For many the path to peace has been through suffering loss of loved ones or the observing of other's loss. Many have observed the loss of life at Lockerbie, 9/11, 7/7, Madrid, Bali, Ireland or the Middle East and been moved to join the peace movement. Others have come by differing routes. Although I have always been a peace lover it has been the profound effect of being a resident in Lockerbie on 21st Dec 1988 and again in loosing our daughter in 7/7 that has re-shaped my yearnings for peace. I have therefore included a few poems of loss in this section. Please feel you can add your own as well.

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The Violence of Silence
By Dylan E Cook

She thought of calling him on the phone
But then she would be even more alone
She wanted to tell him her hurt feelings
About his own down and dirty dealings

Abusers are losers
They are liars not lovers

When she called him on the telephone
She expected not to ever again condone
All she got was a desperate silence
She had expected his usual violence

Abusers are losers
They are liars not lovers

She wanted to leave him
So why did she need to believe him
Every time he apologized
He always patronized

Abusers are losers
They are liars not lovers
Living In The Light

Wake up from your deep slumber
my sleeping beauty,
how peaceful you look
with roses in your hands,
no longer suffering
no longer in pain,
laying there in your stillness.

Into the bright light of the tunnel
to meet up with your loved ones,
you shall travel beyond the stars
to the highest power of your being.

I will think of you always
you will never leave my mind
the warmth of your love will guide me,
to carry on in your memory.

Wake up from your deep slumber
my sleeping beauty ,
no longer suffering
no longer in pain
laying in your stillness,
still breathing.

Written by Shelly Wiseberg, 2008
Taken from Prose and Cons
Mother To Son

You live in another world
The spiritual realm your heaven
A powerful entity in itself
The watching of your loved ones
From the angels sky
Sprinkling your wishes and joy
To them all
Never missing anything
From the highest plane
Where we can move on
To another journey
The past, present and future
Are all multi-dimensional
In the hall of records
Where past judgments lie
Spread your angel wings and fly down
To me upon the earth plane
So I can feel you once more

Shelly Wiseberg, 2007
War of Red

Underneath the blood red sky there was an unforgettable fire

Burning away hopes and dreams into a blaze of smouldering ash

Unheard screams with surprised attacks stabbed in the back

By enemy hands drawing guns and blowing up homes

Taking land with prisoners of war stuck in cells of hellish confinement

Black clouds loom overhead with many soldiers lying dead

Many families severed with broken limbs and aching hearts

Crying over the loss of their loved ones weeping in sorrow

Not thinking of tomorrow with memories lingering on

In total darkness underneath the blood red sky

Shelly Wiseberg, 2008
This Is Not You

This shallow grave
does not contain
the totality of you.
Why the four winds
themselves whisper
your very name.

Why come here
to grieve you,
when we know
you are not here.
You live on

Seeing your grave
is a sad thing
for us left behind.
But for you
it became a door
to a new life.

This shallow grave
could never contain
the totality of you.
In the mighty clouds,
in the gentle rain
I sense your being.

You have become
part of all of this
essential essence.
Your gentle spirit
as the leaves stir,
in wind and leaf.

And yet still I know
you are not here
but are gone on;
to the life above,
beyond yet within;
a heavenly walk.

David 2006
Palestinian Elegy

Who will sound the requiem
to mark this grieving throng?
Who will write the epitaphs
in this brief historic hour?
Who will grieve the children
slaughtered for no just cause?
And who will bear the coffins
to the burial’s weeping ground?

Whose ululation do we hear
and whose plaint will be heard,
when all is set in epic verse,
anthologies composed of tears?
And whose elegy can we recite
when more are killed each night?
So tell us now why did they die
for no just cause or reason why?

Why is it the innocent
that pay the terrible price?
In all your adult wars,
why is it the children
that seem to perish first?
It is always their little faces
peeping from tiny shrouds
that break our brittle hearts.

So who will sound their requiem,
or write blood stained epitaphs?
Who then can write an elegy,
to honour so many little graves?
There is no shortage of weeping
over each of these little ones.
This world is so impoverished
for its future killed too soon.

David © 8th November 2008
i still remember well going to Scotland for Xtmas hollidays, in 88- My husband and I drove from London we were in show
shock,and, we passed through loockerbie to go to a place called Dunbale...It was all too sad
for words, when I heard the news I alreday did not want to go, but the whole
winter Xtmas hollidays were booked, so we did go... But for all reason plus one, the Lockerbie accident made that Xtmas a very sad one!!! Besidest there were some arguments, my husband had business with the lybians at that time...Today I am not sure that one knew than that it was the Lybians who did it, immediately as the terrible accident happened!!!.

