"Operation Just Cause"- U.S. invasion of Panama on December 20,1989. "The war Trap" Clock strikes twelve, The milky face of night, Is at tip-toeing height. In this stillness, A blazing inferno erupted, A roaring metal beast, my silence disrupted. Startled, confused, They weave their way through trails of town. The ghost of battle Rises above the shadowy waters, His red eyes of war "Trace" through December-disturbed sky. Beneath, a battle sways and surges; . A pyramid of corpse the victors' token. We played in the hands of war. I saw what happened; And I will not argue. He clenches his fists... And there he traps you. A. Zevi(zev-ee) Thomas Eloise Lopez Freshman at Central High School Phoenix, Az What Is War? What is war? Shouts and yells of men and boys The flowing tears of weeping mothers, wives, and children What is war? Trumpets singing in the fields Dust kicked up by marching feet What is war? The silent prayers of soldiers, blessings of mothers Pictures held by loved ones What is war? Moving targets of smoking weapons The front line falling to their knees What is war? Cries and pleas of those forgotten; left behind Blood thirsting, flesh eating men, satisfying appetites What is war? Thousands of innocent lost souls One "dying in honor for their country" What is war? Haziness in the eyes Waking from temporary death What is war? Memory's ghostly images And virgin grounds, tainted and stained....... Eloise Lopez Winter in Chechnya Infinitely surrounded by the cold the corpses in Chechnya. The gray blankets of lice slowly leave the warm bodies starting to freeze These small winners of a silent war now move away looking for the hearts and veins blood and dreams of those Chechens still alive, looking for the tunnels under the snow traces of bullets in the living flesh In the darkness the rats are gently cracking with their tiny jaws the bones on the toes, the quiet fingers of a child They are slowly devouring the sooted fruits of war. The purple flowers looking at the sky. Alejandro Saravia ALEJANDRO SARAVIA was born in Cochabamba, Bolivia. Since1986 he lives in Montreal, Canadá. He has published Ejercicio de serpientes (1994), La brújula desencadenada (1996), Oilixes helizados (1998) and Habitante del décimo territorio (2000). Forward March Femur in a furry hand Stick with a stone at the end Dagger, smooth, elegant Suits of steel Fit for a prince Rifle, metal jackets Silver fortress In the air Raining down Oblivion Alistair McHarg February 21, 2003 War: An Historical Perspective How splendidly the tools have evolved Femur in a furry hand Stone at the end of a stick Blade, elegant and angry Suits of steel Fit for a prince Rifles, bullets, so detached Castles floating in the air Raining oblivion How splendidly the tools have evolved If only those who use them had as well If only those who use them had as well Alistair McHarg February 20, 2003 Morning, USA, August 7, 1945 The sun burned as the dark light must have burned Ten thousand miles away. The boy walked home along the boardwalk, bread under his arm, as the headlines in news racks screamed something about a new era. James Winer (pron. "wyner") Penthesileia She was moon blood and snake semen, an abomination, a demon. Women weaken our resolve, steal our strength- like Hecubaa's daughter, who nearly tricked my body into betraying my comrades- or Menelaus' whore. He should have been grateful when Helen fled back to Priam and those savages who listen to their women, take council with priestesses. Yes, I killed her. Thrust my sword into her womb, ripped her open as an offering to Zeus. Had my own mother (who hid me in skirts among the King's silly kitchen girls), been as unnatural, I would have done the same. Later, the Greeks sang of bravery and love- of how I was smitten by her death. But it was not love, nor grief that drove me to necrophilia- It was disgust. I spat on her corpse. They did not see me laugh as flies fouled her wounds, or see me revel in the blood-made mud of that barren alter. Penthesileia- slut who would return us to the old ways. Yes, I slew her- for in my world there will be no goddesses, only the wives and whores of gods. ________________________________ Enemy "To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori." - Wifred Owen What is enemy? The shadow at edge- the perimeter of conscience- The dark twin projected as if=20 a magic lantern splattered on screen of culture and god. What is enemy? It is the flaming face refracted in muddy shards of a shattered mirror. It is the corpse- the old lie, itself. What is enemy? The vile voice at the podium frightening crowds into fearsome mobs. Fooled, they follow. What is enemy? Ourselves. _____________________ A Piece of Plastic Tattered English: even the translator is broken by radio static. "I try make shelter with sticks, old blankets. A piece of plastic would be better for this rain." Uncalloused hands grip the wheel of the SUV. There's an old roll resting against the back of the closet, behind rows of suits and jackets waiting to be worn. A piece of it protects mother's lace tablecloth. An ocean and a continent away, no aid. For the want of a nail, of a horse- A kingdom. For the want of a bit of plastic- a family. Annamaria Paul Grafton, MA WAR AND PEACE 2 They fought in a war a terrible war They fought in a battle, a terrible battle, They had no choice, but to battle or roam, They have returned, and they have not... They fought and fought for the right meaning, But lots of people were also bleeding, They are going to the war, Aweful war, Aweful qwar, Aweful jwar. but now, do we really need to fight? but here, is war really right? When is it finally time for peace? Peace is very good, But how will we make peace to come? if we are so good...are we very good? We must win, peace must come. By claire, luke, and anne kelly ages: 6,4, and 40 WALKING IN PARADISE Standing in a deep cave of the open-throated earth I hear the ugly sounds of endless war, the weeping, the screaming, the cries of hatred and of pain, the bellowing and moaning of men and beasts coming from below. Grief-stricken, I struggle from the cave into the worldly light of another day above ground. I look around to see a changed country. White-robed figures beckon me to cross the river but I walk along the bank alone and fearful. The figure of a beautiful woman floats out of the mist smiles radiantly then holds my hand as we take flight. High above us in the firmament I see a ring of flames and hear a chorus of glad voices singing psalms of peace. My hearing grows so acute I am able to detect the Primal Note of All Creation sounding clearly out of a sudden brightness that blinds me until the woman=92s hand upon my forehead restores my sight and I behold a heavenly college of poets, philosophers, and saints, a court of dancing spirits. When I awake again, I have returned to the earth, a common man no longer; in fact, a man of sorrow has taken up my life where I left off. How does one begin again? This new man has an indelible sadness in his soul but he also has a vision of peace and brotherhood, a greater love for suffering humanity. If he does not preach like a madman, he will throw himself into the sea. After walking in paradise you cannot walk upon the earth unless you walk in peace. Copyright 2001 by Anthony S. Maulucci THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF APOCALYPSE STREET Everyone ran out to meet Four Horsemen thundering down the street. For a moment there was quite a row But everything is quiet now. --Anthony Maulucci, Norwich, CT This is the Spanish version of the Poem 21st Century Peace that I just submitted. Paz en este siglo XXI Beatriz Alba del Rio Paz: sabana blanca tapando el terror de los judios de hoy con pesadillas recurrentes del monstruo nazi llegando para llevarselos a Auschwitz. Paz: rosa roja disfrazando la sangre deslizada cubriendo rostros, piernas, cuerpos inocentes dedos volando en la montana como gotas de lluvia humana invadiendo el cielo azul ninos huerfanos llorando en Kozovo un dia hermoso blanco-nevado soleado un silencio estridente negruzco quebrado la bomba exploto el tren desbocado cayo por la colina casi todos sus pasajeros murieron. En ese momento un monje budista canta: NAM MYOHO RENGE KIO NAM MYOHO RENGE KIO "Dedico mi vida a la ley de causa y efecto" En ese instante un cura en misa dice: PAX VOBIS CUM los fieles responden: ET CUM SPIRITO TUO "La paz sea contigo y con tu espiritu" Cordialmente, Beatriz Alba del Rio 3-3-03 21st Century Peace Beatriz Alba del Rio Peace: white sheet covering the terror of the Jews of today recurring nightmares of the monster Nazi coming back to take them to Auschwitz. Peace: red rose masquerading the trickling blood covering faces, legs, innocent bodies dismembered arms fingers flying on the mountain as drops of human rain flooding the blue sky orphan children crying in Kozovo beautiful white sunny day darkened black strident silence the bomb exploded the umblidled train fell by the hill almost every passenger died. At that moment a Buddhist monk chants: NAM MYOHO RENGE KIO NAM MYOHO RENGE KIO "I devote my life to the law of cause and effect" At that instant a Catholic priest at mass says: PAX VOBISCUM the faithful followers respond: ET CUM SPIRITO TUO "Peace be with you and with your spirit". Without knowing by Beatriz Alba del Rio Softness of recent snow snowed white powder caressing my boot's soles and my hands, tenuous rubbing of my fingers: beloved peace wind cutting my lips by only putting my words out without a gust of modesty, but you attack me poisonous spider: feared war I collapse my dignity emptied in molecules of gun powder but I cannot stop those unbearable thunders shots aimed at I don't know who bombs dropped seducing me in this cave of anonymity while I am creeping unto this dirt earth: hated war Your bullet raped me muted in my body into Christ's blood howling why? A bilingual poem follows: Unknown space Beatriz Alba del Rio untamed inner silence growls of despair desolated caves of sorrows machine guns shooting Iraqi's children dying. Espacio desconocido Beatriz Alba del Rio silencio interior indomable aullidos desesperados cuevas de dolor desoladas ametralladoras tirando chicos Iraquies muriendo. Cordially, Beatriz 3-3-03 I'm Sitting In I'm sitting in my jeep someplace, listening to the radio and the commentator is saying, There are just a few skirmishes now. The war is about to end, when another jeep goes by with a young boy on it, most of his stomach blown away. He was still alive. I could tell. Barbara Helfgott Hyett from In Evidence: Poems of the Liberation of Nazi Concentration Camps University of Pittsburgh Press Boys Playing War Four boys, seven or eight years old on the roof of a plank shack. Two boys grip wooden rifles to hold off Nazis. The Lieutenant points his carved pistol in the direction they will travel. One boy lies horizontal speaking his last words before he transforms into a new soldier. When they move out they grow forward into history follow the jungle trails below the D.M.Z. The unit searches for enemy triggers and scans for Charlie in black pajamas. They step over trip wires scatter from friendly fire. One boy comes home with orange air in his lungs. The institutionalized boy spends his whole day on point, The Lieutenant comes home with neither his handgun nor the hand that held it. One boy comes home in a plank box. after a photograph entitled “Boys Playing War”, Minneapolis, 1951 from The Minneapolis Photographs, Jerome Liebling, p. 44. Bennett Rader Plymouth, Ohio 44865 __________________________________________________ 2 ANXIOUS Ambassadors I dined 3 months ago with 2 of our ambassadors w/Middle East service (one, a lifelong Republican); both expressed abhorrence for Bush's middle-east policies. "Bush is the worst president in our lifetime." Both are frightened by possible/likely consequences of an Iraq war; neither, a political appointee, both deeply qualified in their subject, both fluent in the regional languages; career diplomats w/service in multiple Arabic countries; highly educated; authors of works on the region. Both w/good reason to fear. If the Gulf War II terrifies them how much should it regurgitate our armchair analysts? Is your gut-feeling they're capitulative cheese-monkies, worried SomeBodies in the White House are moving cheese from bureau to bureau in Foggy Bottom? (23 FEB 03) Another Quiet American "I was a civilian advisor to the military. We went & saw Saddam. We were impressed." Another quiet American confessing to stealth. Time: just before closing. Place: a bookstore in an upscale suburb, in late Summer. We quietly talked until closing. Regretfully, we exchanged names. I closed up, went home & wrote about him in my weekly column in the regional Harte-Hanks daily, quietly. Another quiet American came back, stood, looking grimly at me, another quiet American caught doing what quiet Americans do: War via intermediaries, dictators who invariably betray, haunt, defy, discredit, defeat us in the world's unblinking eyes. (22 FEB 03) OZYMANDIAS II A petrified hand. Shattered spectacles. A coil of charred Iraqui tank tread. A melted Beta-format videocassette Set on a pedestal of darkly molten glass. Signature: Mags Harries, Kibiris* 2003 - Bill Costley CATHEDRAL & SPINNING WINDOW Libby Hague's "Cathedral & Spinning*Window" fictitiously explodes St. Paul's under Blitz on the conference room wall opposite you in the validation course on Migration Strategy & no one notices or remarks. Later, you write this poem for a speculative posterity. Observer, read this over my shoulder: try to imagine a firey red sky & expressionistic rose window cast laterally into the Blitz' night, bemusing historicists, but amazing everyone else. - Bill Costley {*1981} "The Peace, No Peace" (Jeffers) a dreary morning: snow & rain. this morning you've sent others A Prayer for Peace holiday card after the holidays, annotated: just as soon as the 'Peace' you're as deeply distressed by your nation's restarting a war it unwillingly discontinued as Galbraith said the Scotch of Canada were with parent Britain's WW1. Imperialists bearing gifts. you think of the Zen drawings, the last in the series: He Returns Empty-Handed Bearing Gifts to All. this page ends the notebook. you've written it in red. - Bill Costley National Anthem (Modestly Proposed) We are greedy. We are selfish. We consume. Now, let’s print that on a T-Shirt. Sew it on a flag. Write it in fire on the face of the Sun. Because our greed has shown us how our planet looks from the Moon. Our selfishness has liberated continents. And, by consuming, we’ve trumped a hundred assorted flavors of Fascism. We are destiny. We are the pole star. We are kismet. We’ve lead the horse to Kool-Aid, Coca-Cola and Kentucky bourbon. Now let’s force his head under