Peace Poets is a project produced by C.J. Prince and Carla Shafer. These postcards, poems and art send out at least 2,252 expressions of peace around the world. Some are beautiful and witty poems, others are thoughts, visions and simple inspirations.
In my case, each card has some reference to peace, not necessarily World Peace. Some are related to personal experiences; others random thoughts, perhaps inspired by the postcard itself. As well as simple whimsical poetry.
Some of these postcards are hard to part with, having been collected over the years. Others are discovered at garage/estate sales. I actually love to send them on their way and grateful for the opportunity to save this collection on my blog.
All of these poems have been written spontaneously, and if there is any editing from the original to this page, it is not remarkable.
The Post Office manages to stamp and seal out as many words as possible, so the original can be found here, with all the words intact.
Our little boat,
tucked in among big,
imposing yachts...
water sloshes between
the dock
and the gunwales, ocean
sounds
murmur once the sun
falls behind
the next westerly
island,
small animals shelter
and
squeak. Glasses clink
on a nearby deck. Peace
gathers
those who make plans
to set sail at dawn.
~~~
Together
we can find a way to shelter one another, to use kindness and listen with
the heart. No shouting - simply soft words of love. We somehow must escape the
shooters and the mad ones, find out how they too can be embraced.
~~~
Soldiers are made for marching.
And wearing uniforms
that make some
ladies swoon,
like those admired in this photo,
like the magic of Brigadoon.
Let's keep our boys as soldiers,
who have no fight,
only peaceful sleeping until noon,
marching boots shined and polished,
socks on.
Anchored out at Sucia Island;
morning is wet, all surfaces
covered in a fine film of
sea dampness. Seagulls scream
out their love for oysters
long before we have
water for coffee boiling.
It’s a delicious life – waking on the water.
Encompassed in peace and the scent of the ocean.
~~~
My father taught us that crows were
old Indians. It was very important to him that we respected crows and Indians,
old, young, man, woman; crows and Indians. He told us his grandmother was
Indian. They called her Pocahontas. But they called all Indian women Pocahontas
who couldn’t write their own name in English. My father wanted us to understand
that crows and Indians were the peaceful ones, we should follow their examples.~~~
Wandering,
footsore,
after a long day
of gazing at
spectacular scenes
of others imaginations,
wars,
carnivals,
dance,
birth,
death;
inside the minds,
outside of grasps,
insanity,
treachery,
love,
romance,
lust, and
a little bit of dust.
We seek peace in
museums,
churches,
sanctuaries.
It escapes us still,
no matter how diligent.
~~~
The light at the end of the day,
after rain leaves everything in pink light, with sun dipping behind hills. My
little dog and I wrap up and venture out for one last glimpse, her sniffing
every little thing, me breathing deep the fresh air, inhaling the peace of
evening.
~~~
There was
a simple magic
when I’d
wake up at
Mom’s
house and realize
she’d
opened the bedroom
door, let
the cat in,
and was in
the kitchen putting
away dishes
from the night
before,
clean and dry, emptying
the dishwasher
with military
precision,
clang of
ceramic,
glass,
flatware,
the smell
of
fresh
beans brewing.
Morning peace,
waking
day,
slowly
living
brought to life.
~~~
She
walked upon the river’s path, the leaves of spring, small babies yet, just
beginning to show their soft little heads, pushing out to reach the light. It
gave her hope of newness to come. Birds of brown and blue, singing their
own rock and roll version of sunshine and happiness. She bent down to pick up a
shiny coin dropped by a passerby and it said
Peace
Love
Faith
~~~
I sometimes think of Joe, whose mother called him José.
He was a peaceful man.
His smile
could settle a small child’s tantrum; his arms would soothe a baby and rock her
to sleep, long before her mother’s tears could dry.
He radiated softness,
comfort.
Joe was an old man in a boy’s lean brown body.
~~~
His
shoelaces got caught in the escalator and he almost went down but was saved at
the last minute by a loose shoe and a man with steady hands. They’d gone to
Sante Fe for peace and rest but had forgot about the proximity to Los Alamos.
I heard church bells clanging, somewhere
through the trees, dark
with mid-winter cloudiness; they
sang a mournful song of
hopeful peace, clinging
to the ideal that we
can all get along, embrace
the difference.
The bells.
They make small thunder of their dreams.
When he got to heaven,
my brother said
he was going to first look for Dad and Mom,
and then his best friend,
who passed so many years before him. I wonder
if he found them when he got there. Or did he even get there?
He was pretty convinced
that's where he was going. Did he find
the peace
people expect when they pass over
to wherever they go? Will I find out one day?
I've got a few things I want to discuss with them.
My mother let me drive. I was 16 but had been driving for a while. Should have known better, but Mom made me nervous and so did the long hill coming up 410. When I was pulled over, flashing lights and siren, I could have died. The pain of the anxiety. "Your brights," he said. "You need to dim them." He held my driver's license under his flashlight in the naked dark with cars rocking us as they flew by, his pants whipping in the rush. "I know your dad," he said. "Tell him 'hi' from Elmer Little." He was an officer of the peace. Perhaps we should still call them that.
I wore my hair in braids.
No make up.
Didn't own any.
Picked berries with a baby on my back.
