There is A Poet in Our Family
Erasmo "Doc" Riojas' children were, in order or birth, Sylvia Dolores, Michael Anthony, Gloria Ann. All are native Texans, except Michael who was born in Oahu, Territory of Hawaii. Dr. Riojas is very proud of all of them. His children are well educated, God, Family and Country Appreciating Americans. They are all alive and are well residing in Texas.
Sylvia Dolores Riojas Vaughn wife of Paul S. Vaughn
S.D. Riojas Vaughn BIO
Sylvia was born at the U.S. Naval Hospital Corpus Christi, Texas. Sylvia is her high school class Salutatorian. She has a degree in journalism from Southern Methodist University where she graduated with honors.
Her poems appear in Texas Poetry Calendar 2009, Rio Grande Valley International Poetry Festival Anthology Boundless, Poetry at Round Top, Illya’s Honey, Red River Review, Ohio Poetry Day winners’ anthologies, and other small journals and anthologies.
Her poem Communion won first place in the Richardson Public Library’s Poetry Competition in 2007. Excerpts from my poetry were used in the play Calliope’s Rampage. My own play La Tamalada was produced in Fort Worth; two others have received staged readings. Sylvia is a member of Dallas Poets Community.
Sylvia Riojas Vaughn's poetry has appeared in "Illya's Honey," "Red River Review," "Capper's," "On Wings of Words," and Ohio Poetry Day winners' anthologies. Excerpts from her poetry were used in the play "Calliope's Rampage."
She has served as a contest judge for Dallas Poets Community, Dallas Public Library, Ohio Poetry Day, and Poetic Friends of the Bridge Poetry Contest. Mrs. Vaughn has also worked as a certified English as a Second Language teacher. Home is in Plano, TX, and lives with her husband, Paul, and their German shepherd.
Sylvia's Siblings and Neice
Lt-Rt: Amanda Lorraine Newberry-Torres (Gloria's Daughter), Sylvia Dolores Vaughn-Riojas Michael Anthony Riojas, Gloria Ann Engle-Riojas. Today, 16 Nov 2016 they are all alive and well living in Texas.
Africa's First Christian Arts And Literary Magazine POETRY | A Beacon in The Tempest
by Sylvia Riojas Vaughn
Parousia Magazine April 19, 2017
By which also ye are saved, if ye keep in memory what
I preached unto you, unless ye have believed in vain.
O my soul!
to the gospel —
Christ died for our sins,
and rose again the third day.
O my heart!
Let my belief be impenetrable.
Let me always remember
humans cannot change
winter to spring,
or night to day,
or reach the Father
except through Christ.
O my free will!
Withstand the temptation
Remember Adam and Eve.
For too long after the Fall
we hoped for redemption.
Today I rejoice with the faithful
in the Resurrection,
and the promise of life everlasting.
Lilies on Easter Morning
By which also ye are saved,
if ye keep in memory… —1 Corinthians 15:2
on bright green stems,
the pure white flowers
sway in the breeze,
signs of hope, joy,
filled with worshipers,
the angels sound,
of the good news
Paul urges us
never to forget,
He is risen!
Beacon in The Tempest
Moreover, brethren, I declare unto you the gospel
—1 Corinthians 15:1
a ship tossed
on the stormy
sea of sin.
you from the wheel.
your white sails.
Lack of Christian love
As you floundered,
did you secretly pray
to Artemis and Apollo?
Paul shone the light
of the gospel
to help you right your
nearly wrecked hulk,
to correct your course,
to help you back
to steadfast belief
in Jesus’s resurrection —
the only way to keep
the only hope
of life everlasting.
New post on Silver Birch Press
What Are The Odds? poem by Sylvia Riojas Vaughn (LOST AND FOUND Poetry and Prose Series) by silverbirchpress the-anniversary-accessories-scarf-with-evening-purse-orchid-corsage-and-glove-1971
What Are The Odds?
by Sylvia Riojas Vaughn
The day Braniff Air
radio bulletins said
stuck with a ticket,
lost my wallet.
I pulled into McDonald's
on the way to the airport,
fumbled for my billfold.
I dumped out my purse,
from my bag. Gone!
I thumped my forehead —
I'd left it on the car roof
The wingless leather clutch
had flown away.
I pictured skid marks
on my family photos,
a stranger whipping out
my Discover card,
the boarding pass
muddied mush. Two weeks later,
a trucker called.
He'd collected everything
strewn along an overpass.
