| Fear shrieks as it is bowed across the violence. This dissonance awakens dissidents writhing in pain and screaming, "Make it stop!" Pull the power chord. Let the concert hall fall dim The orchestration of war deserves no ovation or encore. No longer lift a bic to their battle ballads. The abuse is sharp enough to penetrate to the softest part of our souls. So we disband that symphony and replace it with the harmony of empathy and write a new song in the key of love. played by veteran players and precocious phenoms of peace |
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| Updated 7/22/07 |
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| A collection of poetry about caring, feeling, listening and responding to the pain around us |
| Poems & Peace |
| Poems & Peace |
| For peace I've looked around and then around again War goes on but where does peace begin On the fields of fighting In the temples and towers The answer of the ancient wisdom whispers on the wind Real peace begins within Within For war They march in step, in honor to their drums From one encounter to another, never to be done Even when the drums of war Are beating all around there is a place where peace can be found Real peace begins within Within. |
| Peace Begins Within |
| by Chrystine Julian |
| Fill your life with beauty. Permit it to crowd you as it permeates with awe. Let it be so close you can barely breathe. Marvel at intricate detail. Gasp at the way it feels. Evoke joy, tears or laughter, each in a unique way. How you see it is how the universe sees you. Perhaps you will understand it is the mirror of your soul. You are beauty in my world. |
| Fill Your Life |
| by Chrystine Julian |
| We watch people glitter, very pretty and cheer for champions of celebrity If all the children, mothers, grandmothers, fathers and grandfathers for one day could be gorgeous perhaps we would stop the slaughter. I wish that all could see how beautiful they are to me |
| Awards and Wars |
| by Chrystine Julian |
| Make It Stop |
| by Chrystine Julian |
| Do we watch the news with the sound turned down? A tree falls and there is no noise. Is it because none is there to hear or because we chose to watch it on the screen and not listen to the screams of war? Many have fallen in clear-cut cities. Did we hear that? Does the heart need a hearing aid? A child, mother, father, sister or brother dies and there is no sound of cries unless the relatives are ours and they all are relative. The rockets red glare bombs bursting to bare our souls. Each ghost must be a banshee. When we can no longer stand the shattering shriek perhaps then we will stand and roar "NO MORE!" |
| Hear That? |
| by Chrystine Julian |
| If it is 2051 you may not remember but, There once was a time when men ruled the world. There was hunger and war. The earth lay bleeding from rape. They ignored her pain and raped her again. Where had the caring gone? Was there no control or was it no soul? There once was a time when men ruled the world, but where was the rule of love? Waste, want and welts of wealth raised across the earth. The excess piled in hills of greed and the excess piled in heaps of need. Religion stole their souls. A light shone round about them and a voice spoke within, God is love* is all it said. They ignored the voice and raped again, their own mother, their best friend. The voice spoke louder now God is love it said. Some looked up and saw their mother's pain. We must stop them before she's dead and said, never again. They rose against the rapist they fought against the sin. They stood between their mother and the men. They heard the voice within. The rule of love now begins. You may not remember but there was a time when men ruled the world. Please never forget. There was a time when men ruled the world |
| When Men Ruled the World |
| by Chrystine Julian |
| To make a war on terror, to me, is filling fire extinguishers with gasoline. I interchange two letters. Small changes make a big difference. I replace the n in on with f and find my greatest fear. We've lost the wars on poverty, drugs and many others. Still they are declared to be chariots of salvation and protection. They do not mend but rather extend and then append to sorrow. A piece of peace is body-bagged in each battle. Our feelings grow cold until they freeze-dry our freedom. Then that cracks and crumbles with the slightest touch. There is no reconstituted brew for us to enjoy and left unchecked no constitution left to protect us. I'd prefer declaring a peace on war. Peace and love are pillows that suffocate hate. There is no I in war, and no winning either. |
| F-ing War On Terror |
| by Chrystine Julian |
