Escaping from the catacombs, and realigning the lights, while next year’s mysteries penetrate the blythe, the bright. 10: Hyperion, halcyon, empyrean, sidereon. This year and next truly hyperion. 30: Furthering the fuchsia, their orchids breathing fast, 50-100: We celebrate concelebrant, within Adam Protoplast. 1000-1500: Is their a dynasty? Which is the dynast?
(Sande contributed this.)
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El destino en este viaje no es lograr llegar…es lograr estar.
Cuando estoy alineada conmigo y con todas las dimensiones de mi, el universo se expande y puedo entender que cada uno de nosotros tiene su propio viaje y sus propias dimensiones de si.
Me pertenezco y le pertenezco a todo.
Me voy creando cuando respeto mis distintas dimensiones; amo los errores y la perfección, al mismo tiempo. Establezco límites que ondulan entre unos y otros.
Necesito probar que soy lo que amo y amo lo que soy, para entender que cada uno de nosotros está en la misma clase de prueba.
Tenemos el derecho de ser felices y completos a imagen de Dios, de Dios que esta en los cielos??? Alguna historia me contaron un día de niña, que habíamos sido creados a la imagen y semejanza de Dios, y yo lo creí tan profundamente que aún lo creo. Si es que hay un Dios en los Cielos, habrá un Dios en cada uno de mis cielos, en cada uno de mis universos, de diversos colores e idiomas.
“Yo soy católica mama?” me preguntó mi hija. La mire y reí, “No,” contesté, “los católicos son los que van a misa y rezan todos los días….yo lo sé porque así crecí.” Ella está libre de historias y religiones, para ella son variadas, y yo la amo, es mi hija, es el alma de mi corazón.
Las dimensiones, los dioses, las personas, los universos, las razas, los países, todo desaparece cuando amo el viaje al estar y no buscar llegar.
(Fiorella Podestá contributed this.)
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Words on a page redden with rage
She’s angry again, he’s back in the cage
“It’s only a stage,” a voice does say
So why the fright?
Just turn the page into a gape
And make your escape
Write
Here and now
But how?
How?
HOW?
Like a dog’s bow-wow,
Au naturel
A spontaneous act
To this matter of fact
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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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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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