Peace is an action, it is not what is left when the noise stops.
Peace is a choice, it will not materialise miraculously from nowhere.
Peace is a struggle for change, not a passive acceptance of what is.
Peace must be made by the willing and the heartbroken.
Peace must be built by lives of grace and determination.
Peace must be grown from deliberate acts of mercy and justice.
Blessed are the peacemakers.
Ripping and shredding,
Torn from the top,
Wilfully separated,
On the altar of “Us”.
Sinfully split.
Painfully parted.
Barriers bolted and raised to the roof,
Lines strongly marked in the dust of the floor,
Cemented, constructed,
dividing, defined.
We built the walls,
we tore the flesh.
We pushed them over and slammed shut the gate!
We raised the flags.
We sang the songs.
We became us,
So they became them.
And now as we wane and struggle for breath,
We open the gates and we wave,
And we “save”.
We sure up our towers,
We repaint our walls,
We gild bright our faces,
And say, “look what we’ve got!”
I dream of contrition,
Of bloody, bent knee.
Of humble demolition,
Fading power released.
Father forgive us,
We know not what we’ve done!
When she looked she saw the same old view,
Different faces, even different places,
But still the same.
Still the same.
The breath inside her drove up and out in a sad exhalation,
Unplanned, unconscious, unthinking,
disappointingly irresistible.
Again they told her things have changed,
Its a brand new world, glitter strewn and crisp.
Whatabout, they said, remember when.
But she saw nothing fresh,
she looked hard, so hard,
there it was, not what she wanted to see, but there.
But we dreamed, she cried, we hoped,
You claimed to be on our side, we stood together.
Be patient, you said, the time will come.
But when?
But when?
Sadly, I can’t see today bringing any peace or answers for our torn nation!
I pray for humility and honesty, for the peacemakers and the meek, for those who seek to heal division not ferment it, for a willingness to think of the best for us all not just what is expedient for the few, and of the future together not the present polarities. I pray that our governors would be humble enough to recognise mistakes, brave enough to correct them and generous enough to put aside differences for the sake of us all.
We think the strong will change the world, and seed a better way,
But look and see the Kings and Lords who crush it in their will.
The weak, the vulnerable and willing, are true bearers of new earth,
Those who can be planted deep, to die wrapped in the soil,
To give what tiny portion’s theirs for a good beyond themselves,
And surrender who they are to nourish grace, and peace, and love.
Watch the governors, the powerful, clothed in precious ego,
The jewelled and the robed, weilding staffs and polished swords.
They do not see, they cannot hear, their souls and minds are deaf,
To the gentle voice that calls and weaps from the centre of the storm.
The song calls to the young, to the oppressed and the neglected,
To the hungry and the homeless, to the poor and to the blind.
To the one who finds no peace in sleep, the one who dreads the dawn.
To the mother and the father of the babe thats not yet born.
PICTURA POESIS 