This is our cache of the profile last indexed on Friday, July 04, 2008. Visit MySpace for updated profile. MySpaceProfiles.org is a search engine that indexes publicly available profile information from MySpace for convenient searching and display. If you are the author of this profile and do not wish to display it here please click here.
 Goddess Maria's Profile |
|
| Age: | 42 years old |
| Sex: | Female |
| Location: | HOUSTON, TEXAS |
| Country: |  United States |
| Height: | 0' 0" |
| Zodiac: |  Capricorn (Dec 22- Jan 19) |
| Last Login: | Jul 3, 2008 (100 days back) |
| I am Here For Friends and Networking. | |
About Me |
|
| Maria R. PalaciosEmpowered Latina, inspirational speaker, feminist poet, author, spoken word performer, polio survivor, activist, disability educator, workshop facilitator, professional presenter. Her personal experience with disability issues makes her presentations a dynamic and an educational journey that will shatter any negative myths regarding this community. Born in Latin America, Maria contracted Polio at the age of eight months. She came to the United States at age fifteen and overcame the obstacles of language and culture to become the strong and independent woman she is now. Her professional background ranges from independent living counseling to domestic violence, sexual assault and crisis intervention as well as media presentations, public speaking and community outreach. Maria’s poetry has been felt and heard throughout the Houston area. Her voice and her message came together in the published form in 2003 through a self-published collection of feminist poetry, The Female King, which has made Maria one of Houston’s favorites in the poetry scene. She uses her poetry and her work to raise consciousness about women’s issues at a global level focusing on social controversies such as reproductive rights, domestic violence, sexuality and disability and cultural diversity. CONTRIBUTIONS TOWARDS SOCIAL CHANGE Involvement in the disability rights movement assisted in the progress of the passage of the Americans with Disabilities Act. 1988-1990
Maria’s picture along with five other empowered persons with disabilities was displayed on Metro buses as a celebration of the first accessible route in Houston. 1989 Featured on HEADLINE regarding parenting issues and disability. Aired nationally in 1993 and a follow up feature was done in 1997. Received the Hall of Fame Award by the Hispanic Women in Leadership in 1996 Honored as Profile of the Week, Perfil de la Semana by KTMD Telemundo. April 1997 Received certificate of recognition at the Hispanic Excellence Awards conference in March of 1997 Became a Nuestra Palabra Discovery reading my work for the first time at the Nuestra Palabra, Latino Writers Having Their Say second event. I consider Nuestra Palabra the first breathe of air I took as a performing poet. May 1998 Thank you Tony Diaz! Interviewed by New Mobility Magazine regarding women with disabilities and domestic violence. October 1997 issue. Invited to Metro’s ten year accessibility celebration. It was odd to see the Metro Banner ten years later. I have mine framed and hanging above my desk now. I’m proud to have been part of Houston’s accessibility history. November 1999 Published collection of feminist poetry The Female King. 2002 Featured by HCCS-TV Si Se Puede (We Can Do It) show, March of 2003 Guest speaker and spoken word performer for the Latina Institute For Excellence L.I.F.E. Conference. April 2003 Guest poet for the Nuestra Palabra Show on KPFT radio. March 2003 -June 2004 Participated in a Nuestra Palabra Open Mike, February 2007 Guest Poet at the Edward James Olmos Hispanic Book Fair in Houston. 2003-2004-2006 Guest Poet at the Greenwatch Media Show/Houston Media Network. June 2004 Guest Speaker for the March for Women’s Rally --Houston, April 2004 Guest Poet at KPFT’s Sister Space show. -July 2005 Received plaque of appreciation from the Northside Kid Connection Local Child Care Association at the annual conference in which I presented in July of 2005 Disability Educator and Presenter for North Harris County College. May 2006 Spoken Word Performer for HIP Houston International Poetry for four consecutive years. 