Posted in 100,000 Poets, Musicians, Artists and Activists for Change, The BeZine Table of Contents

100TPC — 2016

Welcome to The BeZine’s online,
virtual 100,000 Poets for Change event!

This past week, an international aid convoy in Syria was attacked with devastating results, during a ceasefire. Bombs went off, as usual, in Iraq. They also went off in New Jersey and New York. There were terrorist knife attacks in Jerusalem. And knife attacks also in St. Cloud, Minnesota. Police shot (at least) two unarmed African-Americans in the United States. Police shot “terror suspects” in Israel. Iran arrested dissidents. China gave a dissident’s attorney a 12-year sentence.

Climate change has reduced the arctic ice sheets at record levels, this summer just ended. The Fertile Crescent, where Western civilization began, has suffered such a devastating drought that farmers have fled it for years now—a contributing cause to the Syrian civil war and the refugee crisis. The hardened, drought-stricken soil in the region, broken up by heavy war-machinery, artillery shelling, and bombs, has turned into dust that the wind picks up—a contributing cause of record dust storms throughout the region.

It is time for global change

For the past six years, 100,000 Poets for Change (100TPC) has inspired and supported events on a Saturday in September. This year, there are over 550 events scheduled throughout the world. This blog/zine is one of them. The goal is for poets (artists, musicians, actors, even mimes) to band together and perform / exhibit their work in a call to change the world for the better.

The 100TPC themes are peace, sustainability, and social justice. The September 2016 issue of The BeZine, edited by Priscilla Galasso and Steve Wiencek, focuses on environmental justice. This focus relates to social justice and sustainability, but is a necessary part of obtaining peace.

If we still have poverty and homelessness, what is sustained other than inequality? And, without social justice and a sustainable environment, could there be peace? Could peace be maintained without both social and environmental justice alongside environmental and economic sustainability?

Share your work here, today, as part of our 100TPC online event—help us create a space for change. As in past years, the event will be archived and made available later on The BeZine’s website and will also be archived at Standford University in California.

Here’s how to post your work

For today’s online event, our choice is not to put one of the three themes—peace, sustainability, and social justice—above the others, but to recognize that all of these three necessary areas of change interrelate in complex ways.

We invite you to participate. Share your writing, art, music, videos, thoughts that relate to these themes on our website today.

It’s actually easy to do.

  • Click on Mr. Linky below and follow instructions for posting a link to a post on your blog:

  • You can also post a link or writing directly into the comments below!
Come back during the day

Please return often today (Sept. 24, 2016) to read what others have posted, follow links, like, and leave comments—and to see and reply to what others have commented on your own posts and links. We would love to see an active dialogue!


The focus of "The BeZine," a publication of The Bardo Group Beguines, is on sacred space (common ground) as it is expressed through the arts. Our work covers a range of topics: spirituality, life, death, personal experience, culture, current events, history, art, and photography and film. We share work here that is representative of universal human values however differently they might be expressed in our varied religions and cultures. We feel that our art and our Internet-facilitated social connection offer a means to see one another in our simple humanity, as brothers and sisters, and not as “other.” This is a space where we hope you’ll delight in learning how much you have in common with “other” peoples. We hope that your visits here will help you to love (respect) not fear. For more see our Info/Mission Statement Page.

165 thoughts on “100TPC — 2016

    1. Michael McClelliann, thank you and your group so very much for your support and participation. Much appreciated. Nothing better than to be united in peace and for the sake of our environment.

      Warmest regards,
      Jamie Dedes

      Liked by 1 person

          1. You’re welcome, Jamie. Thank you. We are all very proud of the collaboration. All but 1 of nearly 200 Poets consented to being included in Praxis Magazine online’s publication of their contribution.

            Liked by 2 people

                1. Interest has been high since the poem published. I am looking forward to the fruits of tomorrow’s 100TPC global events.


