Peace Poem by Yehuda Yehuda Amichai

Wildpeace
  Not the peace of a cease-fire
not even the vision of the wolf and the lamb,
but rather
as in the heart when the excitement is over
and you can talk only about a great weariness.
I know that I know how to kill, that makes me an adult.
And my son plays with a toy gun that knows
how to open and close its eyes and say Mama.
A peace
without the big noise of beating swords into ploughshares,
without words, without
the thud of the heavy rubber stamp: let it be
light, floating, like lazy white foam.
A little rest for the wounds – who speaks of healing?
(And the howl of the orphans is passed from one generation
to the next, as in a relay race:
the baton never falls.)

Let it come
like wildflowers,
suddenly, because the field
must have it: wildpeace.

  Amichai read this poem at the 1994 awards ceremony in Oslo when Yitzhak     Rabin and Shimon Peres received the Nobel Peace Prize with Yasir Arafat.
In Memoriam

Spring Wind Poem by Ken Peters

spring wind 

wind arrived
with the equinox
subservient to basic physics
as the land became
warmer
more quickly than the sea
but subservient to nothing else
thief rattling my windows
persistent vendor
at my door
insistent prodigy
refrain to every conversation
presage of change
sweeping the land clean
carrying salt sea tang inland for miles
restless harbinger
of green

– Ken Peters

Ken’s menu   /   Moongate

Lost in America Poem by Ken Peters

 Lost In America
   wanted to be in this country

   can’t pay the dues

   the ground fees are too much

   one neighbor’s a racist

   the other’s a sexist

   couple across the way

   are homophobes

   politicians are for sale

   doctors are entrepreneurs

   ministers spew hate and fear

   a used car salesmen told me a lie

   so did a president

   people talk at me

   want me to be

   just like them

   my heart is a cage

   blood rats

   spinning the wheels

   but I’m too tired

   to feel rage

   had enough
       – Ken Peters

Moongate

Whale Poem A LAMP IN THE WHALE Michael Eliseuson

A LAMP IN THE WHALE

A small feast in the blood-red gills,

A small drop of blood in the ponds of the ocean,

A black whale swims deeper,

And then up again.

It is a well-brined sea,

and the whale reaches deeper,

Into greener waters,

Yellowing beneath the rays.

In these polar seas a dark ship comes,

To wed the hunted whale,

Whalers searching sky and sea,

For certain birds and spouts.

Ancient chanteys begin again,

To turn a whale into blubber, oil, and song.

A roped spear whining,

Whistling with death.

The Great Fish dives with a maddening lurch,

And there is a thrumming within the belly of the sea,

A song half-spent in blood,

And the pounding of sharks upon a sun-lit sea.

For this the whalers had come,

To pour its oil into the hissing lamps of the world,

For this the whale had died,

In a little red lake of death.

The whale is hauled and flensed,

Creeks of blood pouring out in tumults,

Around the black boulders of whale flesh.

Yet, the great whale-heart still pounds,

Hung up within a sack dripping on the deck,

The murdered whale gone from its home,

Its great bones heaped.

Let the vigil fires be lit all across the great prairies,

Light them along the banks of every river,

Throughout all the Temples of Time,

Let these lights be lit and made to burn forever.

For within that bloody ocean,

There are stairways carved from stone,

And leading us downwards,

They lead only to where all life is locked in vaults.

The life of a whale hangs in chains there,

Dead with all that is dead,

But the smell carries on the wind,

And a great storm erupts into the air.

The chambers in another heart opens,

A poet awakens from out of a dark slumber,

And leaning over in the night he lights a lamp,

And lays awake thinking.

Into the black room a tiny flame leaps,

Hissing on its bed of whale oil,

And by this light the poet writes:

“I am a whaling ship,

Searching through all the seas,

And the pen I hold is my harpoon,

And it is tied to me.”

There is a fire in the bowl of light,

It lights his page, his pipe, his dreams,

Dear Jehovah, let him put sunlight upon the bloodied oceans:

“The last whale died tonight,

My lamp is out,

And I am drenched, dark, and ugly.”

Darkness spilled like black water into his room.

The poet goes to sleep again,

Dreaming of whales,

Whales unhunted,

And alone.

“Watch the flame in the leaping lamp,

A very small feast indeed,

Where only whales and poets swim,

In a single drop of blood.”

– Michael Warren Eliseuson