until he either drinks or drowns (History is on our side. He’ll drink. And he’ll love it). We are inevitable We’re the barely-contained fission that lights a billion houses. We’re the astringent sting that says the medicine is working. And the silky tissue that blots up the quick, brief tears, Shed when the final, ancient superstitions are shattered. We are greedy We are selfish. We consume. Hire Aaron Copeland, Irving Berlin and Bruce! Bruce! Bruce! To set that to music. We are greedy We are selfish. We consume. And anyone who’s half smart, Will thank whatever God they conjure for us. Bill Mount Signs of War I see them now, Stars and Stripes displayed in stores, flying on poles in every yard, frayed by the wind on car antennas, and hung by hooks in every window. I see them now, solemn images snatched from the air, given form in my living room, taking the place of regular programs I used to watch in months before. I see them now, on every corner, small-town boys far from home, wanting a friend to hear their dreams, share a kiss and weep for them when they go. I see her now, roses in her hand, standing by a grave, Beloved Son and Brother etched in the stone, faded flowers dying at her feet where she left them a week ago. Submitted by Barbara J. Newlin The Pen At War Mightier than the sword? History has proved it true Everflowing Through thick and thin Drawing it all out in lines Rolling out like steam Pressed tight to the page Captured voice slaying Piercing deep Into hearts depths Life in the wake Spreading A wildfire Consuming all in it's path Drunk in Absorbed Mightier than the sword The pen at war DLO;;;08-27-02;;;;; Dave Osgood A.K.A.BOWSTBOOKS North Reading, MA My first war I celebrate my being whirling about the sun Free Unblinded In a frenzy of laughter In the corner of my eye I see a shadow Moon Eclipses My naked sun and glory In a breath I hesitate You rush onto my world And claim its reservoir Sweet pure waters dark And deep in solitude Hands soiled Your skin is sallow and impure One touch contaminates And I become mud Like any other world Exhale And all is still Except now I cannot see patricia beckmann __________________________________________________ Leap of Logic The devils in the details cause they're never qutie complete facts are always misleading and the truth just can't compete Generally I agree with them I just couldn't tell you why depending on their tone of voice and my mood at the time Logical Leap its as if I can fly Looking down I can see all the Lies Never knew just how blind I could be cause on the ground they surrounded me The devils in the details because you never know what they are so we jump to these conclusions thinking its not that far Generally I hate them I was told once before they'll stab you in the back as they kick you out the door Logical Leap its as if I can fly Looking down I can see all the Lies Never knew just how blind I could be because now thats all I see The devils in the details that we've hidden so deep you'll need more that a shovel to find what you seek Generally I've heard they're good at least so I've been told just one thing never mentioned that their souls have been sold Logical Leap its as if I can fly Looking down I can see all the Lies never knew how fun blindness could be so many ugly truths I don't have to see The devils in the details I hope we don't ring that bell cause the devils in the details and he'll send us all to hell Ben Byrnes Leap of Logic GGCGAE The devils in the details cause they're never qutie complete facts are always misleading and the truth just can't compete Generally I agree with them I just couldn't tell you why depending on their tone of voice and my mood at the time Logical Leap its as if I can fly Looking down I can see all the Lies Never knew just how blind I could be cause on the ground the surrounded me The devils in the details because you never know what they are so we jump to these conclusiosn thinking its not that far Generally I hate them I was told once before they'll stab you in the back as they kick you out the door Logical Leap its as if I can fly Looking down I can see all the Lies Never knew just how blind I could be because now thats all I see The devils in the details that we've hidden so deep you'll need more that a shovel to find what you seek Generally I've hear they're good at least so I've been told just one thing never mentioned that their souls have been sold Logical Leap its as if I can fly Looking down I can see all the Lies never knew how fun blindness could be so many ugly truths I don't have to see The devils in the details I hope we don't ring that bell cause the devils in the details and he'll send us all to hell Caralia Hilliard Poem About War By Caralia Hilliard I’m hiding in my asylum, I’ve got nowhere to go, You tear down my defenses, Til there’s nothing left of my soul. I am identified with the Star of David, I know I am completely incomplete, But there will always be hope that you cannot delete. The planes fly overhead each day, If only they would come save us, lead the way. Here the angels don’t even tread, My friends and I are all left for dead. Hitler when last have you looked into the mirror, The mirror of your soul. You have tortured us, killed us and toyed with us. You have reached your goal. All your purposes are gone, Nothing’s right and nothing’s wrong, You feel no sorrow, feel no pain, If only God would let your emotions reign. Satan has stolen your soul. But, oh God, let my soul say goodbye to this world- let it go. Why have all wars waged and lives been lost? War is an unhealing wound. Every heart that beats is equal, But don’t dream this wish too loud, Because war is just to be repeated in another sequel. The ABCs of War A bullet causes death; enemy, friendly, generally hitting indiscriminately, just killing. Let man not obliterate Paradise. Quite rightly, stop this ultimate violence: war. Xenophobia yields zero. Hermon R. Card Syracuse, NY A Mothers Lament Carmen Khan Slow silent heartbeat, soft dove, sweet pea Dark dreams drift easily through you. I see the sun and wind in your hair, Racing and playing, dancing and singing. Mary had a little lamb it's fleece was white.... Chasing gray frightened pigeons on green lawns Wrapped in scarlet and blue Eyes shining, cheeks glowing, beautiful boy. I love how you lie in your warm bed of blood Snoozing after breakfast, considering the afternoon Dead dove, shriveled pea The wind has ceased, the sun stopped I see the red streaks down your face Running and crying, shooting and falling Eyes closed, cheeks white, beautiful boy. When Sean Returns A knock breaks the spell of Brutus=E2=80=99 oratory=20 On honor in violence. I look up to see a boy dressed as a man=20 smiling and proud. The crew cut and bright uniform buttons Disorient me,=20 But the voice transports me back to the student he was - Third row, fourth seat Making pig noises and shouting =E2=80=9Cliver;=E2=80=9D trying to =20 Wrestle laughter and attention from anyone. Now he stands at attention, having wrestled his way Toward maturity and respect. So proud as he shares photos from boot camp - =E2=80=9CThat=E2=80=99s my C.O. and me,=E2=80=9D He laughs, embarrassed, about the punk he was And beams while speaking of the noble cause That lights his way. Telling him to be careful seems superfluous Still, I shake when we say goodbye, Wanting so much for him to take his seat and stay In this place where the dangers of war Are confined to the pages of a play. Cathy Nicastro A Poem for the Dead His speech is on television his eyes dart right and then right again for once his lips are in sync with his brain the words crawl out like lizards from between rocks, pause to take in the view from their perch, in search of their next meal. Turning down the sound my thoughts drift I am a kid and playing army, playing dead I am a blond and freckled possum, my heart beats wildly as I lay in the warm sun still clutching my plastic M-16, my plastic helmet askew, my plastic canteen leaking Kool-aid out its cracked lip motionless while the smell of the living green grass rises up around my mouth, my thoughts play with words-- deadeye, sudden death, dead weight a young boy dreamer who knew nothing of the world. Charles Varani (Varr-on-knee) Eugene 2/20/03 Cher Holt-Fortin Pro Patria "So. There will be war again." He leaned over me, dressed in his uniform. His young face restored to its beauty. "Yes," I said. No use denying it, though I would have spared him the pain and myself the look that crossed his face as he fell silent, idly touching things on my desk. The cloisenne box of rose petals from the Holy Land, a rock from the upper Missouri, an antique ink bottle. "And gas?" I looked out the window. "We expect that." And because he looked so sad, "But no trenches this time." Foolish. As if trenches=20 were the worst war had to offer. "You have the bomb." He shook his head, his face aging as I watched. "Rockets, germs." How could he know? "We keep watch." A whisper of sound, he was fading, taking my ink bottle. Carol Duarte Phoenix, Arizona The Wall Hands entwined we walk Endless names in a river of gray Drawn to a birthday card, we stop A milestone not reached nor celebrated I choke on flooding emotion And I didn't even know him The clasp tightens Pausing, we are intruders in a space Where parents caress a son's name And weep Eyes fill and flood And I didn't even know him Squeezing the small hand, we continue A photo, a message, a flag Buddies keeping a promise "We will never forget you..." War, destruction, death, reach far, reach deep And I didn't even know him Leaving, I allow myself to think the unthinkable My boy, a name on a wall Paralyzing grief and fear Emptiness unparalleled War, destruction, death, reach far, reach deep And I didn't even know them WHO WILL TRUST? Marjorie Michaud War is raging all over this world. While bombs take lives, families flee; families like you and me. Fleeing from hunger, terror filled hearts carry them barefoot over the rocks. War is raging all over this world. A world unable to find peace at the table, unwilling to put down their stones, and break bread. Resistant to turn their other cheek instead. Land and power play a part. Who will rule and who will follow, plant the fields and tend the flocks? Who will trust and who will not? War is raging all over this world. A high price paid for yet another day. Children roam streets of despair. Following their elders find the stones. Children left without parents, limbs and homes. Fields left in need of tending, fences left in need of mending. How many really care? Oh, for hearts filled with forgiveness, heads bowed, knees bent, tables set for strangers, promises meant. Let us ponder no more killing, no more fleeing homes for borders. Time wasted in violent plots, bombs dropping on the wrong spots. No hope I say for peace one day while each one wars in his heart, warring as we smile. For no one is perfect. Love is what it really takes to sit at table and break bread, to put down the stones and turn our cheek. Land and power play a part. Who will rule and who will follow, plant the fields and tend the flocks. Who will trust and who will not? Marjorie Michaud Dajana Grbic Central High School 9th grade Phoenix, AZ Souls As the bold moon rises, Terror creeps, There are no surprises, Only hopeless weeps. Screams, pain enwrapping, Yet silence everywhere, The sound overlapping, Death thickening the air. Darkened souls releasing, Waiting for the light, Evil finds it pleasing, Leading souls into the night. Begging, pleading, Blood is everywhere, Cruelty leading, Ending life without a care. Soulless thieves of life and light, Sense of right had left them long, Drowning, in their fear of devils might, Believing in what wrong be right, And what right be wrong. Dajana Grbic daniel bosch ************ Two hundred and one-half years after the Bastille, Christmas eve finds Santa stuffing socks With certified rubble: the Berlin Wall. Democracy rocks. A pax americana means pillows of wisdom Like this: Good Arabs come in just two kinds-- "Self" and "Full." If we change lanes, or kingdoms, Nobody minds. Peter-principled, Peter panicked, ever young-- Obsessively eschewing maturation-- We won't know what we're missing we're so gung Ho to build a nation. The White House sends condolences and bombs To friends of Condolezza's. She plays nice With any one who won't say Uncle Tom's Converted Rice. Rubble underfoot, it's hard to keep footing The bill, to keep footing: Our Birkenstock-shod Brooks Brothers, born-again, are rooting For the under god. The hand that rocks the cradle of Liberty Slides a new debit card and enters a new P.I.N. To pay for a tatoo that's guaranteed Not to stay in. ***** Daniel Bosch Cambridge, MA (1)Leaving the port of St.John's So I kissed her on the steps of the wooden city before I left port. The stable ground was a warming memory. In this hellish cold rain, the bloody breakers struck the Hepatica like a hammer. We were a paper boat in the punishing Atlantic, and I was the only medic aboard. Other than memories there was only rationed cups of cocoa. Did I mention the memories. I'm called to the deck once again, as smoke beckons from a distant swell. A Chinese merchant vessel this time. Oil runs down their confused faces as they look to us for saving. But my kit does not supply me with an interpreter. I can only try to heal, and move to the next panicked face. But the kiss and thoughts of pre-war life carries me through the pummeling of the unforgiving side of nature. Forty days to go and countless waves. Darren Anderson (2)A Forgotten Soul He's at the pub every night, but most pass him off as an old codger with a stuttering heart. A laceration of his eyes and mind, leaves a frail frame in front of a belly-dancing fire, sipping amber rye. Underneath plaid wool his wrinkled feet twitch with memories of Belgium, warming aching toes near burning rubble with the boys from Company C. Each exhaled cloud of smoke dissipates curses to Hitler in the night, sarcastic thanks for taking them from their concrete hearths. Blood and mud dry on their faces like grotesque war paint, as the soldiers wonder if they'd really want to live another day. The deafening laughter of joyous youth brings him back to his chair, cigar smoke twists and circles through his dying hair. A mortal fixture forgotten by time, while surrounding voices boast and bicker celebrating their lives, never stopping to thank the veteran in front of the flame. Darren Anderson (3)Remembering the Fallen Navy blue blazers adorned with medals of merit cloth a stone faced veteran. A somber reminder of violent days past soaks into the crowds chilled flesh on this wet November morn. Vibrant poppies glow under grey clouds. My grandfather places his wreath on bended knee, his glazed