| Communications, conversation One world - so many voices to be heard We've had two world wars… When do we get our first world peace? We've been gorged on war. We need a diet of peace. Obese on war - diet of peace Communications, conversation One world - so many voices to be heard We have so many bombs… Can I trade some for food? I don't understand, can you please help me see… God, did you really tell them they could kill me? Communications, conversation One world - so many voices to be heard |
| Questions On War |
| by Chrystine Julian |
| Curtain opens on a scene of desolation busted bubbles security folded in knots stomach and neck tensions twisting irreverence of innocents searching through rubble for what was. They are wandering in places once foreign and still wondering at a distance if they can ever salvage a life of normalcy. Wearing the mask of tragedy shaping frozen frown dialogue. Improvisational and free movement sets scenes of suffering. By bomb or by wind the show blows into town and has been on the road in the longest tour for years, playing command performances. Indonesia, Somalia, South Asia, Congo, Palestine, Baghdad, Kabul, Oklahoma, London, Beirut, New York City, New Orleans and then summer stock in some obscure smaller venues. Each staging features local casts of fledgling amateur actors. This is their chance for attention before the world audience. All wish they had skipped auditions. No matter how many times it has played, it continues to be a tissue soaking tear-jerker. |
| Drama In Real Life |
| by Chrystine Julian |
| In a restless nocturnal struggle she is tossing and rolling until exhaustion matures enough strength to wrestle her down and pin her beneath its weight. Dreams can be cruel to a sleeper's defenseless mind. Here visions have free reign to play their bully games. The powers that be lie waiting to spring from the shadows in attempts to make her believe in a war that feeds a need for power and gasoline. She is chased, trapped and then forcefully penetrated by their ideas. Dreams know no disgrace. While managing to keep a straight face, a kindly looking, but unkind man offers her candy and then tells her it makes the world a safe place . Then comes a teary chorus of a thousand deceased that vehemently disagree. They sing haunting questions. Is it a better society because you have no respect for lives? Is it preferred only because you survived? Her frightful figment fades and shifts its story line to become an old fable. A patriarch parades in pride wearing the fashionable facade his tailors of trouble have sewn. Can they not see? Do they not know? The empire has no clothes. She awakes wiping crusty sand from her eyes and shaking off the spell of the fitful night. She is grateful to live in a world where none of that could be true. She brews a cup of joe and turns on the morning news. The night's images fade but their intensity lingers. It seems… that not all nightmares are confined to dreams. |
| Nightmare |
| by Chrystine Julian |
| Leg raised, a dog marks its territory. This beast pisses bombs. Can we release the pride and the need to get even? No one ever wins at war they only shift the power and oppression towards different directions. Violence is always vile and offensive regardless of intention. Exposed by hindsight and revelation, without exception, brutality hurts and heightens hate to hideous levels. Why must we continue to foul our own nest? When will we be willing to clean up this stinking mess? |
| Pissed Off |
| by Chrystine Julian |
| Audio Version Music by: Ash Ferry Jennifery Vallely Chrystine Julian Read by Chrystine Julian |
| Ginnus |
| by Chrystine Julian |
| From the Dictionary of Dissent Ginnus: A breed of humans once thought to be rare and exotic. However, recent changes in the political and social climate have proven to provide near perfect breeding conditions. Their population is on the rise. "Them that ain't with us are a ginnus." Call me a Ginnus, because I sure ain't wiffem In fact I caught a whiff of their drift and am kinda thinkun the stench of death makes war stink to the point I need to flush it |
| Year 2135 The Spirit wandered above lands deserted and darkened. A veil covered the face of a once bright sun. The Spirit looked at the desolate place once a luxurious jungle swarming with life and color. Sliding above grey waters, the Spirit discovered an extended dead sea. Step back in time… Year 2105 Blue seas, blue skies Children’s laughter Filled space. A warm sun heated golden skins, joyous dreams under closed eyes. The spirit slid on clouds, cotton candy of the angels. Refreshing dew of dawn dampened the leaves of the forest, where wandered feline paws. Year 2115 Engineered epidemics killed dreams. Children forgot laughter, virtual toys thrown in the curb. Deer lay on the yellow mat that once was a lush green, their weary eyes looking at the angry smoke that ate up the cotton candy clouds and dimmed the sun Angels sat in Heavens, helpless and sad, their canto faded with life. Year 2135 The Spirit’s heart broke, overwhelmed with despair the Spirit cried, as acid rain fell on the red and black desert. The burnt arid land ate up rain drops, dissolving them as they touched ground. The Spirit looked back in time, to where life was once celebrated, then sat beside the mourning cherubs and joined their grief: Gaïa’s children slowly… strangled her. |