2002-2005 Participated in the Woman Where Are You Now art and spoken word event hosted at Gallery 19 in the summer of 2006 Guest Poet for the Art Institute of Houston’s creative writing class. April 2005 Spoken Word Performer for the Second Annual Word Around Town Poetry Tour -June 2007 Guest poet at the Frida Kahlo celebration of her one hundredth birthday. Eastman Gallery, Houston, Texas - July 2007 Performed at the Americans with Disabilities Act 17th Anniversary - July 26, 2007 Guest at the Nuestra Palabra Radio Show on KPFT 90.1FM - August 21, 2007 Guest Poet and Volunteer for the 2007 Latino Book/Family Festival. September 29th and 30th Performer for Sins Invalid: An Unshamed Claim to Beauty in the Face of Invisibility 2007 at Brava Theater - San Francisco, California. Maria's video poetry used in High School English class at South Gate, High School in California. (L.A. November 2007) Invited to form part of Sins Invalid 2008 Core performers group - January, 2008 Published in the Austin International Poetry Festival - 2008 AVAILABLE CHANNELS OF EMPOWERMENT:
To book a public appearance, performance or presentation, please contact Maria at goddessinbloom@sbcglobal.net MARIA'S SITE MISSION AND PURPOSE:To inspire and empower women to come face to face with their inner strength and challenge them to use it towards positive change. WHEN: The “when” of womanhood is timeless. The energy experienced in the company of empowered women is what has sustained society's sense of family throughout history. The amazing power found and experienced in a group of women, regardless or age or ethnic background, is the strength capable of changing the world. WHERE: We are everywhere. The energy between women is the healing force that mends broken hearts, soothes crying infants, gives birth to eternity and otherwise moves the universe. WHO: This site comes to life through the poetry of a woman whose message of strength and hope can not be silenced by society's unrealistic expectations of beauty and normality. WHAT: We laugh. We cry. We love. We play. Create. Re-create. Give life. Love life. Pray. Dance. Heal. Share secrets. Love each other's children. Bake cookies. Give hugs. Understand pain, sorrow, fear, joy, wonder, gratefulness and love. We allow life to speak through our senses unafraid of self expression, unafraid of change, open to life's possibilities, in peace with ourselves, in peace with men, in peace with God, in peace with our sexuality, in charge of our bodies and in control of our lives. HOW: We move. We empower. We change. We unite and expand. We learn from experience. We vote and make our voices heard. We visualize. We give. We give some more. We feel the power of being who we are as women, as mothers, as wives, as creators of change, authors of our existence, makers of our own destiny. Empowered. Inspired. Liberated. WHY: Because possessing the strength is not enough!! We must use it, share it, let it soar. We must recognize our duty and responsibility to utilize life's great gifts to the fullest, rise from victim to survivor and use the power found in the company of empowered women with men on our side and the wisdom of our elders guiding the road ahead. We do this with love, giving life to one another, never forgetting it is no longer enough to just want change. We MUST create it! |
|
My Interests |
|
Women's issues. Public Speaking. Poetry. Positive energy. Disability education and awareness. Give me an audience and I promise to inspire them! Click to View Maria's EndeavorFreedom page My Spoken Word Quote From Maria "The collective positive energy of those who believe in change is the force able to make it happen." Maria R. Palacios WomanClick on Picture For Larger View On The Thinking of Time Midlife Reflections Maria R. Palacios We go from twenty to forty in the blink of an eye. Twenty years can leave soft marks or deep scars. Sometimes they leave both. They can make us wise or leave us lost. Would we go back if we could? So far I've never met a person who would. Instead we learn to welcome time. We become old friends. Beauty redefines itself. It relaxes its muscles and laughs. Age becomes a state of mind. Twenty years give birth to history. They become laugh lines and life lines. They become frown and wrinkle because we have lived and