La Llorona The Brave

Written in August 2o17 

A woman wails with water,

while writhing down arroyos.

Her name is La Llorona.


Noah would have no water on which to float his ark,

without her story,

as old as his.

And the miracle of his mission

would be given no meaning

for he would be seen an unwise fool.

A builder of waste

instead of sacred space.


To some La Llorona is a wailing woman,

a story of woes.

To some a screaming maiden

scaring her foes.


To me the emboldened flood of waters,

usually damned by silent sisters in the night.

Freedom for those who solemnly refuse their cries,

the Feminine unleashed under cover of darkness

warning the world to stop undermining

raw life force,

Madre Tierra,

and the women who come from her.


La Llorona is a feared heroine

a siren

in the desert.

Persephone’s companion from the underworld.


Her bones know the art of cleansing.

She is a living limpia

residing in desert hearts.


She does not physically pull and push

arroyo runners to their death.

She is calling them into waters of transformation,

to find their own braveness

in El Rio Bravo.


After all,

we do not die definitively

as we are not born so.

Birth is simply alchemical,

a reincarnation of energy,

and La LLorona understands this.

The other side of our grief

and pain for life

is our love for it.

Only through eyes

washed with water

do we see this love purely.

She pushes us not to the death,

but to a death,

and that is why we fear her so.

Her’s is the song of letting go.


La Llorona

is a channel of tears unshed by millennia of women who didn’t have space for vulnerability.

She is a great relief,

like coyotes howling under star light

welcoming us back into our own wilds.


Some of us courageously move toward her,

seek her out even,

on our darkest nights,

sing, “show me the way.”


“Mother carry me

your child I will always be,

Mother carry me

down to the sea”


And there in the great ocean,

that La Llorona leads us to,

we swim below Noah’s Ark,

into waters of our own depths,

with nothing to save us,

but our inner treasure.


As we return to the surface

with the gold of our Souls

she dances

and laughs.

Hermosa Joven

she has become.


Before she mirrored our un-navigated darkness,

now she mirrors our infinite youth.

Ghosting Is For Pendejos


New poem ~ Fresh from my lunch break "Ghosting is for Pendejos", inspired by like 6 dif. hermanas who have been victim to ghosting this month. What is up with that?  A few words can go a long way. This is for all the single folks out there:

"Only Pendejos ghost on Goddesses

and only Pendejas ghost on Gods.

One of my best girls who is Chingona AF,

texted me today and is doubting herself because of a pinche ghost.

Here's my PSA for the ghosts of our day:

There are lots of reasons for ghosting -

Maybe you met someone and fell so hard, you got spooked. (get it?)

Maybe you realized it wasn't a match,

didn't resonate or harmonize,

stopped smelling so damn good.

Maybe you met someone else and your Soul soared moving the other person to the periphery.

Maybe you felt all mixed up inside.



And made a mature choice to be with yourself...

but THEN your immature ass ghosted!

Whatever reason you may have for ghosting,

the silent slipping away with no explanation is unexplainable.


When people meet, date, dance, kiss

or whatever they do, they are both taking a risk.

We know what field we are stepping onto.

No one gets to cry ignorance here.

But there are the players who step up to the midline to shake hands

before AND after the game.

They are usually the captains.

If you decide to date, don't leave your cajones behind.

Be ready to be accountable,

have integrity,

communicate clearly,

say the uncomfortable thing so the other player isn't left wondering if the rules of the game just changed.

Don't ghost. It's for pendejos."


We Wear Red ~Written for Hozho Total Wellness International Yoga Day in Monument Valley 2017


This Poem was written upon an invitation by Anita Lara-Beckler and Haley Laughter of Hozho Total Wellness to participate in a tribute to Indigenous Missing Women at the June 2017 International Yoga Day in Monument Valley.  This tribute was inspired by The Dress Project, created and organized by Jamie Black. We wear red for the World’s Missing Women.

Our Sistar’s stories untold,

will break your heart,

set it afire with the world’s reddest flame,

build scar tissue made of the red earth walked by indigenous women,

And fill our heart’s acequias with the lifeblood of water,

so that they may be open,



so that our hearts may channel tears of sisters who are now stars,

and water the harvest of our future’s creations.

