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Peaceful Prayers

Let there be peace in the world.
Let us all see peace and not war.
Let us all have peace in the world.
Let all our statesmen know no violence,
Let all love peace with warm vehemence,
Let all be clothed with passionate patience,
Let all respect peace with real reverence.
Let peace pervade every political terrain,
Let peace calm the spirits of every domain,
Let peace be at peace with every reign,
Let each achieve peace with poor pain.
Peace, to you we plead: come to us.
Peace, we entreat you: deign on us.
Peace, we want you: envelope us.
Let our homes be adorned with peace,
Let our streets be paved with peace,
Let our cities be set on a hilltop of peace.
Let peace taint our every thought.
Let there be peace, let peace never cease
Let there be peace, let war forever cease.

poem by Jude Ogunade
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The Way Of The World.

THE WAY OF THE WORLD.

When I talk something sweet of you
Understand-
There remains the sticky slag of black bitterness
In the inmost recesses of my heart!

When I powerfully contradict something outside
Beware-
The same I approve meekly in my heart!

Ever at strife are my heart and tongue-
To the speechless voice of my heart
Listen you, then, O, my friend!

When something slanderous of women I profess aloud
Understand-
My thievish looks in every corner fish for them!

When I advise you of obscenity to shun with all vehemence

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poem by Sundaram Chandrakalaadhar
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Home even when i am away from home.

You can take me out of home
But you can't take out home in me
Distance? Keep me away from home
And one day home will keep you away from you
Mountain? You might close the space
And the space will never close the home vehemence in me

Liar? you might lie about my home
But you can't lie about meaning of home
Gossip monger? you might gossip about my home
But you can't gossip about home fever in me
Killer? Kill miles between
When you reach my flesh
Don't flash out the meaning of home in me

You can turn diagrams into diamonds
You can turn zeros into heroes
You can turn gold into old
You can turn sorrow into happiness
Still you can't change the meaning of home in me

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poem by Jacques Sprenkie Mateya
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Annalena

It happened that sometimes I kissed in mirrors the reflection of my face, since the hands, face and tears of Annalena had caressed it, it seemed to me divinely beautiful as if suffused with heavenly sweetness. I liked her velvet wetness, long voyages in the delta her legs. A striving upstream toward her beating heart through more and more savage currents saturated with the light of hops and bindweed. And our vehemence and triumphant laughter and our hasty dressing in the middle of the night to walk on the stone stairs of the upper city. Our breath held in amazement and silence, porosity of worn-out stones and the great door of the cathedral. Over the gate of the rectory fragments of brick among weeds, in darkness the touch of a rough buttressed wall. And later our looking from the bridge down to the orchard, when under the moon every tree is separate on its kneeler, and from the secret interior of dimmed poplars the echo carries the sound of a water turbine. To whom do we tell what happened on this earth, for whom do we place everywhere huge mirrors in the hope that they will be filled up and will stay so? Always in doubt whether it was we who were there, she and I,, or just anonymous lovers on the enameled tablets of a fairy-land....

.......LAmoureuse initiation

poem by Czeslaw Milosz
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Proem

I LOVE the old melodious lays
Which softly melt the ages through,
The songs of Spenser’s golden days,
Arcadian Sidney’s silvery phrase,
Sprinkling our noon of time with freshest morning dew.

Yet, vainly in my quiet hours
To breathe their marvellous notes I try;
I feel them, as the leaves and flowers
In silence feel the dewy showers,
And drink with glad, still lips the blessing of the sky.

The rigor of a frozen clime,
The harshness of an untaught ear,
The jarring words of one whose rhyme
Beat often Labor’s hurried time,
Or Duty’s rugged march through storm and strife, are here.

Of mystic beauty, dreamy grace,
No rounded art the lack supplies;

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poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Vendetta

While the chagrined wine
rummaged like a felled rose -
electric shivers in the spine
willowing the pretty mouth
and the abolition of eyes
the tethers that we rival
only strops the exoneration
into exacerbating this
premature demise

Waltz into the dark curtain
like a soundless hunter
Hold your vehemence
in a gnarl I'd never grasp
and into my diamond penetralium
send the lamentations
like ghastly susurrations
from masquerading
varmints of my sanctum;
Like a connoisseur contender

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poem by Norman Santos
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Like your heart dropped acid

And you know you're half broken; feels like your jutting ribs are cutting into you more every day. I don't have to watch your envy kick your pride in the balls. I don't have to listen as your enigma prevails in an argument with facts. A mind cast to the gallows, a Holocaust for your very own heart. You can roll those sunken eyes all you want, dearie.