we have loved and we have laughed and we have frowned a lot. We have been friends with time and then lovers. Wrinkles are the offspring of experience, our love affair with life, lines of our most intimate poems. Twenty years have brought silver strands of moon to my head. They have made dreams hang like hungry bats. But there's no blood beneath the moon of my hair. Just twenty years that leaped across my youth. One morning I woke up forty; then forty one... A Goddess I have become. I wouldn't want to go back either. Events Memories of Sixteen For Berenice Maria R. Palacios Berenice, I remember you now although I hadn't thought of you in over twenty years. I guess some memories lie dormant until something awakens them; a splash of cool water over sleeping thoughts and there you are as if time had never passed. You were Badass outspoken Latina, thirteen going on thirty and the most beautiful brown eyes I'd ever seen. I had just turned sixteen in the hospital where we shared dreams and scars and the slow drip of IV lines that paralyzed time and put minds to sleep along with memories of a body that never belonged to you or me but to the people in white who patched us up sewing our socially unacceptable physicality into garments of normality, and put spines back in track. The people in white were seamstresses and engineers, they were needles and morphine and the taste of death between our lips. But even then you were sunshine and laughter, whisper and dream as we shared secrets of early womanhood, the burst of normality that sprung from our chests, the magic of breasts and all those other things that made us feel real. We giggled at the thought of love and would sigh at the thought of lust. Would somebody ever want us? You would ask in your thirteen year old voice. Will someone ever love the curvature of my spine and the silence of bones that never learned to talk? Will someone ever love dreams that can't walk? You had never been kissed and at sixteen I had been kissed once only once I had been kissed. "You will find love." I used to promise you. I believed you would. And I wonder why twenty some years later you jump back into my thoughts and take me back to your brown eyes and your smile, the strength we shared, hospital days and the chance to be average girls who in the midst of pain were able to laugh and I have you to thank for that. I thank you for the sound of laughter in my life back when there was nothing to really laugh about. You were there for me Witchy Girl, thirteen going on thirty, sometimes we cried together but not too often. There was too much to dream about. I hadn't thought of you in over twenty years; Berenice, sweet girl, Goddess and Witch. By now I'm sure you have been kissed and I hope that somehow my name goes back to you like a breath of fresh air, like a splash of cool water in your thoughts. You will find love. I used to promise you. I hope you did, my friend. With all my heart, I hope you did. For Sandra Cisneros Maria R. Palacios We all have a house on Mango Street. Mine is on Autumn Grove Dr. The only house with a green roof and a long ramp, a gazebo and poems growing wild like weeds. My words used to wear your outfits wishing they could hang out in some Chicago neighborhood, find a small house with a big mouth. My words used to dream of that. They longed for Mango Street and sweet bread, Mexican hot chocolate between my hands. I wanted to sip poems through a straw and make a man of snow just to watch him melt. I wore your feminist metaphors even the ones that didn't fit, the warm scarfs and the gloves, things you just don't own in the Texas heat. You taught my words to spit and curse, dressed them in red and took them into the night. My Muse woke up with a hangover puking words on any piece of paper; -a used envelop will do. -a napkin. -the back of my hand. My Muse became Loose Woman on Mango Street and La Llorona. The Woman Hollering Creek of my persona. That's what became of me. And I found my Mango Street on Autumn Grove Drive small vignettes of my own life, old house with a green roof and a big mouth; Words no longer dressed in white because they learned to spit and curse like a poet. Books Signed By Author Memories of Sixteen II For Maripi Maria R. Palacios Your name