                  Liked by 2 people

                2. St Joseph’s in Brentwood? So I would have remembered that. I graduated in 1978 and am obviously thinking of another school. The Catholic schools were great wrestling teams, Chaminade being the best.

                  Liked by 2 people

                3. I Googled to see why I was confused and still have no idea, but my younger brother & sister grew up in Bayside (different foster home). St. Joseph’s was the name of a.vrojp foster home in Sea Cliff where we lived before being placed in foster homes ourselves.
                  Sorry, I had to niggle that out of my brain. Hate being confused.
                  Have a good night, Jamie. Good chatting with you.

                  Liked by 2 people

  1. “The Emperor’s New Changes”
    (Raanana, September 11, 2016)

    A hundred thousand poets for change
    That’s us.
    That’s what we called ourselves last year
    And the year before.
    So they’ve stopped lynching the poets in Arabia?
    They’ve stopped stoning the raped women in Kabul?
    What about the mutilation of genitals of young girls?
    So they’ve stopped burning down Black churches in Bama?
    Stopped desecrating the lands of our Sioux brothers?
    How about the carbon they’ve dumped in the atmosphere?
    Did they stop that?
    Do they believe now the earth is too warm to live on?
    Are philosophers kings yet?
    Are kings philosophers?
    I don’t mean to be cynical
    But it doesn’t seem like much has changed since last year.
    We’ve read a few poems,
    That’s all.
    Come to think of it,
    Have we really changed,
    Except for getting a year older?
    If that’s change
    Then we better change change
    So that it’s palpable
    So that we can feed people with it
    So that people can walk tall from it
    So that people can protect themselves with it
    So that people can make love to it
    Until change is done changing
    And the world is all the Republic we need.

    Mike Stone
    Raanana Israel

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Central Station

    people decently dressed
    wait for trains
    for connections
    for new termini
    new chances
    longed-for visitors
    or just sit around
    impassive pigeons
    picking at crumbs –

    the man with the robe
    the colour of
    scorched earth
    nips off bits of bread
    it tastes better
    than the one stuck
    in a corner of his mind

    across the rails
    huge screens rotate
    images of prosperity
    shiny roadsters
    faces, clean shaven like marble
    breasts shimmering
    through high-tech lace

    a sudden thought
    a shiver
    the intimation of a silhouette
    that could be his daughter’s

    the bread in his hand
    feels like earth
    like the scorched earth
    he had left behind

    callous fingers
    knead it to crumbs
    the hand opens
    but the pigeons are gone
    and the Supervisor
    rebukes him
    with an uncompromising gaze

    (c) Aprilia Zank
    Aprilia is a friend of the Zine and also a guest contributor. This is her contribution to this years’ 100TPC. Aprilia is also a lecturer for Creative Writing and Translation in the Department of Languages and Communication at the Ludwig Maximilian University of Munich, Germany, where she received her PhD degree in Literature and Psycholinguistics for her thesis THE WORD IN THE WORD Literary Text Reception and Linguistic Relativity. She’s a writer, poetry and photographer. Thanks, Aprilia!

    Liked by 2 people

  3. And here’s Carolyn O’Connell’s poem from this issue of “The BeZine” … she sent it for the event and I jumped the gun and published it … read on …

    The bark of the old oak shows its wrinkles, scars
    written on the vellum of its years, a new ring
    spans the finger of its heart, a summer’s history
    almost soldered as its sparse leaves crinkle;
    sap withdraws in August Drop before painting
    the oak then falling to mulch and feed the tree.

    This oak has seen our planet change with time
    its rivers tamed, fields, and its villages and coasts
    redrawn, kings’ rule and die as all men do
    their legacy and palaces razed or democratized.

    Its seen Sahara’s sands creep to the sea,
    ice thicken or melt around the pole’s,
    jungles spread, retreat and species change
    men flee from famine, war, women weep
    and children starve or die upon the sea.

    Encased within the chrysalis of power
    oligarchs, dictators wield transient decrees
    with the cold eyes and furrowed faces age bestows;
    for gold and power strips their hearts, yet
    their bones will lay with poor men in the earth.

