We talk peace

They tell stories- toys pulled out of rubble, burnt
trucks, body bags — we tremble a little, pull the
covers closer. This is the new normal. Our way.
Our destiny. We are not gods. We did not come
with answers hieroglyphed on our thighs. Our
sins are our humanness. We talk peace even as
our factories spew arms. We talk about saving
ourselves even as we bleed the earth. We smile,
we nod even as we cross our fingers behind us.
We build new temples. We bow to new powers.
Information floods into our souls through our
fingertips. Still, on the day of judgement, we will
lie. We will say we let it happen because it was
not our choice. We did not know. It is our way.
Our destiny. We will reach out, fingertips stained
with the price of our apathy. Our make-believe
gods more omnipresent than the war stained sky.


For the midweek prompt at Poets United: “peace”



Have you spoken?

Have you spoken to the ocean recently? Or to Yemen? Or to
a yellow dinghy at the bottom of the Mediterranean? How

about a polar bear? Or a blueprint in a factory somewhere,
for a nastier gun? I can hardly make a list better than your

morning paper. What would you say to a bird perched on a
length of barbed wire separating this from that? Keeping

person from person? Me from you? Don’t ask me. I don’t
speak. I spend the evenings in the balcony, mourning a lost

love. Bemoaning the universe’s broken parts that collude
against me. Thinking about a young Krishna who opened

his mouth to show his mother the entire cosmos within.
Unbroken. I talk to myself. About silence. Endings. About

love. A little bird on the concrete parapet opens its beak to
to scare the encroaching dusk. Darkness falls over us like a

coarse blanket, all at once. Starless. Moonless. Skyless. How
can you bargain for peace when you have nothing to give?

How can you bargain for love? The night takes my hands
away from me. Like plastic, like chemicals, like everything

we made and used and threw away, won’t love turn up
on a distant shore, in the belly of a murdered sperm

whale? Have you talked recently to the naked mountains-
cold, their lips parched in this strange December rain?

Micropoetry Month: Nov 2017: #24

Micropoetry MonthAlright, if you’ve got a minute today…!!

A minute poem has 12 lines of 60 syllables broken into in 3 stanzas, following the 8/4/4/4 syllable pattern and the aabb/ ccdd/ eeff/ rhyme scheme. Write your micropoem and share using comments or Mister Linky!

shut down the weapon factories
find ways for peace
question your gun
question your son

pack up the sprawling tent cities
children need homes
our dead need tombs

who are they truly beating for
these drums of war
what are your lies
what is their price


Laundered Light

she makes blackout poems
from news headlines
the way leaves
overcome a storm
and cradle the last raindrops
as they drink the laundered light
the way no night can last long enough
the way no fear is dark enough
to stripe her new rainbow

Quadrille: a 44 word poem
Linked to the Dverse Poets (Prompt: Storm)


this poem could be something,
a euphemism for peace,
the last wail of a drone slain child,
the defiance of surveilled keystrokes,
the shiver of the winter homeless,
or the angst of the warming sea,
instead it aspires
to be the indifferent begging bowl
of a nameless monk,
as if nothing is something…
is it?

55 word poem challenge at Real Toads.

The Choice

so they called all the people,
every single one.

they say they came from the darkest corners,
travelling for hours,
trudging in the freezing cold,
over burning sand,
waist deep in the putrid  floods,
their demons bound
behind their spineless backs;

they say they came in hordes,
the old, the disabled, the wounded,
the widows, the orphans, the veterans,
the families fresh from burying their dead,
the sword makers, the deal brokers,
the schemers, the planners,
you and me, she and he;

so they asked all the people,
if they wanted peace,
if they would level the unequal world,
if they would throw away their guns,
if they would let the flowers bloom again;

and the people agreed,
and leaves sprouted under luminous butterflies,
water sprung from mummified wells,
and the light was so clear
as it filtered through the spotless air,
they rubbed their eyes like it was all a painted dream;

so they asked all the people,
if they would give up
half of everything they had,
half of all they had done wrong,
half of all that had gone right,
half of everything they were,
half of everything they could be,
so everyone could become the same again,
so everything could start the same again;

and quickly the crowds disappeared,
into the shifting sands,
into the frothing river banks,
across the barren mountains,
across the turgid seas,
slowly they returned to their hoard,
to their greed, to their thrones,
to their hate, to their war
to the only way they could be;

it was just too much to ask from them,
just for light,
just for green,
just for an even field,
just for an enduring peace,
just for a full night’s sleep,
this they said all the people agreed.

For the midweek prompt at Poets United: “Suffrage”


weave new boats from white dove wings
to sail down rivers of red,
olive branches for your oars,
downstream float the dead;

paper cranes wilt on the banks,
hope drowns in innocent blood;
whirlpools form where children fell,
peace cries in the mud.

Reading about children in conflict zones… why don’t we care enough?
Dodoitsu (7-7-7-5) pair linked to Poets United for their midweek prompt “river”  and to Toads Tuesday platform.