was also Maria but you were Maria del Pilar like the Virgin Mary of your native Spain, you went by Maripi with an accent on the "i" at the end of your name. You were beauty and intellect; keeper of my nightmares and my dreams. To you I confessed my sins and you listened as we sat under an old tree on Cecil Street and dreamed of Prince Charming. That was the year you had lost your leg to cancer and I lost my virginity. Life brought us together as neighbors in the small efficiency apartments where we lived; around the corner from the Medical Center; walking distance from the Houston Zoo. A fortune to live there now but then things were different. The poor lived there back then. We were "the poor". And we shared bread and late nights, dreams and fears. Sometimes your fear of death was real even though you never said it. I could tell when your darkness was present, but you knew my darkness too and that's how things were for us at sixteen. I kept your secrets safe; your fear of death and your phantom pain. You kept my sins on a leash and let them roam free when we sat under that tree and you lost your hair to chemotherapy and I lost my heart over a man. The whole summer we sat there and talked. You grew dreams and hair beneath a white bandanna and I grew breasts beneath a shell of cast. At sixteen we were already women with a past; our own "telenovela" unfolding in our lives. So you kept my sins along with the memory of your leg and you never complained. To you one leg was better than none and me, I had never walked, not gracefully like you. I had no memory of footsteps and you couldn't erase the memory of yours. You had known the rhythm of feet, the music of high heel shoes on the concrete; things I never got to know. Did you miss that? I never asked. Some things, like lonesome shoes, are better left alone. You were part of my world during the most painful time in my life. You were the rock and the strength and I salty ocean of tears. Broken heart and broken wing, you helped me fly again. Nobody dies of love. -You used to say. You were so right. I'm still alive and I have loved many times since then. Looking back twenty-five years. I still don't know the source of your strength. Losing a leg seemed like nothing to you. You never got mad. You never fell in love. You never cried. To you life was always black and white acceptance and rational thought. Your Prince Charming was far away into your twenties. Mine had come and gone and broken my soul in half at sixteen. Twenty-five years is a lifetime and it's been a lifetime since I last saw you. I know all your hair grew back and you went back to Spain with a suitcase full of English and an artificial leg. You learned to walk again and you went home back to your dreams. I think of you today and I want to go back to my youth, sit under that tree with you and share stories of ghost feet and broken hearts I want to believe in romance with the same intensity and the same insanity of sixteen. But sixteen is far gone and at forty-one I can only write about that time. Love has changed from savage flame to steady light. It has gone from Prince Charming to the sound of children in the house, the sound of life, things that at sixteen I wouldn't have grasped. I've grown so much since then. Dear God. I know you've changed too. I'm sure you also remember our summer of 82 at least I hope you do. Wherever you are, thank you for your strength and the serenity of your thoughts. Thank you for mending my broken heart. Nobody dies of love. You were so right. Nobody Dies of Love. Routine Maria R. Palacios When falling in love we must remember romance is no permanent detail. Candy, flowers and cards are bait at the end of a line promising to be divine, fairytale, wine and sixty-nine. And they are. Until we bite. Then they bite us back. There is no fairytale, no bait, no sinful promise of divine while sixty-nine is just the number that comes before seventy. No dining involved in counting memories. We count backwards until we reach zero. Eating Disorder Maria R. Palacios Every now and then I snack on memories now stale from the passage of time It's not that I'm hungry for you or that I miss you. Boredom sometimes leads to bingeing therefore I nibble on the past even though your name