Canned tomatoes, peaches, apricots, pears, applesauce,
ran a food co-op and raised chickens and children.
Wrote poems,
cried in the night,
washed dishes by hand.
Ran out of dinner ideas,
pressed cider in autumn,
planted gardens in spring.
Fell in love with a cowboy and ran away.
Found peace in the city.
Metro hippies.
Never holding grudges.
Dancing in the park.
He shifted in his saddle,
tall and silhouetted with
the blazing sun on his back,
daring me to question him. The sand
was hot, pushing at the
soles of my feet, urging me
to rise up, to keep my chin
off my chest.
"What did she say to you?"
he demanded,
raising his voice
over the breaking waves.
"Nothing,"
I said,
"but you just did."
And I've managed to
find peace between us, after
so many years have
gone lost, filling the ocean
with no regrets,
only ghosts.
"We lived on the best hill,
in the best city,
in the best state,
in the best country,
on the best planet."
It was a chant we did when we were feeling that sense of well-being, everything was good, we had a peaceful existence, loved our neighbors as we should and were happier than we ever thought we could be. Until we weren't. It was all gone in one driveby moment.
Graduation Party 2022
It rained.
No, it poured.
It meddled with our plans in a way that made us grin, and take on the challenge, because the Class of '22 had been through a couple of years that were not a mere nuisance filled with typical teenage angst.
No... this was masks and hand gel and sing-fucking-happy-birthday-twice-while-you-wash-your-hands and tests and vaxxing and learning to ignore insanity, which was sometimes blowing up all around you.
They danced under tents and then under the bursting sky, making peace with a world that wanted to send roadblocks.
But they came with fists and umbrellas!
There are some boys who will dream of going in the Navy.
Some think in times of peace, they'll be safe from danger.
Others join because they are called by some magic siren to bear arms.
There are those who will never see anything more killer than a whale.
In case you tried to reach me
I might be hard to find
I'm trying to walk off all the clutter in my mind
Looking for a slice of peace
I wander on the rocky beach
seeking enlightenment on the shore
if harmony's within my reach.
Whoever knew shells could have such amazing names?
"Black Jingle?"
Is that a tooth gone bad in a bell?
Is a "False Angel Wing" one that flies a body into the melting sun?
A "Knobby Top" is what your grandpa wears to auctions on Sundays to buy an "Old Maid Curl" to make his "Left Handed Walk" when he's eating his "Turkey Wings."
Apologies to the person who received this shell postcard,
having nothing to do with peace, as it were.
A little bit of silliness.
"Peace" she asked for. And equality and the ability to make her own choices about this beautiful new body, as surely her mate had been granted. She begged, while he dozed and dreamt of sons, those who would go on to create parental peril.
There are times I congratulate myself
on having energy,
working full time at nearly 74,
going on solo trips or
meeting friends in far off destinations,
getting in 10,000 daily steps,
walking the dog 3 times a day,
praying for peace,
which seems forever ever elusive,
keeping a stiff upper lip and
nose to the grindstone.
Other times I wonder if I'll wake up in the morning.
I'm looking forward to summer and being alone at the lake.
How many poems I have written at the lake.
Alone.
With my little dog, of course,
who,
in the peaceful quiet of a dusky afternoon,
I'm not above talking to,
carrying on
an entire one-sided conversation.
My chair,
my blanket,
my notebook,
my dog,
watching the laughing, crying children,
dipping in and out of the water.
I'm looking forward to summer and being alone at the lake.
Inés de Castro, the real hero of a tragic love story, rivaling Romeo and Juliet, she, the only
one to pay the price with her life, for following her true heart. Has she encountered peace any of these 700 years, or does the brutal turbulence of her death haunt the
beautiful faithful Inés, deep in her marble crypt?
To some it meant
victory but to us,
it meant something else. And
to a lot or parent-types,
it was an insult. We just wanted
the war to stop and
our boys to come home,
not in a box.
Two fingers,
held aloft,
palm out,
though many saw the middle finger only.
Over time,
everyone,
from first-graders to
US presidents
were flashing it.
Let's give it a chance.
I'm pretty sure elephants are way smarter than humans. They live in a coexistence with other creatures of the earth and have peaceful loving communities. Attentive to their young and seniors, they have a kingdom of mutual respect. Whales, too. Primates, of course. We think we're superior because of our language but animals have a tiny vocabulary in comparison, and they communicate just fine.
Humans are just a bunch of words.
(This postcard is the art of my friend Michael Hale, who lives in Pt. T. I've known Michael for nearly 60 years!)
Would that we could give to one another in the same manner we rescue and shelter dogs and cats. Let us lavish this kind of love on one another. We are none the same, yet too eager to readily be offended by the differences in others.
In a peaceful world there would be celebrations of differences.
Let it be.
"Let us have peace in a hundred years," she said,
her eyes like stone,
daring onlookers to not believe
it could be so, her world
being bloodied and shattered,
saying too many goodbyes,
not enough hellos.
She allowed us
ONE HUNDRED YEARS
to get it right.
There are those of us
who still believe in the power of peace.
.................................................
So, there we are for another year
of wishing for peace on all levels,
but not at all costs.
Peace Poets 2023
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Thanks for reading.
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