eyes reflecting numbing memories as the haunting echo of Taps floats over Lake Superior. Darren Anderson (4)Adieu Sudete "Adieu mon chere" A tear of sweat trickles down his brow as he adjusts his cap. His dusty rifle waits in the shade of morning for bloody hands to squeeze it's trigger. With a salty kiss on dry lips, the young man turns from husband to soldier. Gun strap swaying at side issued boots kick clouds of brown dirt as baby Jeanne wails goodbye. A somber appearance, de Gaulle's men come baring news of a fallen spouse. In the distance a Panzer's rumble announces Aryan arrival, Hitler's plague. Barrels point at passing heads. She wipes her eyes with the left hand and raises her widowed right high. A dutiful salute to a triumphant evil. *Sudete is a town in France which was occupied by Hitler during WWII* Darren Anderson I am submitting the following poem as part of your poetry invitation. It was written by my great grandfather, William Murcar, in 1918, as a gift to his best friend, David Kater. David's brother fought with the Scots Grays in WWI, and was killed in France in 1917. "Scotland Forever" Dinna ye hear the pipes a'calling? Dinna ye see your comrades fa'ling? Sons of Wallace, Douglas and Bruce Up at the foe, await no truce. Men of the hi'land, men of the low Wherever ye fall shall a thistle grow, An emblem of courage, a symbol grand, "Forward for Scotland, for native land." Men of "Scots Grays" and the "Thin Red Line" Never shall foeman your land rapine. The land of the moors, the hills and the heather, "Onward for Scotland, Scotland Forever." W. H. Murcar It is a pleasure to submit this peom in honor of him. Best regards, Dave Murcar Meadowbrook, PA In a faded photo Jock and I pose in our father=B9s navy caps he spoke little about that time for there was a life to get on with Frannie fell in flames onto Cambodia to the end good at breaking rules and we posed and poised and broke rules and they shot some of us since then they have shot more of us and we have shot many of them and we shoot ours shooting theirs wearing our fathers=B9 caps i read that breaking rules we must waste others for breaking rules or wearing caps burning wordless all the time to get on with life While living in Israel in 1996, I witnessed one of the most monumental, yet tragic, events in world history. Three hundred thousand people gathered at a peace rally in Tel-Aviv to support peace. Finally, the possibility of an agreement with our Arab neighbors seemed very close to the horizon. I was unable to attend the rally, but I was sitting at home contemplating how wonderful this event truly is. All these people gathered for such a wonderful cause. This inspired me to write in my journal; "If everyone in the world who wanted peace all stood up together and declared with one voice "we want peace" what could possibly happen." At that moment my father called out from the TV room "David, David, come quick the Prime Minister has been shot!!!..." Tragically, at this peace rally, Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin was assassinated by a right wing, orthodox Jewish, law student. We were all devastated. In my opinion, this was a major turning point in the history of the Middle East and the world. From peace on the horizon to war, terrorism and political turmoil. The following poem was inspired by these turn of events. No One Here Is Wrong Dedicated in loving memory of Itzhak Rabin I just arrived in the Promised Land, Hoping for peace, ready to take a stand. Full of hope, full of optimism. But all I heard around me was criticism. Some were saying, "Let's give peace a chance," Others merely victims of circumstance. Then there were those with views so severe, They would kill their own brothers just to have you hear their plea. "If we are one people, why do we fight?" "If we are one nation, why can't we unite?" "If we only have one world, why not get along?" "If there's only one God, then no one here is wrong." In trying to control a thing we can't possess, we are faced with something futile that fills us with distress. So why not let life happen? let it flourish, let it grow! And then there might be something left when we wake up here tomorrow. "If we are one people, why do we fight?" "If we are one nation, why can't we unite?" "If we only have one world, why not get along?" "If there's only one God, then no one here is wrong." I'm thinking that the answer to all our discontents, Is to put down all our weapons and pick up instruments. We'll sing in our own voices and make what's different clear. But it's what we have in common that we always seem to fear. At first, it might be hard to meet our neighbors face to face. But the feelings of love and unity are things we cannot replace. "If we are one people, why do we fight?" "If we are one nation, why can't we unite?" "If we only have one world, why not get along?" "If there's only one God, then no one here is wrong." David Landrecht. This is from David Chorlton in Phoenix, Arizona. THE FIRST Someone has to be the first in war: first to shoot, first to launch the missile that brightens the sky after sunset, first to pick up the telephone and say, march. Someone has to be prepared to take the first order and light the fuse, and send up a flare that releases a force that cannot be called back. Someone must first spread the map across a table and point at where the first bomb will land, the first building to be destroyed. Someone right now is waiting for a word. But suppose that someone is listening to an ancient chant on a recording and in the stillness of that music sees centuries of destruction run through his mind as a film running backwards with cities reassembling themselves out of ruin, with the dead standing up as they come back to life. Suppose that, for once, someone says the word is Stop! Suppose he instructs all systems to stop before they lose control. Would we call him a hero? Would we arrange a parade when he comes home? Would it be possible to forgive him? The Next Ten Years what comes after 9-11? Ordinarily he'd be repeating Old stories about Troy. Her pattern, to Put down yarn, putter with the harvesting: Peas, squash. Typically, their son, the new Man, ate with his pregnant wife, left at 8, Avoided the stale air of the Great Hall, The marauding memories of when he'd wait-- Tortured by lack of news--alone and small. Not now. The world's lost its familiar spin. Manhattan spews smoke, bone. The pentagon Spills blood. TVs ooze terror. A fearful pus. And somewhere past reach of satellite or jet, in Some brutal cave, the cyclops' brilliant son Oils his machine...awaits Telemachus. Here is a poem I wrote to present at the Poems for Peace on February 12, 2003 in Westford, MA. MEMORIALS ARE FOR REMEMBERING by David Kimball Memorials are meant to move us And to keep us remembering Things we should have known and felt Before the memorials were built. The awesome Viet Nam Memorial Should keep us remembering That winning the hearts and minds Of people of foreign lands Cannot be done without Allies, Cannot be done with arrogance, Cannot be done with belligerence, Cannot be done with Agent Orange, Cannot be done with My Lai massacres, Cannot be done with superior firepower, Cannot be done with economic sanctions, Cannot be done without murdering innocents, Cannot be done, period. As we race ahead to war with Iraq, Can't we look back at Viet Nam And learn what we should have known and felt Before we need another awesome memorial? David Kimball The Every Day Of Reckoning By David Jones Soldiers ... of Christ With Missles, F-16's Stealth Bombers, Body Armour Blued , Contoured Steel Steady Vengeance It's always apocolypse The every day of reckoning Gabriel heard once again Blowing his horn This time for us So Real As Fear As Breathing. As Running As Towers falling As Sinners stalling As silence Will I be called too? I listened to the poems today having just learned that my youngest daughter, who is in the Army Reserves has been activated. We lost our oldest daughter in a car accident four years ago. I am not able to put words into a poem right now, all of my words will be in the form of prayers said daily for her safe return. Dawn Bachler Franklin, NH Deirdre Sweeney Worcester MA See me, wings spread wide, I soar above the blackened fields. I ride the increscent hecatomb, the confluence of your fine arts, your banjaxed politic. "Ssshh..., do you remember that freckled youth, chomping on his bubble gum, brow arched..." Perched upon the cumulus, this ziggurat, built by men in black suits, sweet, sacred, sun-bleached bones, some sustenance for corpulent men and crones. "... how he plucked each one from between his teeth, pacing each upon each, till his tower of gum reached higher and higher...= " From between the bones, I pluck a berry, its bitter, crimson lubricant trickles from my beak. "...he never did a moment's work, content with edible pyramids and notebook sketches..." This hunger in my belly, for the roseate cheeks of baby-skinned rebels, for minstrel boys and paupers, freshly wakened from the crib. But to content this, I must devour the womb of a nation. "Last I saw him, he was laughing... But I hear he's been laid low in the blackened fields." See me, wings spread wide, I soar above the blackened fields. I ride the increscent hecatomb, the confluence of your fine arts, your banjaxed politic. "Ssshh..., do you remember that freckled youth, chomping on his bubble gum, brow arched..." Perched upon the cumulus, this ziggurat, built by men in black suits, sweet, sacred, sun-bleached bones, some sustenance for corpulent men and crones. "... how he plucked each one from between his teeth, pacing each upon each, till his tower of gum reached higher and higher...= " From between the bones, I pluck a berry, its bitter, crimson lubricant trickles from my beak. "... he never did a moment's work, content with edible pyramids and notebook sketches..." This hunger in my belly, for the roseate cheeks of baby-skinned rebels, for minstrel boys and paupers, freshly wakened from the crib. But to content this, I must devour the womb of a nation. "Last I saw him, he was laughing... But I hear he's been laid low in the blackened fields." Were she to go, I would go, too My heart, my very soul Would leave me as away she flew I'd never more be whole. Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone The essence of my being No longer home, not here, but gone Her face, my face not seeing. If desert sands should blow her way The heat of battle sear her I ne'er could face another day Not able to be near her. Were she to go, I would go to If only in my spirit, But hold to hope is what I'll do That she'll be never near it. Denise Altman Charlotte, North Carolina Planet by Devin Hunt (age 14) Oh how each star is bright and how each star is different this one here is quite a sight One minute these creatures are peaceful and they are kind to one another then the next minute they are wrathful and have hatred for each other Oh how each star is bright this one here is quite a sight for now a great argument has commenced and all these creatures are feuding for some unseen end Now on this star a small light has appeared and thus forth the creatures have all disappeared so slowly this star now flickers its last light until it is completely dark, out of sight I for I How odd this fractured mirror that gathers the reflected Glint of evils darkness ignited in shrouds of black shot into the soul of the other. How is it evil is seen so clearly=20 in the other? Evil speaks so eloquently of others evil Evil repays evil with more evil. Evil is a mirror that can only live in it's own projection transforms in it's own reflection... The evil "doers" and the evil "ones" are the same. Diana Stone Charlotte, North Carolina Oh Say, Can You See? Dionysus filled our cups, mouth dripping, you began to feel more American than I, the latest immigrant at your party. You asked me if I get lumps in my throat when I hear the national anthem...I said no. But I failed to tell you that on occasion, I get lumps in my throat when we are herded into the belly of the whale. When the lambs blood flows on the altar of Thanatos Hades welcomes the lambs with glee And the angels no longer hand us rams for slaughter but they give us daggers dripping with our blood with heads and tongues hanging like overheated dogs And the salts of the earth themselves have become the earth. Yes, that’s when I stand at attention and say, Oh say, can you see= ?... Dolapo Adeniji Neill This poem is a Rondeau: The Oil Rig's Contingency Plan Fighting for pride. 'Evil took American lives We must defeat this Axis of Evil. Avenge the ones we love American People Rise!' Clearly poetry ruins lives. It's anti-war and we want to fight.' I'll drop poems like bombs from above Fighting for Pride. Bush, I will not turn a blind eye to your agenda, sacrifice innocent lives drowning a dove in oil, money is all you love you terrorist thug spewing lies 'Fighting for pride.' THE FORGOTTEN FEW by: David Boudreau You will never know his name or ever look into his eyes Nor will you ever see the pain he always tries to disguise sleeping out in the streets searching through his cans he has no shoes on his feet rags on his guilt dirty hands Remember the proud who faced the grave Fighting for freedom,a home for the brave All of them heroes forgotten yesterday Dying for justice and the American way He has no coat upon his back through the wind and the rain the fear of younger years is carved within his brain He went to a foreign land to fight yet another war His enemy his fellow man if he only really knew what for As devastation hits every land lives left ruins in a heap Do our leaders and rulers understand what we sow is what we reap by : David Boudreau an individual navajo in conflict ( creation story; does it entail abuse?) she dies within me to live once again outside ( the long walk; just how long and how many survived? ) she dies within me to live once again outside ( boarding school acculturazation: how many lost?) she dies within me to live once again outside (unquestioned enlistment in wars; did questions come in ?) she dies within me to live once again outside Outside the war is them among us...exposed in layers of hidden duct tape and alliegence to our cause while we try to find them in fears larger than our own backyards. Henry Etcitty FROM: Emily Ferrara Worcester, MA DATE: March 3, 2003 Changeling How have we brought ourselves to this marred and sullen night? Heed me: Those who believe the lies of the fathers Will dangle dangerously above the seething cauldron of godforsaken ideals. What becomes of great thinkers and revolutionary poets? Their stale words spoil on the tongue. This season of self-flagellation and dutiful rage has spawned a limitless urgency of