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Peace Is Active

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“PEACE IS ACTIVE” By Jeanette Sena Mühlmann 

Peace does not mean to watch silently

While injustice spreads its dark wings;

Peace does not mean to bite your tongue

While others use their elbows;

Peace does not mean to sacrifice your left cheek

While your right cheek is bleeding;

Peace does not mean to hide your light

under a bushel

While you are skilled and able;

Peace does not mean that others are allowed

to take advantage of your talents

While you can hardly survive!

Wake up, open your mouth and speak!

Peace is not weak!

Peace is active

Peace is a decision!

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No Image by Waring Cuney

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girllookingmirror

If someone has told you a lie (a big lie) that you have no beauty, even if you can’t see it, it’s there.

No Image”

She does not know
her beauty,
she thinks her brown body
has no glory.

If she could dance
naked
under palm trees
and see her image in the river, she would know.

But there are no palm trees
on the street,
and dish water gives back
no images
.

Waring Cuney

Dressed In Green by Peter Krass

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“ALL DRESSED IN GREEN”

In the latest issue of Quagmire I find 7 new poems by Billy Collins.
In the new Kiss My Quarterly, 12 poems by Billy Collins.
Coming soon in Broken Meter, 18 poems by Billy Collins.
On NPR radio, Billy Collins reads “Wish I’d Written That.”
In my sleep, Billy Collins stars in a major motion picture
Directed by Billy Collins, produced by Billy Collins,
And featuring a supporting cast of thousands of Billy Collinses.

Tonight, at my local Barnes & Starbucks,
Billy Collins is giving a reading,
So naturally I go, all dressed in green,
Color of envy, money and snot.
Other striving poets fill nearly every seat,
Each wearing something green,
Each moving their lips as they quietly pray,
“O gods of poetry, whoever you are,
Please let a magic morsel fly
From the mouth of Billy Collins
And infect me, like a virus,
With whatever he has: The virus
Of being published,
The virus of selling books,
The virus of success.”
I sneer at them: “Stupid poets,”
I say, “That’s not how life works.”
But when Billy Collins appears at last,
Smiling and nodding, clearing his throat,
I find my seat in the very front row,
Open my mouth as wide as it goes,
And breathe.
Peter Krass
—from Rattle #33, Summer 2010
Tribute to Humor

Diagnosis by Sharon Olds

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“Diagnosis”

By the time I was six months old, she knew something
was wrong with me. I got looks on my face
she had not seen on any child
in the family, or the extended family,
or the neighborhood. My mother took me in
to the pediatrician with the kind hands,
a doctor with a name like a suit size for a wheel:
Hub Long. My mom did not tell him
what she thought in truth, that I was Possessed.
It was just these strange looks on my face—
he held me, and conversed with me,
chatting as one does with a baby, and my mother
said, She’s doing it now! Look!
She’s doing it now! and the doctor said,
What your daughter has
is called a sense
of humor. Ohhh, she said, and took me
back to the house where that sense would be tested
and found to be incurable.

“Diagnosis” by Sharon Olds, from One Secret Thing. © Random House, Inc., 2009.

Poem for Today

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“Kidnap Poem” By Nikki Giovanni
Ever been kidnapped
by a poet
if i were a poet
i’d kidnap you
put you in my phrases and meter
You to jones beach
or maybe coney island
or maybe just to my house
lyric you in lilacs
dash you in the rain
blend into the beach
to complement my see
Play the lyre for you
ode you with my love song
anything to win you
wrap you in the red Black green
show you off to mama
yeah if i were a poet i’d kid
nap you

Poem for Today

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The Pitcher

His art is eccentricity, his aim
How not to hit the mark he seems to aim at,

His passion how to avoid the obvious,
His technique how to vary the avoidance.

The others throw to be comprehended. He
Throws to be a moment misunderstood.

Yet not too much. Not errant, arrant, wild,
But every seeming aberration willed.

Not to, yet still, still to communicate
Making the batter understand too late.

—-Robert Francis

Poem for Today

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separationwsmervinstitchpicture“Separation”
Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.

W. S. MERWIN

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