tastes sour Peanut Butter Tacos Maria Palacios I eat peanut butter with a spoon no jelly or bread just the thick, creamy texture of crushed peanuts that stick to my gums along with words not ripe enough to venture into the spoken form. Peanut butter and poems melt in my mouth caressing my taste buds with semi-salty gooeyness. that makes my tongue dance next to rising phrases that surface in my mouth. One day of neurotic PMS I might crave the sugar and starch to go with it. I shall then sit on the floor with my sorrows a stack of tortillas on one side giant jar of jelly on the other and squeeze poems into tacos merging my two worlds at once. Workshops To View Full Sized Pictures Click Here How They Grow Maria R. Palacios At first they're barely apparent, two tiny rose buds wanting to bloom on the fertile terrain of flesh where childhood rests awaiting the inevitable. They usually begin like shy seeds on a flat surface and eventually swell into dreams of perfume and silk where they later blossom into full size cups of womanhood. Breasts Maria R. Palacios Fallen moons swing from my chest wishing to reach the sky attempting to reattach themselves to time. They were once nocturnal creatures rising in the clouds. They were once forbidden fruit that promised paradise. Now the lie in fabric nests. Sometimes they even sleep dreaming of weightless journeys into the past. Deep Blue Maria R. Palacios Poem for Janice Joplin You didn't mean to die. You were just reaching for the bluest of blue the coldness of blue sky blue Port Arthur winter mornings your déjà vu of blue. Blues that ran through your veins until all the red was gone. You didn't mean to let go. Or did you? when your fingers stretched to touch the blue calling you as it always did with its weeping notes and its hollow cry the cry of the Blues you loved, the dark side of blue deep ocean blue muddy blue the kind that swallows you like quicksand, did you notice your hand falling into the dusk with the rest of you as you released the thread the line that connected you to life? Did the flesh of dreams cushion the fall as you attempted to grasp the last words the last song the last musical note the last patch of blue you could actually touch? Or maybe there was no fall. Maybe you simply floated away until you caught the train leading to the blueness of you. Maybe you're still somewhere waiting for Bobby McGee wearing that red bandana that turned blue the day you died. Maybe blue is all there really was even when you wore red or black the Blues is all there really was of you. You breathe in my radio today. Breathe in. Breathe out. Your voice spreads its wings and soars over the horizon. Poem for Gabriela Mistral Maria R. Palacios I wish I could be like Gabriela Mistral, words flowing freely, gracefully, metaphors dressed in their Sunday outfits singing about love and war and love and peace and all those things that become immortal as immortal as she is. I want to be like Gabriela Mistral but my words are not graceful. They struggle in the birth canal of language. My fingers, like forceps, claw the keyboard ready to grab the thought, the moment, help it breathe for the first time, let it rest on the space where it's received by the caress of paper. My metaphors don't have any Sunday outfits. They don't go to church. The don't sing with the same compassionate voice of Gabriela Mistral. They are more Frida Kahlo. Skeletons in red, bones re-arranged into words carefully disguised as poetry. My words are born screaming, gasping for air. Fragile but resilient like the human spirit. They are just beginning to learn about love and war and the truth about immortality. They also carry a message of hope and sing, perhaps the same old song, sang by all those who dare declare themselves poets and baptize their words with ink stanza after stanza until their hands cramp up and their thoughts are left empty when all the metaphors have gone to sleep counting sheep on the screen from the balcony of the mind. I dare call myself a poet. Mistress of Words Female Don Quijote Pancha Villav 21st century Frida Latin American Indian Leader of my Tribe. My words are not pearls. They're not precious gems. They don't shine or rhyme themselves into perfect sonnets and carefully measured