Artists | For Peace

Gita.: Gita What? You got shot in the heart and died for an ink jar of thinking? You are saying we still have not stopped practicing mass gravinges, human carving and mass prosecutions?

Bloody what? Beaten students? Shot to death angels? All this in the name of...

w.s.: yes, all in the name of some figure made by man, to represent a god...its not Iran; its man...crafting hidden plans, that cover hidden dirt, not from the land, but from a hand, doing dirty works, all in the name...

Please continue...on your path; watch from the hill..there God will speak.

Labiba.:The Almighty's name is used in vain... He is absolved of all that they claim. Neda, lay not on a petal to be kissed by the sun, nor at the tips of leaves ready to drop on blades of grass..

Neda lay back peacefully, and let the silence of her pain speak louder than their guns, let her rosy cheeks seeped with tears of blood speak louder than their fear, Neda, stifled by the rapid flow of Crimson, quietly whispered in silence that she will sing as a thornbird, her humble hymn to freedom.

Gita: The mass awakening is happening.. thanks to the age of technology... and herknowlogy...

By: tArm (the Artist richard mcdowell, Downtown Los Angeles Poet Laureate, 2009)

Climbing the steps at Hollywood and Vine, I’ve never been one to join the masses, but one cannot help but feel the energy of a nation’s people not heard. “What do we want? Peace! When do we want it? Now!”

The drums climbed with us from the station platform below. “Stop the war machine!” a woman with children proclaimed with a shaking fist as we emerged into the light of yet another day that soon will be forgotten, put away in a Photoshop folder or a Flickr account somewhere.

And in the midst of all the crumbled debris was a hotdog stand, and sitting on the far corner was a homeless man and his newfound friend, (a guy in suit and tie) understanding one another for the first time. His wife with their children looked on in wonder. "What is he doing?" was written across her face in doctoral speculation. Never before had she seen him act this way. A little boy held an American flag, and never did our great nation look so small, and anguish seldom appeared on so many faces as on those that traveled here, in search of hope.

That another man in his shoes never knew so well, as when given a hand. And for all of mankind, a part of them walk on that day. Walked along in these efforts, these deeds, these words would lay a new foundation, and upon which a better nation could grow to love me so deeply.

By: Gita Meh | her Silent Voices

I am dreaming.
Dreaming of my personal history and my personal relationship to my land.
Dreaming we stand against the forced language in a chained land.
An inserted language not of our choice, but imposed by force.
I am dreaming.

We are this vast layout feeling the excruciating pain of borders and bullets cutting through our lives.

This is the structure that surrounds us.
Their language.
Their spelling.
Their dictionary.
Our pain.

Many harsh fingers pressing to delete you.
Their system preferences cuts every dream saved in our memories. They force-paste their voices onto us.
They employ to edit our every speech tool possible.

The voice of Niki, meaning goodness, is mutated in our soil.
I dream of their language trying to cut through our veins.
I press help.
I press to check for updates.
But I can’t open the sites.
I am dreaming.

In pain.
Seeing our world as they have torn it.
Oh,
Voice of the land,
Roar.
Your language is this effective layer.
word it.

Land,
Their language is a law spread over our home.
Our windows.
Our surface.
Our face.
Our soul.

Soil, insert more of your words to save us.
Their language spoils Pardis, meaning Paradise.
Facing this monumental monster we witness how they deconstruct our form.

I want to take a breath,
A breath of truth.
But I can’t.
Yet I open my mouth that suddenly fonts begin to fall out on the ground I stand on.

I want to look through the monitor of my soul but my eye freezes.
I want to cut their virus from the hard drive of my land.
But I have no hands to call my own.
No home to call my dream.

In the middle of this fight are the remains of a dream,
Burning our every wire to life.
Dreaming, I stand amid in the remains of my past.
That,
They insert us into their chamber of Godless darkness as I hear them whisper this is Goodness.

Then they begin to break the external hard drive of our thoughts.
Dreaming, I see language as the most integral part of us.
In my dream I see how language has no tongue to speak the voice of my world.
Dreaming,
I hear their language,
Taking away our visual presentations and the lands.

What a landscape.
Invaded by force.
I hear a voice chanting.
The voice of the land is chanting.
Chanting,
Why is there no one singing in this land?
Why are my external elements decaying like that?

I want to reply,
Years ago, you see, singing became banned on your soil.
Voice banned.
Dance banned.
Movement banned.
Ink banned.
Body banned.

Freedom was taken hostage long time ago.
But how can I reply.
I am dreaming.
My sound escapes me.
My voice void’s me.
Gone.
Dispersed.
Forced to take refuge.
But where?

This silence is my language.
This silence is my dream.
This silence is my scream.
To you.
To me.
To my father.
To every mutant culture.

I am dreaming.
Me surrounded by invisibles like me.
I am dreaming.
Voice-less.
Word-less.
Page-less.
Pen-less.

Dreaming I hear a voice ask,
Are we collectively voided or a voice?”

