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Volume 9 Waging Peace: personal & global Issue 2
Volume 9 Summer 2022 Issue 2
Waging Peace
balancing personal & global crises & needs
Cover art: Extinction
Digital Art
©2022 Dean Pasch
“We can never obtain
peace in the outer world
until we make peace
with ourselves…”
Not for more than a generation has the word ‘Peace’ held so much meaning and poignancy as it does now. The unjustified and inhumane attack by massed Russian Military Forces on Ukraine in February this year, is the largest scale act of aggression by any European country since Nazi Germany started its Blitzkrieg on Europe in 1939…and it does feel like the Russians have taken a leaf out of the Nazi book of waging war whilst making it look like a mercy mission.
Fear and anxiety are often referred to by Tenzin Gyatso, the 14th Dalai Lama, as the source of all human conflict. They lead to a defensive attitude, deception, division, jealousy, greed, territorial conflict ultimately the relentless pursuit of wealth and power.
When the individual pursuit of wealth engages with other individuals in that pursuit and is scaled to an organisational and political level, then a culture develops, which engages with and infuses itself into a nation’s conscience on a social, cultural and even religious level to help achieve political approval. When this point is reached, national borders can no longer contain our ambitions.
It feels awkward to admit that, as a member of the human race, but I understand that desire to keep on gaining money and all that it can buy, like the very first and most important task of securing the first roof over your head, a dry and warm space to call your own home, followed by some material comforts. In certain parts of the world, the so called First World, symbols of status will often start at a very much more humble level, then follow in all their variety. The means of securing them will then inevitably be needed and so on and so relentlessly forth we go. The more of all these things we have, the more we feel entitled to, the more we want. The more we have, the more we fear its loss. The more threatened we feel for the loss of these things, the greater the insecurity, the greater our anxiety, the greater we feel threatened, the greater the risk of extreme reactions.
“People exist to be loved
Objects exist to be used.
The World is in chaos
…because these things
are the other way round.”
In the mind of an independent individual this cycle of cause and effect will eventually give rise to conflict. If it occurs in the mind of an already powerful political leader, then it has the potential to cause conflict on a massive scale. Whether we like it or not, we are all to a greater or lesser extent bound into this human process, because we are too small as individuals and dependant on the authorities that rule…until we discover the way to influence by ‘waging’ peace on a irresistible scale.
There can be no true peace in the minds of those, who have allowed themselves to be caught up in this vicious circle of cause and effect, of being driven by the desire for things and led by the providers of things…not love.
“If you wish
to experience peace,
provide peace
for another…”
The challenge we face with our desire for peace in the World is that it has at its root the state of peace inside our minds. Seeking happiness may seem like a worth while cause, but it isn’t a guarantee of a peaceful life. Only by finding peace inside ourself, inside our unique and individual selves, in a way that will preserve our ego and nourish our soul, would you be able to contribute to peace for others. We are all trying every day, but it is always made the more difficult by the actions of those, whose goals may conflict with our own, who do things outside our control that make us uncomfortable, unhappy and stressed, that, worst of all, make us feel angry!
Waging Peace—what we are striving to do right now at the BeZine – will speak to you of all this, but so much better. Such thoughts, writings, works of art and performance have been telling the same stories, in all their different ways, throughout the history of humanity.
If you think we as individuals can make no difference to the huge challenges that face us, even if only by allowing the thoughts of others to help you, I heartily recommend you to take in the many perspectives that our contemporary creative and talented poets, writers and artistic contributors can cast on the way of the human world and the many variety of ways in which they find they can commit their thoughts to the greatest challenges that humanity faces.