metaphors (the beauty pageant of poets) the precision of words born from immaculate conception free of original sin born from the light into the light as natural as breathing. My words are spontaneous. They're not cautious. They don't really know how to discet a poem with the same ease as Gabriela Mistral. The accuracy of the cut is different even if we use the same scalpel, the same ink, the same dream. My words are rebellious. The refuse to conform. They refuse to dress up on Sundays. Instead they go nude exposing their scars, singing about freedom, lost in La Mancha. There is no Dulcinea just a poet. Original sin at its best. Poems naked waiting on the page. Abortion Maria R. Palacios I loved you even though I lied still while you spilled scarlet tears on the sheet beneath my body. I wanted to name you, give you a grave, have something besides sorrow to remember you by. Instead I went home feeling the afterbirth of nothing pulsating between my legs. Translated WorksPortuguese translation of Maria R. Palacios' poem In the kitchen thinking of Sylvia Plath Kindly translated by Victor Hugo Na cozinha, pensando em Sylvia Plath Maria R. Palacios Penso em ti, por momentos, quando estou na cozinha e o resto da casa já está dormindo. Então palavras aparecem para mim. A cozinha ganha vida. Os armários repetem suas batidas de uma asa só: aberto, fechado, flip, flap. Eles conversam do jeito que as coisas conversam conosco, poetas, quando nos questionamos sobre a vida e sobre a morte. Não sei como era tua cozinha, nem que coisas ela te dizia quando decidiste não mais ouvir sua voz. Cansaste de armários e de asas que batendo nunca aprenderam a voar e cansaste da laje fria que beijava teus pés desnudos, com a mesma frieza da morte que teu corpo deixou sobre o piso de tua cozinha. Penso em ti, por momentos, quando estou sozinha e cozinho poemas no forno. Eles se cozinham lentamente enquanto os pratos conversam dentro da pia seu habitual clique-claque e o barulho de bandejas e prataria cochicha sobre os segredos íntimos de nossas bocas. A cozinha fala depois. Ela fala de ti. Ela se pergunta que pesares, que escuridão, viveste nesses últimos momentos, quando os poemas alcançaram seu ponto em teu forno até que pegaram fogo e inalaste sua fumaçada de palavras incineradas; palavras que morreram junto contigo um dia em tua cozinha. tua escuridão porque mesmo na escuridão eu vejo luz. Eu procuro luz. Minhas conversas e os poemas que cozinho nunca estiveram nesse lado da vida nesse lado da morte, um lado que tu conheceste demasiadamente bem, demasiadamente cedo. Respiras nas páginas de teus diários e nas folhas de teus poemas que cresceram entre teus dedos estourando livre e finalmente entendendo a luz. Sim, penso em ti. E obrigada pelos poemas que deixaste espalhados. Pedaços que eu junto, partículas do tempo, tua receita pessoal para morrer. Pego teus poemas uma a um, beijo suas feridas e lhes ofereço água. Eles bebem de minha mão. Eles voltam a respirar. Eles morrem e revivem, em minha cozinha. To experience this poem in English please refer to blog log or go to view it, visit Maria's video Food for Thought /Poetry for every woman's kitchen. Featured ArtistThe Artwork of Sabrina Zarco Divorce Maria R. Palacios Some nights I still reach for you even though your scent is gone and your side of the bed is now occupied by books and memories. I have stripped the bed. Cotton sheets gone to hell. Silk from now on to celebrate your absence. Call it habit, but I suppose I miss the idea of you when my feet get cold at night. |
|
I'd like to meet:I want to meet positive thinkers, women and men whose energy is one of empowerment and feel a strong desire to make a difference in other people's lives. I want to meet creative people, passionate people; people whose spirit knows no boundaries. I want to meet people who believe in miracles. I want to meet miracle workers, poets, lovers of life. I want to meet people who want to share hope and who are willing to take responsibility for the creation of positive change at a global level. ..Projects & Works In Progress: (An Empowerment Program for Women in Prison) (Poetry Collection) (Poetry Collection) A victim is someone who surrenders to the pain, anger or fear of an experience. A survivor