Terrorism for me is something I dont understand, and definetly do not accept...Why kill hundreds of innocent people,not only the passengers and crew but also the passer bies!!! How cruel how inhuman- I think and think and still after so many years gone I cant understand!!! To achieve what???- After we had the 13 of september and Madrid ...But WHAT on eartht has come to the world that the only way to carry a MESSAGE IT IS TO KILL FAMILIES, BABIES, PEOPLE THAT ARE GOING IN HOLLS AS TOURISTS TO SEE THEIR FAMILIES?!! innocent people!!!!
I am not an activist, and in a way may be called even a pacifist!! but if a child of mine, or my family, or someone I know and love would be in that plane I REALLY DONT KNOW WHAT I WILL DO??? I REALLY DONT....

David I feel for you, What a tragedy to lose your daughter. How old was she? How is it that you're placed to witness such shattering events. LS
Helen was twenty eight when she was killed by a terrorist bomb on the London Underground at Kings Cross on the morning of 7th July 2005. The grief that her death caused cannot be measured nor can the loss of so many others be easily understood.
I was a resident of Park Place in Lockerbie where the main part of the plane came down. Our house as with so many others were scattered with debris while other houses were destroyed. The scene which we witnessed in our streets that night and subsequent days were ones that we hoped never to have to see again.
Sadly the world learns little from all this loss,
the bleeding of our race continues unabated,
but I have learned that my only response
is to break the cycles of bitterness and hatred
and that cycle has to be broken right here
within my own it does within us all;
Yes I am a pacifist but more than that I am
a great lover of all my fellow human beings.
~Dustin James Jones~

~Dec 11th1987~Sept 9th 1989~

You are in every single thing of beauty that I see

You are in the sparkle of moonlight that twinkles on the snow

You are in the specks that dance in the rays of sunlight that stream across my floor

You are the glisening shimmer on the water of a clear blue lake

You are in everything of magic that I see

You are in the morning light of each new day

You are in every star at night that streak across the darkest skies

You are every single thing of beauty that I see

by Bev Jones

Nov 23/08
Dangling sails in doldrums,

gently rocking in a dry lull,

full of dead silence & vasteness,

no shore, no lighthouse in sight?

A nutshell in fragile suspense,

afloat on a sea of emptiness,

in the blue-turquoise sereneness

of an immersed sunny paradise....?

Opalescent reefs glut with sand,

rainbow-multi-couloured seafood,

afloat with bellies sunny side up

in eddy waters of chilly sadness?

Gridlocked on a vast sandbank,

stuck in low tides of emptiness,

dusty winds of dried bleakness,

on a horizon of drowned sunrises....?

Flattened on an arid river bed,

interspersed with the sere weed

of banks carved by vestiges of meaning.

Dead silence in the wings of a butterfly....?

Obscureness coating outer lightheartedness,

a full moon inclined on an empty sky,

while stars implode back to inner space,

absorbed by a dark ballon in whizzing deflation.......?

Looking down through the lonelisphere

on the tops of fell-fields of atrabiliousness,

weathered by the acerb storms of despair,

dust of melancholia covering acardiac rocks?

Lithospheric crevices sallying out insipid steam,

remnants of lava streams bubble in seely solitude,

under tectonic displacements of abysmal sense

an earth core at downtime in deadheartedness.....?

A dark star void of inmost radiation and energy,

fused by mournfulness and appropriatelessness,

on its drift through the space of unconsciousness,

in a homeless universe filled with seas of dark tears?

A senseless journey abreast the celestial highways

beyond the milky ways of dedication, devotion, and passion,

and off the paths of the falling stars of enlightenment,

only few of them dispersing tiny sparks with their wand of eros........?

A cruise trough a universe full of false promises

in a deep space enriched with hideous alpha-gravity

a journey void of honest appreciation and neededness,

a trip on the downside of true appropriatedness and destination......?

A candle at burnout, a suffocated flame,

in a breathless air void of lively oxygen,

filled up with carbon monoxide of uselessness,

caught under a bell jar of unlively constrictedness.....?

Running in endless inner circles, crawling slippery

round glas walls with no peaceful corner to retreat into,

We just sit and stare into this humdrum hamster wheel....?


We light anew another meaningful candle of attentiveness...... ! ! !
The Water Glass by the Bed

Like intruders in your space
we come to pack your flat.
You have just moved in
there’s boxes everywhere.
The flat pack newly put up
towels drying on the airier,
and your water-glass by the bed.

They told us to pack up the flat,
before you were identified,
in case it was robbed,
by those hearing the news.
It is a most terrible task,
I can cope with most of it,
but not the water-glass by the bed.

People came to help us pack
all your things you’d bought new ,
wrapped, stacked and folded.
Poor John, your helpful friend
took down the things he’d put up.
He could pack it all up with tears
but not the water-glass by the bed.

When you left that morning,
you had been running late,
it was just as you had left it;
a life interrupted by death.
You intended to later return,
to clear up all you had left
even the water-glass by the bed.

David February 2006


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