The Stories of Our World’s Missing Womyn,

can be summed up from an Eagle’s Eye view as such:

  • In 1990 Economist, Amartya Sen estimated that more than 100 Million women were missing, due to:
    • Subtle gender disadvantages: men eat first in a household, when boys go hungry, girls starve.
      • Healthcare favors men in struggling economies.  Girls can deal.  Only enough money to tend to the bread winner.

These are the subtle choices, subtle if you are not a starving child, or the untreated ill.

  • Now for the overt stories, we have: rape, murder, burning, stoning, sex-trafficking, slavery, female genital mutilation, STD’s resulting from  sexual aggression not invitation.

Red is for our rage.

  • IN 2017, a Saturn’s Return and one generation of women Later:

We are here:  Honoring. Grieving. Acknowledging. Not letting go unseen,

the sistars, mothers, daughters, and grandmothers of our families made invisible by patriarchy’s discretion.

  • Over 1000 Missing and Murdered Aboriginal Women in Canada.
  • Thousands of women and girls missing in Mexico
  • In this nation we do not have data on our missing women, we have only countless anecdotes of brutality, loss, grief and fortitude.  We have a research narrative that tells us between 1979 and 1992, homicides were the third leading cause of death among native women.

We hold these untold stories, and the rest of this narrative in our bodies.

Red is for Remembering.

I am writing this and I feel crippled.

I am suddenly Kali with her arms cut off.

these Warriors,

these forces of life, death, birth and and the cycle of creation,

these vessels of feminine wisdom,

in a world that has forgotten it’s true feminine nature,

are gone.

Red is for our blood.

I am not fucking kidding you.

I am writing this and I get an Amber Alert,

Belen, NM - Missing Female,


And my inner 5 year old is distraught,

despair becomes her middle name,

until she cries herself to sleep,

and dreams that hundreds of millions of women,

now twinkle over her, Angels in the Sky.

These are Ancestars,

lighting our Women’s Way in the Dark.

They are only missing to those who won’t look up to see them,

shining in pure, guiding brilliance,

decorating the void of all creation,

with radiant hope.

Red is for our blotchy tear-stained cheeks, and breaking dawn the next morning.

Red is for our life-giving menstruation and the magic of mothering no man will ever take away from us.

Today we wear red for all of the Missing Women.

We wear red for the targeted atrocities on indigenous, feminine bodies.

We wear red for the roots that have been cut,

the cords that have been severed,

disconnecting our communities from their feminine nature.

We wear red as a proclamation of our belonging to the molten lava and fertile clay of Madre Tierra beneath us,

for the lifeblood that gave birth to us and is carried in the bodies of all women.

We wear red to stand with our sisters,

And to say that our red heart threads, like well-braided hair,

carry the wisdom of the ancient feminine and cannot be destroyed.  

For where cut it will regrow,

and where unbraided, it will re-weave.

We wear red for our connection to All Things,

to the eternal,

and to celebrate that we and our sisters are eternal.

We wear red because we refuse to let our sisters remain unseen, and because Red is the cloth of creation.

We wear red because it says stop.

That is enough.

No more.

We wear red because our life force is unstoppable.

And it will feed a feminine future.

For all of this and more, we wear red.

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My Body is A Paradox ~ Published by Rebelle Society, 2016

Art by Tim Mossholder

Art by Tim Mossholder

My body is a paradox, Voluptuous and hard, Fleshy and tight,

She can coo and scream with a single spasm,

Bending and unyielding,

Strong and weak,

Inviting, yet don’t fuck With Me.

I am the world’s vessel, Spirit’s vessel, in service of the Universe

And this is my vessel, not yours

Your desire, need, inconsiderate, rude, grabbing hunger is not what my temple was made for What She was built for,

Divine cell upon divine cell,

Ivory linked up with ivory,

Bones taking shape to form a being small enough to pass over and large enough to fill up a room —

Making me a witch in my visibility and invincibility —

Making me an adaptive design of divine evolution.

