Arte Soy

I got a message for all the masses
my third eye
wears 3-D glasses

you may get high
but you’ll never surpass this

when you bring the static
I got homeostasis

everybody’s trying to rob me of my calm
it’s like playing hot potato
with an activated bomb

but when I get the feeling that my blood is getting warm
I just chill out
take no pills out
and I open up my palm

you can call me a pacifist
because I write my rhymes so I don’t pass a fist

it’s hard to tell the difference between anger and love
when you meet a pretty girl
and then you strangle her with hugs

so I drink
kava kava and not vodka

so I can chug a lug

and be a mellow fellow
when I pass out on the rug

when it comes to fighting
I just sit down and I write it
I’m a big guy pound for pound
so I can’t get all too excited

it only takes a small flame for wick to get lighted
you’ll only have yourself to blame
when your ignorance ignites it

this world’s a powder keg so if you’re carrying a load
you had best express yourself
or you’re gonna explode.

(Benjamin Shahoulian contributed this.)

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Time for meditation and introspection. And I continue writing though it leads me into strange uncharted territory.

After all, what does my life mean?

This is what it feels like to write. The call so loud it echoes off the cliffs of my soul.

In splendors of turquoise. Agate. The inner silences, so rare. This writing is ahead of myself. It’s like Hansel and Gretel to myself backwards.

Leave clues.

Back into my shell I crawl like a scorpioncrab.
I cocoon and eat and listen. Try to listen to the outside.
There is another world than the one in my head.
There is a whole universe.

(But yet, being fun minded I cannot resist the urge for play. Word play. Shouldn’t I be out playing with my friends? Not sitting in the depths of philosophy. Or philology. And why we like which better?)

The making of a human artist, the rarest breed among us.

Discover creativity. Recover play.
Which is why there is jazz.
Exist like jazz does.
Total improvisation is freedom.
And freedom is bliss.
This is what it is to write.

(Lee Zebede contributed this.)

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As seen through the lens of Anton J. Betancourt, aka Joseito.

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Yesterday I cried buckets from a well that had long been dry
Thanks to Santo Daime and the people standing by
I cried for the little boy who stuffed it all inside
And I cried for the little ones with nowhere to run or hide

For too long it seemed I may never release the pain
Until I met Santo Daime and the tears fell down like rain

I cried for my family, one by one and collectively
And I cried for humanity, brothers and sisters yearning to be free
I cried for Mother Earth, for her plants and for her trees
And I cried for my country, from sea to shining sea

For too long it seemed I may never release the pain
Until I met Santo Daime and the tears fell down like rain

© Joshua Mapp Weiss 2007

Santo Daime by Joshananda

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It kinda looks like my Uncle Ben.

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This is the symbol for “schwa.”  The dictionary (or was it Wikipedia?) had a lengthy definition of the word.  I came across it while researching phonological awareness for a college course I was taking to renew my teacher certification.  I teach pre-K and phonologial awareness is a big part of the curriculum.  Schwa in this case refers to the sound frequently added, especially by four and five-year-olds, onto the basic letter sound, or phoneme.  For instance, letter “b” without the schwa would be written /b/.  When it’s said “buhhh,” then the schwa is the “uhhh” that comes after the basic letter sound.  Capiche?

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I’ve heard the best of generations repeat themselves

Mining familiar ground for something new

I’ve done it too

And so have you

It’s what we do

Find a riff

And give it a chew

We break ground

When we make sound

Bold and true

I choose the path of loves and sees

In my work, rooted like trees

Consciously moving with strength and ease

My body, my heart, my soul, oh please

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Late again, still dark
So, so early in the morning late
Zooming, seventy-five, eighty, the empty freeways
Ninety Five

Folding time with the edges of fleeting dreams

A few cars here and there, moving ghostly
Slippery fast in the slickness of incipient dawn dew

We’re all racing, until
Up ahead a bright red flash
An urgent calling moment
Two cars want over
In a nasty scary split second of merging blind side panic

A second later
as I pass that same spot
something…a rock?
kicks loud up and around the wheel well

At the same ninety-plus
hearing the sound
I too slow a moment
release the slight pressure of my foot,
tapping the break to my hot face throb
as these palpable chunks of fear rumble through me.

(Erik Thompson-Green contributed this poem.)

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Who are they, these men who murder flowers?
I often see their tracks upon the crushed white flowers of spring’s sweet promise.
The fertile earth compacted into ruts and grooves – nothing can grow there.

Who are they, these men who murder flowers?
I see them speeding down the road, hell bent.
Neither seeing, nor smelling the paradise surrounding them.

Who are they, these men?
They hurry to find a thrill for their souls, thinking it’s at the end of a speedometer,
Never knowing it exists already, contained within their beating hearts.

Who are they, these men who murder flowers?
And when can we enjoy the protection they can give us?
It’s the big disconnect that sends them rushing and crushing.
Perhaps we need to send out a search and rescue for their souls.

(Sara Melnicoff contributed this poem.)

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That chap?
I heard he’s fulla crap
Give him a slap
Silly hill billy
Like his Uncle Willy

Naw, jus playin
He’s my brotha from anotha
Naw’m sayin?
We go back, jack

lox+o-sxl+o+mxa+o-ixu+o-lxg+o-exh+o-xve

Lost in stare
I’m unaware as to where
Somewhere between here and there
What remains is his name in the middle
And my instincts and instruments
To solve the riddle
Where’s my fiddle?!
I’ll say, I’m on my way
Some day, perhaps today
We’ll say “hey!”
Break bread
And play
Let us pray
Add some color
To this gray

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