and greens of Earth Mother, She will be protected thus. Ahhhhhh, the transformation into imago, Like gossamer wings, and translucent skin of abuelitas. Children will love touching the softness And revel in soothing words, Like the coo of a morning dove And slumber on sagging breasts Butterflies will pour out of her mouth To tell stories and sing songs, She will be transformed: Into ochers, burnt umber Ghost yellow,
Hues of mimosa, And sleepy oranges. She will be loved, All over again.

CREEPIES 2: Things That Go Bump In The Night!

New horror anthology now on Amazon. Featuring horror short stories and poetry, by WPaD Publications, CREEPIES 2: ThingsThat Go Bump In The Closet <----Amazon link

FREE today for #Halloween 2015 only @AmazonKindle 

I have two short stories:

Mein Name Ist Klaus and
The Awakening of Nora

And my poem
Machete Man

I am seriously honored to have been included in this anthology with exceptional writers who showcased their amazing and creepy stories.

MACHETE MAN

(Horror poem published in horror short story and poetry anthology, Creepies 2: Things That Go Bump In The Closet. 10/29/15.http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B017AXQVDE  )

MACHETE MAN

Years ago, Tobias, walked along El Rio de las Plumas
It flowed out of the high mountains of the Sierra Valley
Spectres who died in a long ago flood
Water streaming from their mouths as they
Moaned in their perpetuity
Hydro powered into reservoirs and
Wandered the river’s edge
Searching for something lost in the mud
He never forgot what he saw
It consumed him
It changed him
Electric shock treatments did not dissipate his visions
Electric shock treatments did not dissipate his urge for cock
Later, released from the mental hospital he found odd jobs
The day laborer was his first
He lead him out to the fields
The backside aroused him
Afterwards, he hacked with his machete
Rivulets of sweat powered his ambition
So easy
It was like a melon
The bloody brains were the scattered pits
In the peach tree grove
Like the barrio kids scrambling to get out of his way when he walked by
Shouting obscenities,
“Pinche loco!”
“Chinga tu madre!”
All he heard were the confluent waters that flooded the land with feathers
His soul
Buried deep beneath the muddy waters
He knew the dead ones would never find it
Still they searched
He hated their persistence
It was all so easy after that
He told himself they were useless lazy putos
His power aroused him
He laughed at the one who knelt before him
Begging for his life
“Turn around and pull your pants down!”
GRUNT!
GRUNT!
SWOOSH!
HACK!
HACK!
CHOP!
CHOP!
Gurgle
Gurgle
Flow like a river
Cum and gore
Red and brown where sky and earth meet
Mothers murmur to their vookies
“Be home before dark
Or the Machete Man will chop you to pieces!”
He has dementia now
Deep in a hollow prison
Like his soul
Trapped in the dried mud
Parole denied
I will one day roam the muddy edgewaters with you
En El Rio de las Plumas

© 2011 Diana Garcia. Poetry All Rights Reserved.

Internet photo

COOL ASS SHADES

~~Cool Ass Shades ~~

I hide my vanity and brown eyes behind cool ass shades

Music blaring from my cool ass muscle car

Loud

No care in the world

Shopping

Driving

Laughing at my freedom

I turn my head at a stop light to see a scene

It should make me smile

But it makes me cry

My mood saddened

No longer enjoying the lyrics

That a moment ago gave me joy

The scene?

A poor mother with a child on her lap

Worn out flip flops

Thin t-shirts from too many washes

Wet hair stuck to faces and necks

Sitting at the bus stop shade

On this hot summer day

Waiting for the city bus

Mother leans in to kiss the child’s cheek

Then child reaches out with both hands

To touch Mother’s face and kisses back

The joy and love between both is so magical

It stops my heart

The beauty and grace that I just witness

Stops all noise

No music

No traffic

Silence

I am completely deaf

Just my heart breaking

As I continue to drive

With my pretty fluffy hair

My vanity and brown eyes behind cool ass shades

Music blaring

In my cool ass muscle car

I don’t enjoy any of it anymore

Because I will never know the

Pure grace

Of the scene I witnessed at the bus stop

They have more than I will ever have…

© 2015 Photograph and Poetry All Rights Reserved.

CRESCENDO redux