| Dawn of the Apocalypse © |
| by Viviane Matta |
| Viviane is a talented poet from Beirut, Lebanon. Her poetry is delicate picture from a harsh part of the world. What she writes is what she has lived. Her work is an inspiration to me. It is an honor to feature one of her pieces on this page. |
| ''First, [U.S. Marines] went into my father's room, where he was reading the Koran, and we heard shots. ...I watched them shoot my grandfather, first in the chest and then in the head. Then they killed my granny.'' Eman Waleed, 9, Haditha, Iraq who says she saw U.S. troops kill seven members of her family Nov. 19 in Haditha, Iraq ''The Americans gathered my four brothers and took them inside my father's bedroom, to a closet. They killed them inside the closet.'' Yousif Ayed, who says his father's house in Haditha was raided Nov. 19 (The U.S. military denies his relatives were shot dead in a closet.) ''American troops immediately cordoned the area and raided two nearby houses, shooting at everyone inside. It was a massacre in every sense of the word.'' Khaled Ahmed Rsayef on the civilian deaths (His brother and six other relatives were killed in the incident.) ''The captain admitted that his men had made a mistake. He said that his men thought there were terrorists near the houses, and he didn't give any other reason.'' Haditha mayor Emad Jawad Hamza, who led a delegation of elders to a nearby Marine camp to protest the killings The tape shows the bloodied and bullet-marked homes that had been allegedly stormed by the Marines, and includes comments by local residents. "This is my father," a boy says on the tape. "He didn't do anything wrong. Why did they kill him?" 'These Are Children' The video shows the bodies of some of the dead, including one of three children killed. |
| Haditha Headlines March 21, 2006 (a found poem) |
| I was born under the wrong sign. I should be a fish, twins, a woman holding a scale. I am not a ram, do not even like to ram my voice into the air, my breath enough to give the world. My horoscope tells me I won't take no, I'm stubborn, I butt my head until it bleeds, but that is not me. How can I be happy to live under the god of war, under a smelly animal with a thick skull? I would like to pluck a horn painlessly off that ram's head, raise it to my lips as a shofar. I would send my breath through that spiral of calcium and protein, a deep, pure, sound, a song of peace from the god of war, a message that says Quit butting at the world with your horns-- Make music with them instead. |
| by Gayle Brandies |
| Aries |
| Gayle is an award winning writer, poet, actress, activist and friend. I also consider her an outstanding role model and muse. I am honored to feature her work on this page. |
| NO! |
| the chant |
| No No more No more war No more death and no more dying No No more No more war No more pain from senseless fighting No No more No more war Break the cycle and it fails No No more No more war The time is now. Let peace prevail No No more No more war |
| by Chrystine Julian |
| The words on this page may make you smile, cry and/or shout in rage. If you do not have one or more of those responses, I recommend finding a defibrillator. |
| The Black Box |
| by Nancy Krieg |
| the black box warned us: ssshould be afraid, the war on terror just began questions? never! a thought can ignite a heinous act hook that line how do faith and fear stand juxtaposed in the same mind? the black box said: worship me, dull your mind the hirelings of fear can teach your children everything. Keep that straight line in mind the enemy is succinctly identified. the black box told us: these ideas, we find useless: courage, honor, truth, integrity the same, sameness we prefer in design hate bids us blame our differences. the constitution redefined as them and us. In this invented social civil war you will fight each other for resources as we steal the future from your sons and daughters. this peace? I wring my hands realize how helpless the dream the patriots once cried let freedon ring, and do tell the names of freedoms we've lost a list of obits, we won't see again. Where is my country if all her citizens have died of apathy? |