“If you think you are
too small to make a difference
try sleeping with a mosquito
in the room…”
All quotations: Tenzin Gyatso, the 14th Dalai Lama
— John Anstie, Associate Editor
Art: Yin Yang Earth, Isaac Wilfond (age 11) ©2022
I’m sorry, she said. Fuck you, zey said. I made a mistake, she said. You make a lot of mistakes, zey snapped. She hid away under a widow’s veil of tears. Zey hiked the Bahamas and found forgiveness. She tried to contact zem a month later: hope you’re doing well. Apparently, zeir forgiveness only extended so far. It had been two years, three months, eight days. Like planets orbiting the same sun, they once again aligned: they walked into the same coffee shop. They froze, stared. You dyed your hair, zey said. You gained weight, she said. Zey smiled; coffee--on me?
©2022 Artemis
All rights reserved
…is a high school student pursuing writing. Their favorite elements of writing are clever word plays and irony. They have been published in the anthology The Sky’s the Limit as a result of winning a writing competition, and the The Thread, their school’s art and writing anthology, for three years in a row. When they’re not writing, they spend their days creating resin dolls and sewing clothes.
I feel I have failed my children Because they’ve never been on safari I’ve never taken them to the ocean They’ve barely left this state. I comfort myself With thoughts of children crying in airplanes Getting seasick, carsick, memories Of how poorly I traveled when I was a child. I’m saving them from having these memories themselves. Years from now, they’ll hate me For not introducing them to elephants Or whales, or seals in their natural habitat Never get to see herds of giraffes or horses or antelopes Loping across far-off arid plains.
©2022 Holly Day
All rights reserved
…has worked as a freelance writer for over 30 years, with over 7,000 published articles, poems, and short stories and 40 books and chapbooks—most recently, the nonfiction books, Music Theory for Dummies, Walking Twin Cities, Tattoo FAQ, and History Lover’s Guide to Minneapolis, and the poetry books A Wall to Protect Your Eyes (Pski’s Porch Publishing), In This Place, She Is Her Own (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press), A Perfect Day for Semaphore (Finishing Line Press), I’m in a Place Where Reason Went Missing (Main Street Press), Where We Went Wrong (Clare Songbirds Publishing), Folios of Dried Flowers and Pressed Birds (Cyberwit), and Into the Cracks (Golden Antelope Press). Her writing has been nominated for a National Magazine Award, a 49th Parallel Prize, an Isaac Asimov Award, eleven Pushcart awards, three Dzanc Book’s Best of the Web awards, a Rhysling Award, and two Best of the Net awards, and she has received two Midwest Writer’s Grants, a Plainsongs Award, a Sam Ragan Prize for Poetry, and a Dwarf Star Award from the Science Fiction Poetry Association.
Dylan Thomas wrote "Death Shall Have No Dominion" And we are learning how near it is, how uncertain life is now. We need to stipple our moment, Make every second resound with deepest glory, tell that story double time. Perhaps the fear will bring us nearer to writing a new story To love each other obsessively and newly With the desire of new hearts, undominated souls.
©2022 Linda Chown
All rights reserved
…is a poet professor musician who now lives in Michigan although her past is coastal: Spain and California. Author of four books of poems and currently finishing her next book, Sunfishing, Linda is a life-long activist, sun lover and dreamer. A hopeless romantic, sometimes inequities everywhere drive her to despair and to writing action.
In sunlight with a backward wave, I cross the street I know so well. Leaving gossip back there on our shared stoop… continuing the ordinary, my every day, and in five steps…I disappear. ~ Joan, you left your face in that mirror— a warm scent, a draft. Anyway, it didn’t seem the last time until his pickup plowed through that summer morning— plowed through sunshine, sparkle…into you. Time slipped away, though hope was possible, and time stayed closed against his roar. Now in this quieter year, answers don't come, but your absence does. What’s left? Only memories that wrap themselves away when it shouldn’t have been the last time.