desire. Pale reflection against a dark and brooding time. Step up to the mirror. Make peace with yourself. by Emily Ferrara November Storm Through this morning vale of tears the shielded sky flails: four birds trace an arc of forbearance errant flag waves, heir apparent, offers hope through haze, reveals this day of finite blue relief, a prayer unveiled. by Emily Ferrara Erik Langner ode to saddam by “W” i shall scrub the earth of you you feckless swine in the purified terrain i will sow my fecundity gaia will bear titans and warriors to impose my will on your impotence you fecal bastard i will see that you feast on my excrement as the curled hair on your teat is singed by the flames of hades damnation chasms of despair the river styx will flow in a torrent of angst and glee to receive your pitiful remains to fold your viscera into its riparian arms i will vanquish and destroy you i shall draw strength from your demise you pray to your failed deities plead to corrupt priests you wraith and prepare your soul for it shall be extinguished by my rage War never ended, it exists in living minds. It involved favors lended, from ancestors before our time. These former enemies befriended, mimic portrayals of crime. Like a charade, it passed down violence. Society decays while sitting in silence. Technology leads to betray ourselves from being self-righteous, when the belief progress is made if masses use science. However, these problems invade thought process of being above this. Only war can be made when we fail to create awareness. In exchange for stones cast in vain, it's true life may grant us. Not war nor death, rather years gained out of respect for all life around us. Because war never ended, it exists from time to time. It involves weakness mended. Strength future generations will find. Erin Dyer Keene NH look at this now he's not real they are real and they end people's lives like THAT. Estrella Holtzknecht/Berosini North Pomfret, Vermont ANGEL by Estrella Holtzknecht/Berosini THE SOUL ESCAPES ITS EXILE FROM HEAVEN PIECE BY DAMAGED PEACE WITH EACH STOUT BLOW OF DISHARMONY FRAGMENTED AND RELEASED IN DIRECT PROPORTION TO OUR INABILITY TO CREATE HEAVEN ON EARTH AS IF EACH BIRTH IS OF AN ANGEL SENT HERE TO TRY AS IF WE DIE A LITTLE WITH EACH HURT THAT DEFIES INNOCENCE... THE SOUL ESCAPES ITS EXILE FROM HEAVEN PIECE BY DAMAGED PEACE UNTIL EACH SHARD OF SOUL HAS GONE FLYING BACK TO THE ORIGINAL NEW DREAM Twin Tears By Greg Farber As crude pours down like summer showers and the air is thick with sand and soot, houses blaze and factories smolder. While mothers' tears mingle amongst daughters' blood, their small stuttering sobs maturing into full bodied wails, our ever tender, warmhearted leader, our sentimental commander in chief, dries his own dampened cheeks and wipes his dry reddened eyes, shoulders slumped and sagging, sorrow apparent with every step. Though the mothers cry for brothers gone, sons unborn, and husbands who will not return, our president's tears are no less concerned for all those forever lost barrels of oil,= for all the fallen shares of stock knocked down without remorse. And as the crude black seeps back into the sand beneath the battered bodies of the slain his heart reaches out, across miles of churning seas becoming one with the broken widow, their tumbling tears forever entwined. Greg Farber We're getting ready to go to war There's nothing I can do The Congress is silent, there's no debate There's nothing I can do Our homeland is threatened and insecure There's nothing I can do Billions are spent on guns, not schools There's nothing I can do We're paying our allies to help make war There's nothing I can do The National Guard is shipping out There's nothing I can do The U.N. inspectors need more time There's nothing I can do Our leaders dismiss our calls for peace There's nothing I can do Innocent children will lose their lives There's nothing I can do We're getting ready to go to war Is there nothing I can do? Nancy Fernandez Mills www.flexibleyoga.com __________________________________________________ Six anti-war poems BY GARY CORSERI (bio note at bottom) WAR HAIKU 1. go little haiku-- plum blossom sinking viral teeth into smart bombs. 2. through the barbed wire a moon pearl in a gray sky. dead-stiff fingers reach. WEATHER REPORT The forecast for tomorrow is light to moderate bombing ... There is a low pressure system in the heart of the city ... Flash fires are expected in the northernmost sector ... Precipitation will be two to three inches ... The blood is not expected to freeze before nightfall ... The weather will hold for the weekend. NOW FLOAT ME DOWN Now float me down from that high town, my love; for we are born to sorrow, men have said, and cannot travel where the angels rove; now float me down to ground where men have bled. There, heartache cannot thunder through our skin; we're drenched to magic, drunken out of time; the hours dance like refugees between our arms; the cool moon's hanging like a dime. Here, where we're waked by sudden storms of bombs, the infant's world is strangled with a groan; Death, perched on crutches, pesters us for alms. O, do not rush me here, now float me down. The ghosts of many gunners chafe the ground where we dance heart to heart and make no sound. THE CHILDREN OF CAINE Men do not kill for abstractions. They do not enter other men's homes killing the others' women and children for the sake of beautiful words like "freedom." "Honor" does not pour from the wounds, but the bright coins of terror close the dead eyes. Nobody whispers "love of country," but the name of a loved one may choke one choking on his blood and vomit. Who sends these men to do his bidding? Isn't it Caine, brooding over his burnt offering? Doesn't his spirit brood over this world? Maybe they lie, the old priests, the old priests salting our wounds in the name of beneficence. They see the mark of Caine on our foreheads, however concealed, winnowing through: the mark of malleable clay, to be used by the cleverest, and discarded: all the icons of all the gods exploded, save one-- the gold one. CANTATA 1. Our bed of love was covered with black roses. The rain was red. 2. The fishhook exploded in our mouths. You leapt from water, writhing and naked, glittering with blood. "Darling," you said, "if we get out of this..." 3. The rest is history. THE TRICKSTER The trickster's afoot. He runs down the Zeitgeist. He steals the golden apples. He is a virus in our minds, infecting everything we hear-- our own thoughts. He garbles our speech, turns history into a burning tire necklace, lights matches under our heels. He's the gunman in our bloodstreams. Whatever good we imagine he spits into wind. "Look!" he says we are beautiful. "Listen!" he gestures like an angel. Who can resist such forceful beguilement? Like Daniel, we enter the fire. But we're singed, burned, crispy. Where is God in this whirlwind? How shall we ever find God again? After this holocaust, after this Black Rain, in what cell does our belief remain? GARY CORSERI has published poetry and prose in GEORGIA REVIEW, CITY LIGHTS REVIEW, THE NEW YORK TIMES, VILLAGE VOICE, REDBOOK and over 100 other publications in the U.S. and abroad. He has published two collections of poetry and two novels, and his dramas have been performed on Atlanta PBS (PBA) and elsewhere. THE OBVIOUS CONCLUSION Boer War, Crimean War, Civil War, French & Indian War, Franco-Prussian War, Gallic Wars, Greek Civil War, Hundred Years' War, Indian Wars Korean War, Mexican War, Opium War, Peasants' War, Peloponnesian War, Persian Gulf War, Prussian War, Revolutionary War, Russo-Japanese War, Russo-Turkish Wars, Seven Weeks' War, Seven Years' War, Sino-Japanese War, Six-Day War, Spanish-American War, Spanish Civil War, Thirty Years' War, Vietnam War, War of the Austrian Succession, War of the Bavarian Succession, War of 1812, War of the Polish Succession, War of the Roses, War of the Spanish Succession, World Wars I & II. Enough, already. More than enough. Sorry, I messed up my submission. Let me try again. This is a war poem I'm sending in response for your call for submissions. There's nothing I can write about war. My children are sleeping. I have a light at my side, and a pen in my steady hand. There's nothing I know about war. Dinner hovers the kitchen and covers my breath. And my husband pulls in. There's nothing I understand about war. I scratch at my sweater and kick at my shoes wondering what I'll do tomorrow. where I'll drive, who I'll call, what I'll buy without thinking. There's nothing I can imagine about war. Is it more of a storm where we can all hide with a howling wind overhead? Or do you see the injured eye of a sniper and think There's nothing to gain from a war. Geri Ann McLaughlin "War" There's nothing I can write about war. My children are sleeping. I have a light at my side, and a pen in my steady hand. There's nothing I know about war. Dinner hovers the kitchen and covers my breath. AMERICA...AMERICA America... please look at yourself soul to bear upon the pride of youth America...do not get old and fail to grow in wisdoms way do not swat at flies of Grenadian sea-glistening sandy shoals America...do not expect so much of a world not as secure as ours. ...the world cries for your leadership without Marine-style diplonacy. We are so great, so why act so small the only refuge from hell on earth give the refugees shelter... again for today's tough food is tomorrow's strength America.. America... blessed are thou among nations do not lose your soul for great natioins only give, of themselves America... America... be father, mother sister & brother... to all our universe. by E. Ted gladue... after President Reagans invasion of Grenada a few days after 247 U.S. Marines died in Beirut. Memorials I walked across the peaceful lawn in Washington, D.C., to the monument for the fallen, and touched the names of those who died victims of war, And the names touched me back. I walked across the peaceful lawn in Kent, Ohio, to the monument for the fallen and touched the names of those who died victims of war, And the names touched me back. Fifty-seven thousand entries carved in the black granite ledger. Page after cold dark page, the roll of warriors sacrificed, Cold to my touch dark, dead. Which one took my place? Four entries carved in the black granite ledger. One cold dark page, the roll of children sacrificed, Cold to my touch dark, dead. Which one took my place? Hermon R. Card War. No more. By Marilyn Hertenstein Here in is a poem submitted to Here and Now by Rachel A. Parens MASSACRE AT MALLOT Rachel A. Parens In satisfying garden grass trees lettuce & beans hardly drooping tulips caressing sun I read "Macbeth" "Do you not hope your children shall be kings?" On the radio FM's Sizinsky from a school in Maalot "Getting on to 5:20 Near deadline Student hostages begged Israelis to release their terrorist prisoners" Guerrillas push "You're playing with these children's lives" Sizinsky again "Last time to release Arab prisoners is 6 p.m. Suspended Dead quiii SHOTS SH OTTS SHOTTSS SHHTTS BRDUDDUHH DUH DUHDUDNDUH BRKKHHHH DUH DUHDUHHHH BRKKKHHH I count my sons WHERE Above Sizinsky's drone first son's violin rides sweetly on air from his attic window Smallest son fights the tallest kid around But middle son WHERE WHERE O soccer practice GOD Maalot's not here A Cat During Wartime Saturday morning at my desk expecting the distant roar of jets or the nightmare thwap-thwap-thwap-thwap of helicopter blades The old cat slinks through the open window sensual, until fear throws her to her haunches and her claws scrape thickly painted sills sending her skedaddling across pillows and unmade blankets to a book cluttered floor to her hiding place under a wooden bed frame to her nest of dead letters as geese pass by in tight formation so close I see the orange in their eyes honking: dee-deet-dat-die dee-deet-dat-die dee-deet- dat-die dee-deet- dat-die- dee-deet-dat-die deet-dee deet-dat -dat -dat -die dee-dat dee-deet-dat-die like an octet of saxophones and clarinets blowing on a four tone vamp. And soon, they too are gone. The Oil's Curse He who covets Arabian Oil Is sure as the Devil to become embroiled In the ancient struggle for Palestine's soil - Sean Moir (Moyer) Valley Forge, PA cheese eating surrender monkeys beat by meat beating military junkies All blue lite from every new cultisac home room living by television time adspace prime realestate airwaves sit on a site of independent & free viewers scared walmart circulars hoist flags halfway memory signal tell me how to feel imagination fire letters from an unreading republican representative layers and layers, history and deeds, religious furvour east and west I dont agree, strong words and strong deeds, why dont I agree? SHOPPING AT THE END OF THE WORLD Red is a color I’ve never worn. But today, passing by red velvet leggings in a boutique window, bright as any riding hood or poison apple, as if by spell I’m drawn inside where red is anger and what comes after, both disease and cure in a world of kisses left on paper napkins. My fingers brush nap, scalloped hem quickly, the way children pass their thumbs through candle flame to test their bravery. I peek at the price tag—outrageous—think of the morning headlines, assault in the olive groves, the hackneyed rhymes of war. Do I spend, or save? Change my life entirely, give it all away? Tomorrow this red could be gone. Jennifer Markell Jamaica Plain, MA Wizards of Technology Don't worry, folks We have technology Stealth fighters Satellite imaging Computer chips in missiles that Allow them to hit a single target with no mistakes and if there is one (let's face it, there's less danger here than every time you pile your children into your late-model SUV which, with the magic of technology, in twenty years you'll be able to drive to grandma's and back without the guilt of relying on foreign oil) we have cameras to take photos of the collateral damage from space close enough for information far enough that we don't see their stricken faces or the blood pooling at their backs. Your child (father, mother, sister, uncle, friend) going off to fight? Don't worry, folks, We have technology Hardened armor Global positioning Wristwatches to pinpoint them Anywhere at all So long as their hand is still connected to their arm. And if it's not (let's face it, there's less danger here than every time you breathe the carbon-dioxide-laced air or get caught in the acid rain which, with the magic of technology, in fifty years will be clean and neutral without the pain of complying with inconvenient treaties) you'll have the comfort of a piece of your loved one to bury definite identification and besides the face, which we may not retrieve the hand is the most human of body parts. And what, you