We Still Dream of Peace

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I remember a time when we thought

we would change the world,

and we almost did:

the civil rights movement,

the women's movement,

Kent State,

Viet Nam:

"Hell no, we wont go",

flowers in gun barrels,

Make Love, Not War,

and

Give Peace a Chance.

Empowerment,

liberation,

joy

were in the air.

Hippies ambled, smiling,

up and down Fourth Avenue.

Haight-Ashbury was where it was at;

hair, beards, dresses all were long

and almost......almost

came the revolution.

Until they began

silencing the world-changers,

the visionaries, with bullets:

Gandhi,

Martin Luther King,

 young civil rights activists,

J.F.K.,

Bobby Kennedy,

John Lennon.

We gave up then,

retreating, shell-shocked,

into our solitary caves,

to mourn our young slain heroes.

The Establishment was

-and still is-

loathe to give up

its rapacious way of being.
The Military-Industrial Complex
won that round.

We Baby Boomers

felt our hope leap up again

when Barak Obama reminded us

what it is to dream,

just how badly

we all wanted change,

and, once again,

 what it is to have a leader

you can believe in.

One still has to hope

that if seven billion consciousnesses

could somehow unite

at the same moment in time,

that better world we long for

might yet arrive.

All these years and
so many heartbreaks later,
we still tear up
when we hear Imagine.
We still all dream
of peace.

I read a wonderful poem at ManicDDaily about the November 22 anniversary of John F. Kennedy's assassination, which I remember well. I remember sitting, a few days later, in my classroom, watching the funeral on television and how John-John broke all our hearts with his three-year-old salute to his father. I dug around in drafts and found this, written likely on the anniversary a couple of years back, and dusted it off.

I am happy to see, especially with Craig and Mark Kielburger's We Day and Free the Children movement, that there are many young people still dreaming of changing the world - and working hard towards that end.

Mu Shu Duck

Mandarin Ducks

by Margaret Bedford

The cherry blossoms have long since fallen and faded,

as have I,

yet still I remember a meal of

Mandarin Mu Shu Duck

with the young Canadian soldier,

who made me blush with his every glance.

He makes me blush, still,

each time I eat Mu Shu,

remembering those moon-drenched evenings

under the pink blossoms,

their fragrance, so perfect, so fleeting,

as short as a duck's life

in a land of hungry people.

for Margaret's prompt at Real Toads : I took my inspiration from her wonderful photo of the Mandarin Ducks , photographed at the Prospect Park Zoo in Brooklyn. The story, needless to say, is fictional. Don't I wish it weren't, LOL.

BUNIONS AND PEARLS

Wild Woman

of the Western Sea,

send me some wisdom.

Send me some strength.

Send me some inspiration.

How do I turn this

hard old crusty bunion

of a life

into a pearl?

A small offering from 2011, re-posted for Poets United's Poetry Pantry. Do come join us for some good reading, to go with your coffee on Sunday morning.

One Wish

beautiful art by James Browne 

at jamesbrowne.net

Raven points into the forest

with a feathery wing.

Wild Woman walks

along the-path-that-is-no-path,

arriving at a faery cottage

on whose doorstep sits an owl,

blinking her yellow owl eyes.

What place is this? asks Wild Woman,

wanting and fearing the answer.

It is the place where one wish is granted,

and one only.

Not the wish you always wish,

but a bigger wish,

spoken by the soul of you.

That's easy, replies Wild Woman.

I wish I could go back

and do it better.

for Corey's prompt at Real Toads: The Heart's Desire: write about being granted one wish

MERCY

google image

Mercy falls on the spirit

as benevolent 

as water on the tongue

of the fevered and thirsting;

as precious drops on the roots of a seedling,

struggling for purchase in cracked, parched earth;

as loving words exchanged among the dying

on the floor of the Bataclan,

humanity midst the horror,

proving honor and grace transcend,

light and love shining

in the darkest of hours,

so that, when dawn comes,

it is only the brightness of their spirits

that we remember.

I was most moved by 22 year old Isobel Bowderey's statement about the loving words exchanged by the dying all around her at the Bataclan in Paris, that told her people are good, and love is all that matters. As she lay there, thinking she was dying, it was only love that she was feeling and hearing expressed all around her. In the darkest hours, the finest in what it is to be human is displayed. 

for Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: Mercy

I Will Walk There Again

created for me by my friend,

The Unknown Gnome

I will walk there again,

on those wild shores of my heart's home

and, when I do,

I will carry you there in my heart,

carry you back to where you ran and leaped 

among the waves in joy.

Then, finally,

we will both be 

Home.

for Mary's Tuesday prompt at dVerse: write about something you miss. The beach and Pup are the two things I miss, every minute of every day of my life.

BLACKBIRD - A VILLANELLE

image - dtc-wsuv.org

I might have told you, had I been less shy,

how I'd adore you till the end of time,

but words caught in my throat, and voiceless, I.

I needed words from you to get us by,

but you could promise naught, in prose or rhyme.

I might have told you, had I been less shy.

We loved in silence, my heart hid its cry.

Without the words, I acted out in mime.

The words caught in my throat, and voiceless, I.

I sought a promise. Your eyes sought the sky.

Our love was new, and needed much more time.

I might have told you, had I been less shy.

I hung on tight, you tried so hard to fly,

the mountain peaks we sought too hard a climb.

The words caught in my throat, and voiceless, I.

Blackbird, Beauty, soaring through the sky,

you live forever in this heart of mine.

I might have told you, had I been less shy,

but words caught in my throat, and voiceless, I.

A poem from last April, reposted for Real Toads' The Tuesday Platform