Above my chair pigeons shuffle, ticking the skylights. In that reel, birds stare into an examining room. My wait is usual, routine, each time longer. And fear, full of imagination, begins to cloud my mind. life consumes time time consumes life This child will be examined but not explained— that is for adults. Answers are being searched for and I’m only the subject left to watch pigeons. and finally, an unsettling quiet— an intersection where chance meets destiny in a room at the edge of summer they’ll try…again, I’ll wait—worry, never imagining 50 years later… she would be me.
for Mom
and she hummed her dance in canvas sneakers a gyroscope of movement measured steps efficient—true basement, attic, back yard, chores always in play filling the ever-possible days of “hunky-dory” chasing the task, moving along; cooking, shopping, years of nursing, all while humming, then confusion cut in and she couldn’t remember those practiced steps, stumbling till the dance was over.
Collaborative Poems ©2022 Judy DeCroce and Antoni Ooto
All rights reserved
Poet/professional storyteller/educator Judy DeCroce, and poet/ abstract expressionist artist Antoni Ooto are based in Upstate New York. Married and sharing a love of poetry, they spend their mornings imaging, discussing, and refining their poems. Judy DeCroce and Antoni Ooto have been published globally in print, online, and in anthologies.
Darkness covers me like a blanket Shadows surround my thoughts My arms wrap tightly around me Deserted, no one home You keep me isolated My only friend, just you Smiles ne’er intrude our space With you, I’m safe and whole The thorns of my emotions Keep rising from deep inside Always in your shadows Always in your arms I cannot see the rose Only thorns of pain Madness all around me It keeps me huddled tight Tomorrow won’t be different It will always be the same Fear keeps me shaking My spirit is tattered, worn Darkness gives me comfort Forever, all alone My prayer is you’ll Remember me and return home
©2022 Isadora De La Vega
All rights reserved
…biography goes here, with ellipses in front. Link to known social media accounts, website, and / or blog. Delete the words if no links. Edit the Find the The BeZine button link to include the names where it says FirstName and LastName. If there are more than two names, add a plus-sign (+) and additional names, in order. Add Social Media links if we have (do not need to, but can delete the social media block if none). Replace art to the left with a photo. (Use the NO photo block if there isn’t one, not this block).
When I lift my eyes to the sky the magnificence of colors in creation soothe my troubled soul. I swim in turmoil through turbulent waters navigating the human condition…wiping away the dilemma of days lost in the rapid passing of time. Hours devoured pursuing a flat line of self-serving deeds…combative aggressive types intensify the hype vicious in their pursuit of power. Greed the cataclysmic seed to success reigns…yet the fortissimo sound of unified voices harmonize in hope.
When I lift my eyes to the sky the magnificence of colors in creation soothe my troubled soul. News of the day rocks reason in a season taunted by hostility. Demonic voices destroy tenuous threads of sanity. The rata tat tat of assault rifles signifies the right to bear arms and declare war. Babies cry with fear wanting mother love…papa love…family love…wailing and weeping… drowning in a sea of retribution…yet resilient gurgling musical tones supersede the sound of terror singing “Joy Cometh in the Morning!”
When I lift my eyes to the sky the magnificence of colors in creation soothe my troubled soul. War ravages the earth. Cultures clash…civil war erupts…ideologies abruptly declare the right to eradicate with hate ideals of difference. Poison toxins contaminate breath…bombs explode…bullets mock life laughing at resistance mowed down in the name of dogma…yet a peace encompasses the universe tolling a bell of love that cuts through strife heralding the fragility of life.
When I lift my eyes to the sky the magnificence of colors in creation soothe my troubled soul.
