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The playlist for Sunday 2 March 14 8pm to 9pm Pacific Edition of The Justice Department: Musique sans FrontieresWho luvs ya, baby?
~~ "The War We Make Inside" ~~
1 - War -- "Slippin' Into Darkness"
2 - Sly and The Family Stone -- "Family Affair"
3 - Counting Crows -- "Colorblind"
4 - Living Colour -- "Burned Bridges"
5 - Nina Simone -- "Wild is the Wind"
6 - Michael Franti and Spearhead -- "Soulshine"
7 - Alison Krauss -- "Can't Find My Way Home"
8 - Santana -- "Europa"
9 - Miriam Makeba -- "Mbube"
10 - Mamadou Diabaté -- "Tunga"
11 - Red Hot Chili Peppers -- "Castles Made Of Sand"
12 - Dengue Fever -- "Uku"
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And if all those who meet or even~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
hear of you become witness to what you are—
a white country of blight beneath the last snows of
spring. Could we remain quiet on earth
and bear it, the war we make inside
what is—it’s a long time to be here, to be still,
to feel the rot inside now—bone-scrap, char, sheets of stars
at the edge of a field where we are once again
taken from ourselves. Could we remain here,
witness to grief, one last bright dire call-and-reply,
each birdsong or siren extinguished where some
trueness abides, some portion we have lost our right
to claim or know. It comes into any mind that would
perceive it, leaf-rot, speech-rot, the deliberate ribcage
of the deer, these abrupt chalk cliffs over which
the confused animals fling themselves, and you,
obscure, receive no response that is not suffered
as the days grow long and distortions
come to seem the natural course of things—
what trees whose creatures stray into space—
and they find they cannot land though the eyelid
struggles open—no answer, no resolution—
a window opened to the mute green world,
weedy and driftless, a wind drilling rain, dirt,
the parameters of uncertainty, of hope,
what we might be against what we have done,
bees crawling through the lips of the one
who would say the earth turned into sour flesh—
What strange rooms, what soundless movement of sky
over desert where the flesh again is beaten
and the emptiness extends itself while some old man
looks on, a raptor in waiting, the sand-field
around them blown thinly toward sun—no longer
ourselves in the afternoons, evenings,
weak, vague, clutched at the mouth—
because we did nothing, because we lost count.
Voices and Soul appears on Black Kos Tuesday's Chile; poetry chosen and critiqued by Black Kos Poetry Editor Justice Putnam.
Question: Who is your audience? What are you here for?~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Answer: Tribal Alliances, Heart-felt Convictions, Passionate Reason, Random Abandon, Sustainable Civility and a kiss; to comfort the sad and the mad Ones; the Ones roaming the International section of the American Supermarket at night; or roaming the neglected streets looking for an angry malaprop to sink their teeth into; the Ones who seek without seeking and learn as much as they teach; the Ones who embrace and kiss and embrace again; the Ones who sing the song of the city and the ballads of the forest; the Ones who chant the rhythm of the sea and hum the melody of the desert; the Ones who sing the prayer of Her name and Her name is the World. Yes, those are the Ones. -- JP
(Can you help folks in need heat their homes and cook their food on the Rosebud and Pine Ridge Reservations. Navajo has an important diary posted with all the particulars. Even a small amount can work towards building the minimum.
Could you please help?)
So that explains it... !
... Or does it?
(Rail Road Crossing, Sonoma California / copyright Justice Putnam)
(Farm Road and Running Fence, Olema, California / copyright Justice Putnam)
"Many heroes lived before Agamemnon, but they are all unmourned, and consigned to oblivion, because they had no bard to sing their praises."
"Still the race of hero spirits pass the lamp from hand to hand."~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
-- Charles Kingsley
A Van Gogh
Hillsides and woods
In which the
Of nearly every
But I had become
Bound by guilt
Of the truth.
I came to believe
That in a sense
Was the same
In the park
I came to believe
That the measure
Was the amount
I could survive.
Like a crushed
By a colony of ants
But I had often
Cut my finger
From the beauty
Of a long-stemmed rose.
So I realized
In those final moments
What had actually
My life was
A series of patterns
A self created
Maze that offered
That I was
By its weight
I had no
Left to survive
With my own
I had sought
Between the legs
Only to make
Weakness of heart.
Between my fingers
(Portland, Oregon and Los Angeles, California 1978)
(from: Part 3 "And Memory Became A Fading Melody")
Rest in Peace Aaron Swartz
(Morning Fog And Surf, Muir Beach, California / copyright Justice Putnam)