| Nancy is a well established and prolific poet and jazz musician living in Kansas City. She is a familiar face in many of the venues around the city. Her poetry is always insightful, heart felt and deeply moving. As a mentor friend and muse I am grateful for all she shares. Her addition to this page is a blessing |
| Emotions of War |
| Ursula T Gibson |
| Since I was nine years old, I knew about war. We were safe in America by then; despite his anti-Hitler sermons at the dinner table, my father in 1934 was released from "Protective Custody" by the Nazis. We found freedom by leaving Nazi Germany well before conflict began. The Germans started their pogroms against Jews long before they attacked Poland and devastated its population. It took two more years before the Japanese aroused the "sleeping giant" by its attacks on Pearl Harbor, but at last the might of the United Staets was called upon, and its thirteen million able-bodied men and women entered to complete the process of war. We felt patriotic then; we terminated a world danger at tremendous sacrifice and also tremendous advantage. During the war, people made money, mostly legally, some on the "black market" and changed their lives. We learned to keep secrets and to keep our mouths shut. We had maps of the war theaters hung in our hallways and in our rooms, moving colored pins on them as the radio news broadcasts (there was no TV then) told us what was happening to our many different armed groups, both East and West. Women learned they were more than 1920's decorations; they manned machinery and turned out the guns and bombs, the airplanes and the tanks our forces used to end the war. Children acted as air raid wardens, learning to spot airplanes that might be danger, getting lights in houses from showing during the blackouts of the cities, and growing Victor Gardens to supplement food sources, so farm food could be sent to our fighting forces. They gathered scrap metal in drives managed by schools, and sold war bond stamps to anyone with $18.75 to spare, with 25-cent war bond stamps and stamp books to fill; they even knitted argyle wool army socks so that our fighting forces would lack for nothing they needed in the winter war theaters or the cold ocean war fronts. There was no question at all about the "rightness" of what we were doing, and indeed, our forces and those of our Allies in that war, systematically killed and captured our enemies in the Atlantic and Pacific war theaters until they unconditionally surrendered. As I grew up, during the fifty years of peace that followed, I respected the decisions made by our informed and thoughtful leaders. Then things changed. A rumble of discontent about our role in the world began. I knew about Korea, Vietnam, Grenada, Haiti, the Desert Storm and Gulf War -- all incomplete attempts to rid the world of current tyranny, abuse, and evil. Our lack of direction and purpose brought those wars to an end before the tyranny, abuse, and evil were ended. We live the consequences now, and our society can't seem to recognize the dangers when they arise or even to make up its mind whether we will defend our land, our freedoms, our American society when they are attacked. Our embassies have been blown up! our airplanes "accidentally" shot down; our ships injured by bombs delivered by suicide bombers, our New York and Washington buildings devastated and three thousand people killed. We are still temporizing and arguing about the "rightness" of our own defense! I hate war; I hate the suspense, the fear, the loss of good people, the need for any explanation why we need to terminate a tyranny instead of recognition of the patterns that endanger freedom where it exists. I hate the fact that man must be taught to kill the enemy and struggle with the Commandment, "Thou Shalt Not Murder" that governs our civilization. The neat distinction between killing a threatening enemy and murdering one of your own "tribe" is lost in the agony of taking up arms and using them in international aggressions. But if we fail to fight for freedom to be ourselves, we will be overrun by those very insidious enemies who will creep into our midst and "tame" our love of freedom, so that it won't be worth fight for, ever. They will own the world and play with our people's lives as they wish. We will be helpless in the face of tyranny's determination, if we become weak and lazy, engaged in public protest of a decision taken, if we fail to support our freedom-loving international friends, and if we tell ourselves, "Peace at any cost!" I am now seventy-three years old. During sixty-four years of my life, I've been concerned about war -- World War II and its resulting Cold War, and those half-hearted, unfinished forays that have eroded America's will to stand up for itself and finish its tasks in support and defense of our freedom. I've lived in exciting, frightening, dramatic, and heroic times. I thank those who have done and who now do their jobs well, and let me live my life essentially in peace, because they took up arms and fought for me. God Bless America, because no one else will do so. |