Photograph: Waterbird, Michael Dickel ©2017
In my body rattle the dead like beads shook-up with longing in Rachel’s ovaries. Oleander, calendula or olive, Only the living sow memory, open their eyes each dawn to scan the fields. I buried a tooth for every kindness I recall. In the days between Yizkor and Yom haZikaron, some being of smoke fills my throat. Is an organ implanted in a body, a tree’s grafted limb? What is your heart’s fruition? Ima from Kafr Qassem, where exactly are you now, Neshama sheli? I think I should ask your home-town Sheikh, who wrote, organ donation will be halal. I ask my heart: do you hold two souls? We’ve cradled one another, not months, but years; should time condense to tissue, This, then? —a culture unfolding, beating its wings, in another. —and we all hold our parents. Do I contain four souls— No, her parents—six? My heart is splitting And living. This heart—what does it mean to you? Shireen’s question like rain pelting earth When that had done rattling in my head, I asked my heart how do you feel? She burst into streaks of water, throat of smoke: my kids— How old are you now? What have the years been for you? Who has cared for you? We used to tell the younger ones, stay together and take care of each other But our children begin by scanning the fields for a few stalks of kindness.
Poem ©2022 Ester Karen Aida
All rights reserved
…is a writer, poet, and peace activist residing in Jerusalem, Israel. Her writing and art frequently appear in The BeZine.
Walking home from church. Like seeing the sun rise over the week ahead, mind full of penitence a righteous child, wrapped in reverential warmth and a sense of duty fulfilled. That place of comfort, as short lived as chocolate such pleasure lies in this some selfless, priceless kind of self-indulgence in your own kind of God. Who can resist that path to an easier peace where, one day a week, the ad-man cannot get to you; where you miss nothing; where those urges play no part. Where has Sunday gone?
©2018 John Anstie
All rights reserved
This poem was previously published in The BeZine in March 2018. The author thought it timely to present again because of its poignancy in the light of how children might be dealing with the change to their lives in Ukraine … far more violent than we have had to cope with in the West in the past two generations, by simply growing up. He is currently an Associate Editor of The BeZine.
… Qualified as a Metallurgical Engineer, for the first quarter of his working life he worked as a scientist and engineer, for the second quarter, as a Marketing and Export Sales Manager, both in the Steel Industry; in the third quarter he held a variety of roles in IT and Project Management and was Master of his own company. The last quarter could well be his most fulfilling, if of least financial advantage, as a writer and singer in a small local chamber choir and with one of the UK’s finest barbershop choruses. Married with three children and six grandchildren. He is currently an Associate Editor of the BeZine.
Smoke rises on both sides of the border. Plumes of smoke unfurl into a blue sky over Gaza. Ribbons of smoke curl upward over Tel Aviv. The sound of sirens blare, hearts pounding seek safety before the next bomb falls. Where did peace go? Wasn’t it here a moment ago?
My Israeli brother, why can’t you see me? After the smoke clears and the bombs stop falling, I will still be your brother, my hatred of you for not seeing me only deepening. You are still stealing my bowl of lentils, thinking God won’t see your tricks. Have you forgotten the word for peace— salaam? Why do I feel like I’m talking to the wind, that no one is listening, that you cannot hear my words anymore than I can hear yours over the sound of bombs exploding, that you don’t understand you are killing your own brother? How do you spell love, brother? Can you tell me? Or doesn’t the word exist in your vocabulary?
My Palestinian brother, why can’t you see me? After the sirens fall silent and your rockets stop hitting our homes, I will still be your brother, wishing you had never been born. You are still murdering my brother, thinking no one will see, not even God. Have you forgotten the word for peace— shalom? Why can’t you hear what I’m saying? Is it too much to ask for you to open your ears and hear my words, my wish that one day we might talk to each other like a normal family, like normal brothers, if there is such a thing. That one day we might stop trying to kill each other and listen to what each of us has to say? How do you spell trust, brother? Can you tell me? Will we ever learn to trust each other long enough to see the love in each other’s heart?
Poems ©2022 Bruce Black
All rights reserved
is the author of Writing Yoga (Rodmell Press/Shambhala) and editorial director of The Jewish Writing Project. He received his BA from Columbia University and his MFA from Vermont College. His poems and personal narratives have appeared in Soul-Lit, Poetry Super Highway, Atherton Review, Elephant Journal, Blue Lyra Review, Tiferet Journal, Hevria, Poetica, Jewthink, The Jewish Literary Journal, Mindbodygreen, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and elsewhere. He lives in Sarasota, FL.