He smiled at my reward —
a bear hug, coffee and pie.
IMAGE: "Accessories" by Joan Brown (1971).
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: The inspiration for this poem is true. My husband and I were on our way to Dallas/Fort Worth Airport in a rainstorm the day Braniff grounded its fleet. We were going to see about changing our tickets to Kansas City, Missouri, to another airline. This was before iPhones, etc. Unfortunately, my husband remembered he’d placed his wallet on the roof of the car as we packed. It flew off, and we had to turn back, because one couldn’t fly without one’s driver’s license. Some weeks later, a man called and said he’d found everything!
Erasmo Riojas-Cardenas and Soledad Gonzalez-Alvarez wed in 1954. Doc Riojas returned from Korean War and was stationed at the USNAS, Corpus CHristi TX. He met and married Soledad "Rupe" Alvarez the next year 1954.
She was awaiting the birth of Sylvia when Doc Rio got orders to the U.Naval Gun Factory, Wash. D.C.; U.S. Naval Deep Sea Diving School in ANacostia D.C. He graduated in Sept 1956 and Doc Riojas, "Rupe" and their daughter Sylvia got transferred to U.S. Naval Submarine Base, Oahu, Territory of Hawaii.
South Carolina Candy Store Jan 2017
By Sylvia Riojas Vaughn Plano, Texas
My penny a yolk tucked in eggshell palm,
bells alert storekeeper to my arrival.
I tiptoe across creaking wooden floors
toward big glass jars brimming with Mary Janes, jaw breakers,
Tootsie Rolls, Sugar Babies.
Dim light obscures this bejeweled rainbow.
I'm melting on this hot afternoon —
wish I had an extra nickel for an RC.
At last I choose a candy necklace, snap it on.
I race away to play tag, Mother May I, Red Light, Green Light
until Mother calls me for supper.
Those sugary jewels will taste like red clay and sweat
when Mother snips the strand from my neck.
An Offering to the Bitter Moon 10Jan2017
breaches of peace
around our world,
in our town,
on our street —
kindle for the flames
a blood-spattered list
of those who’ve died;
I kiss it
one last time
my journal entries —
blackening the pages
a few photos —
my smile happy
let me have nothing
to give when
next you rise
Elegy for Spring’s
\November 15th, 2016 by Sylvia Dolores Vaughn-Riojas
She was mad for dirt.
her calloused hands
worked bone meal
into small holes,
placing corms just so.
Wielding a sharp blade,
she slashed apart
clumps of daffodil bulbs.
She whispered, Howdy, worms!
Do your thing.
Mud under her nails,
smudges on her cheeks.
Chill winds chapped her skin,
whipped hair into her eyes.
The ground under the knees
of her threadbare jeans
colder, harder every year.
At last the soil clung to her
like a vine, reclaiming her but not
those perennial springtime blooms.
(This is the first in a series of poems by Poetess SylvIa Vaughn which The Arachneed will be publishing in the coming days. )
Sylvia Riojas Vaughn photo
Sylvia Riojas Vaughn is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. She has been selected as a Houston Poetry Fest Juried Poet three times. She belongs to the Dallas Poets Community. Her work appears in Red River Review, Triadæ, HOUSEBOAT, Diálogo, Desde Hong Kong: Poets in conversation with Octavio Paz, Bearing the Mask: Southwestern Persona Poems (Dos Gatos Press, 2016), and anthologies and journals in the U.S. and abroad.
armadillo digs for
hail pelts horns, guitars
Cinco de Mayo
beige to bask
degrees in an hour -
Tex is drenched after rain
Taos in the mailbox
tongues catch snowflakes
2013 Father's Day Card from Sylvia to her father Erasmo Elias Riojas
Below is the VIA Metropolitan Transit announcement
regarding its Poetry on the Move program celebrating National Poetry
Month, April 2013.
I have also included my poem that will be on the bus,
“The carwash lasts until it rains.”
This is a picture of the poster that will be placed in all
the San Antonio Buses.
Also included are the other poems I read at the Twig
Bookstore in the Pearl Brewery, San Antonio, TX.
I appreciate the interest and love and support of my
Sylvia Riojas Vaughn
VIA METROPOLITAN TRANSIT, SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS
VIA Metropolitan Transit has announced the winners of its
poetry contest. Their poems will be on display inside the agency’s
buses and vans throughout National Poetry Month in April. The Classroom
On Wheels educational bus will also feature all of the poems and promote
literacy when it visits the schools in April.