is someone who rises above it and then shares the strength of the lesson with others. I have chosen to be a survivor. Who do you choose to be? -Maria R. Palacios Seventeen Warnings in Search of My Feminist Poem For Erica Jong who wrote Seventeen Warnings in Search of a Feminist Poem Maria R. Palacios Beware of the man who wants to edit your poems; he will devour the flesh of your words. Beware of the man who falls in love with your feet; he will wear your shoes and run away with them. Beware of the man who promises discretion; he will break into your closet, expose your skeletons and feed them to the dogs. Beware of the man who claims to listen; he will crawl into your ear, suck your words and your poems and leave you empty of thoughts. Beware of the man who is a closeted poet; he will steal your muse and lock it up along with his words. Beware of the man who lives with his mother; he will be your child forever. Beware of the man who won’t wear pink; he will swallow the ink of your pen, suck the blood of your poems and blame you for it. Beware of the man who claims to be reborn;he’s a snake. He will feast on your poetry and shed your words away. Beware of the man who is a musician; he’s only faithful to his music. Beware of the man who won’t do dishes; he’s a chauvinist pig. Beware of the man who eats for comfort; you will become his comfort food. Beware of the man ashamed of sex; he will treat you like a whore. Beware of the man who calls you a whore; his mother was one. Beware of the man who doesn’t like dogs; he has no concept of friendship. Beware of the man who hates cats; he’s afraid of himself. Beware of the man who doesn’t like sports; he has no balls. Beware of the woman who loves any of the above mentioned men; she has no self worth. Wedding Night Maria R. Palacios He uses the middle finger, the one with the long twisted finger nail scraping all possibilities of shame. His hands have no respect for the delicate flesh he tries to tear. The finger moves inside her like a poisonous snake Her destiny will be dictated by the scarlet stain created by his brutal act. She must bleed to survive. The intruder searches for something never before felt or known shredding tender membranes until a gush of blood stains the white sheet which will be used as the flag of his honor. Light for Helen Keller Maria R. Palacios I can't imagine the darkness and the silence of your world, a world you couldn't fully experience until your fingers learned to talk, and once they did they never stopped. They had learned to knit miracles that unraveled into words you could touch . But was your soul really ever silent? At first you had no language. No "I love yous" to hold on to; No sound to soothe your fears. You had no moon. No sun. And yet you understood light because you were light and you, more than any one knew how light feels when absorbed through the fingers. Yours soaked themselves in life until they became your eyes and the sound of love spelling words in Braille and later words you taught your mouth to speak; words you couldn't hear even when your lips gave birth to them. You were used to darkness and silence as we know it. In reality it is us who don't hear or see with the same intensity as you did. We live in darkness by choice while you chose to radiate light and spin miracles between your fingers. You became message of hope, lessons of strength, lighthouse and song. |
|
Books:
Publications Contributions Women who bash other women. were raised with an invisible penis between their legs which they use to feel superior Men who bash women forget that when they were embryos they didn't have a penis and a woman gave it to them. |
|
Heroes:My heroes are every single person who comes to my life and touches me with his or her friendship. |
|
My Background and Lifestyle |
|
| MaritalStatus: | In a Relationship |
| Ethnicity: | Latino / Hispanic |
| Hometown: | Houston |
| Smoker: | No |
| Drinker: | Yes |
| Children: | Proud parent |
| Education: | College graduate |
| Occupation: | Goddess/Poet |
My Pictures |
|
                    |
|
My Blog |
|
Laundry and Memories :-) |
|
| Washing machines puzzle me. Any of them and all of them. They all puzzle and marvel me. The simplicity and the complexity of them. How they wash away our stains and our sorrows. The spilled w... Posted by Goddess Maria on Tue, 27 May 2008 07:54:00 PST |