Subtle at first. One smoke, two smoke, three smoke, four... And, karmic, no one ever questioned you about it as you had hoped, even though you had an answer for every cigarette. Overdoses and guns were too shocking; slitting wrists too much like a teenage girl. (Sometimes, I wonder if you forgot that's what you were.) Out-and-out suicide was wrong, you said, but it lost its sting if you strung it out over decades. All our old friends, the ones you started hanging out with again, the ones who quit smoking, they'll roll cigarettes for you. They love to roll cigarettes, and roll their earrings, and argue about anarchy. And you love them, and you love the cigarettes, the music, the sweat and patchouli, the panhandling, how their...your...minds always beat in straight time.

But you fell measures behind, and the music, the freight-hopping, the cigarettes, they mean nothing to you now. Everyone knows your beauty scars aren't from brambles or kittens, and that's the way you like it. You can only use that bleach as an excuse for hair caught in the drain for so long.

I'm listening to you recount your inner-battles, with all the vehemence of a wall flower, and I finally understand.

You just want to be beautifully fucked up. Or pretty, like your heart dropped acid.

poem by Claire Stuart
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Sacrilegious Fury

Blasphemy has failed. Failed to shock.
In the twilight of the twentieth century.
Religious fervour, which empowered insatiable
blasphemy. Has faded rendering shockingly,
provocative words, mere caricatures; shadows;
degraded farts; winding past damning exclamations.

Blasphemy has failed. Failed to shock.
Blasphemous remarks. Uttered against Almighty God.
Evil thoughts spoken hurled. Against anything esteemed sacred.
Have failed. To death threatened shock. Modern immune society.
Rendezvous. With hackneyed profanity. Fails to ignite chill fear.
Fearful is lobotomy preformed. Upon supposed clinically insane.

Anger spat. Hot furious. Death accompanying curse. Sworn
in stormy, less atheistic, abandoned past, violent darker ages.
Is feared now, only when tormented, demon possessed curser.
Is rabidly dangerous, with obvious, threatening derangement.
Such awesome obscenities, hold frightening immense power.
Threaten promise, immediate painful physical, impact punishment.

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poem by Terence George Craddock
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Nirvana

Through seas of dreams and seas of phantasies,
Through seas of solitudes and vacancies,
And through my Self, the deepest of the seas,
I strive to thee, Nirvana.

Oh long ago the billow-flow of sense,
Aroused by passion's windy vehemence,
Upbore me out of depths to heights intense,
But not to thee, Nirvana.

By waves swept on, I learned to ride the waves.
I served my masters till I made them slaves.
I baffled Death by hiding in his graves,
His watery graves, Nirvana.

And once I clomb a mountain's stony crown
And stood, and smiled no smile and frowned no frown,
Nor ate, nor drank, nor slept, nor faltered down,
Five days and nights, Nirvana.

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poem by Sidney Lanier
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Bereft

FOR nine drear nights my darling has been dead;
And ah, dear God! I cannot dream of her!
Now I shall see her always lying white—
A frozen flower beneath a snow of flowers,
Drowned in a sea of fragrance. I shall hear
In every silence of the coming years
Only the muffled horror from the room
Where I had left my little child asleep—
And found a nameless thing shut in and sealed…
And I shall never feel her breath that kissed
Me closer than her lips did; for the thick,
Dead perfume of slow-drooping flowers has drawn
A veil across my memory.…She is dead;
For nine drear nights I have not dreamed of her.
When, all a tangle of wee clambering limbs,
And little gusts of laughter and of tears,
Sun-flecked and shadow-stricken every hour,
She played about me, I could lie all night
And dream of her. She came in wondrous ways,
Hiding behind the dark to startle me;

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poem by Arthur Henry Adams
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