the propeace community - Peace Is A Gift - Comments

I Don't Know How To Give You Peace

Annaruiz — Mon, 19 May 2008 22:03:29 -0400

I don't know how to give you peace
how to heal your wounds, make your
scars disappear,

I don't know how to ride the wild wind today,
form the sun from this blood-wet clay I hold
in my hands,

O Israel!
O Palestine!

You were radiant then, in your olive groves--
your loaves of bread broken in friendship
your fish bountiful, unspared

I don't know how to carry a cross
across the ocean,

your exodus of narrow streets, black veils of
mourning,
our tears filled with Gethsemane,
I don't know how to scrape fear from the bottom
of my begging bowl,
I don't know how to summon the dove of peace~~
find that far land time has forgotten,
needing no amends.

Shalom.
Salaam.
Peace.

Most Of Us Belong To That Other Group

Annaruiz — Mon, 19 May 2008 21:57:01 -0400

~Anna

Most of us belong to that other group,
the dreamless wanderers,
converging under protest songs and patriot games,
fevers blistering tongues,

scattered
to the four corners of the earth,
we are genderless misfits
whose only earthly prize
is the will to speak of the truth,
"To thine own self be true"
our mantra,

Shakespearean players
preach to an empty choir,
we are Poets and desperadoes
of no unique design
no great significance

but if you listen very carefully,
you'll hear our thoughts
inside your heart of hearts

and you'll weep with the best of us.

~Anna You knew i would ...

Annaruiz — Sun, 18 May 2008 16:02:09 -0400

~Anna

You knew i would ... ;-)

Esmeralda Was Dancing In The Streets

Annaruiz — Sun, 18 May 2008 15:55:30 -0400

~Anna

Esmeralda was dancing in the streets
while the King of Fools was being crowned
Hugo was hunched over
a flickering candlelight
like a grotesque shadow,
goose quill in hand …
in the meantime in a far-and-away land
once upon a time
a poet reads that the nearly dead can never walk
further than an imaginary line crossing over
and under
every house of worship,
the architect knows how dimensions drop
under a misguided moon:
there’s nowhere for turtles
to go except
all the way up
to the sailor’s golden sextant
hidden amoung Pleiades outer reaches
and inner sanctum

not only the bell ringer becomes
stone deaf when the walls come crumbling
down

oh! can you hear the people shout?
can you hear their cry?
but for the loaf of bread …
go you and I.

Theater

Annaruiz — Sun, 18 May 2008 15:44:55 -0400

~Anna

From where the circle forms
the mouth is agape
with Om

We bring nothing
to this theater
but a unique configuration
of molecules and atoms
vibrating
depths of perception
glossaries of ambivalence
on the bare backs of denial,
rushing head first into
aliveness
and feet first
into our graves

dust to dust
ashes to ashes

we leave all that green
behind
along with a holographic photograph
of what came to

...etching
along neural
pathways,

reaching the moon,
lost in a sea of faces...

...seeding empty stars with ecstasy.

The Physician ~ Bodhisattva Dream

Annaruiz — Sun, 18 May 2008 15:40:12 -0400

~Anna

The physician wore moonlight
on straight broad shoulders
well into the night,
his black mare
a flaming star,

Once upon a time
they stopped for
a cool sip
near the valley foretold
in his youthful dreams:
Sweet River Of The Willow tree,

Enlightenment
was fast asleep,
spreading like wildfire
the scent of gardenia and
lotus blossom, the touch of
mimosa falling from her
silver hair,

he smiled,
quietly passing her by
to heal the
sick and raise the dead.

Red Book

silent lotus — Fri, 04 Apr 2008 00:29:29 -0400

Dear AnnA

I am so happy your posted this here on Pro Peace.

a warm smile
silent lotus

" May your voice be loving enough to silence your own fears." ..... silent lotus
www.silentlotus.net

Peace Is A Gift

Annaruiz — Thu, 03 Apr 2008 11:44:20 -0400

There is a Red Book There is a red book lying on my floor rows of crimson-robed monks sitting in meditation on its cover... there are rows of soldiers marching to a different drum, the monks are falling in Tibet and Myanmar, the soldiers in Israel and Iraq, there are voices of despair, hope and innocence in rows of graves where all colours