ask, Of the technology that takes our single loaf and feeds the multitude that maps a shared DNA into feelings of brotherhood that distributes supply onto demand in perfect one-to-one correspondence? That, finally, translates platitudes we teach our children (use your words) into grown-up behavior? Don't be naive. The magic of technology Will transform our world But you can't expect us to save it. J.K. Hahn Unknown Feat For a long time I kept a copy of the Metro just out of casual sight, on my desk. The cover had a photo of "the feet of an unidentified victim," peering out from rubble, or a black plastic bag. The dirt and ash go without saying, but the feet still looked clean or well cared for. Like perfectly tumbled pebbles in a Vermont stream, each toe grinned at me. I wanted to knead them between my finger tips, the way you would to a new lover who had just awoken for the first time in your bed. I was living alone then, with only my morbid attachment to that image to keep me company. You told me to write about the war. I said it was a stupid idea, that I am not political. Let us go to bed, so that in the morning I can watch your sleeping body and press the sole of your foot against my damp face in apology. -Johanna Brewer Thousands of Boys and Girls are Marching Thousands of boys and girls are marching, We've trained them how to main and kill. Not knowing what it is they're facing, They'll do their job with deadly skill. They'll drop the bombs and aim the missiles, Shoot the bullets and fire the shells. Thousands of boys and girls are marching, Doomed to create a million hells. Thousands of boys and girls are marching, We've told them that their goal is just. The world will be a safer place, When the enemy has been reduced to dust. But who will erase the sounds of anguish Men and women crying in pain. The sight of children torn and broken, Their parents screaming and praying in vain. What politicians back in Washington, Will comfort them and hold their hands. When unknown grief and fear assails them, As comrades blood spills on the sands. Thousands of boys and girls are marching, The drums of war will never cease. Why aren't there more than thousands marching, Trained instead to bring us peace? John H. Strandquist LtCol, USMC (Retired) It Started in Texas It's not the end of the world, it's the end of an election Ann Richards consoled us NBC news calls Florida, and it's 25 electoral votes for Al Gore Tom Brokaw misled us James Baker barked at us Does he need a rabis shot? The world stopped turning Alan Jackson sang to us. You reap what you sow The Bible makes clear to us (right there in page 1439) Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves can restore us to sanity The twelve steps suggested to us Why didn't more Texans vote for Ann too? the cowboy joseph centofante aye aye aye aye yippiaye a the cowboy he was killed today died with his boots on so far away aye aye aye aye yippiaye a aye aye aye aye yippiaye a the cowboy he came home today died with his boots on i heard them say aye aye aye aye yippiaye a aye aye aye aye yippiaye a the cowboy he was buried today died with his boots on here he lays aye aye aye aye yippiaye a Jude Rittenhouse Westerly, War and Peace Cold as hell if hell were cold. Cold as the heart of an iceberg. War is a cold so extreme it cannot see spring coming: lilac and lily of the valley preparing to perfume earth once more. War knows no feeling, yet knows how ocean feels when temperatures drop below five degrees and waves watch their heat--their life--escaping: changing ocean's surface to smoking debris. Waiting beneath war's frigid lies, peace hides in silence. Peace gently holds her wounded child, war, who struggles to hide tears of pain, anger, shame. Who flails crazily, while peace deceives us like a magician's smoke: attracting yet eluding our aching souls. Yes, we think of peace like a fragile Madonna who might disappear or implode, though peace is a blood-red fire flickering at the center of each guarded heart. Picture a snake's tongue tasting the air as snake twines herself to strike. Think of peace that way: a coiled flame, waiting. Waiting for us to open our fearful hearts. Which war shall we fight? by Judy Dunn Where is the common vision? We laser guide precision bombs But we have lost our compassion weapons. We need to heal the raging wound stripped bare. Duct tape will not put out the flaming fires of hate. Are we afraid to see the seeds of hate we sow? Is it easier to see our differences in battle, And not despair against our common humanity in pain? Are we so afraid to engage in the real battle that We must drop our bombs from high up in the sky? Let us wage a war from afar. Let us give the enemy a face of evil. But what of all the others who will die in this battle? What of the poverty and despair that will grow in it's wake? Who will wage the war to heal that wound? Why can it not be us? Once again I found this to be a great project. I was not able to go to the rally in New York with my husband and oldest daughter, but have been making phone calls, signing petitions, and generally following what is going on with the war. It was very gratifying to be able to express = some of what I was feeling about the war in a creative outlet, rather = than the usual reasoned discussions. It made me really think about what = my essential feelings were about this war. Judy Dunn, Acton, MA Warcry A sorcerer in the guise of rain conjures up earthworms, glistening. I try to place my feet slowly to avoid their moving bodies; still their death is certain. Forced up for air, their flesh dissolves in water, leaving sidewalks strewn with corpses once the sun returns. Bombs rain down on Libya, Nicaragua, Iraq caught between deaths, the people keep surfacing for breath. Go back to your black rich burrows. Go back to the arms of the earth. But safe lairs have turned to graves; plagues and rains awaken in us. The tooth of the plow devours green heads in the fields: we consume ourselves. Kara Provost Assoc. Professor/Chair Suzanne Winchester Grantham, New Hampshire Soldiers Made What are soldiers made of, made of? What are soldiers made of? A baby's laugh his mother remembers; A heavy school bag from a recent September; A rented tux for a high school dance; Son, friend, neighbor-now warrior, at second glance. What are soldiers not made of, made of? What are soldiers not made of? A politician's red power tie; Corporate profit of a stock market's high; White coats of doctors should the gas mask fail; To our shame, history retells the tale. Soldiers Made What are soldiers made of, made of? What are soldiers made of? A baby's laugh, A girl's first dance, A young wife's tears, Hope and future. What are soldiers not made of, made of? What are soldiers not made of? A politician's safe arm chair, Money made by corporations, A hyped-up cause to hiss or cheer, A history lesson unlearned. A Small Child Weeps by: Kenneth J. Houck, Sr. A small child weeps hard for Daddy, "Why can't he come home and hug me tight?" Across the country a new bride grieves for now her groom will kiss her no more. A wailing is heard from a mother's door. The chaplain tells her, "Your son is dead." All these men are heroes in our land. They died for country; they died for God. Many noble ones perished for freedom's sake. Their cause is just; their aim was right. Then pray for the folks who gave of their own as you pray for the soles of all the dead- ofall our opponents and allies departed. fields of cross (a rush to war) a deadline hides in the distance a line is drawn in the sand to deliver prohetic justice and ambition unconcealed or contrived fullfillment of manuscript perpetuating primal utterances, let's ralley together the rights of our offense and remember the wages we yet earned and hear the voices on fields of cross in defense, raised arms be just power has no barrier to be dismayed yet, the mighty aspire to protect as to hold and chosen are the sides choosing sword and pen and faith and flag wave true without doubt yet the space between words remain forever trapped by smoke and sacrifice This pen, a gift of the lottery to Nam where the smell of the field was never to come yet the call to arms knocks once more First asking for tape, tomorrow my son Kent Looft Chandler, AZ fieldsofcross(arushtowar) +++++++++++++++++++++++++ adeadlinehidesinthedistance, alineisdrawninthesand todeliverproheticjustice andambitionunconcealed orcontrivedfullfillmentofmanuscript +++++++++++++++++++++++++ perpetuatingprimalutterances, let'sralleytogethertherightsofouroffence andrememberthewagesweyetearned hearthevoicesonfieldsofcross ++++++++++++++++++++++++ indefense,raisedarmsbejust powerhasnobarriertobedismayed yet,themightyaspiretoprotectastohold andchosenarethesideschoosingswordandpen andfaithandflagwavetruewithoutdoubt yetthespacebetweenwordsremain forevertrappedbysmokeandsacrifice ++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ThispenagiftofthelotterytoNam wherethesmellofthefieldwasnevertocome yetthecalltoarmsknocksoncemore Firstaskingfortape,tomorrowmyson Sorry for the unusual formatting, but the feeling of discomfort and confusion is present and revealed in the structure. It was difficult to write as it should be to read. Kent Looft "Dear President Bush" Oh where have you taken Our sons and our daughters? They have slipped through our arms Crossed deep and dark waters To places unknown and to unknown extremes So that you can have The war of your dreams History's no teacher It's now plain to see The lessons are lost To our own vanity But can you look up From your grandiose schemes And wake from the visions That are only your dreams? Oh, where have you taken Our daughters and sons? We once held them close But now they're gone To do as your bidding Whatever the means So you can have The war of your dreams History's no teacher It's now plain to see The lessons are lost To our own vanity But when they return Laid under colors that gleam They can never awaken From the war Of your dreams P.T. 1971 Two thousand feet pass 0600 sweat white black yellow brown Hup-Ho-o-Ladeeeooooo Hup-Ho-o-Ladeeeooooo dawn rap bazooka joes fatigued nephews shouted Hup-Ho-o-Ladeeeooooo Hup-Ho-o-Ladeeeooooo about some preacher caught with a whore in a cornfield Hon-eee! Hon-eee! Their mojo steel machine gunned jizz just past boys who cried or vomited screaming Airborne Ba-abee! Ba-abee! 0605 thundered Hon-eee Ba-aa-aby Mine! Kimberley L. Phillips, a history professor at the College of William and Mary, on leave and living in Somerville, MA Kristyn Reid At the Pier A cold fright hard and pellety sleet-white falling falling from profane eyes frost on your Navy blue I wave it from titan shoulders not wanting you to bear my anxiety too a planet chokes hate pill caught in the throat rising rising in dissension the Generals want their war I miss you already Kristyn Y. Reid Feb 2003 hickorybeef boy o boy eatin a campfire again and that smokey grease stuck on my teeth... meat--and lean--dried to keep--never mind the skein on the bone, what chews like gum never thought I'd long for that to keep me up-- on these long heather highways even grass hurts my feet chasing gunsmoke through a sponge of mire chasing t' die--t' die--in the name of the mete principle--and fair--the long sleep; never but a blind stone; to skew my bum never thought I'd long for that my pup well weathered though I be L E Curtin 28 Miles South of Iraq by Linda D. Yeaton How did I create you? Did I do it right? Wrong? By accident? I spent so much time guiding . . . molding . . . shaping . . . yelling to get you to be who I wanted you to be -- yet you bucked me at every chance. You had your own mind, your own thoughts, your own goals. I tried to correct you . . . lead you . . . make you listen -- yet you bucked me at every chance. My way wasn't your way, my ideas weren't your ideas, my plans didn't match your plans. I wanted so much for you and you seemed to want so little. I wanted you to excel in school, go to college, have an important job. Yet you bucked me at every chance. You were happy with laughing and having fun and living one day at a time. Now here you are -- 28 miles south of Iraq and I wonder -- how did I create you? How did this boy turn into a man? How did you take on such noble aspirations? Such protective purpose? Such deadly aim? You're only 19 -- with still so far to go . . . How did I create you? Did I do it right? Wrong? By accident? You wake each morning . . . 28 miles south of Iraq. Linda D. Yeaton Havelock, NC We Are But One People We are but one people, of many different kinds. We are many different voices, we are many different minds. We are but one people, of many different faces. We are many different colors, from many different places. We are but one people, this we must all see. We are joined with one another, together becoming `we'. We are but one people, our differences are vast. We are together in our future, divided in our past. We are but one people, together we are strong. We are playing different music, but singing the same song. We are but one people, embrace the differences you face. We are but one people, we are the human race. Loretta DiDonato Copyright ©2003 Loretta DiDonato TV War The story tonight, a woman killed in a bomb blast, nothing mentioned about the grocery list still warm in her pocket, the few library books she left on the kitchen counter, the neat stack of utility bills, on the bread board a loaf of bread in a brown bag. We weren't told she didn't have time to scream, and at the time a child nearby splattered crimson, a doll clutched by the wrist, its feet dragging on the messy pavement We weren't shown the victim's splayed legs, face marled and charred like a fireplace log still smoking a bit too. She used to be someone's neighbor, a beloved aunt, the mother of three the TV script didn't say, didn't refer to the red-black blood, a rivulet along the curb, the way it lifted and carried a leaf into the grated storm drain. Nothing like rain a different smell all together. Louise Taylor Concord, MA Wild Horses Standing before the Wall Michael's hook captures the orange fire of dusk raised high in a smart salute to a time in his life The quietly grazing water buffalo he felled with a single shot Wild horses running in a pack singled out and cut down with the puncture of his bayonet A solitary figure working a patch of desecrated soil spun completely around by the rap beat of his m60 as a snowy white egret flew straight ahead into the morning light Marc Swan West Barnstable, MA Marisa Kopelva Freshman Central High School Phoenix, AZ The Clock of War The clock of war spins around, Whirling our lives into hatred. It never knows our pain and suffering, yet Makes us live it over again. Detestation is the beginning and death Is the unfortunate