    Whose riches can sustain both man and beast
    if kindly managed like this ancient oak,
    tending to all a share that gives food and cloak
    and with respect shelter from the storms of life.

    Stripped bones give no hint of state or faith
    when they rise with movement of the plant’s shell?
    Ground by magma, rock, wave or fire to dust
    they may well blow upon the wind to fall
    on foreign fields forgotten by their folk.

    Each of us is but an oak leaf in Earth’s time;
    life a summer’s span before September’s age,
    precursors November’s fall to earth and death’s
    transformation to mulch to feed the oak afresh.

    © Carolyn O’Connell

    CAROLYN O’CONNELL lives in Ham, Richmond, Surrey in South London and started to write poetry after working in the Civil Service and the RNIB. She is a member of the Ormond Poetry Group and also a member of her local W.I. She works with Richmond Libraries to promote poetry and has lead workshops, hosted at The Tea Box in Richmond and been a Guest Read at Rhythm & Muse. Having worked on the poetry pRO project her poems have been translated into Romanian and broadcast on Romania radio via the Translation Café of the University of Bucharest.Her work has been published in America. Publications: Envoi, Interpreter’s House. Poetry Space, Snare’s Nest, I am Not a Silent Poet. Her collection “Timelines,” is published by Indigo Dreams (2014, ISBN 978-1-9093575-3-2) Carolyn lives in Richmond, Surrey, on the outskirts of London. Collection Timelines was published by Indigo Dreams http://www.indigodreams/co.UK/bookshop in 2014. ISBN 978-1-9093575-3-2) She works with local groups and libraries. Further information and website

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Terror and Beauty
    after Yeats

    A woman’s protests resound
    as she pleads for her husband’s life
    her video broadcast calls for justice
    while he falls for being black.

    An unknown child is pulled from rubble
    that was the home in which he slept
    before death dropped for morning skies.

    A man walks the streets, unseen
    by all who pass, his only crime
    unable to pay for a roof above his head.

    He lies in the savannah, a rotting carcass
    prey to vulture, poachers residue
    he had a tooth of ivory, hence his death.

    Two cheetah cubs parade on leads
    toys for elite boys, status symbols
    their mother mourns them.

    Sometimes a name appears
    Ali, Kevin, Lorraine , Keith
    Elephant, Gerrapah, Cat,
    and fades to be replaced by others.

    Beneath skin of fur all blood runs red,
    and beauty rises to terror for justice.

    Carolyn O’Connell

    Liked by 3 people

  5. Washed Up

    So many dead people
    caught in the crossfire
    created by the the money men,
    the arms traders,
    the super ego-ed politicians.
    They lie dead where they fell.
    Flesh and blood transformed to
    fertilizer to nurture the seeds
    and grow the crops, in a future
    they will not see.
    Their bones decaying to dust
    to form the building blocks
    of homes they will never inhabit.
    Dying where they fell,
    over there, not here
    and not looking like us.
    Unseen or soon forgotten
    by us here.

    But the dead washed up
    on holiday beaches
    look like our flesh and blood.
    They’re wearing our clothes.
    They’re washing up to haunt us
    in the Old World.
    Then there’s the living,
    washed up alive
    and by any means necessary
    moving on to bear witness,
    if any one is listening.
    To bring the horror home
    to those who created it
    in the Old World.
    Bringing it home to the Old World,
    but not as yet to the New.