My body comes from brown and white, Coiling up my lineage in tendrils of hair, fractals of skin, and Star eyes that reflect green rivers in desert valleys,

My body pushes and collapses, pulls and releases, giving a nudge here and a hint there,

She is fierce — so fierce she can go beyond death to give birth

And so tender she can cradle the God-given life of her womb in the aftermath.

My Body is raw power and innocence,

She is Eve before and after the apple,

She has many apples left to bite.

She is Lilith and Isis, Mary Magdalene and Persephone, Hecate, Lakshmi, La Llarona,

She feels waves of sunlight, water, wind, fire, gravity, fullness, emptiness and swirls of unknown, My body is delicious and savory to those she chooses, and a pungent rejection to those she wretches against — to the Trumps of the world.

She will turn into snake venom and sandpaper when touched without permission,

Her Soul will scar yours with a cry for reconciliation, and your body… when your body touches my body unlovingly, your body will become even more foreign to your own soul.

And when your hands chain my hands, they will become less like the hands of God, And my angels will infuse me with healing so deep and connection so true that I will not forsake my own body,

Just like we won’t forsake our Earth Body,

Just like the Earth Body has never forsaken us.

We will be Her angels in rape and pillage We will love Her, pray to Her, infuse Her with our internal sunlight, warm her with the photosynthesis of Love.

We will nurture Her with tears of gratitude and prayers of ancestors and kiss Her with each graze of our feet.

We will coo for Her and rage for Her, Bend and stand unyielding for Her.

We will embolden and embody the paradox With Yes, we can! and Hell no, you can’t!

She is my body, because She is my lineage and this flesh belongs to Her.

And so when you claim Her for your greed and relentless consumption,

We stand and we turn into Her angels and your snakes, because you cannot have Her, as long as you don’t know Her and Love Her, and weep on your knees with gratitude for Her.

She is Ours, and we are Hers. And we will protect All that belongs to Her. Our Body: the paradox of fierce and tender love.

Published as "We Will Be Her Angels And Your Snakes" by Rebelle Society, February 2017

Ursula, La Bruja Buena ~ published by Journey of the Heart 2017


Photo by Joanna Kosinska on Unsplash

Written for my dear friend, Monica Nadira Giron I remember sharing a room with you, we were priestesses in training, Sharing dreams with you, Talking of missed family, missed mountains, missed places, This was in our Soul’s time.

I am beyond grateful for sharing spiritual schemes with you, Mapping the unseen with you, Rediscovering magical means with you in THIS Lifetime.

You are like a loving Ursula, Pisces Queen of the Sea, But instead of snatching Aerial’s song away you call it out into the open, Guardian of Mermaids come back to the Desert,

Nadirah means “prescious one”, Prescious like a pearl, The only gem that shines on its own, Illustrious in its baldness.

Giron reminds me of Gira Sol, Turning ever toward the light, Bioremediating toxins, Bringing clarity to murky waters, Girl, I see your Indigo Sight.

Monica Nadira Giron, Our third eye chola, visionary chingona, who recites the future in her witching hour flight. Bruja linda, almond eyes, heartful child – strong and wise.

You talk to animals with no regard for the befuddled humans who look at you like, “girl a freak.” Cuz you know your language is multi-versal chic, And that includes Animal Speak.

Creative genius con virgensitas, You literally bring dreams into the material, the divine into earth matter, like a Friedalita, Ages of Arabia and Mexico are channeled through your Feminine Mystique.

I love you for your ability to See Me and Others. For your child like awe, You hold the paradox like a vesica Pisces, Your beauty is bold and subtle, You are playful, yet girl don’t play. There are worlds inside that heart, those eyes, There are untold spaces where magic resides.

You drip life on the desert like a Goddess Sedna on land, Drops that shapeshift into snakes, birds, sapos, Populating our world with symbolism, understanding, belief, It is a light touch like sun on brown eyes, That you bring to these earthly ties,

There is a raw sense of Being and a clear sense of Seeing when I’m with you, Like the Earth is under me, but below that are stars and a vast naked sky, And our Souls are large and visions true, And I have faith in who I am because I know you do too.

Thank you for being my sister, sharing dreams and magical schemes late into the moonlit nights.

Published by Journey of the Heart, April 27, 2017