end result, But the hate urges the clock on. It depressingly revolves over and over. No one knows how to stop it but they feel Free to encourage it. To talk with the Grim Reaper himself, to Support the death of the innocent. There's no where to turn, because Everything is covered in the horrible corruption. It's either one against another, or Them against him. The never ending cycle continues on, To find fresh new victims Who are compelled to die, Those people caught in the web. The love of one cannot replace the hate of another, But forces the love to die. Everything in the path of war, destroyed. Everything that was good. The clock of war, waits immobile, Waiting for the hate of another where The clock spins faster. Whirling our lives into more hatred. Mark Bonica *** Inchon Landing, 2002 We land at Inchon quite unlike MacArthur: immaculate steel and glass, laser-activated moving sidewalks, free baggage carts, the USO and welcoming faces. But we are now in range of enemy artillery fire, the airport pre-targeted for the first barrage. On the bus to Taegu the hours pass as we roll through blossoming green hills. A colonel remembers: "When I was here in '76, there were no trees." First there was the Japanese rape, then the Russians and Americans dividing, the Communists and Task Force Smith, the Chinese hordes with their whistles -- back and forth back and forth in a lullaby of violence. The armistice sleeps on and forty-nine years later I lie awake in my tent thinking of my wife -- how might she like to live in Seoul in the shadow of enemy guns? "The shopping is great," I tell her on the phone. ARTIFACT A man writes, more than a hundred years past to my present, “It is all I know how to say.” He is so close in his words & immediately under my skin. To me, the war in his words is fought & finished. A photograph of fields overlaid by defeated bodies. A war like all wars, fiercely ignorant of life & what it is to have it, the rareness of it, its blessed singularity. “It is all I know how to say,” the man writes, “that today I will kill & I will die today.” We do not know war by Martha Rose Reeves We do not know war Mother media has taken war away from us. Her news machines have grated and chopped war up Into bits and bytes Chewed quickly and swallowed fast. We cannot Recognize the whole when it comes. One helicopter down- One smallish bomb- One unexpected death- One surprise missile- Which one announces: This is the beginning? Is it when families turn round and find the offspring of their flesh camouflaged into gravel and earth? Is it when vertical caravans laden with merchants and goods buckle and spill their sweet contents onto the too solid sands of Manhattan? Everyday the news declares: We might go to war. Duct tape your doors- Duct tape your windows- Duct tape your life- The war has already started. As the wounded men walk across the thick slopy mud, some have no legs arms and so on, there is no sound just the trees wistleing in the wind, then bang the war has started again, as men fall front and back of me, i must rest now, this is the place of death, the murdered men march no more DON'T TAKE DAVID by Mary Cronin The biggest thing about David is his Timberland boots. At eight years old, he's a peanut of a kid, not yet grown into his big teeth, dark circles under darker eyes. He struggles to read as his jittery pulse pumps Ritalin through his veins which are just visible beneath the translucent olive skin of his temples. When he comes to you in ten years to sign on for some military action, turn him away. Tell his to put those hands of his to their intended use-- fixing and building. Turn him away. Don't take David. Winter Winter waits in the wing, while the songbird strains to sing Sounds more like a scream. Corrupted clouds cover the sky, tarnished tears they will cry From midnight's bad dream. Stone-cold glances perpetuate hate, billion-dollar budgets crucify fate On a slide-rule cross. Selected sons service their Nations, meaningless motions secure= confrontations With immeasurable cost. Antiquated rhetoric lines icy aisles, mumbled curses slip through false smiles It is cordial suicide. Cold calculations confirm limited losses upon crumpled scratch paper used for wastebasket tosses They made four out of five! (It was personal pride.) Peace is poised on a shattered window's ledge, life is forsaken for the competitive edge In the ruinous race. Suspended sympathy for society's survival and energetic apathy allow the "dreaded rival" To hasten the pace. Stock-piled investments in destruction and death eliminate hope for a gasping last breath To save the human soul. The "questioning why" slowly fades away, silent surrender to the fate of the day Tempers of tyrants take their toll. With Winter waiting in the wing, how will the songbird learn to sing Songs of Life? Will cancerous clouds consume the sky and leave no trace of tears to cry Over nuclear strife? Copyright 2002 Michael Bresnick Seven Generations Seven generations down the future line It matters not what lies beneath Iraqi lime. Seven generations must we consider carefully With each action and decision weighed judiciously. Seven generations must we contemplate. For the consequence of haste is far too great. As a pebble in the lake ripples exponentially The aftershocks will take their toll eventually. We have much to learn from those who came before. We have much to protect for those whose fate will follow. There is burden in the bearing of the weight of the world And a void for speaking words that do not ring hollow. We have much to change in the way we view the past. We have much to alter in the way we live today. There is a whisper in the din of the confusion of the moment With a message for those waiting to herald the better day. Seven generations may not even be sufficient To heal the wounds from deeds of false ambition. Change will need to spread in waves of good intentions Built on lifetimes filled with focus on the global dimension. Seven generations in the future will they praise? Or curse the lasting legacy of failure and deceit? Seven generations of children and their children Are counting on our choices for the circle to complete. Copyright 2002 Michael Bresnick Stewards of Survival We must decide if we deserve this planet We have to decide right now We must determine if we are the stewards of survival Or simply slaves to some arbitrary vow. We must not expect a life of status quo We take far too much for granted We must embrace our brethren in all their glory And simply do what God commanded. Awesome is the responsibility for life Awesome too, our arsenal. Is there reconciliation for our weapons and our worthiness? Or have we rendered ourselves disposable? We must not allow these events to define us We need to immediately intervene We stand at the brink of irreversible momentum For there will be no =93what could have been=94. Are we willing to risk the ultimate affront? An offense so great it reveals The savage within or the transcended humanity The internal conflict that will burn or heal. Copyright2002 Michael Bresnick Michelle Lerner __________________________________________________ Bones In our bones we are all scream and hunger. Boiled down to our essentials that is what is left, no politics or opinions, no subtleties of personality, just bones and the drive to hold them in place. We are all the same. Most Americans do not realize this as they purse their lips in the mirror move their hair this way and that, as they walk along the street thinking about the details of their day. If they were running through the desert chased by the shockwaves of a bomb, hair matted to their heads and necks, a child flung across one arm, the details would all disappear and they would be left with their bones, and with the sensation of air escaping from their chests, thrown back into the fundamental feeling of what it is like to be human. Bones are not collateral, they are not inconsequential. The soldier, the martyr, the refugee, the child crying in the street. Our work is nothing, our needs nothing compared to the clatter of their bones falling in the wake of what we do. October, 2001 See To It Yourself I have killed men. It took a long time to admit that to myself, Much less admit it to you. As a soldier I have killed, Out of necessity, out of revenge, out of rage. But I lost my spirit, my soul, myself. So I have put down my gun. I have emptied my hands. I walk in peace, in penance, Living a life of contrition for the damage I have done. I will kill no more.=20 I want no more of violence. I have already given you my soul. If you want more men dead, see to it yourself. Not through surrogates, Not from afar, But up close, at a few paces Where you can see their eyes, Their pain, their fear. Up Close Where you can taste and smell the effects of your violence, So you can carry their faces forever And see their blood on your hands. If you want more men dead See to it yourself. From " A journey Through A Warrior's Soul" by Michael P. Maurer From Jacquelin L. Bash, Brattleboro Vermont: Forever War I know I dream for if I did not dream I would despair. We march in myriad rows, alike, unfeeling, a unity of feet. Forced by empty words to empty deeds without humanity. We build a cadenced sound that serves each as a heartbeat. No other sound is heard on this dull plain where soles and souls can only lift to strike our earthly home eternal blows. WAR AND PEACE BY BILL SINGER Hussein was greedy and wanted more oil, So his army invaded a friendly neighbor's soil. His demands were too hard for these good people, They were much higher than a cathedral's steeple. The Republican Army seeked to impose their will, But it was too much to swallow, more than a pill. They were told to get out by a certain date, For if not, it would certainly seal their fate. They ignored warning after warning, They could not see that a new day was dawning. The U.S. sent in their young girls and boys, Who made those soldiers look like a lot of toys. Back home crime was on the rise, How it would end was hard to foretell or surmise. Is police brutality the order of the day? If the answer is social or political no one can say. The police beating on video shook people to the core, We must all proclaim loud and clear, NO MORE. War and Peace Bill Singer, Scottsdale, AZ Hussein was greedy and wanted more oil So his army invaded a friendly neighbor's soil. His demands were too high for these good people, They were much higher than a cathedral's steeple. The Republican army sought to impose their will, But it was too much to swallow, more than a pill. They were told to get out by a certain date, For if not, it would certainly seal their fate. They ignored warning after warning, They could not see that a new day was dawning. The U.S. sent in their young girls and boys, Who made those soldiers look like a lot of toys. Back home crime was on the rise, How it would end was hard to foretell or surmise. Is police brutality the order of the day? If the answer is social or political, no one can say. The police beating on video shook people to the core, We must all proclaim loud and clear, NO MORE. . . Uncle Sam I Am or Now We Know That The W Stands for Warmonger by Nancy Boutilier I am the White House resident. I am the U. S. President. And in the footsteps of my Dad, I want to wage my own jihad. I want to win this oil game. I do not like Saddam Hussein. If no one helps me bomb Iraq, I will launch my own attack. I do not like Saddam Hussein. I’ll use my soldiers, so-well-trained To rule the world, to win, win, win; To rock the cave of Bin Laden. I am the White House resident. I want to set some precedent For pipeline where and when I want it, I have the power, I can flaunt it. All these weapons of mass destruction at my disposal, at my instruction. I do not like Saddam Hussein. God Bless Me, Uncle Sam, I am. I do not like Saddam Hussein. I want to cause him lots of pain. I will bomb him. I’m the one. I am my father=92s chosen son. We=92re finished with Afghanistan. It=92s time to get Saddam Hussein. So, grab a flag and wave it high as more fanatic heathens die. That evil axis bad, bad, bad. Let’s detroy it, starting with Baghdad. I do not like Saddam Hussein. I do not like to use my brain. So join my cause, get on the train. Say it: "I do not like Saddam Hussein." Say it again, you can’t resist! Join me, a world-class terrorist. by Nancy Boutilier Oberlin, OH Uncle Sam I Am or Now We Know That The W Stands for Warmonger by Nancy Boutilier I am the White House resident. I am the U. S. President. And in the footsteps of my Dad, I want to wage my own jihad. I want to win this oil game. I do not like Saddam Hussein. If no one helps me bomb Iraq, I will launch my own attack. I do not like Saddam Hussein. I=92ll use my soldiers, so-well-trained To rule the world, to win, win, win; To rock the cave of Bin Laden. I am the White House resident. I want to set some precedent For pipeline where and when I want it, I have the power, I can flaunt it. All these weapons of mass destruction at my disposal, at my instruction. I do not like Saddam Hussein. God Bless Me, Uncle Sam, I am. I do not like Saddam Hussein. I want to cause him lots of pain. I will bomb him. I’ m the one. I am my father’s chosen son. We’re finished with Afghanistan. It’ s time to get Saddam Hussein. So, grab a flag and wave it high as more fanatic heathens die. That evil axis bad, bad, bad. Let’ s detroy it, starting with Baghdad. I do not like Saddam Hussein. I do not like to use my brain. So join my cause, get on the train. Say it: "I do not like Saddam Hussein." Say it again, you can=92t resist! Join me, a world-class terrorist. by Nancy Boutilier Oberlin, OH I wrote this as I listened to your program. I will not smith it. I live in New England, New Hampshire, Candia, I am Nelson George I was always the right age I was a hawk I was far too young to fight (why don’t we just nuke nam) I was a dove I was ripe in physical ability to fight (there was no fight to be had) I am past that wonderful prime I am a hawk I am ready to enforce our right to freedom (vicariously through today’s youth) Conquering War Looking around at the faces I see wondering what will come when I'm free Comparing my state to the ones oversea No wonder some hate us, don't want us to be A bomb can stifle and conquer a race A game we play could turn right in our face The war within our minds, which dismay The obstacle of progress may block the way To understand the position we hold Should it make our requests so bold? Choices confront us, our voices in the wind Now more then ever ourselves we defend. What thought do we share, with whom do we care The political motives, do they make us aware of avoidance of conflict, allies we appease And others consider our plight a big tease. So