| Ursula is a poet's poet. She has recently become the Poet Laureate of Sunland / Tujunga California. She is the winner of the DIY Award for best Poetry book in 2005. She is known for her wisdom, kindness and support for other poets. She is also one of my favorite people. It is a distinguished honor to present her work here. |
| The rights to all works on this page are reserved by their author. No portions may be used, broadcast or reprinted in any form without the consent of the author |
| History of man History is the son of fear force laid waste to blood and strife as if courage needs some sordid game to prove its worth and scribes to write what is remembered. all those moments of ages gone, love’s real lines saved as light in our minds there is no more that what we do that keeps love’s heart alive. at compassion’s gate we recall how angels hearts are carved shot with holes the broken parts where love’s light shines through gathered reeds from Eden’s eye. what else but tragic loss could make those wounds? spoons in tunnels carve freedom and prisoners ache for moonlight we’d dare our deaths to find. what if we remembered love from grace and honor? placed trust as an archetype of the soul’s valor? given this as true, true hearts given once might live forever. |
| History of Man |
| by Nancy Krieg |
| The sun rises again and they cover their eyes Too many people that thrive when someone else dies Too many children that die of hunger in the street Too many girls throwing away their dignity to eat Sick people die with no medicine in the hospital Sick and tired from getting up alone when they fall Too many smart people stealing from trash cans They see all this and don't extend their hands Everything seems huge when you're small-don't worry Everything you want untouchable-don't feel sorry They speak of peace and shoot you in the heart They torture and kill you,right from the start They speak of beauty and show you dirt Why,when we all had to be equal from birth? You worked and dreamed for years and years And what you want with money he steals You have brothers in imprisoned for stealing Most end up in ropes cause of feeling You're family's broken your heart split in two At eight years the burden falls on you You swear revenge with your bare hands But how about after some years pass? You see through the fog creatures creeping When in the dead of night the cemetery's sleeping You're tired of digging the grave of your brother Whose blood you spilt suddenly turned into water... Everything seems huge when you're small-don't worry Everything you want untouchable-don't feel sorry They speak of peace and shoot you in the heart They torture and kill you,right from the start They speak of beauty and show you dirt Why,when we all had to be equal from birth? |
| Equal from Birth |
| Angie |
| Angie is a thirteen year old poet from Romania. It is sad that you do not have to be old to know these things. The world needs to listen to voices like her's. |
| One world, so many voices to be heard |
| Physics Unnatural Newtonian law A standing army will tend Towards destruction and To be not neutral Ending boredom with bombs Entertainment Wars are never ended Just moved to another theatre New cast and script in Different costumes Reprise the theme Religion Holy war without an amen Sacred sacrifice with no Redemption or reconciliation Tasteless sacrament dissolved In the saliva of the dead Peace Peace is a mushroom Shoots moving under The grass to pop up In unknown and Unexpected places |
| War As |
| by Chrystine Julian |
| A Beautiful Patriot Torn |
| by Sabrina B. |
| The beautiful patriot Lies on the battlefield Under a threatening foreign sky… Curious that as the bullets whistle past, The one that found it's target Does not seem to matter much in him Or his comrades that have been downcast, But he is so thirsty for a sip of water To clear the dust from his throat, Yet on the thick crimson liquid that spills so warmly, The soldier will choke… As it puddles around his head, the gunfire fades away, and Fallen face down, he drowns in the drink that his country has provided for him. So we can only ask this government Which seemingly knows best, Smiling with it's painted over face Under a falsely warm pretense Where is the life in liberty and the pursuit of happiness? There is only one solution to keep the flag from being ripped and torn; We have to find an alternative To these deadly wars. The beautiful patriot Lies on his country's battlefield, Beneath a cold, gray foreign sky… But he cannot see the flag that he lost for, And is blind to the purpose for which he dies. |