|
Celebrating International Womens Day |
|
| ... Posted by Goddess Maria on Mon, 03 Mar 2008 05:57:00 PST |
|
Addiction (yes, another Frida poem) |
|
| Addiction(For Frida Kahlo)Maria R. PalaciosIn reality I am an addictan addictof your poison and your pain.You are my droughts and my heavy rainsthe water I drinkand the inkof my pen.YesI'm addicted to... Posted by Goddess Maria on Wed, 27 Feb 2008 03:53:00 PST |
|
Laundry for Frida Kahlo (another brand new poem) |
|
| Laundry(For Frida Kahlo)Maria R. PalaciosMy dark side is grayand cold.Memories leak from the roof.They fall like water.The painful ones splatterand make me write.They're the ones I recitebetween praye... Posted by Goddess Maria on Tue, 26 Feb 2008 07:26:00 PST |
|
A Frida Kahlo poem (just wrote it) |
|
| Silence(For Frida Kahlo)Maria R. PalaciosMemories shiver at timeswhen I think of you.You go back to the silenceof falling hair,the coldness of scissorsagainst our past.You and I alone at last...alonew... Posted by Goddess Maria on Mon, 25 Feb 2008 04:22:00 PST |
|
Poem for my friend Peter :-) |
|
| For PeterMaria R. PalaciosI lean on your silent hillsand rest my head on your shoulder,your painted mountains,the feminine side of your masculinitybreathes from every hill you paintand every line you ... Posted by Goddess Maria on Fri, 01 Feb 2008 12:17:00 PST |
|
For Frida Kahlo -a new poem |
|
| Loneliness(For Frida Kahlo)Maria R. PalaciosI come to you like an addict desperate for a fixof your fermented colorsyour tequila and your mezcal.I've never eaten the wormbut in the endthe worm always ... Posted by Goddess Maria on Fri, 01 Feb 2008 12:05:00 PST |
|
Another Frida Poem yes it is :-) |
|
| Cocktail of Memories(For Frida Kahlo)Maria R. PalaciosI have a few Diegosin my past;men whose names still hurtbetween my lips,and whose memory burnsbetween my breasts;men who left me to bleedafter my ... Posted by Goddess Maria on Mon, 07 Jan 2008 04:40:00 PST |
|
Another Weird Poem :-) |
|
| Insomnia(For Frida Kahlo)Maria R. PalaciosI keep the dark poemsto myselflet them soak in waterlike beanslet them puff up and swellscream and yell,curse and boilin my pot of hot temper,the spicy Latina... Posted by Goddess Maria on Sun, 06 Jan 2008 07:22:00 PST |
|
First Frida poem of 2008 :-) |
|
| Fruit Of Life(For Frida Kahlo)Maria R. PalaciosYour "Fruit of the Earth" ripensin my poems.It falls off the tree.Bite me.Bite me. It begsand when I do,it bleeds on my page.Your paintings sprout words.... Posted by Goddess Maria on Fri, 04 Jan 2008 06:38:00 PST |
|
My Friends |
|
|
Sins Invalid, SAbriNA, Laura, TWiN▼Poetry, FRIDA KAHLO, FRIDA KAHLO, Frida, FRIDA, Heights Books-Libros, Peter, MAMA MIA, Nuestra Palabra, Eva, TWiN 4 A Day Playlist, Azulfrida, Air America Radio, Panhandler, Adán y Eva... ¿tenían ombligos?, alicefayelove, Liana, Blue Azul Baby, CHAMELEONARTS (shaman-chica), Chula Lili, Wednesday F Kennedy, libertina, DaFukinStud, ANNA SAVAGE MUSIC INC, Oriki, Wendies Words, Austin International Poetry Festival, JOE-B-ART, ArtsHouston Magazine, Brandi of the Tuatha De Dannon, Monica, Womyn of Color, Happiness, Diva, carlos, *Duchess Aristobrata: La Negra Bonita*, Hippiechick(Poet) on wheels, ツ Count down begins for me to be THE B-DAY GIRLツ, Christopher, Cindy, ~m~, Healing in Words, Chanitas, *~Sir Pez~*, Emily, PAPI-42, outlaw_jesus, Nessa Loves G!, Art is my passion, passion is my Art!!!, Half Kath, THUNDER, Dr Jeanine Coach for Women Worldwide, Daria Toledo, DDDogboy, dee!colonize, The Gypsy Chronicles, CHRISTINE
Goddess Maria has 1,156 friends (60 shown). Click here to add Goddess Maria as a friend. |
|
Tags |
|
|
Goddess Maria's profile has been tagged with the following keywords. Click a tag to search for profiles with the same tags. disability rights movement, survivor activist, polio survivor, social controversies, sexuality and disability, americans with disabilities act, negative myths, educator workshop, poet author, professional presenter, educational journey, disability issues, advocacy program, hispanic background, feminist poetry, americans with disabilities, background ranges, poetry scene, community outreach, workshop facilitator |
|