I question the trance of my state in the whole Bitter yet longing with what's left to control Apologetic and hopeful that our minds can distill The biggest war within our shores, a fight of our own will. by Nick Hunsaker Tempe, AZ Arizona State University student Division of Devastation Today we stand in the shadow of doom An echoing disaster, the eve of high noon Across the savannah, beyond the mirage Another enemy, deceptive at large Linking time with this present fate The keeper of life stands guarding the gate The reason for life, the heart of this land Doesn't wait for the future, knows not of the sand That shadows a freedom without repercussions And blows in our eyes, provoking discussions Memories prevail over shallow conviction Yet the fear of more loss makes our pace quicken So here we stand at the dawn of a nation Alone it may seem without expectation Tomorrow may come with a new tale or two Decades may pass, confrontations anew Awaken our minds and reveal the unknown Shaken we feel and so much we condone Where is the triumph of liberty and more Will it come with force or avoid starting war? by Nick Hunsaker Arizona State University Student Division of Devastation Today we stand in the shadow of doom An echoing disaster, the eve of high noon Across the savannah, beyond the mirage Another enemy, deceptive at large Linking time with this present fate The keeper of life stands guarding the gate The reason for life, the heart of this land Doesn't wait for the future, knows not of the sand That shadows a freedom without repercussions And blows in our eyes, provoking discussions Memories prevail over shallow conviction Yet the fear of more loss makes our pace quicken So here we stand at the dawn of a nation Alone it may seem without expectation Tomorrow may come with a new tale or two Decades may pass, confrontations anew Awaken our minds and reveal the unknown Shaken we feel and so much we condone Where is the triumph of liberty and more Will it come with force or avoid starting war? Title: A Corrupt President By: Nick Woebcke Kill them all now! Kill them all before they kill us! We are not paranoid we are committed to peace. My piece, your piece, we all want a piece. What is wrong with that? Nothing. That is what the president tells us. And who are we to question his wisdom. He is a great man and has almost no evil motivation Except greed. Greed is the currency in which his world turns. Greed for oil, greed for blood, greed for power, Greed for destruction of our enemies because he says they are our enemies. Our president hates them because they are evil. But perhaps we are evil to destroy an innocent country. We are evil to sit back and let this administration destroy the lives of thousands who simply live in a country ruled by a corrupt dictator. I wish the roles were reversed. I wish that Saddam was about to bomb our country. Then I would have a reason to hate him and not have to coddle the words of a corrupt president. a black mirror for the capital Decision can still the clock’s hands, wrap the moment in a voluminous straightjacket. In the room, six flights underground, two men wear identical keys around their necks, waiting, as though the gears of the earth could be silenced by the flick of a wrist. Rubble, a suffix for the burning city, a coat stitched from the strikepads of empty matchbooks. *** It’s clear enough: the gutted chassis of a pickup in black & white. & you’ve seen the girl, naked & screaming, arms splayed as though she could take flight from the road—from this heat. The body shackles memory beneath the skin, raises a map of welts: the blueprints for a massive ark. *** Will a sandbag stop a bullet, keep a hot-air balloon from melting near the sun Will staring at a solar-eclipse burn the retinas, is the reflection in a puddle safe Will the rats grow too large to squeeze out from under the floorboards Will Sacajawea haul her child out of the prison of our new coin Will she still point toward the river *** Someone once asked me what forgiveness feels like, now I’d know to take my finger & trace the mortar between the bricks of an abandoned fire station. White Streak Over Baghdad What do I know of your little sister in the kitchen lying still? I don't have to see it, don't have to help you carry her, don't have to search for water in the rubble to wash away the blood, or hear your mother wail with grief the moment that she finds you. I was told to drop my ordinance on military targets. Sometimes it's hard to get it right from way up here. Your city is a shock of smoke that fades beneath me as I tilt my wing to home and feel the thrust of jets that shoot my body upward into perfect, azure sky... But in the noisy cockpit, I imagine I hear sirens in my head, and, wide awake, I dream of blackened corpses strewn across the desert. I don't like that there's a churning in my stomach. I don't know what happened to the thrill I thought would be here... All I know is this is nothing like a movie; this is not the way it was when we were boys and we pretended and everyone got up. Oscar Truitt Peace Train February 15, 6:00 am, -3 degrees. Blue cold light on wintry snow. Full moon lays at earths edge all red with morning glows. A jets white contrail paints the new days sky and at the parking lot of Groton Unitarian we all board the peace bus going to New York. Come on lets board the Peace Train. 10 minutes down the road we see a second bus and then a third and all wave hands and show our signs. Come on everyone ride on the Peace Train. Traveling thru Worcester now seven buses long in our train and all smiles. Everybody riding on the Peace Train. Passing thru Connecticut and as we pass the first rest stop we see 15 buses there . Is every body going on the Peace Train? Pass a second rest stop and 25 buses there. Yes all folks going on the Peace Train. Outside New York our instructions are to get off the bus and march 2 abreast on one side walk only. We get there and step off into 6 abreast. That quickly became 10 abreast and the other side walk. Oh the Peace Train is getting louder. 3 blocks down we take to the streets cause there is just to many passengers to stay on the tracks. Al smiles, all joy, all ages, all walks, all races. and the Peace Train is getting nearer We fill a street then fill another and another. 1st ave, 2nd ave, 3rd ave, Lexington. Oh Ride Ride on the Peace Train. As the streets fill we work our way up town or downtown from 70th to 42 nd street. Oh listen to those dancing feet on the Avenues were taking it to. two stepping to the Peace Train. The rally was at 1st and 49th but the best I did was 1st and 67th after a 3rd and 79th detour cause the train just went every where. Getting High off the Peace Train. 100's of thousands. Peacefully proudly courageously all passengers on the peace train. Hiking 60 blocks up town , down town east and west New York New York its a marvelous town. No arrests no battles The Police just standing back and amazed. Come on join us now on the Peace train. Quiet now as the bus rolls north. Bodies and legs ache, eyes glow. I finally get home and pour a simple glass of comfort and sit here to let it settle in. I t is said best with these words of Pete Seger: I'm going to lay down my sword and shield Down By the river side And Study War no More Patrick Hughes Ayer MA Paul Nichols Loudon, NH TWO BUCKNERS Two Buckners graced our outfit =8B One's first name, Dizzy's soul mate. One's last, nicknamed "Lightning." Young skin, =20 ebony and ash, clad in jungle green. Twins of fate, =20 brothers in arms.... two of many. =20 We partied hard on Okinawa, whooped: "Eat the apple, fuck the Corps." Bonds of lambs tightened. Landed scared at Cua Viet, asked: "What are we doing here?" Bloom of youth faded as the shit came down. Lost track of one near the Zone, thirty monsoons past. I've visited the other, his address doesn't change =8B Panel 21E, Line 66. =20 Paul Nichols -------------------------------------------------------------- USA CARDBOARD Outside the Danang PX Vietnamese kids slide down mudslick embankments on tattered scraps of USA cardboard. Shout =B3number one, number one,=B2 sport grins of delight..... simple happiness. Feelings I recall,=20 skimming down sparkling, snow-crusted New Hampshire hills in my American youth on scraps of USA cardboard. How =B3number one=B2 those days were. How small the world can be. Paul Nichols Paula van de werken Hollis NHIt is untitled. The father, quitting his family's hearth, joins his brothers-one mind,one uniform. Years, centuries later, the father is seen crouching, bloodied in a smoking ruin dreaming of his son, his hope, on his knee. Woe! That young soul will n'er pass infancy. For there he lies, body torn and rotting, unswallowed milk, dried, crusted on his mouth. If Mother could, she would scream her agony. But she, too, is a shattered remnant, dead. Her bared breast caked with unsucked milk and blood. Where,now,the honor, the glory of war? Curtailed lives, broken minds, grieving souls rest War's grimharvest reaped -the price to be paid. The Soldier-Father lives to kill again. His soul blinded by grief, his rage renewed. He hurls the missle, plants another bomb, brings another man, weeping, to his knees. And so it continues. Escalating hate upon hate - blood lust unabated -- until the last soldier has met his god. Then, dark god of ignorance sighs, sated. Until the next time. by Andrew Barrer "Salute you boys" Salute your boys, they will die for you. Take pride in your flag, it is what protects you. Wrap yourself in this cotton womb, surrender to the bright lights. The mighty western wave is here for you. "Men have gathered from afar" Men have gathered from afar to join the black crusade. They'll bless the hunt. Prepare to run, no pardon will be made. Men have gathered from afar to back the poison lie. They'll sell their minds to the tie that binds. They are prepared to die. Men have gathered from afar to guard their stolen land. Their lease on life is greed and strife. This is the legacy of man. THREATENING STORM Eve of war, what’s in store? A dream state, a helpless wait. How can bombs be smart? Can life reflect art? Building a case, chasing a chase. Is oil what’s at stake? How much do we take? Is it just about oil? Or heating to a boil? The Earth’s compressed gift Humanity’s rift. The have and have not, enlightened or rot? National security? Nation’s insecurity? Concentration of power, the reckoning of the hour. Preserving our way of life. Preserving a human life. Building bridges or bombing bridges? Biological weapons Hatred that grows infections. What does it evoke? What does it provoke? Patriot or rebel? Angel or devil? Weapons of mass destruction Thoughts of healing construction. How will it all end? Watch on CNN. *************************************************** submitted by Peter R. Guman West Chester, PA Things to do before going to war Before going to war know your your enemy. Before you cast the first stone listen to the grandmothers lullabies, the old folk tales. Before you spike the first heart learn the maidens' dance, the young mens' love songs. Before you fire the first gun cite the prophets and the holy ones, turn their sacred pages. Before you launch the first missile speak the poets' words, trace the artist's hand. Before you drop the first bomb place your hand on your enemy's heart, see the love drop from their eyes. Before going to war. Kathryn Keegan, 2003 Birchrunville, PA "9.18.02" The American President is going to save the world from terror with airplanes of mass destruction. And these words of Miguel de Unamuno, "You will win, because you have more than enough brute force, but you will not convince." find me on this day. Christine Kitto Princeton, New Jersey The Worlds Only Certain Hope When hopes and dreams seem to fade, there is one message to herald, That Jesus is truly the only lasting Hope in this uncertain world. Now He reigns from up above, but He will descend to earth once more, As the prophetic Word of God states, this is both certain and sure. Prophecy makes the Bible different from all other sacred writings, Peace is found only in Christ, as all others will continue fighting. When Christ comes to rapture His Church filling us with jubilation, Israel and the other nations will enter the seven year tribulation. And after millions of people disappear before the eyes of the world, A great leader will step in and his plan of peace will be unfurled. With God's Truth and Light banished from the earth at the rapture, Followed by a strong delusion on man, their hearts he shall capture. But he is not just a man, but the one doomed to eternal destruction. And instead of peace many will fall, through Satan's evil seduction. And many left on the earth will accept his plan as they are in need, Since they didn't embrace the Truth, God will allow them to believe. The wicked one will be destroyed at the splendor of Christ's coming, So believe my friend, and at the rapture you too can be among Him. God's Truth is still available today, and God wants you to believe, But if you continue to reject God's Truth, you too will be deceived. Copyright C2002 Bob Gotti With dearest, undying devotion... I die. Through battles or accidents; ignorant fate. This was not of our workings or plans but still, I, With dearest, undying devotion... must die. Red-rivulet spiders splay cross hostile dunes And gunsmoke grey casts over our world (or just mine). And, slain, I still linger in thoughts of you, my reason why,=20 my dearest, undying devotion can't die. And soldiers march on whilst these proud nations war and quote-savvy generals tally the score and thousands of bomb-laden jet fighters soar and carry such suffering like none seen before. Still, here with my death my love withstands barrage and laughs at my comrades clad in camouflage and finds strength in endless devotion to you my light that stayed constant and endlessly true. With dearest, undying devotion... I died, But don't let this sadness break armourous resolve. Remember, not Heaven nor Hell can chain me, The dearest, undying devotee of thee. R.M.A. Richards Milton, MA Outside We duck into the movies. Seal the duct tape Round our windows. Trying to escape the harsh light Of reality. The sun will sear The celluloid. We will remember the virtue in fighting evil. We will remove the tape And step outside. Copyright Rochelle Hope Mehr 2003 "That Lie" By Ron Dienstmann Disgust! at that lie's resilience. Hate not the war, it's too late. Loath the lie that marches its country's flesh. The lie bellows: "go,fight, kill, mame... for your country, for your country." "For me! Do it for me, me and my investors, as did your ancestors. I give you flags and bumperstickers and solemn three-colored burials." "Mothers, give me your progeny. War is pro-life." Disgust! and