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

100TPC, 2017 / Stand with us now for Peace, Sustainability and Social Justice

This year, the last Saturday of September, the regular day for the Global 100,000 Poets for Change Events around the world, falls on Yom Kippur, considered the Holiest day of the Jewish religion. Observant Jews around the world are fasting, having spent the Days of Awe leading up to Yom Kippur asking the people in their lives for forgiveness and inventorying their transgressions against Creation. Today, we Jews go to synagogue and ask Creation (G-d) for forgiveness. Another name for Yom Kippur is the Day of Atonement.

First, the order matters: We ask the people in our lives for forgiveness. Then we think how we have acted against the World. Then and only then do we turn to G-d for forgiveness.

Second, saying sorry is not enough, in our tradition. It is a start. In the Jewish tradition, people must also act differently, that is, they must enact the apology with a change in how they are in the world.

Third, human purpose can be understood—in how I have been taught—as working toward Tikkun Olam. Tikkun Olam is the repair or healing of Creation. While there is definitely a range of interpretations that could be made on what this healing entails, it certainly incorporates attention to the physical world as well as the spiritual. These two intertwine and interrelate in such a way as to be inseparable. Social Justice, Environmental Sustainability, and Peace—and writing, the arts, music in service of activism for positive change—are very relevant issues to our human purpose, from this view.

And thus, on the Holiest Day of the Jewish Year, it is appropriate to work toward Tikkun Olam, asking G-d’s forgiveness for all we have done that harms our fellow humans, inventorying our own role, and moving forward with action that shows our genuine desire to change and make things right again.

And, further, as the spiritual and the physical are interrelated, so are all of the arts (literature, art, music, dance, stage, film…), so are all three of the themes: Social Justice, Environmental Sustainability, and Peace.

So this year, on Yom Kippur, we ask you to join in with your contributions from any of the arts—share your efforts toward healing and repair of our World. As you do, remember this, paraphrased from the sages:

Do not despair at the iniquity and injustice of the world in which we live. For today, that is, in this period where injustice, racism, and greed seem to have risen to power, do not give up or give in.

It is not up to us to complete the work of Tikkun Olam, but this does not free us from working toward the healing and repair of Creation. That is, although we may not achieve our goals of a just, sustainable and peaceful world in our lifetime, we must continue to make progress, and in working toward them, the healing of Creation will occur, one poem, one essay, one novel, one painting, one sculpture, one song, one symphony, one performance at at a time…

By action, not words alone, will this be done. If ever there was a time when this action is more needed than others, certainly now is one—Resistance! Activism! Peace! Sustainability! Social Justice!

Instructions for how to participate follow below.

—Michael Dickel, Contributing Editor

Thanks to Jamie Dedes for getting our virtual 100TPC underway. Travel issues left me in the lurch. My apologies. May this introduction partially atone for my tardiness in getting the event going! Instruction on how to participate in today’s event are included below:

“It is from numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. Each time a [woman or] man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring, those ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance.” ~ Robert F. Kennedy South Africa, 1966

Today under the banner of 100,000 Poets (and friends) for Change (100TPC) people the world over are gathered to stand up and stand together for PEACE, SUSTAINABILITY and SOCIAL JUSTICE.

Here is a sampling of the posters announcing these gatherings.They give you a small idea of how far-reaching this annual global event is and for which we have the work and vision of  100TPC cofounders Michael Rothenberg and Terri Carrion to thank.

Think on this when you are tempted to lose all hope for our species. Remember that—not just today, but everyday—there are ripples and waves and tsunamis of faith and courage crossing borders in the form of poetry, stories, art, music, friendships and other acts of heroism. Hang tough. And do join with us—The Bardo Group Beguines—today to share your own creative work and to enjoy the work of others. All are welcome no matter where in the world you live.


This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Meanwhile our 100TPC host, Michael Dickel, was caught somewhere between Israel and the American Midwest, so we got off to a late start. Michael will be around during the day today.  He did especially want you to have the link to the 100TPC Resist Wall, where you can post activist and resistance poetry today or any day.