“Poetry on the Move” was open to anyone over 18 years
of age in Central and South Texas. Over 180 entries were received, and
the winning poems have been illustrated, printed, and distributed as
interior cards on VIA’s buses and vans. The winners of VIA’s 2013
Poetry on the Move contest are listed below:
Robert Allen – “Floating Barrel in a Picture”
In addition to the ten poems received in the VIA contest,
another ten were accepted from the San Antonio Public Library’s Young
Pegasus program. All 20 poems were sent to four area art programs where
they were illustrated before being printed on the interior cards. The
participating artist programs were the North East School of the Arts,
the Henry Ford Academy: Alameda School of Art + Design, SAY Sí, and the
Edgewood Fine Arts Academy.
The carwash lasts
until it rains,
that kiss until the lie,
a blossom until a windy day.
Yet we stand ageless in photographs,
our thoughts waves crashing in a seashell,
our stories mountains looming out of sight.
The Wall, Reminder
of the First Living-Room War
Do amputees dressed
in fatigues see past
in the names marching
across polished stone?
Do they hear something
other than hushed voices
of the crowd?
Father says on one mission
he heard only
Machine gun fire.
Not like in the movies.
If anyone shouted Charge!
no one heard it.
I wondered every day
if I would see Father
on a stretcher on TV.
In tonight’s broadcast
from the VFW,
the retired sergeant’s
as he reads the names
of local MIAs, KIAs.
The announcer interrupts.
Will it rain? Stay tuned.
the South Texas Mine
Woody Guthrie’s Union Burying Ground
Grandfather escaped Mr. D’s shotgun wielding goons
in the middle of the night. A knock on the door,
an urgent rush of words came in time to pile his wife,
children, brother and belongings on the truck.
They fled into the winter and uncertainty.
In the mining town, Grandfather tried to unionize,
agitating for better pay and working conditions.
Piercing rescue alarms sounded too often for
Families were jumpy despite dances,
movies, baseball games against farmers.
The children attended a one-room school,
eager for the daily delivery of milk and sweet rolls.
The men never handed wages to their wives on payday
with the kiss of satisfaction: Salary, credit at the
Grandfather settled in Laredo, worked for the railroad.
Coal dust’s in my blood, the rumble of trains too.
And too many bosses exploit workers for my taste.
escort our catamaran.
I crave oysters,
a sunset stroll,
your tanned embrace.
Sand in my swimsuit
and in the novel I ignored
streams from my suitcase
miles from the island.
I follow the trail
back to a starlit
lime and tequila kiss.
Sacco da boxe
When he was a boy he believed his name was Bozo the Bop Bag. It had to be;
his nose was red and swollen, his eyes so purple they were nearly black, his lip
blood red. His torso was blue like Bozo’s only without pompoms. He couldn’t
run from pounding fists. At school, his teachers called him by another name.
He learned c and i and d and e. He sketched his favorite superhero on
worksheets. The boy fashioned his own cloak to hide vulnerability, and
became a man. The cloak wore thin. Bozo’s nose popped out, and mocked
him in the rear view mirror. Big red shoes poked through his boots on the
elevator. People laughed. His cloak disintegrated. He summoned his last bit
of superstrength to face Bozo.
Fifteen miles northwest of Laredo
at the River, General Bravo, Mexico
— Circa 1960
Tía pounds her
son’s beer-soaked, blood-streaked shirt
rocks in the middle of the rushing river.
Her ropy forearms
flail up and down; she squints in the sun.
scrub homemade lye soap into the cotton.
I miss her
customary smile; decide to play further upstream,
dance barefoot on
slippery outcroppings, skip stones.
Soon she wrings
the garment, arises, stretches her back.
She arranges the
shirt on a bush to dry; motions for me
to sit next to
her on the bank. We share a
This woman who
stands nearly five feet tall is tougher
than any stain
– she charges into barroom brawls,
tugs her son away before he ruins his clothes.
All works by Sylvia Riojas Vaughn
published in Red River Review
End Of Season
Cinderella’s Wish Come True
Tres Vestidos de las Muertas
Pickles, Laredo, Texas
When I took a wrong turn
Houston Poetry Fest & Festival-2011
Eastfield college edu Festival
woody guthrie Festival TWO poems HERE
Sylvia Riojas Vaughn
A poem by Ann Howell
for sale contact: Doc Riojas: docrio45 [at] @ gmail DOT com
Webmaster can contact Sylvia for you: Email HERE