Poems for Peace

The pressure still lies harshly
on the memories of those whose silence
meant others would die.  The pressure
stills lies harshly on those whose labour
went into the tools of death.  The pressure
still lies heavily on those who turned tools
into weapons.  The pressure still lies harshly
on those whose comfort meant that only
discreet inquires were to be made.  The pressure
still lies heavily on those who waited because
the time wasn't right.  The pressure
still lies heavily on those who felt they
were always safe.  The pressure
still lies heavily
on the survivors of the victims of silence.

buried deep in the collection
of my youthful dreams is a button.

a cockroach is the centre, holding up the sign:
Cockroaches for Nuclear War!

Rumour has it
that at ground zero in Nagasaki
and at the bottom of the crater
at Los Alamos
live cockroaches were found.

And around us we hear the calls for war
---new nations have nuclear bombs;
    alleged good guys use depleted uranium
    in conventional weapons of mass destruction.

Dancing with glee are the cockroaches, chanting:
Let Us Praise the War Machine!
It means the reality of cockroach dreams.

sound falling heavily

           glass shattering

splinters

     of icons

await melting

It really isn't
those killed I mourn for
but their children

who see their mothers
and their fathers
and their friends
no longer there.

Sentenced to learn
the unendingness of death
and the value of hate,

children are started on the path
that leads to Soweto
         and the Gulag
                and Wounded Knee
                and Shatila
and on and on and...

My memory of war is all second hand
---I was not at Mai Lai.  I was not running down the road
with napalm etching into my flesh.

I did not watch my feet rot in trenches
or wake up with my neighbour's blood dying my shirt
or believed, somehow, that my battles lead to freedom and to peace.

I was not on a bridge in Belgrade or
at an airport in Grenada or
in a schoolroom in Baghdad or
in a factory in Dresden or
at a church in Nagasaki or
in a hospital in Stalingrad or
in an office in New York.

Nor is my memory of serving peace first hand.
I have not sat in the Gulf Peace Camp or
prayed in Chiapas or planted trees outside Hebron or
disrupted the School of the Americas or
handed out leaflets in Burma or
sat with the families in East Timor or
fasted with the wives outside Gestapo headquarters .

But I have held the children of war.
I have talked with the veterans of war.
I have added my prayers to the voices for peace.

It has to start somewhere.
In the here and now war is being waged
and in the here and now the seeds of peace are being looked for.

The war is waged in someone else's name.   Not in mine.
The work for peace is in the hands of us all, including mine.