To share your poems, art, photography and music videos for our “live” virtual 100TPC today, please use MisterLinky for url links. Just click on the icon below.  You can also simply paste your complete work or the url into the comments section.  Remember the themes are peace, sustainability and social justice.

To read shared work see the comments section and click on Mister Linky. Enjoy!

On behalf of Michael and the rest of The Bardo Group Beguines
and in the spirit of peace, love (respect) and community,
Jamie Dedes
Managing Editor,
The BeZine


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.

97 thoughts on “100TPC, 2017 / Stand with us now for Peace, Sustainability and Social Justice

  1. Friendship Lost

    We were friends, girls growing
    in a time when borders crumbled,
    their mortar eaten by memories
    of when the world went to war

    and our fathers fought for freedom
    against proud men who dreamed
    of an empire where only fit blond
    people were citizens, all others

    were slaves, or destined to death.
    They fought with weapons now
    in museums, died in jungles, deserts,
    mountains, fields and plains; some

    have no graves, others lie beneath
    white stones, remembered by poppies
    that grew where their fathers fought.

    We thought we would give birth to peace
    our bond new no borders, colour
    creed or flag, we knew love, hope
    but now are rent by those who

    build again the borders and empires
    our fathers fought, died to destroy.

    Carolyn O’Connell – England
    (c) September 2017

    Liked by 4 people

  2. Friendship Lost

    We were friends, girls growing
in a time when borders crumbled,
    their mortar eaten by memories
of when the world went to war

    and our fathers fought for freedom

    against proud men who dreamed

    of an empire where only fit blond
people were citizens, all others


were slaves, or destined to death.

    They fought with weapons now
in museums, died in jungles, deserts,
mountains, fields and plains; some

    have no graves, others lie beneath
white stones, remembered by poppies
that grew where their fathers fought.

    We thought we would give birth to peace

    our bond new no borders, colour
    creed or flag, we knew love, hope
but now are rent by those who


build again the borders and empires
our fathers fought, died to destroy.


Carolyn O’Connell, 
September 2017

    Hear Carol read the poem!

    Liked by 2 people


    The bitter cold
    of grey morning air
    seeps into my bones.
    The first faint stirrings
    of another lonely day
    nudge me to wakefulness
    and hunger as ever
    gnaws at me.
    Slowly I open my eyes
    to the realisation that
    here I lie on the steps
    of the High street bank,
    closed down now…
    just like me

    —Grace Galton

    Liked by 3 people

  4. Soldier to Soldier Outside the Church of the Nativity, Bethlehem

    DeWitt Clinton, Wisconsin USA
    first appeared in Verse-Virtual November 2015

    Where Arabs hawk postcards,
    and tired pilgrims rest
    after prayers to the Christ child,
    I walk over to a soldier
    who dozes in the Bethlehem heat,
    ask if his rifle is an M16.

    He’s surprised a tourist
    would know such things.
    I tell him I carried
    a rifle like his
    outside Chu Lai
    in the Song Chang River Valley,
    words I’ve never wanted to say
    except now, with this kid.

    He looks at me to make sure.
    Did I shoot any VC?
    Did I walk the boonies?
    Did I get any poontang?
    Then something he said,
    as if his lips, tongue,
    teeth, throat moved into slow motion
    like tracers drawing a bead
    on the enemy—

    You’re a hero, he says.

    Not really, I try to tell him.
    He says Yes, Yes, you’re a hero,
    and he smiles, happy to stand next to one,
    happy to tell his mother,
    everyone at dinner tonight,
    who he met today
    outside the Church of the Nativity.

    What does he know
    of the battalion of NVA,
    slaughtered with seven batteries
    of heavy ground artillery,
    a crap shoot, Capt. Willis bragged,
    a fucking crap shoot,
    we waited and waited
    and waited all fucking afternoon
    no one had ever
    seen that many gooks in the open before.