When children play the game of war, The ground quakes under foot, The air smells like gunpowder, The water turns to a hue of colors. When children play the game of war, They dig pits, they dig graves, They smile quietly, cry out loud, Intuition keeps them hanging in the sky. When children play the game of war, Hearts beat at a fast pace, The weakened bodies require rest, The eyes look there, where hopefulness breathes.
Persecuted on all sides with grounded hopes deep in our souls with the question almost dissolved on our lips will we meet again? Mother, brother, sisters, cousins and friends, The war adds meaning to life, comparable with nothing else. I fled the border that separates the buzz of war with a false calm; I look forward to doing something, Freedom to leak out of the sky!
©2022 Faruk Buzhala
All rights reserved
…is a well-known poet from Ferizaj, Kosovo, writing in his mother-tongue, Albanian. He was born in 9 March 1968 in Pristina. He is the former manager and leader of “De Rada,” a literary association, from 2012 until 2018, and also the representative of Kosovo to the 100 TPC organization. In addition to poems, he also writes short stories, essays, literary reviews, traveltales, etc. Faruk Buzhala is an organizer and manager of many events in Ferizaj. His poems have been translated to English, Italian, Spanish, French, German, Croatian and Chinese, and are published in anthologies in the U
For the rose farmers of Afghanistan
Some plant bombs or exploding, bloody poppies. But you sow slowly opening prayers, you sow roses, you grow soul. Lovers, you pluck Beloved, petals sweating, heavy with holy odours, you pack pink kisses of peace on your backs, a peace so volatile, so sweet, you make acres of rose oil near Kabul and wash away screams, wash away war from its streets, wash away horror with your rosewater, you perfume your homeland like a mosque.
©2022 Leah Callen
All rights reserved
…is a Canadian poet living on the prairies in Saskatchewan. Her verse has appeared in various lit mags including EVENT, The Malahat Review, Contrary, Vallum, CV2, Sequestrum, and Barren. She was longlisted for the 2020 CBC Poetry Prize.
Websitehttps://www.leahcallen.com
Let the wall climb. Let it rise. Let it cling to the sky. Let us keep them out, keep us in, them and us us and them. Let us divide kin from kin, neighbor from neighbor village from village. Call it the wall of lament, of wrath, of greed. Call it the senseless wall, the aching wall, the burning wall. Make it a wall that can be seen through without being seen, a wall that can be listened through without listening. Make it a wall of ignorance that cannot be ignored.
—2011
Now is the moment
the moment before the dawn
the moment that belongs to us.
The moment before
the warm sunlight filters
through shutter slats,
spread wide like fingers.
The moment before pillars of smoke
before the reek of burning rubber,
before the shriek of sirens.
The moment of intimacy,
The moment when your body spoons mine,
when your arms strengthen me,
when your hands cradle my breasts.
The moment before the dawn
The moment of reverence,
of stillness.
Oh yes, my love
this is our supreme moment.
—2018
Shall give you amazing almond orchards,
in full bloom.
row after row,
tree after tree,
white on white.
Shall give you this and also my heart
blooming white.
Shall give you endless terrain,
petals on petals,
alluring
sweet fragrance
wondrous
almond blossoms.
Shall give you this and also my heart
surrendering white.
A distant billow of smoke,
the crackle of gunfire,
Shall give you,
my hand
as we wander between trees
between almond blossoms
between confidential kisses.
—2018
©2022 Shira Chai
All rights reserved
…is a painter, teacher and artist who writes poetry. From an early age she began journaling. The words soon became poetry and part of her paintings. She embosses the words into the paint. Ms. Chai has exhibited in Detroit, New York, Tel Aviv and various Kibbutzim, in group and solo exhibitions. Shira has been a member of Kibbutz Ein Dor since 1983. She has recently published poetry in ARC 25 and 26, journals of IAWE (Israeli Association of Writers in English).
