Never doubt that a small, thoughtful, committed group of citizens can change the world. Indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.
– Margaret Mead
Plea for Peace ~ April 12 2003
It used to be the rooster’s crow would call me
To rise and go to market for first choice
Of herbs and roots and special oils
To fill my bag and go calling
I spent my days visiting
Homes of marble and homes of mud
To the man with rumbly-tummy,
I gave ginger tea
On the child scraped knees,
I put tea-tree balm
My neighbours invited me
To rub their backs and feet with chamomile
To play with their children
And tell me their secrets
They said my talk was salty
That I could be a circus clown
But my burnt sage left their home clean
And my voice left their hearts calmed
Then stillness kept for grave-sites
Spread the land like mist
The Sandman used his sleep-sand
To blind men from light of day
My friends said my words grew foolish
Landowners did not need my work
Holy-men called my thoughts profane
My eyes stayed open, but my hands tied
I changed my feathers and crystal necklace
For mourning black and faithful veil
Sick of heart I retreated
To my place of silent prayer
Too blind to see, too sleepy to work
The people’s spirit could not move
Men with dark hearts were free to rule
And used home-fires for weapons of war
I beg the Lord of all Creation
To use his double-edged sword
Use lightning force to cast out evil
And call good spirits back to work
To my Master I call for mercy –
Put the fire back in their bellies
To all good men a call to action –
Wake up, reclaim your work and land
I will not rest till Justice rules
Till the voice of Truth is heard once more
When the young outlive the old and
Mothers tend their homes and gardens
The good in all forever wins
Then will I market for the feast
Saffron for rice, honey for sweets
For a sacred table we will all share
Till then let’s join our hands in prayer
Break bread, drink water from one cup
Give thanks for Sun and Earth and Nature
Share quiet smiles and join in song
“The first casualty of war is the truth.”
– as quoted by Don Landry, on the Fan AM590, April 1, 2003
– author unknown
April 2 2003
But the skies stay dark,
I want to grow my garden
But the earth stays cold,
I pray for hope and joy
But God says, “Wait”,
I want to sing and dance
But my friends won’t join…they stay
sad and alone.
All talks of peace
Are now cries of war,
Movies and award shows
Now news of burned cities,
Talk shows on children
Now alerts of doom.
Faith in future and family…now dashed
on the rocks.
I cried in fear
My friends shook their heads,
I showed my anger
My friends stared blank,
I kissed and hugged them
Their shoulders grew stiff,
Why do my pleas and passions…only drive
my friends away?
I learned truth tells all
Tho’ my voice may be still,
I know bars can’t keep me
Tho’ my hands may be tied,
I feel rest in my heart
Tho’ my job may be taken,
My faith proved good prevails…so I sit
in patient wait.
But the skies stay dark,
I want to grow my garden
But the earth stays cold,
I pray for hope and joy
But God says, “Wait”,
I want to sing and dance
But my friends won’t join…they stay
sad and alone.
All talks of peace
Are now cries of war,
Movies and award shows
Now news of burned cities,
Talk shows on children
Now alerts of doom.
Faith in future and family…now dashed
on the rocks.
I cried in fear
My friends shook their heads,
I showed my anger
My friends stared blank,
I kissed and hugged them
Their shoulders grew stiff,
Why do my pleas and passions…only drive
my friends away?
I learned truth tells all
Tho’ my voice may be still,
I know bars can’t keep me
Tho’ my hands may be tied,
I feel rest in my heart
Tho’ my job may be taken,
My faith proved good prevails…so I sit
in patient wait.
April 2 2003
Plant spores float for new lands
And sprouts push to the sky
When storms and floods rage
Hands cover candles and
Gardeners plant seedlings.
When crusaders killed children
Artist carved Goth cathedrals
And scribes wrote secret symbols.
When slave-masters whipped workers
Wives sewed maps in their quilts
Secret paths to freedom
War-vultures are feasting
The artists are called…
Poets write ancient words
Tailors sew codes into garments
Minstrels sing in every town
Drummers beat the tribe news
The villagers lie in dead sleep
Trumpeter, raise your horn…
Blind eyes will be opened
Deaf ears will be healed
Chilled hearts will be melted
Lost seekers will see truth.
What if every day were a holiday? 