    Another pilgrim in our tour steps
    into the bright piazza,
    wonders whatever in the world
    could we be talking about,
    walks over, asks to shoot
    a picture of both of us,
    one soldier standing next to a hero.

    His weapon is in lock and load.
    The boy soldier will protect us
    from liberators, bombs, random stabbings,
    even a stone thrown over a Wall.
    Next to him, I smell the stench
    all over again,
    round after round
    pummeling good soldiers
    into the soft Asian ground.

    I smile for a close up.
    He welcomes me home,
    my very own parade
    my very own hero’s parade.

    A few others in our tour
    want a picture, too,
    a victory parade
    here on this tour of the Holy Land
    lucky, fucking lucky,
    to still have arms, legs,
    the summer heat
    rising like the stench
    of all those boys
    their bones lost and forgotten
    revived with pilgrimages
    back to downed planes
    rusting metal parts
    quick easy graves
    for the useless dead
    who always come back
    on occasions
    where small crowds
    for honor and glory.

    Liked by 2 people

  5. The first taste

    They say it has a specific taste
    a kind of ambrosia
    a nectar pumped by fairies especially for you
    straight from the heaven’s orchards
    They say it has a sweetness
    more like that poison that entered the Adam’s veins
    when he thought he is entitled to bite that apple
    right there on that spot, he felt the intoxicating
    desire of being God
    right there for a second, God was split in two
    That was the unforgivable sin…
    The boost for all dividing cells…

    So, success is a fruit you should never bite
    just admire its Godly shape
    or else
    be prepared to crumble under its heavy curse

    Liked by 3 people

  6. from The Poetry Foundation, publishers of “Poetry” magazine.

    IMAGINE A PEACE-SHELF IN EVERY BOOKSTORE: In May 2009, in a backyard in Portland, Oregon, a few poets and artists found themselves possessed by what appeared to be a simple question: if we were to suggest that bookstores have a “peace shelf” of books, what should it carry? We were in Portland for “Another World Instead: William Stafford Peace Symposium,” and Kim Stafford, the poet’s son, posed the question.

    Read on …

    Liked by 1 person

  7. the century of possible peace

    after Muriel Rukeyser’s “Poem”
    I lived in the century of world wars and
    into the century of “hot spots” and “conflicts,”
    those isolated regions of hostility and battle, of
    choreographed shows of military cliché and the
    violent disaffected eruptions of the marginalized

    Every day is an homage to some insanity
    Media reports are conveyed with facile intensity
    by hyperkinetic journalists – they deliver easy
    and ominous conclusions based on seemingly
    recondite facts, quickly moving to celebrity
    gossip and other insipid topics . . .

    I have lived in two centuries of wars
    I know what it is to be exhausted by the
    vain posturing of the ruling class and
    the tired protestations of tribal unity and
    supremacy based on accidents of birth

    I know what it is to imagine peace across
    the circumference of one small blue ball
    in a Universe of inestimable size and breadth
    I know that darkness can descend with the
    speed of light and that love is more than an
    anchor and that hope keeps our dreams alive

    I have lived into the century where the world is
    grown small, where the peacemakers are tireless
    and perhaps enough hearts have grown large …
    sometimes I think I am living in the century
    where peace is as possible as war

    – Jamie Dedes © 2013 poem, the century of possible peace and 2016, All rights reserved

    I lived in the first century of world wars.
    Most mornings I would be more or less insane,
    The newspapers would arrive with their careless stories,
    The news would pour out of various devices
    Interrupted by attempts to sell products to the unseen.
    I would call my friends on other devices;
    They would be more or less mad for similar reasons.
    Slowly I would get to pen and paper,
    Make my poems for others unseen and unborn.
    In the day I would be reminded of those men and women,
    Brave, setting up signals across vast distances,
    Considering a nameless way of living, of almost unimagined values.
    As the lights darkened, as the lights of night brightened,
    We would try to imagine them, try to find each other,
    To construct peace, to make love, to reconcile
    Waking with sleeping, ourselves with each other,
    Ourselves with ourselves. We would try by any means
    To reach the limits of ourselves, to reach beyond ourselves,
    To let go the means, to wake.
    I lived in the first century of these wars.
    – Muriel Rukeyser