unmask that ancient lie tha gobbles your family's blood and mind. Sandra J Bosbach Chester, VT 05142 War Song Duct tape will not stop the fear, that spouts from human mouths. It will not stop the pain one feels, from leaking out. It won't prevent outpouring of a Country gone astray, that thinks of nothing but it's wealth, Our security at bay. So duct tape up your windows, Lock your children in their rooms. Sit passive in your castles, Soon to be your tombs. Await your termination, sit and weep as time moves on. Too late you'll have your answers, Too late you'll all be gone. Now, we have the strongest weapons, the technology, the power. Let's not wait, while clutching purse strings, looking fearful at our towers. Christian Blake Putney, VT 05346 BIRTH-WAR-DEATH War is your debt to living Mother Earth She demands sacrifice. War is the nemesis of peace Long live War! There is no life , liberty or freedom, Long live War! Conflict is perpetual, to be free! Long live conflict! An inescapable price payable to our earth Long live conflict! The choices are few, a physical death or a spiritual death of your soul. It's your birth, life and death. The blame rests with the organisms of the earth and the chaos of evolution. Mystery of life? Solved! Christian Blake Copyright 2003 What Do We Do Now? Search for the North Star amid the details in the darkness? Will we see in time? Or hear beyond the revving, a din so strong it pulls away? We need silence to see. Listen: Trees shake against folds of gray. Daylight acquiesces to the lip of another world, only the frantic waving of branches gives warning. Sarah Dickenson Snyder Dedham, MA Peace by Mark Berelekhis Peace exists for an instant eclipsing humanity in the eyes of a dying man. Radio Sounds Distant sounds make their way to me. A baby=92s cry. The suffering. Gunfire (Was that a bomb?) Sirens and megaphones Deliver the news. It is bleak. It is Hell on earth. I rise alone. I dare to look. The hummingbird darts out. Unknowing. There is only beauty and serenity. Distant sounds make their way to me. A foreign accent. A far away land. I am safe at home, For now. ---- Poem by Sharon Aucoin, North Andover Photograph They say a picture is worth a thousand words, And I have many pictures, But no words can express the pain and remorse That feel for those trapped inside, I capture them in the mists of death and agony, That their living hell has so willing provided, As the black cloud trudges on, death prevails. Shawna Balzer Freshman at Central High School Phoenix Arizona Here is my entry: Scream cold machine Fuel your fury with the blood of our youth We will not resist your fiendish seduction Which leads to destruction At the touch of a button We will embrace you We will name you Bravery We will name you Glory We will name you Vicotry You alone shall live forever In eternal celebration of your own horrific splendor Mike Smith In the Sixties We didn=B9t allow you to have toy guns or G.I. Joes. A huge glass peace sign hung on the beam in our living room. Your best friend was a girl. You went fishing together, sold lemonade on hot afternoons. I showed you how to make origami cranes, sent you to your room if you hit your brother. When I found you in the backyard, staring down at a frog you=B9d killed, I made you bury it and say a prayer. Now I worry you don=B9t have the killer instinct. You=B9ll be standing on a battlefield somewhere, and there will be that second when you look away and up at the sky, at the clouds I taught you you to name. Sondra Upham At the Dry Cleaners, Suellen Wedmore the woman standing next to me presses against the counter where her son sits, red sneakers tapping, her arms tight around his waist. Up. Up! He calls, his small voice a spark in the dimly-lit room, she lifts him toward the whir of ball bearings, blur of fabiric, hooks rising from the floor below, bearing crinolines, sweaters, shirts encased in plastic. Good boy! Down. Around. With her free hand she describes for him these particular mysteries of the world of conveyor belts and three dimensions. I was a mother like her once, wild to give my son the words that measure bounce and pressure of day; we spent afternoons barefoot on a Vermont lawn, learning names that connect grass to cloud to sky: Around the roses. Through the sand. In front of the bench. Airplane up high. But now that he patrols the world-- what words are his? Air-to-air missile, against the enemy. Between opposing lines, a plane over the desert. Bombs down. Style, Explained Suellen Wedmore In art class, Phil tells me how in =8C43 his Spitfire was jumped by fighters. Smoke filled his cockpit, his plane careened, hovered vertical until the Baltic Sea rushed up. Hell, he was only nineteen, with eighteen holes in his plane, never mind his arms, legs, buttocks, and when the horizon straightened, he was scooped from the waves and shipped to Leipzig where the doctors patched him so he could be tossed into a barbed wire cage; he survived on black bread studded with maggots. The days he was either hungry or cold were the good ones. but on his 20th birthday everyone in the compound put something into a cardboard box: half a Hershey bar, a stick of mint gum, a tiny tube of skin cream, an ivory button, tied the box with shoe strings and placed it on his cot. Happy birthday Phil. Style, the art teacher tells us, isn=B9t painting what you see. It=B9s painting what you feel. She clicks on the projector and the room is filled with O=B9Keeffe=B9s flowers, petals as landscape you could gallop across, curl into, make love to in the right light. Later Phil points to his painting: a battered table, brushed across the canvas with large, rough strokes off-center, in a darkened room, but in the center, painted with a tiny, sable brush, are pyramids of apples, mangoes, pears, a plum you could pluck from the canvas, grapes in juicy blues and violets cascading from a cut glass bowl, that opens toward the light like cupped hands. Suellen Wedmore Rockport, MA 01966 Iraqi Children Learn the American Alphabet A is for Airplane B is for Bomb C is for Crying D is for Death Everywhere Fire God Help In nomine Jesus Killing Lovely Mother No Oh Please Quaking Run Sister Tremble USA VICTORY We EXtinquish You ..... By: Susan Chady Glenmoore, PA Susan Landon An Afghan Plaint As long as the skies rain down fire, as long as we crouch between the ferocity of the Americans and the madness of the Taliban, so long will we awaken each morning seeking the sun, only to find darkness. To a Suicide Bomber Your soul is now in limbo – caught between a wartorn earth and the abode of God. Is your ache for freedom now fulfilled? Or do you miss your friends, the salt of Earth? Do you wish you had tried to make a life where you were? And last, I wonder – will you always wander as a wraith across that battlefield in Palestine? War is Strange The war we wage in Afghanistan is strange: we create refugees, then feed them. Why not extend the courtesy to our enemies – forgive them for failing to understand we too have our contradictions. What We Can Learn from Viet Nam We made war against a people. Like any living thing, they learned how to live regardless of the possibility of tomorrow. Now the war is done. The women who glided into the fields at night with food for their men have won. They have a life. At home, Americans nurse bad consciences, suffer from violence inflicted by war heroes gone beserk. The Vietnamese are happy, having learned God is everywhere, always there for those who listen. NO WAR! No war, no blood, no bombs in the skies, Civilians and soldiers at risk for their lives For an enmity gained by indignity’s foil A cowboy hellbent on destruction for oil. Who wasn’t elected, who wasn’t the choice, Who’s latched upon crises to further the voice Of the wealthy, the greedy, short-sighted, the vain, Who’d sacrifice life for material gain. While offending the world and ignoring the source Ethnocentric pursuit for the dominant force, With destroyed population and land in the wake Environment trashed, ecosystems at stake. Against all good advice they pursue their invasion Words of caution fall prey to complete devastation Veterans, inspectors are viewed with derision When the goal is not peace, but imperialism. Susie Davidson - Brookline, MA Fiery fog drapes a comforting veil around bloody corpses indiscriminate smoke smoothing over sinews torn from the human world. Sun pierces it and flies do their busy work. Moans swirl up with the lifting fog and there lies=20 your mother, your child, your sister, your father and your brother ungracefully twisted, panic hardening in their still faces.=20 Sara A. Scott CATS OF WAR Bomb cities and towns shell historic mark inflamed structures writhe in smoke thick and dark burning city stinks of heirlooms and books hair flesh cellos drums high tech smart bombs seek victory and peace haphazard and dumb victims souls saved in glorious release interred without tombs No cats seeking prey roam streets night or day no toms rummage garbage or search barn hay no cats huddle in rubble of crushed nooks once snug and petted felines endure flee village barrios dispersed and scatted an upside down world of survival woes in dim niche bedded Fur of a large cat can line a man=B9s boots cats produce rabbit stew for famished girls meager meat is blessed kid cat nor doll never sins or disputes in grimy shell dressed no purr stirs in children kittens and dolls war cats dispossessed T. M. Trenton, New Jersey Death I must have had only some vague sense of the nothing there as it withdrew; you know the long way to go before it fulfills the move forward in time. And leaves me here in a village field, heroic brown storm of pure brown dirt; you arrive with rifles and bullets, no horror in the taste of a coup's kiss. I was unable to bear a heart to beat against the slope of menace; you want to breathe the air, swing and bounce, lay down before the ooze of life, the rush. So end my courtship on its behalf, is hard to bed the idea of death; you go on as if I never were; life as it is and always will be. Thank you for the opportunity to submit my poem. Todd Nichols I've weathered Old Winter's icy blast, and Springtime's wind and rain. I've crammed my head so full of stuff, I need to ease my brain. But just the time I think my summer's really gonna be cool I get the note from the Registrar: "It's time for summer school!" But summertime's a time for fun, I say, no time to study and cram. But then I hear the phrase that says, "You're wanted by your Uncle Sam!" There's only one choice that I can make; no tossing the coin aloft. I can study real hard and graduate, or get my ass shot off! Tommy G. Perkins The Island I was a little young one once when I was caught in the Beirut war. Then I was covered in blood and piss When my mother was blown apart. My father killed himself with dynamite In the United States Embassy. I was adopted by an American couple, And they wondered why I hated them. Why did they think they were different? Should I live as long as tomorrow, If you can call me living, I remain an island of indifferent rage. I was born astride the tides of love And died inside the floods of war. ©1988 by R. Christopher Horak When the War Began Said Eve to Adam, one fine day in Paradise "Eat this! It's great! No fake!" "Is this true? Can I trust her advice?" Asked Adam, of the being in the tree, Called "Snake". "Of courssssssssssssse!" said he. © 1987 by R. Christopher Horak The Biggest Shortest War Almighty God came to Earth one day. A terrible smile He'd smiled. H couldn't get by for a while so He'd dialed A number that proved to be a tomb. "What have you done with my Son?", He cried. Well, to that we didn't know what to say, So we lied... Then we shot Him in the back with a megaton BOOOOOM! ©1989 by R. Christopher Horak AFTER THE WAR He was born many years after the war, sirens were silent, bombs had destroyed, now terror worked by its own momentum. It was slowly released from minds of his parents like a village already burned, which smolders eternally or sprang abruptly in moments of pressure, like a sudden attack during the night, like captivity and execution of innocent citizens by way of reprisal. His parents were children then and understood nothing, they breathed the terror just as children breath the time, now he himself breathed the same terror like something natural... Maria Filoumeni Delliou, 44 years old Athens, Greece For Peace We bleed deeply for peace And my child still lies dead at my feet The rich and the heads of state Lay cozy in their self-made tombs Protected from the rifts of war While the poor and downtrodden Shivering in fear until they=92re sick Knowing the costs of war and The high payment of peace Clutch tightly to their hearts Young-old children ripe for the harvest Sweet Innocents Waiting to be plucked and made Into a perfect dish of war Served warm with tears And they all die slowly and fearful Cooing like newborns = Returning to the womb As the light of the world Grows dim for peace And the flag snaps gaily in the wind While sorrowful touches and handkerchiefs Help wipe soul-aching tears And we all bleed mightily for peace And my child still lies dead at my feet Letitia C McFadden Suzie Pe=F1aranda 1999 (15 years old) Glendale, AZ. =20 War It came across the country like a wave The Vietnam war took and then denied Golden youth fled the homeland Families torn apart Fear of the draft Fear of going and not returning Young men fighting and dying for an unknown cause Seeing the nation torn apart The government lying to its people The realization that our country is not always right People crying, children dying Horror in the air Media circling Protesters rallying Confusion everywhere Pictures of horror Pictures of hate Pictures of men turned savage It ended, Or did it? But hope for the future That we will remember As vividly as some do now Where did all of this pain begin? Pray God we have seen its end BUILDING MOMENTUM return terror evil receives burning it towers double a problem our rubber mirror only some choose behind but fill slate so complete they think no outside but frame but frame inside as so complete so here find ourselves on inside if along frame a leading suited elbow boring through ribcage or three hundred million so here find inside ourselves outside and it is ugly in the mirror -- John Sullivan Dorchester, MA ULTIMA RATIO REGUM by Stephen Spender The guns spell money's ultimate reason In letters of lead on the Spring hillside. But the boy lying dead under the olive trees Was too young and too silly To have been notable to their important eye. He was a better target for a kiss. When he lived, tall factory hooters never summoned him. Nor did restaurant plate-glass doors revolve to wave him in. His name never appeared in the papers. The world m