Website / Her Studio
The Strait of Gibraltar Is all a glisten this Veterans Day morning Sunlit pieces of history Matriculate and spin in holy flatness Sun surge cups my heart in praise of All that came here before. The wars that surged the coasts that impinged like furtive eyes The blood rich battles, the hurry for winning in this tight radiant channel This light could dissolve me in my room Looking at painting floating on the wall Being nearby this way to Miguel de Cervantes Maiming his left arm at Trafalgar In a night smile I touch Miguel de Cervantes Fighting here and Lord Nelson, caps, swords and daring Emma Hamilton with a flair Their ships flaunting the air in zealous lust pushing madly through, pushing through fervor war hysteria aligned in light, bare blood and bones In this wild thin space, earth enclosed To win more in the sea and the sun Floating in this straight strait To be up to this glorious moment Wild living in this brooding loud and dazzling glory While I drift sorely trying to get earthly Balance back.
Quote here—add return / line break only if more than half-way across page. Make regular block when adding this. —Attribution (source)
Skews the words buried There. How in the Valley of the Fallen, the skins of Franco’s Murdered stink war and shriek Deja me estar let me be me In a silent light which welters Peaceful living in a bright sky My soul springs a strange hardiness To accost the noise of the killers whose rampant madness stifles the splendid sound of soundless Beethoven
Today is like waiting on the Titanic for rising water to eclipse us. Visions of Marcelino Peñuelas telling of fascist censorship with the great charm of the Spanish language full of lips and dips. I hear Malvina Reynolds singing in the back seat, her spirit constant and believing. I see all these fighters who would not back down ever. No pasarán And me facing a siege of ice darkening when I want to read and write. Primeval. Humbling. Pegging about with flashlights. Rose and Jack faced inevitable waters but they had each other. Robert Frost knew the terror of ice "But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To know that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice." Tonight the taps will resound like thunder claps and I will memorize my words and see the great ones fighting for a promised land.
It was a military mob, swarming as a hive might, quite. A concave movement. A kind of cleaving. The rotten pieces hanging as a gang would in that shining knot of pain evil brings ready to bite and cling and stick to. We the people must leave our dens and walk to forever to cut them out to let our strong peace beauty spread. She said I’ll blow your house down. She said this evil has lit too many fires. I’ll blow your house down, she said.
Poems ©2022 Linda Chown
All rights reserved
…is a poet professor musician who now lives in Michigan although her past is coastal: Spain and California. Author of four books of poems and currently finishing her next book, Sunfishing, Linda is a life-long activist, sun lover and dreamer. A hopeless romantic, sometimes inequities everywhere drive her to despair and to writing action.
I was fifteen in a small Alabama town when I first heard your name John Lewis then Edmund Pettus Bridge.
Their clubs cracked your bones. Their tear gas clogged your lungs. Their iron pipe almost ended your life. But you stood up. You walked on for fifty years plus more modeling resilience. When you died the earth slowed the sun dimmed the air thinned. The world would never be the same. Full smile baritone voice departed. Yet we are not alone. You left us with your words Walk with the wind, brothers and sisters, and let the spirit of peace and the power of everlasting love be your guide.
This poem was previously published in Valiant Scribe, July 17 2021
and is the title poem of the chapbook Good Trouble.
©2022 Chella Courington
All rights reserved
…raised in the Appalachian South and now living in Southern California with another writer and two feline boys, is a writer/teacher whose poetry and fiction appear in numerous anthologies and journals including DMQ Review, The Los Angeles Review, and New World Writing. Her recent collections of poetry are Good Trouble, Origami Poems Project, and Hell Hath, Maverick Duck Press. Lynette’s War, a micro-chapbook, will be issued by Ghost City Press this month.
Other books by Chella Courington: Adele and Tom: The Portrait of a Marriage and In Their Own Way.
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