    Liked by 1 person

  8. Off the shelf, so to speak, published for “The BeZine” apropos today’s themes. There’s tons. This is just a sample.

    * Waging the Peace,Fr. Daniel Sormani, Rev. Ben Meyers, and the Venerable Bhikkhu Bodhi
    * The Armed Man, A Mass for Peace, John Anstie
    * Entering the Sacred Space of Peacefulness, Terri Stewart
    * Peace on Earth, Priscilla Galasso
    * My Wish for Peace, A.V. Koshy
    * Deconstruction Peace, Jamie Dedes


    Liked by 2 people

  9. “Rosh HaShana 2016/5777”
    (Raanana, October 2, 2016)

    Enough of idle dreams and wishes
    Enough of sweetness, honey and apples.
    The light does not come from East
    And not from West,
    But from inside us.
    Peace will not come from one of us
    But from all of us.
    There is no time but marching forward
    To futures where Abraham’s progeny
    Sit together at a table
    Sharing food and drink
    And all men’s children
    Play and grow in health
    Uneducated in the ways of war
    But wise in the paths of peace,
    All men necessary on this march because
    No one knows from whence come saviors,
    What will be their color or creed,
    What language they will speak,
    Whether man, woman, child
    Or stranger.

    By Mike Stone

    Liked by 3 people

    1. The sentiment is perect. The ultimate truth/bottom line. “Uneducated in the ways of war… ” I can’t wait or the day when war is unheard of and our children know only peace.

      So generous for you to share three poems. Thank you, Mike.

      Liked by 2 people

  10. “Sioux Mother”
    (Raanana, October 7, 2016)

    One eye bright
    Another eye dark
    We wake inside you
    And we sleep inside you
    Our infants and old ones
    Suckle your breast
    Thousands and millions
    With your love staining their lips
    Your love pulls us to you gently
    And lightly we tread your belly
    But when you’re angry
    We tremble
    Yes, even the bravest trembles
    Some turn away from you
    Imagining invisible gods
    Invisible nations
    But we your first born
    Will never turn away
    Never desert you
    Even when your bright eye
    Swells with anger
    We are small
    The smallest of insects barely visible
    But we will protect you
    Or die trying.

    By Mike Stone

    Liked by 2 people

  11. “Yom Kippur 2016”
    (Raanana, October 12, 2016)

    There is a time in such a space
    That is not so much a quiet
    As a subtle shift of noises
    From harsh mechanical honkings,
    Screechings, motor revvings,
    Metal exhaust blats, jack hammers, and drills
    Into softer bicycle tires, skateboards,
    Scooters, and carriages,
    Children laughing and shouting,
    Young mothers telling their young children
    Not to go too far,
    Dogs barking, and neighbors gossiping,
    From mechanical sounds into human sounds.
    Time stretches out yawning
    And time stretches into space
    So that it seems almost enough for a people to live in.
    The wars are somehow put off,
    Pushed back behind darkened villages
    That will one day explode into ululating billions
    But that day is not today.
    It’s not so much a day of atonement,
    For what is done is done
    And what will be will be,
    But a kind of temporary ceasefire
    Between ourselves and others
    But especially between ourselves.

    By Mike Stone

    Liked by 4 people

  12. “What If There Really Were”
    (Raanana, December 9, 2016)

    What if there really were
    Men and women
    Who cared for their children
    Those born and those as yet unborn,
    Who respected the humanity
    Of others as well as us
    Strangers and enemies as ourselves?

    What if humanity did not exclude
    The animals and plants
    And other things of this earth,
    And loved the earth
    Not as we love a food consuming it
    Just to forget about our hunger
    But as we love a mother
    That suckles us when we are born
    And caresses us when we die?