| I wrestled with whether or not to tell you that Sabrina is 14. She is much brighter and wiser than that number would ever say. It is important to recognize that beauty and compassion know no age limits on either end of the scale. As witnessed by this poem, talent also has no limitation as it regards years. Sabrina's contribution to the page is welcomed and cherished. |
| Oh Avalon is your mystic shores reserved only for those who have seen an end to war? Castles of gold and silver majestically set amongst rolling hills that beckon to the weary, a utopia appearing in the mist that provides rest and contentment to warriors of old. But Avalon, even in peace you talk of war with your sanctuary of protection. Can humanity not have respite without strife even in paradise? Are we ordained to serve the vileness of greed and power in eternity, trampling the lilies of the field under the feet of marching armies to fertilizing lawns with blood? Peace ran through to the hilt and comforted by force of shield by men whose only ease is the madness of war. I turn away from your bastion and beseech the Valkyrie to leave me on the field when death comes to harvest the victims of penitence. Valhalla is lost to me and Avalon’s shores are soaked with blood. Take my soul to hearth and home so I may rest in the loving arms of ancestors and let the Ogre of warfare pass by to wonder elsewhere. For only in this place may I rest, until your walls fall into the darkness of the sea, and humanity sees new light in love’s richness. |
| Avalon |
| by Noah |
| * On April 4, 1967 Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. gave a speech entitled Beyond Vietnam. In that address he referenced the passage from I John 4: 7-8. Those verses include the statement that God is love. He proposed that that love was the only solution to our problems of war. No matter what year in which it is said, that is an ageless, undying and much needed truth. |
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| Andy Morely Angie Chrystine Julian Gayle Brandies Nancy Krieg Noah Sabrina B. Steve Robles T.R. Cardinet Ursula T Gibson Viviane Matta |
| Featuring works from: |
| One moment blue skies and heat, suddenly replaced by concussion, smoke, dust, and sound that rolls right over you. The pressure passes right through the armor leaving pain from head to toe, like the sting of a belly flop off the high dive. Breath is pulled from your chest, leaving you gasping. Your vision is knocked askew and all that can be heard is a loud high pitched tone passing through your head and the thumping of your heart. Numbness replaced by more pain. The frantic and confused inventory of body parts as you strain with blurred vision through the smoke at your hands for the singe of blood. The smell of acid in your nostrils surrounds you like a lake of sulfur. The buzz in your head dims to the frantic call of the radio as the vehicle continues on, laboring in pain. Thump, thump, thump, the shredded tires strike the tire wells. The calls and moans of your brethren fill the air. And you are dazed and shocked when you realize what you thought would not happen… just happened. God lost now found. Medic, Medic, call the birds, we have just been struck by an IED! |
| IED |
| by Noah |
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| The Primordial Directive Buried in us dark and deep. Untouchable, unknowable never asleep. Instincts meant for our survival Now threaten the race and make us rivals. These genes that have been passed on We do not think, but act with brawn Preserve thyself, and thy pool of genes At all costs, and by all means. No mixing, pollution or any dilution Of the pools purity and constant profusion. The group, the clan, or the tribe, Must insure, they will survive. Different color, hue or nation, Must destroy this abomination! Kill them with, club and Stone, Rip with nails, teeth, fists, and bone. They don’t believe in the God we do. We are the righteous, moral and true, We must conquer, with sword and lance Slash and gash in this bloody dance They have everything that we lack, Infidels! It’s ours we will take it back! Suicide bombers – kill and maim Women and children - it’s all the same! They want to destroy us and take our land. But retaliation is at hand! Crazy, evil – we are not safe! Strike back with planes that bomb and strafe. They have oil we dearly need Weapons of mass destruction heed. Rockets and missiles we fire at will In the name of freedom blood we spill And so it goes from times primeval, The fear and hate that is so evil. This need to fight and kill all others, Leaves so many crying mothers. Difference need not be so feared, When children with love and respect are reared. When rainbow’s colors all hearts fill. Then peace on earth and to all good will. |
