Poets Against War continues the tradition of socially engaged poetry by creating venues for poetry as a voice against war, tyranny and oppression.
deborah russell
lutherville MD USA
Artist, poet. World Congress Of Poets, Poetry Project-NYC, Baltimore Writers Alliance
Thirst For Peace
Reality could have existed within our collective spirit even in misguilded prophecies, it should have existed
Reality might have existed in our babbling dreams, within our poems, where we could have stumbled onto something - found what we were looking for with a specific dialect a verse or poem that would feed the world
But our hands are starving our eyes thirst for peace We are dying for the right lines, dying for something better to say
We are restless for something breathless
We write great escapes, post exit signs and proclamations in cathedrals, scribble on the walls of monastaries, temples and mosques
We rewrite concepts of reality and wonder what could have, should have might have been
Another year of misery in the book of old world history After the terrorist attack the sun kept vigil and held the light of each new day, but it will never be the same (our fear collected in images of feelings and thoughts) Yesterday's tragedy like today's hangs on the walls of our classrooms We struggle through dream-states Breathing. just to be alive At times we are speechless, numbed in a passive crowd, our hope collapsed in the weight of every step I tenderly wrap and hold your laughter and though you may rise in spirit I will always grieve with courage This legacy we leave of terrifying events our children must make sense of this I wonder was this was a country ever behind the lines and scenes? (maybe pride came before the fall) There are no poems beneath this moon and all of us dreamers ask why There's nothing left of our naive dreams Even the media fears war and acts of war . Things are this way, life isn't fair and it never will be - We know there is nothing new in news or history Pray it isn't too late for peace, let us survive and trade this war for a chapter written in the sky Know you are not alone when you are restless I am awake through your despair, Let our hearts open and flood the streets with compassion In a handful of earth we rewrite peace for tomorrow there will be the birth of new war...
Poem wanderers yes, we are... We are dreamless nomads Our eyes are the same, that ashen, flecked vision of grandfather’s antiwar words We write our treaties and epitaphs while night owls screech of peace The moonlight chalks, marks the gray of rain and winter asphalt Our graves are veins of verbs and misplaced nouns… If only impossible love would become possible. If only, If and if and if... I have a souvenir; the thirst of your lips and the travel in your distant eyes I watch the dust of poetry fall at your feet Your hearing was lost and you never found the calling... You built a nest of words, leaves - just to leave all those moments behind as if you and I had never loved as if sunlight never brushed sweet-scented hair across our brow. Where you are now here, also I am, a token of atmosphere in a season of love
One summer, I read the poems of alabaster hands So smooth the words - white whispers in the night I took in the fragrant, gentle breeze of sonnets bursting with romance and tastes, promises no one keeps My thirsty eyes became moist with moonlight, my lips pearled with critical opalescence - My skin's tint, pale - green and saffron yellow I beaded and glossed myself with dawn oh, but silence breaks the night and pierces deep the ear Poetry and wine turns like dreams to dust - fills the cup with speckled air I dream with a deadline, tho' the moment of wounded joy has left and yet, to sleep ... I must wrap inside myself and keep hold to anything that remains of sweet scent and beauty Empty arms cradle knees to rock and I will hum, write, sing - sweet words until I feel the distant warmth closer to the coming day
It is late in the evening or early in the morning… the traffic is scarce and starlight is audible above the one o’clock train Sister Jackie Hudson is asleep in Bangor, Washington (I am pretty sure of that) Between the porch light and white, barked boughs I read her words in the daily …”this morally bereft government… using most of our money for warmongering and killing innocent people”… In reading her words I somehow feel religious and maybe, for a moment, I was down right Catholic.
The St. Patrick's day parade winds its way through town Somewhere a murderer is officially escorted, chained and bound... We encourage our children to get rest, eat well and study hard for tests We promote fun, family activities to release their stress... We are unknown soldiers, waving white flags in a stream of red... We are color blind and blind to the numbers of children dead Today's paper advertises (in white and black) summer camps beside attacks and subsequent wars