    What if we really were men and women
    And not just strands of genes
    Crawling towards some senseless horizon
    Whose only purpose was to replicate
    So that some random trait or other
    Would survive longer than some other genes?

    If we were really men and women
    We’d know our purpose
    Without being told by some clueless prophet
    And it’d be a grand purpose
    That our earth could not live without.

    By Mike Stone

    Liked by 2 people

  13. Eric Bogle’s “The Green Fields of France”
    Please pardon the chord notations

    G                 Em             C                  Am
    Well how do you do, young Willie McBride
           D            D7                  C                G
    Do you mind if I sit here down by your grave side
                      Em                    C               Am
    And rest for a  while ‘neath the warm summer sun
           D                D7            C                 G
    I’ve been working all day and I’m nearly done.
                      Em                  C                 Am
    I see by your gravestone you were only  nineteen
            D               C              G                D7
    When you joined the fallen in nineteen sixteen
    G                      Em              Am
    I hope you died well and I hope you died clean
           D                D7             C               G
    Or young Willie  McBride was it  slow and obscene.
             D                 D7 
    Did they beat the drum slowly
             C                  G 
    Did they play the fife lowly
             D                   D7
    Did they sound the death march
            C                   D
    As they lowered you down
            C                         G           Em
    And did the band play the Last post and chorus 
            G                         D7     G
    Did the pipes play the Flow’rs of the forest.
    And did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind
    In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined
    Although you died back in nineteen sixteen
    In that faithful heart are you forever nineteen
    Or are you a stranger without even a name
    Enclosed and forever behind the glass frame
    In an old photograph, torn and battered and stained
    And fade to yellow in a brown leather frame.
    The sun now it shines on the green fields of France
    There’s a warm summer breeze, it makes the red poppies dance
    And look how the sun shines from under the clouds
    There’s no gas, no barbed wire, there’s no guns firing now
    But here in this graveyard it’s still no-man’s land
    The countless white crosses stand mute in the sand
    To man’s blind indifference to his fellow man
    To a whole generation that were butchered and damned.
    Now young Willie McBride I can’t help but wonder why
    Do all those who lie here know why they died
    And did they believe when they answered the cause
    Did they really believe that this war would end wars
    Well the sorrows, the suffering, the glory, the pain
    The killing and dying was all done in vain
    For young Willie McBride it all happened again
    And again, and again, and again, and again.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. I tried to fix the chords when I posted the YouTube, but not too successfully. Hearing Eric Bogle reminded me of Judy Small’s song, Mothers, Daughters, Wives—mainly because I heard both of them for the first time at the same music festival many years ago.

      Liked by 1 person

  14. From Thaís Fernandes — Brazil

    Fly flags high on mast
    Independence Day, a declaration
    what price for freedom?

    ©2017 Thaís Fernandes

    Image ©Janina Steiner—from Flickr

    Liked by 4 people

  15. “A Changeling”
    (Raanana, July 27, 2017)

    Whatever we will be
    We are already.
    We always were
    What we will be.

    Nothing has changed
    Since change is all there is
    And change keeps changing.

    If all we can say we are
    Is that we are changing
    Then what can we really say
    About ourselves
    Or others.

    By Mike Stone

    Liked by 2 people

  16. Take Courage My Brother

    The great Indian Chief stood atop the mountain facing the sun, the sky, the forests, and peering down at all the wild beasts of the prairies. He wondered, how is it that these white men that we welcomed with open arms, come to rob us out of our land, our homes and all that we have grown to love? What is the meaning of their flag? Why must we stand ready to fight against this foe? Why do the settlers want to possess this great land that was meant for everyone to share? How is it that they will stop at nothing until they have divided our peoples and try to kill all that remains of our indomitable spirit?

    The soldiers chase us away to a foreign land, taking us away from everyone and everything that we hold dear. They rape this great mountain of its resources and plunder it until every speck of beauty is gone, all in the name of progress. What a travesty. The land is now laid waste and strip-mined for coal and other commodities all for their consumption. Federal workers patrol the small portion that remains, while the First Nations people who live are relegated to subsist on reservations. Let us not forget our brothers and sisters who are hurting. Now is the time for healing. Now is the time for reconciliation.

