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Peace Poetry

This is a place to put some of our own or another's (if you have their permission) poetic thoughts about Peace.

Website: http://ipeace.ning.com/group/peacepoetry
Members: 260
Latest Activity: Oct 11, 2016

I wrote this poem a year after my step daughter was killed in the London Bombings of 2005.

No Room for Hate.

There is no room within my heart
for revenge, fire or hate
there is no room within my mind
for any thoughts like these.

I cannot find the words to say
just how it is I feel
but I know from deepest hurt
I must forgiveness find.

The hurt that’s been done to us
cuts sore like a knife,
but we must not, repay in kind
what has been done to us.

Instead we must try and find
the way that is so hard,
and reach out our loving hands
to find some friendship now.

There can be no more healing thing
than opening wide our eyes
and seeing that most other folk
are really just like us.


David November 2006

Discussion Forum

New Member/but Old member

Started by Raven Cohan. Last reply by David Gould May 13, 2012. 1 Reply

Unity

Started by Brooke Lovestone. Last reply by Lynn W Jun 16, 2011. 1 Reply

A Prayer Poem for the end of the begining heavenly wonders

Started by Russell Seager. Last reply by Raven Cohan Jan 6, 2011. 1 Reply

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Comment by Helena Sousa on August 17, 2008 at 3:12pm
I am nothing.
Never shall be anything.
This apart, I have in me all the dreams of the world.
Windows of my room,
Room of one of the millions in the world about whom nobody knows who he is
(And if they knew who he is,what would they know?),
You give on the mystery of a street constantly todden by people,
On a street inaccessible to all thoughts,
Real, impossibly real, certain, stangerly certain,
With the mystery of the things under the stones and lives,
With death to put damp in the walls and white hair on men,
With Destiny to drive the car of all down the roadway of nothing.

( Álvaro de Campos - Translated by Jonathan Griffin
)
Comment by pema T. Samrab on August 17, 2008 at 9:18am
When the times are rough
and the nation is in bloodshed
longing for the justice,
nothing else seems meaningful to dwell,
yet when i know and hear of the
people who supports truth and justice
i search a way to live with open mind!
and with the beleif that one day
bright sun will once again shine over the
roof of the world and pave a way
for the wqorld peace.
Comment by pema T. Samrab on August 17, 2008 at 8:38am
This poetry conveys a message that could heal the world from the war torned sickness and disease. keep up the good spirit friend!
Comment by Gordon J Millar ~ The Global We on August 16, 2008 at 3:39am
Thank you for creating this group David, I am delighted to be part of it,
peace & metta,
Gordon
Comment by David Gould on August 16, 2008 at 1:44am
Peace Now

Peace is all I hear you say
most people want it now.
But peace cannot really start
while murder stalks the earth.

The war torn people daily mourn
their latest loss and pain.
Children torn by cluster fury
the bombs of greed still primed.

Sudden lives are ended hourly,
arms dealers count their cash.
Our leaders say we will succeed
while endless misery prevails.

Look, the shattered townships lie,
look, the graveyard’s full.
Has not the time finally come
for all this killing to stop.

Let the sun peep out the cloud,
Let light shine strongly out,
illuminate the darkest of hearts
to put violent thought away.

Peace is all I want to hear
most people need it now.
But peace cannot fully start
while murder stalks our path.

David © 2006
Comment by David Gould on August 16, 2008 at 1:42am
Waiting in Amsterdam

High in a window she sits,
perched above the streets she waits,
ever watchful and awake
on a corner in Amsterdam.
All night long she sits and thinks,
of visions far passion gone,
the voices of the dead dance
before her elderly eyes.

A breeze blows a ripple; She sees!
A late wanderer singing; She sees!
A plane overhead; She sees!
eyes darting never sleeping;
The secret of the grey eyes of dawn,
where screaming herded children die
and ghostly haunting memories pass
before her elderly eyes.

A commotion in the street below,
the dark shine of a limousine;
a door is opened, footsteps on stairs
Panic…Sweat…Dread…
A door two flights down closes.
Then silence. She turns back to the street,
back to the canal and deserted bridge,
before her elderly eyes.

Her youth returns in shades of night,
the girl with open horror eyes
and the secret scream held back
before the terrors of yesterday,
sink thoughts, be still the mind
never again the jackboot at dark,
the dreaded foot upon the stair
the Swastika before the eyes.

She sits there still I fancy,
the nightly vigil faithfully kept,
while pangs of youth grow old,
the curtained face of age
draws memories of those hideous nights
when screams of fear and panic past
still invade the darkened tranquillity
before her elderly eyes.


David © 28th December 1978
Comment by David Gould on August 16, 2008 at 1:40am
Tomorrow’s Walk

Somewhere in the vastness of space,
wanders a dead planet spinning,
whose people could have stopped
and thought a little
and cared.
But they didn’t.
so men grow trees
of blasted ash
and love wasted
the song of the muse.

I wish they had told us
the day the fire fell
that I would see,
men walking trees aflame;
visions of hell,
roasted eyes
and wasted peace dream

I said politicians were blind
safe in burrows beneath,
for nothing they plan
since our children hate,
unforgiving,
dying at birth.
Someone forgot to tell us
that fire would consume
our emotional bankruptcy.

Then the world went dark,
the clouds kissed the sun farewell
and cold as intense as the heat,
rolled the bone dust
into senseless heaps,
while taking a walk to oblivion
for an ideal, forgotten.


2nd September 1983
Comment by David Gould on August 16, 2008 at 1:39am
This was inspired by growing up in the shadow of the Cold War..

The Day After

Those fantastic dawns
whose maidens played
staccato veils on my sight.
These brilliant Chariots of Wrath
Whose horse’s plumed spread
till earth fires consume
the furthest shadow.

Bright the liquid gold,
as serpents in conflict
metamorphose to lava;
sceptical spectres spasm.
Black stallion of the night,
the white mare’s tail of day,
proclaims this day’s worth,
caring not for revelation.

Rare virgins softly
come to the dawn’s bidding,
pure white pillars,
uncover your vulnerability.
Soft rose fingers rotate,
to secure the bonds of steel,
to the sacrificial womb,
to prevent the birth.

The virgins walk on
in heavenly robes
where harps proclaim
the cleansing purity
of their earth-bound calling.

And so the day breaks
to a shattered world
whose broken maidenhead
is yesterday’s folly.


27 December 1983
 

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