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Dove of Peace

Peace is more than
the absence of war,
enveloped in the ovum
of a tranquil repose.

Peace is more than
the phoenix rising
from the ruins
of Stalingrad and Berlin.

Peace is more than
the terrible silence
of the ashes of Hiroshima
and Auschwitz.

For, real peace rests
in all nations just,
in accord and friendship,
mutual respect and trust.

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poem by Paul Hartal
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Rapture

I can feel she has got out of bed.
That means it is seven a.m.
I have been lying with eyes shut,
thinking, or possibly dreaming,
of how she might look if, at breakfast,
I spoke about the hidden place in her
which, to me, is like a soprano's tremolo,
and right then, over toast and bramble jelly,
if such things are possible, she came.
I imagine she would show it while trying to conceal it.
I imagine her hair would fall about her face
and she would become apparently downcast,
as she does at a concert when she is moved.
The hypnopompic play passes, and I open my eyes
and there she is, next to the bed,
bending to a low drawer, picking over
various small smooth black, white,
and pink items of underwear. She bends
so low her back runs parallel to the earth,
but there is no sway in it, there is little burden, the day has hardly begun.

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poem by Galway Kinnell
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Twilight And Peace

O GREY and dewy Twilight,
Thou, who comest softly, bringing
Silence sweeter than all music,
Song of bird or mortal singing;
Thou, who walkest with thy shadows
Through the mountains and the meadows,
Hither come, hither come;
For the morn was dull and dreary,
And the noon was hot and weary,
And the hours that followed after
Were too full of care for laughter,
And too full of toil for many and too full of tears for some.
O grey and dewy Twilight,
There are those within the forest
Who are waiting for thy coming
And the potions that thou pourest,
Bringing balm to feathered bosom,
Wilted leaf and withered blossom —
Bid them sleep, bid them sleep;
For their morn was dull and dreary,

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poem by Roderic Quinn
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Norwood

Lovely friend,
What can I say to you now
That wasn’t said
When we sat together
On the sunlit shore of friendship?
What tenderness of affection
Can I offer you?
What words of understanding
Written in the poetry of my heart
Can I convey to you?
Does God give your eyes in heaven
Earthly vision to see my tears?
Does God reassure you
There is nothing between us but love,
There is no judgment,
Only love, only understanding,
Only longing to hear your voice
In pleasant conversation.

Car rides to concert venues,

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poem by Uriah Hamilton
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Red Letter Today

Open a red letter an' read...
a life in words I attempt to freeze.
there are fine winds blowing,
heavenly sunset an' towering castles of cloud.
bird's chirping, hers breathing...
can hear them all with mine closed eyes.
welding in the back ground, lying here on the ground.
Many lives lived, sown into the earth...
lovers knot above some blue sky,
African soil where child plays.

a red letter tonight,
enclosed in an envelop delight...
count fingers I might,
grass greener inside.
the face of a beauty an' nature beside.

red letter in my pocket
scene of a match,
T-shirt and blue jeans,

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poem by Merlin Mwaura
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Red letter tonight...

Open a red letter an' read...
a life in words I attempt to freeze.
there are fine winds blowing,
heavenly sunset an' towering castles of cloud.
bird's chirping, hers breathing...
can hear them all with mine closed eyes.
welding in the back ground, lying here on the ground.
Many lives lived, sown into the earth...
lovers knot above some blue sky,
African soil where child plays.

a red letter tonight,
enclosed in an envelop delight...
count fingers I might,
grass greener inside.
the face of a beauty an' nature beside.

red letter in my pocket
scene of a match,
T-shirt and blue jeans,

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poem by Merlin Mwaura
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Bar Fly Queen

I've polished up my hard heart
and now it gleams.
diamond-studded
and it seats itself
in its setting
at the bar
where all the cowboys
come
and chip away
at its facets
word chisels flash
crack on its face
and fade away
with yet another on the way
none making a scratch
because this heart was forged
in the whirlwind
in the maw of a volcano
heat-sealed
and it was spewed out from a thousand

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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Water-Party On The Beaulieu River, In The New Forest

I thought 'twas a toy of the fancy, a dream
That leads with illusion the senses astray,
And I sighed with delight as we stole down the stream,
While the sun, as he smiled on our sail, seemed to say,
Rejoice in my light, ere it fade fast away!

We left the loud rocking of ocean behind,
And stealing along the clear current serene,
The Phaedria spread her white sails to the wind,
And they who divided had many a day been,
Gazed with added delight on the charms of the scene.

Each bosom one spirit of peace seemed to feel;
We heard not the tossing, the stir, and the roar
Of the ocean without; we heard only the keel,
The keel that went whispering along the green shore,
And the stroke, as it dipped, of the feathering oar.

Beneath the dark woods now, as winding we go,
What sounds of rich harmony burst on the ear!

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poem by William Lisle Bowles
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Wisdom and Knowledge

“Knowing others is wisdom and knowing yourself is enlightenment.”
How could a shy girl speak like this with so nice comment?
Well I could judge about her sharp intelligence and brilliance
She was at her full zenith and came to be aligned with variance

“Stand up for what you say and assert “
These were not the words spoken at the concert
These all came from well balanced mind’
I decided yet more to make bid and find

She had all the blessed vision
Not at all with double mind sans confusion
How could she say” would go rather in dark”
But not in light if that needs good start

You rested the idea with her contention
God understands language without any mention
It is how you sincerely project and prevail
Otherwise there is smooth passage for sail

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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My Rival

I go to concert, party, ball --
What profit is in these?
I sit alone against the wall
And strive to look at ease.
The incense that is mine by right
They burn before her shrine;
And that's because I'm seventeen
And She is forty-nine.

I cannot check my girlish blush,
My color comes and goes;
I redden to my finger-tips,
And sometimes to my nose.
But She is white where white should be,
And red where red should shine.
The blush that flies at seventeen
Is fixed at forty-nine.

I wish I had Her constant cheek;
I wish that I could sing

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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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