Posts Tagged ‘photographs’

Escritores is a community writing group started by Chimayo Poet, David Martinez. The writing groups meets twice a month at the Northern New Mexico Collage library. For the second October gathering, El Razafotografista was the facilitator of the writing group. Three images were used as prompts for poems. Those images and poems are being shared here.


El Esqueleto Borracho
© 10-23-14, Angelo J. Sandoval

In the dark shadow
of the bar’s rincon
sat a figure slumped on his chair
the flash of the stage light
hit his face
rancheras and cumbias giving
bailadores rhythm to dance too.

The ghostly figure’s dark eyes
sparkle with the turn of the disco ball
head tilted to the left, slumped on his shoulder.

Just before sun down
he made his way to Vic’s Bar
casting his ghostly shadow on
bar patrons as he made his
way to his favorite corner.
He waves down the mesero to the
darkness of his misery, the corner.

Face hiding in the shadows,
he speaks in a low tone
with a rustic voice,
“Same una botella de tequila.”

Triste corridors make there way
to his ears,
the tears run down from his eyes
as the musica plays.

Memories of lost lovers
and war torn memories
fill his soul,
the tequila feels his sorrows

the disco ball shines light
into his dark eyes
sadness fills his heart
as tequila fills his panzita.

Sitting in the corner,
the clock Strick’s one o’clock
the musica died out
empty bottle of tequila,
the man stumbles out into
the full moon
light shines through his rib cage
the sorrow of the dead man
feels the night sky.


La Esqueletafotografista
© 10-23-14, Angelo J. Sandoval

She came from the land of immortality
as soul from ancient times
units with modern technology

Kneeling behind her camera
La Esqueleta looks dead ahead
spooked by the wonder of the day
she recognizes flower designs
and colorful patterns
the paleness of white brought to
life by the brightness of colors.

The figure is unknown to her
never seen in the land of the immortals
her camera, to heavy to hold up
her arms frozen to the unknown figure.

She is unable to capture the moment
the figures are not real to hug yet
they approached her in song and dance,
in collaboration………… She asks, “quien son”?


Please feel free to use these images to create your own poems. If you would like for your poem to be added to this post please email poems/prose/short stories (under 350 words) here. for review and consideration. Authors retain all rights to their work. Photographs are copyrighted by El Razafotografista and Company de Esperanza Fotography. May use with written consent.


©Angelo J. Sandoval

Part I

Nestled in a reconcito,
I have seen you in the corner
of my eye as I have
driven by your
humble exterior.

I didn’t pay much attention
to your presence,
but the few times I did catch
a glimpse of you,
I wondered if you were
offering sacred prayer space,
yet didn’t bother to find out.

I heard from news sources
you had been violated.
Your sacred space,
treated with disrespect.
Your heart was taken from you.
Ancient relics that carried
prayers of antepasados
stolen from the sacredness


Part II

My heart broke into pieces
as I read the news of your torment
You, the heart of a community
the refuge of the lonely
Violated by one of your
sons or

The heart that is You,
was taken,
taken to unknown places
Lost to the cycle of addiction
that plagues your community
The same community that cares
for you,
that made every effort to protect you.

My heart is broken.



Angelo J. Sandoval

The search for indeginous
identity roots
My journey has been
full of adventure.
I search the spiritual
en mi querido Norté.

I traveled to Alcatraz Island,
celebrating sunrise ceremonies
antepasados making there
presence known
as Father Sun breaks over the horizon,
Grandmother Moon slowly begins
her decent in to the ocean’s horizon.

The beauty of the Morning Star
Came to bless us with love prayer
trails to the ancestors in the other world.

I search for a story which has been
lost to the winds of time.
names of sacred spaces unknown
Spanish corrupted names
leave my mind wondering
wondering where
where did they go?
Why did they go?
No answers.

Adventure seeks me out
Visiting ancient ruins
of a forgotten city.

Lost to the winds of time
reasons why,
why an ancient city was left behind.
I found peace at the ruins site.

For once the unknown
became, ok.
I came to a place labelled, ruins.

Narrated videos of dependents
of ancient people remind us,
These spaces are not ruins,
they are home to ancestor spirits.

I enter sacred space, the Great Kiva.
The energy of ancient peoples are
ever present,
I make two visits in to this sacred space.
I close my eyes and daydream of lost
Alto Huachín Kiva,
lost sacred space
lost stories of creation, love, family, and the beyond.

One more piece of the puzzle found,
yet it doesn’t find its fitted place in my
people’s lost history.

Sacred space, the Great Kiva
your gift of sacred space will
live in my heart till the end of my days.
Entering your sacred space without
the need of a card to prove my lost
indigenous identity,
Your sacred space gave healing
to a lost soul.






The photo were taken at Aztec Ruins National Park in Aztec, New Mexico.

©Angelo J. Sandoval

I look into the heavens
old man Cloud,
I notice his face
pale white pressed on
blue skies.
Rains have come by his grace.
Expressed expression
of sadness are evident
as old man Cloud has
one eye closed in
painful emotions.
Old man Cloud
Saddened by the horrors
Death dying
children suffering
adult world horrors.
Violence defaces
Mother Earth
Old man Cloud

Old man Cloud
Fades from Father Sky
Old man Cloud



(c) Angelo J. Sandoval 6-10-1012

La tierra del encanto
Nuevo Mejico
a land of hidden treasures
tesoros unicos
from Pueblo arts and crafts
to the wailing of alabados
of the mountain villiages.
Mariana was in her glorias,
coming to el norte de
Nuevo Mejico.

Marinara remembering the cuentos of
her vis abuelo would tell her.
Los cuentos de los
de los indios bailando pal
dia de San Juan o Santa Clara.
Los recuerdos de las acequias.

raised in urban US of A.
Eager to return a
la tierra del encanto
tierra de sus abuelos,
y sus antepasados.

Llegando al pueblito de su
abuelos, entre las montañas
de La Sangre de Cristo.

Pasando los dias
las Tardes con tio y Tia.
Marina escuchando mas
cuentos de tiempos perdidos.
otros quasi perdidos al tiempo.

La platica era como escuchando
audio tapes en la escuela.

would listing to her tio y Tia
talk about childhood adventures
de la inocencia
cuando el tiempo
pasaba como la Tortuga
pasando el camino.

La platica, changed direction
de los hechos pasados
a las comidas,
el alimento de aquellos tiempos

Tio Remigio disappears
to the limitation de treas
de la Casa.
minutes later,
llega a la Casa
saco lleno de chicharas.
Marina pregunta,
“¿que son, Tio?”
Tio Remigio le dice,
“son chicharas, in manjar delicioso.”

Marina was puzzled
to see winged bugs
in her tio’s sacito.

Tio Remigio,
en el Horno hecha
las chicharas, las tuesta.
Marina, puzzled
not knowing what to expect,
asks Tio,
“¿como saben?”
“como piñon!”, responde.
Marina puzzled and scared,
takes a chichara y las prueba
Marina puzzled, yet finds a
new connection to her abuelo y abuelita.
la comida, este manjar delicioso
Que en el Notre se come.