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| The Primordial Directive |
| Steve Robles |
| A Hero Died Today He’d had his share of excitement in his young life, Challenges and hurdles he’d hoisted himself over, Over and over again. He had served with the best Of men. Responsible, doing their duty to keep us free. He was a success, dressed in his Marine blues, shoes Spit-shined to perfection. Inspections were over for Him. Never again would he be required to snap to Attention and salute. Flags were flying for him today. Family and friends crying for him today, as they made Their way to his grave site. It wasn’t right. Just a kid. Never did anything to deserve this. Yet all who knew him Knew that he wouldn’t have missed this for the world. Flag unfurled, resting majestically on top of the casket, A basket filled with beautiful white flowers draped over The middle. His mother fiddled with her Kleenex, waiting For it all to begin and then end. But it would never end. Not the pain, nor the loss of her son who had barely begun His career as a soldier. She looked at his father. He looked So much older. She slipped her hand into his, squeezing it And, then, her eyes, to keep fresh tears from spilling down. They lowered that shiny, silver box into the ground, but Not before taking off the flowers and the flag. A lad just About their son’s age meticulously folded up that flag and Handed it to the dead boy’s mom. She burst into tears. Now he was really gone. |
| A Hero Died Today T.R. Cardinet |
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| We Are The Wallflowers |
| by Chrystine Julian |
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| We are the wallflowers Waiting, wondering, And weeping Watching the men Waltzing with war They love to be seen With her on their arm But they will never know A truly secure home Unless they are willing To give peace a dance We are the wallflowers Waiting, wondering, And weeping Our peace lacks the glamour Or celebrity of war And therefore often gets ignored. But can make you happy Given half a chance All we are saying is Give peace a dance |
| I believe that if we felt the pain and heard the cries of those that die, war would cease before we reached another night. |
| How come some girls are beautiful And others not at all? And since men are just so ugly, How can women bear at all To touch our hairy bodies Or to kiss our brutish face, Even more surprising That they'd kiss some other place... Their soft and sensual secrets Are the source of the sublime, I could contemplate for hours, I could spend my whole lifetime Savouring their subtle shapes Touching with my mind That whole of flowing beauty That makes up womankind The guns that rumble distant And the whine of coming shell, The stabbing face of hatred As he cuts your guts to Hell, The bone-protruding corpses, The rasping, shuddered breath As the joy of mother's bosom Grasps his agony in death The stench of putrefaction, Amputation's blinding gore, If we listed them for hours We could still find more and more, Why ever would we want that? But the thing is that we do - We do it through the ages, Will it be our future too? So come all you brave young fellows And you cynical old men, Do one more deed of valour In the time it takes to pen A meagre verse like this one Before you kill, maim or explode Just give pause for one brief hour, There's another gun to load... Lie down and hold your lover And caress her caring face, Look into the eyes that love you, Lose yourself in her embrace, Let your fingers do the walking, Let your mouth not shout but kiss, As your hand slips down around her Is there anything like this? But I am just one poet, Cannot hold you here for long, I must forge a sweet alliance With a force that's soft but strong, On December twenty-second, And for many times before Let us all drop our resistance And let's all make love not war. |
| War and Global Orgasm |
| by Andy Morely |
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| It (War and Global Orgasm) was inspired by something that's probably old news to most Americans, but which has only just hit Europe - a novel idea for an anto-war protest that can include anyone, no matter what their political view : I woke up in the middle of last night and after contemplating global peace for half an hour, couldn't get to sleep, so wrote the following poem " |
| Who I Am |
| by Chrystine Julian |
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| Hey! Hey!