    —Denise Fletcher

    Liked by 3 people

  17. Vulture

    Peace is the dividing cell
    ferocious in the marrow.
    It coats the bullet,
    cannot be marched
    to with signs or weapons.
    Peace is the vulture
    loving the corpse.
    It is the victory sign on a mass grave.
    It never left. It pulses
    under the noise, Peace does.

    We thought we could name God.
    And we did. All of God’s names
    are God’s names. Even the one
    you cannot speak. Peace, too,
    has every name we ever gave it.
    It is upon the back of the cockroach.
    Peace has always loved
    the shiny armor of a cockroach.

    —Meg Harris

    First appeared in the Cafe Review and is included in my recently released chapbook Inquiry Into Loneliness from Crisis Chronicles Press.

    Liked by 2 people

  18. Remembrance

    After an artifact of the Auschwitz-Birkenau State Museum

    Before we left Oswiecim, went to work elsewhere for the devil, and we left you to play your sweet clarinet for those officer’s parties and decampment marches, six of us said a Novena and made a promise in the bunker you built. Remember that sweet German marmalade, Albert? And those cups of tepid soup we brought to you those August nights? I remember your ready smile and broad hands. How capable you were with a carpenter’s tools. We were, each of us, around 19 years old in September of 1944. Karol said you reminded him of his kid brother, the stubborn mass of your young muscles despite the starvation and hard labor you endured. You heartened us. And we loved you as we did another Jew, a Nazarene who was also a carpenter.

    And in that place where you worked alone those hot afternoons, in that bunker that we built together intended to protect the SS in case of an air raid; the rest of us, we gathered and Bronislow wrote our names and prisoner numbers on a scrap of paper that Karol ripped from an empty cement bag. We used the pencil left by a visiting inspector and there where you hid the evidence of the food we hid for you, the jelly jars and soup tins. There in the cement wall, inside an old vinegar bottle, after we said a prayer for survival, and if nothing else remembrance of our young lives, we secreted that scrolled paper after adding your name, Albert Veissid, and A12063, your prisoner number.

    —Meg Harris, New York, U.S.A.

    list of laborers

    About the artifact

    Liked by 3 people

  19. From Evelyn Augusto: GUNS DON’T SAVE PEOPLE POETS DO … a call for submissions

    Calling all Hudson Valley and Catskill Region Poets…

    Would you like to be a featured poet at GUNS DON’T SAVE PEOPLE POETS DO…Dueling with words to stop Gun Violence. Oct 6th at 8pm, The Glen Falls House, Round Top, NY?

    Send 3 poems to and your contact information.

    Limited space…

    Liked by 2 people

  20. Today, I spent the day with passionate, like-minded people trying to ponder the ways we dialogue, the strengths we have, the challenges facing us, and how can we stand strong in the face of all the isms while maintaining a stance of peacemaking and nonviolence.

    I have hope because together we are stronger. And this energy of hope points the way towards the future regardless of the irrationality that comes from our current political leaders.

    I am inspired to write a haiku to honor the luscious souls I encountered today.

    the heron’s gaze rests
    bluebirds twitter senselessly
    the tide is coming

    Liked by 3 people

    1. I rather think we overwhelm the irrational. We just don’t get the publicity they do. Well done. Glad you had time and energy to stop by and leave your words. Hope you get a chance for dinner and well-deserved rest now.

      Liked by 2 people

  21. More “Off the Shelf” from Zine team and guests:

    * The Peaceful Easel, Paula Kieutenbrouwer,
    * Celebrating Wilderness, Priscilla Galasso,
    * War’s Cold Night, Charles W. Martin,
    * Other Refugees, Corina Ravenscraft,
    * The Art of Work, Naomi Baltuck,
    * John Stuart Mill – On the Freedom of the Individual, John Anstie,


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