Poets for Peace

I saw the Poets for Peace hashtag and figured it was the very least I can do not to contribute to this collection of community poetry on the increasing violence of our world. We can all be better. Do better. Dream bigger. We can come together regardless of who we are to swallow our pride and make a better tomorrow for us, for our loved ones, and for the world. We are always stronger than hate.

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Eagle

“I dreamnt out loud last night”,
That is what the eagle wrote,
Of peace and life, and joy.
But then she awoke with her father’s arms
Around her.
Smothering.
Anger?
No. Love.
The eagle flew. Her wings tucked beneath his.
The sky cracked black and read.
The stink of the black waters filled the air.
Birds who claimed to be eagles fought other,
Eagles,
Other
Breeds
Other birds, yet both still bleed.
She dreamnt one night…
She cracked the sky and fire drummed out.
Not god or fury or vengeance.
Just fire. Just rage. Just rightous anger.
And it stormed and stormed until the rivers
Overflowed.
Dread?
No. Happiness.
And the blood washed out the sky.
And the other birds and eagles and creatures.
Were washed out and away too.
She dreamed when she next saw them…
she dreamed they had better things to do.

When she awakes the sky is still black.
She is flying.
Her father’s wings are wrapped around her.
Salty air fills her nose.
Rotten sweat covers them all.
She is flying.
She knows not where she goes.
But one day she will fly through the storm,
And she will become the storm.

#PoetsforPeace

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Normandy. for #PoetsforPeace and my grandfathers

A healthy shore.
A thousand feet.
An ocean wide and open,
With stones — who knows what they’ve seen?
And a universe of tokens.
Fear and fright before a tedious night.
Blood and Bomb and harsh cold memories,
That’ve been turned into “cowardice”,
A sad lonesome lie that turned some away from
Outwardness.
Broken glass from bottles, from glasses, from binoculars,
Forced apart and thrown into the deeps.
Now it comes ashore again,
Once jagged now?
Smooth.
Now precious and fragile thing.
A some quiet peace,
Created from tossed around dreams,
And memories,
Brushed and crashed against a thousand stones,
Bumped and bruised against a thousand odd things,
Tapping machines so fierce even their rust force,
Fright to explode from itself.
Now that precious thing is,
Smooth.
Is peace.
It is in our pockets.
We caress it every now and again.
We let it remind us of its uniqueness,
Of its calm.
And yet how quick we pull our hands away,
How quickly we fail that man made thing,
Is it that we mistake it for stone?
Is it that we forget it is glass?
How quickly we forget how it was made!
How precious that thing is.
How smooth.

*
The most painful and horrendous things can give away to softer things. But can we learn to listen, to help, to understand, and maybe round out those rough edges before they’re blown apart and we’re all thrown asunder into the depths of hatred? I hope so.
I know so

 

#poetsforpeace