Chapter 1: PEACE AND HOPE
“Wonder is the beginning of wisdom." Socrates

TRANSITION
(For Hollis)

In the eye
of a hurricane
she clung to
a mystical eyelash
while a restless
wind swirled
and a few
raindrop tears
baptized her life
into the blue sky
of survival.

Claire J. Baker

 

Jeannie Motherwell, Perfect Storm, Acrylic and collage on canvas, © Copyright

 

Freedom Sky

If encircled by soft patterns
if drifting in gentle weaves of years
if dancing in rhythms of new horizons
we may spin like slow-motion moons
hidden beyond thick-limbed forests.

Watch how, by day, we study
the way fish jump the ladders
as clouds part a patterned sky
as in remnants of time, we skip
stones in summer-long rivers

where, by night, fireflies and sparks fly
bright, lazily fading into long darkness
beyond soft voices marking celebration
a chance to set our time to new hours
moving toward what yet remains free.

Vince Storti

 

AS TIME ENCIRCLES AND RECYCLES ITSELF

As time encircles and recycles itself,
mirror likenesses thicken and fog up.
If you have trouble finding yourself,
start looking elsewhere. The sky –
not only is it not the limit, it opens
and dares you to look up who you are.
Mountains and mountains and mountains
– they’re you. Great Lakes you take
to be out there someplace look like you,
splash and churn and shine like you.
The world beyond washed flesh is you.
Light dries your eyes; one blink can melt
illusion, dissolve the frame that says:
“I look at you and see no evidence of me.”

Al Young - © 2008 by Al Young

 

The Real Dirt

I always want
to kiss
the Earth.

After all
I owe
the Earth
big time.

I wouldn’t be
where I am
without Her.

Marvin R. Hiemstra

 

Pep Ventosa, Botanical Garden One, Photograph

 

Dust Motes of Morning

If a tree falls, what happens to the nest?
If the nest tips, what will happen to the egg?
If the egg cracks, what happens to the finch?
If the finch doesn't sing, what becomes of song?
No tree, no nest, no egg, no finch, no song?
This then may be the dire dust-up of time.
If there's no song, how will our summer come?
In the dark of the moon, will airplanes fly?
If the airplanes fly, will bombs start to fall?
If bombs start to burst, will the town catch fire?
If fire rages on, will there be no song?
Dark sky, airplanes, black bombs, hot fire, no song.
This then may be the dire dust-up of time.
If there's no song, how will tomorrow come?

Susan Terris

 

While You Can

Don’t be afraid
don’t look for signs.
Tomorrow
you will arrive
just after the explosion,
waving your arms through
the light-struck dust. 
I’m the ash that coats your tongue,
makes you cough
and cough. No, 
I can’t stay quiet tonight
on the street made of words.
Soon I will pass through you
like hair through a comb.
Love me while you can,
before the hot air crumbles 
like sand; love me like
the black and white sky
spinning.

Erica Goss

 

prepare
 
in the pale forest
of remembering,
love is not lost
 
waits like the seed
in its temporary
lodge of longing
 
waits like the patient sapling
for storms to pass 
revealing evening star's
unhurried gaze upon it
 
awaits the comforting 
embrace of wisdom,
love's protege,
knots of darkness unraveling
 
my limbs, numb no longer,
are wings for soaring
over plains of promise
 
my lips speak
of hope restored,
fervid vows I am
prepared to pledge

Stephen Kopel

 

With gratitude     One Minute     for Peace & Hope

I see everyone as holy spirits of unity. 
Anger and rage cascade over the cliff,
fall hundreds of feet, meet the calm pool,
disappear.  Horror and affliction vanish. 
Invitations arrive
on wings of white lilies
in winter bloom.  
Others come first.  Others come last, but we all come. 
Enemies embrace like lovers slow dancing. 
Peace dances, too.  Eyes sparkle and shine. 
Hope taps me on the shoulder. 
I turn my head to its tap. 
Receive a kiss, and kiss back. 

Jane Green

Eva Wise, Sing a Song for Nature, Collage, paper scraps

 

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