SLOW DOWN

Remember this before you sit down to your next meal.

Our bodies need an uplifting and settled environment in order to process and absord the nutrients from our meals. If that is not available then we should atleast be sitting down to eat and not standing, walking, or driving our way through a meal. Bless your meals and appreciate each morsal. Feed yourself with a meal of nurishment instead of loading it with substance
Remember what it took for that meal to arrive to your mouth. Remember and bless the farmers, who have found convient ways for your body to nurished. Remember the workers who toil on hot days to pick the harvest, so that it can reach your produce section in your grocery store. Thank the earth for the life it produces and bless this fragile enitity . (By R.F.C.)

TICK TOCK

Tick, Tock.

These hands move around the clock. 11 months behind me and it wont stop number one aproaching me again. Soon I'll be older again by a year and everyone around me as well. As if we were casted by a spell and move like mice through a time maze. The days which is the same day as it was from day one. It was mankind that created time and harnessed the sunrise and the sunset into a sytem of time. So it moves forward by the second. Seconds become minutes, minutes become hours, hours become days, days become weeks, weeks become months, and months....well. Tick, Tock.

Our life started with a clock and it recorded the time you were born and it will record the time of your death. So enjoy your seconds, minutes, hours, days months, and years.

THE FIRST SNOW OF DECEMBER IN SEATTLE

THERE IS DUST IN THOSE HILLS AND A GRAY CURTAIN. THE WIND BLOWS TO THE SOUTH ALTERING THE SPEED OF THE CHILLED FLAKES RACE.

WHITE TENTS WITH CHIMMINEYS SCATTERED THROUGH THE SURBURBAN SCAPE.

BLACK STREETS NOW ARE WHITE PATHS AND IGLOO'S ON WHEELS MOVE SLOWLY SOME ARE STILL STATIONED BETWEEN VANISHED PAINTED LINES.

THE GROWN,SCATTER AND HIDE AND THE YOUNG PITTER PATTER AND CLONE SNOW PEOPLE THEY BOMBARD WITH HARDENED POWDER CANNON BALLS.

A PIANO PLAYS THE SCORE AND A ROARING FIRE SURROUNDED BY BRICKS KEEPS THE HANDS WARM. I LOOK OUT MY WINDOW AT MY EVERGREENS THEY TURN BRIGHT WHITE AND WITH THIS HOT CIDER I PREPARE FOR A COLD NIGHT. THE PIANO PLAYS ON AND I THINK OF SUGAR PLUM FAIRIES DANCING AMOUNG THE FALLING IN THE FOREST IN A NUT CRACKERS DREAM. THE WHIP OF THE WIND SNAPS AS WIPERS FLAP AND RED LIGHTS FLASH OF CAUTION LEAVING STUDDED TRACKS BEHIND THEIR CARBON SMOKING TAIL PIPES. THIS REMINDS OF BEING A CHILD WITH A SHOVEL AND HANDS THAT ARE MADE OF MITTENS CLEARING A DRIVEWAY IN NEW JERSEY TO HAVE IT ONLY BLANKET AGAIN. DARK EVENING WILL APPROACH WAY TOO SOON AND OUTDOOR CHRISTMAS LIGHTS WILL REFLECT OFF THE WHITE THAT WILL HARDEN OVER NIGHT.

LIGHT AND WATER

WATER: Why are we drawn to water? Why do we yearn to stand on the crest of the sea? Why are we mesmerized by a droplett . Why are captivated by the sight and the sound of a waterfall? Could it be because we are made of mostly water? The water is what we are. Could it be that we are harvest is sack of water before we enter the outside world and miss that watery nest? Water is like that lover that we haven't seen in a while, and in our unconsciencess we wonder how it would feel to be drenched again by that passion.

Light: From the dark we come into the light at birth. At death we leave the light and fold into the dark to be awaken again by the light. We are energy within, we are matter, we are a cosmic bundle of light. And into the greater light we once again must be part of.

SOME DAYS

Some days I'm black
Some days I'm just human
Some days I'm patriotic
Some days I'm not
Some days I dont give a (bleep)
Some days I care too much
Some days I talk to the creator
Some days it talks to me
Some days I just talk to myself
Some days I just want to fight
Some days I just want to embrace
Some days I just get sick and tired of politics and the ugliness of the human race.

Some days I'm strong
Some days I'm weak
Some days I'm creative
Some days I'm just innovative
Some days I cant be talked to
Some days that's just what I need someone to do
Some days I need a new friend
Some days I call upon my brothers and love ones who understand me
But everyday I'm just me and thats all right.
Cause you see everyday I'm thankful to have those somedays.

And I hope you enjoy your some days too.

SWEET SKIN, SMOOTH SKIN

The drum captivated me within like a mesmerized savage I begin to move my hands over and over again. My mind channels, and I tap in into the drum and the playing hands of nations, Tomba, Quinto, Conga, Djun, Daiko, Dejembes, Bongos, Native American drums play, play, lets play in unison and stay with me through this journey. I stand naked in the sun by brown body glistening with natural oil for the playing has just begun. My communication are my brown hands in blurring motion. I play with rhythm, I play with finesse, I play to the spirits of the trees and the eagles hovering above because they know what is best. Hear my power from my skins, I stand here naked to winds the drumming nations know no sin. Hear my call for the Bula and Segond to join me and bring the Loa with you too. With a combination of drumming and dancing spirits they'll know what to do. I hear the drums their echos ride the horizons, the creator is here also to dance among us. We chant are voices are ubiquity, our naked hands slap the sweet skins, the smooth skins, the naked skins, harnessed by a shell. As drummers we are under one spell.

Drum and release yourself! There is no orthodox beatings here just the seedlings and the spirits trying to free themselves from your blood, flesh, and body. Free yourself and join others we can vibrate the moon, sweet skins, smooth skins, naked skins slap them and let your music begin.

STRANDS OF THE STEEL THAT SING

My best friend got me this acoustic guitar one day because I was a song writer with out an portable instrument.

My songs were in my head, sometimes day and night, sometimes night and day. I could never seem to put them away. Sometimes they were acoustic, other times they were rythmic, sometimes they were ballads but they always came rapid. My songs were studio sessions and sometmes live, I could walk to a different beat and my life feels high.

I could turn them off but I could never turn them on the switch it was systematic, it would rollick me in my dream state. My mind is its own player, I have lyrics on napkins and the back of memos to prove it.

The day I opened the box it was like pandora's it was gift from the god's. I caressed it's wooden body and my mind went into a fog, I followed the strings from its bridge to its fret board and watch them wrap around the knobs like a begging lover.

I plucked the strings with a pick, I fondled the frets to make my fingers stick, I stroked the strings like caressing nylon thighs to only hear a melody cry. I rolled my eyes in my head and connected, I experimented with different chords just to be excepted. The strings sang to me and begged me to prolong and work with them while we worked on a song.