11-04-08 was historic. And dawn will spring a new day for this great Americana; for lost or forgotten friends around the world, as some of their children lay in cold and dusky graves of hate, wars continue, families have shattered, blood has spilled, and lives ended. He offered a simple new way, words of peace uttered, still - no doubt some will only see by sight and not by faith.

America now has a new leader named Barack Obama, yet- he also stands on the foundational legacy of [our] fathers, their tears, and multicultural blood. The term begins with [We] and it is a collective of lives, Yes We Can ...offers statements of action, for thought and purpose.

But we must work as one race, as a team we can rebuild upon the dream 40 plus years since it was first spoken by a King, who died so we would know the civil history of rights. Now, lets go tell it on the mountain. Give freedom its honor and ring of justice.

Liberty for all sounds so easy, but - I can now say in my life I've seen the effect and affects of positive change, but that also began only with hope.

America is a country that many still don't fully understand. Much of that is due to the tide that has shifted; waves crashed, hues collide; wonderful blue, red, and white..true, new spirits have pushed hope in to a new day.

America, is what it is. A land of freedom, it is my beloved home.

Ws-flags-(c)2008

Yet one thing stands, the race has been won; not for one man, but the race for sustainable global land, and its release towards peace. For some, it could be hard to see the joy that a new day will bring; yet, to offer one thought...let go of yesterday, its time to move on the inclusive trek, when we move you move, when we smile, you smile. How simple...

 Thank you.:artists 4 peace.:

The creative theory of peace extended in worlds apart

 yet

joined in humanity,

once castaway in gloom,

now revised in color, texture, form and self expression

 for all to read,

see and feel peace.

We see to live,

and to live

we must see some aspects of peace,

or the once castaway theory will again become gloom, war, violence laced with hate,

and no more joy, and no more life.

[One Artist | For Peace]

Wheelchair

a place
deep within
solitude, tranquility
quiet memories.

a place of renewal
a moment with God
no strife, no war
no disquieting thoughts.

a place
to go
away from turmoil
in prayer.

:tokunaga:
american poet
2008
One Artist | For Peace

Ntambra:
Attempting to sail- fleeing, we trekked for maybe days, or weeks with many other moderate Hutu, only to be stopped at the border crossing of Uganda. Quickly night fell, and had transformed my hope into a real vivid nightmare. Sister was too weary to walk all day and well into the moon's glow. So strong Hutu mothers wrapped colorful fabric around Mahoro and carried her fragile body on their backs in Guhekas with loving care. I tried to stay close to her and for days I watched her beautiful little round face bounce with each strain and step. Our bloody bare feet dragged on scorching hot, sharp stone filled roads.

While our legs grew heavy from the miles of pain and the burden of war, yet they carried us towards safety. All I could think about were the good times Mahoro and I had before war took our village.

Now, all I could hear was the moans and see the tears of children soon my tears fell; they dried hard and stung my face.

Through the thick bush across the border I could hear the sounds of gunfire and smell the past days war torn dead bodies.

Pressing closer to see, it surged...I looked for sister but could not find her, other men and big boys were running towards us swinging sticks and sharp pangas were cutting and hacking my family. My Uncle had fallen right in front of me...and those men gathered around him - and ...and, the noise was too much and I could not hear which way to run, still the guns continued, and I fell to my knees.

My family was griped in terror and I felt my very soul was being torn apart ------as I cried a bigger boy grabbed me and shielded me from danger as he ran. Returning back into the bush with me in tow; he was taken in full stride, as he let me drop I glanced back over my shoulder...he was still, bloody and reflecting the violence and anger that now surrounded my family.

When Children Cry: sister, my sister
:.w.shepherd.:

struggle, conflict and change can bring peace. this site will evolve into a collective of many artist's statements; their meaning(s) of peace, relational to global vision: hope and conflict: simple.

yea.
artist 4 peace

2-ws2008.jpg

soon --- peace

now, rest.

Absolutely quiet seeds, grow new seasons.
thunder is needed to brake open the quiet seeds, for all to live the season u bring...

sing a new song.
Fulfill your loneliness,
long days with smiles.
a friend will bring, spring a new thought,
life's wonder,
simply complex glory.
and new hopes tell our story..
Blue skys beyond rainbows.

Rain does fall upon yesterdays hidden thoughts of yesterday, and that 2 is gone.

Upon the song of wings we soar into new shades of rainbows. Touch light. lite..
yet bright hopes so do spring forth into a new day's vision, and still peace washes away burdens of ill , no pill.

in faith we stand. C...?
as one somewhere over and beyond the rainbow blue skys, it will rain down and that 2 will stream into our path towards new light bright..

unite sight into the night she slumbers, guide her sight by your light.

Letters of conflict + peace.

ws.:.gm
2008
2 Artists For Peace

Photo660.jpg

Photo579.jpg

up against the wall they lined them all... and the blood stained blem-ish was never missed by poets who spoke falling down... whos words did wish for something more... than a bullets simple kiss

tHe aRtist richard mcdowell
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