Do you understand who I am? I am not a number or statistical anomaly, not an unpronounceable nation from a fund raising occasion. I live, breathe, love, hurt and heal I am as human as you and important too Hey! Hey! Do you understand who I am? Drought may have left my tears dry, but the sound remains the same. Don’t cover your ears or turn away your eyes. The color of my skin is human. My religion is whichever deity will feed me. I reside everywhere… somehow. Have you noticed before now? Hey! Hey! Do you understand who I am? I have a right to speak, be heard without needing to sneak around, be treated with respect and that is what I expect. Part of you dies when I bleed. My hunger is your own need. Look at me and see your reality, your heart’s story unfolding. Hey! Hey! Do you understand who I am? We are all refugees from another place gathered in this existence. We learn to huddle close for mutual protection. Only together will we survive I’m not a stranger; I am your reflection in different clothes, but still familiar. Do you see that you and I are simply pieces, interlocking cutouts of one species? Hey! Hey! Do you understand who I am? |
| American Values Commit Suicide |
| by Chrystine Julian |
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| From the news:
…procedure called "dead-checking" was routine. If Marines entered a house where a man was wounded, instead of checking to see whether he needed medical aid, they shot him to make sure he was dead. Is this a symptom for some sort of executive order bipolar disorder? Soldiers don’t kill people, bullets and rules of engagement do as American values commit suicide. We have made a grandiose manifesto about being the bigger, better, kinder and gentler moral leaders of the free world. Rather than reality, that pronouncement appears to resemble a manifestation of institutional and delusional hallucination. The saddest casualty of war is not within the body count, but rather the death from a self imposed wound to values. We need to rewrite our clichés, all is not fair in love and war if it means we rot from the inside out. When we compost our compassion in a heat generating heap of discarded soul how far can we be from a complete moral breakdown? When in the course of human events we have a fit of corrupted collective consciousness and Congress approved depression causing us to squeeze a trigger that leaves a bloody mess of bodies for those that once loved us to mop up as they wonder how we slipped that far, it is sad that no one took note or was willing to get involved and do an intervention. |
| America the Unattractive |
| by Chrystine Julian |
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| July 4, 2007 Patriotic songs seem odd to me today somebody somewhere said that beauty is skin deep, but ugly goes to the core America, America, God repoed his grace dethroned our good and declared us the dishonored home for homely souls Heartless in the heartland besieged by muggy summer rain and heat no brotherhood crown in the hood I was not there in Wichita, but I have to wonder what the hell happened. Isn’t that that part of the fruited plains? In a busy C-store a woman lay bleeding from a stabbing wound and rather than calling for help Someone used their camera phone to take her picture, stepped on to pay for beer and then left… I don’t get it We proclaim godly values, but imitate the holy men that pass by on the other side instead of Americans we need Samaritans Some folks in central Texas beat and kill a passenger from an automobile altercation and a hate crime victim dives to his death We hold these truths to be self evident that all people are created, but not treated equal in a country where freedoms are only falsies We dress in red, white and blue to promenade in a pageant of self proclaimed pretty people, but bulges rip the seams of our spangled gown Even thick concealer cannot cover our blemishes we look like clowns instead of crowned by God beauty queens and spokes models for the world I am not attracted to the image in this mirror I have to question if maybe it is time to create Extreme Makeover, the country edition |