    Liked by 3 people

  6. Exile On Inhumane Street

    I stroll down Avenue A tahini
    breezes dripping from the corner
    of my mouth. Passing a flat screen
    store window showing Bollywood
    Bang Bang. Stopping for Italian
    with lanyards of aniline in my
    linguini. They say accents change
    every fifty miles, then why is it the
    wind changes every fifty seconds?
    Is it geothermal or ocean energy?
    Global warming scientists say stay
    away from oceans and deserts.
    What if I want to have your ocean
    for dessert, feed it to the nine hundred
    and fifty thousand homeless soldiers
    in America? Invisible veterans.
    I’m given rice advice. I’m pissed I
    can’t make rice right and I’m amazed
    at your maze of maze and how much
    you make selling to high fructose corn
    syrup factories. You’re a corn star baby!
    I heard Peter The McCarthy King urged
    the UN to declare Long Island a no falafel
    zone. He wants to fly them to Jorden
    in an extra falafelary rendition and torture
    them with ketchup. I heard today a jewish
    family came home to Denmark in 1946
    after being in exile in Sweden. After
    three years the goose was still in the oven.
    After twenty-five years I’m still hangin’
    out on these Lower East Side streets
    chasing the ghost of Ginsburg, howling
    at the International Space Station gliding
    toward orbital sunrise wondering if the
    astronauts gave a standing ovation as
    they passed the soul of Johnny Cash in
    the cosmic heavens high above New
    York City. Yeah, I saw that space
    station once before from the top of
    my Green Mountain meditation place.
    Just as I was watching the bright light
    glide quickly across the dark cosmos
    of the New England sky, there was a
    rustle in the trail head trees behind me.
    I turned, only to find a bloated old
    moose with stars in his eyes and
    branch mark stripes on his forehead
    wiping blood from his lips after
    he just devoured my goose.

    Russ Green

    Liked by 3 people

  7. Kinga Fabó asked me to post two poems for her:

    Kinga Fabó

    False Thread

    Seasons jam up.
    Drill through the spring.
    Winter, summer start attacking.

    The flood makes a run.
    Surging again and again
    stalls and then throngs ahead.

    Under the sea, the land is shaking.
    (The unhoped front comes with such commotion.
    While the other is dragging a heatwave.)

    The shipwrecks of the lips: pilling of syllables.
    Slurs and stutters.
    Breaks and floods the words with anger.

    It hits. Or gets hit by a syllable
    culminating above on it.
    Gives no time to get resentful.

    There is its double if it bales out.
    None holds a grudge against none.
    It hits. Or let others beat it.

    The client is the same man.
    Hiding in my shadow.
    Matters not what I say or do.

    There is no love: Spring’s been postponed.
    It might be hiding in my shadow.
    Snip. I’ll cut you up, you false thread.

    (An iceberg broke of fin Greenland.
    The woods are on fire around Moscow.
    The air is poisoneous above Moscow.)

    (Translated by Gabor G. Gyukics)

    Kinga Fabó

    The Transfiguration of the Word

    Open, the sea appeared asleep.
    Carrying its waves.
    A pulse under the muted winter scene.
    Throwing a smile on the beach.

    A nun-spot on the hot little body.
    A color on the broken glass.
    A gesture that was once closed.
    Lovely as the sea stood up.
    Throwing a smile on the beach.

    I wanted to remain an object.
    But, no, immortality is not mine.
    I am too strong to defend myself.
    Waiting for punishment.

    This and the same happened together.
    Silently, I sat in the glass.
    Only the spot wandered on the naked scene.
    Sounds did not continue.

    Only an omitted gesture.
    Happiness like an unmoving dancer.
    Beatings on naked, bony back.

    And the sea will no longer be immortal.
    (Translated by Zsuzsanna Ozsváth and Martha Satz)

    (Read more of King Fabó’s work here.)

    Liked by 2 people

  8. Michael Rothenberg posted these links to Livestreaming 100TPC events—check links for times.

    100 Thousand Poets for Change Livestream: Check them out!

    TIA CHUCHA Sylmar, CA–Poets Soapbox:

    Birkirkara, MALTA

    Los Angeles, CA
    The 100,000 Poets and Musicians radio show

    Doha, QATAR
    Live ON FB

    Rome, ITALY (video and audio) (audio only)
    su :

    Graffiti Bleu Worldwide (Blog Radio)

    Liked by 1 person

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