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A Song of Defeat

The line breaks and the guns go under,
The lords and the lackeys ride the plain;
I draw deep breaths of the dawn and thunder,
And the whole of my heart grows young again.
For our chiefs said 'Done,' and I did not deem it;
Our seers said 'Peace,' and it was not peace;
Earth will grow worse till men redeem it,
And wars more evil, ere all wars cease.
But the old flags reel and the old drums rattle,
As once in my life they throbbed and reeled;
I have found my youth in the lost battle,
I have found my heart on the battlefield.
For we that fight till the world is free,
We are not easy in victory:
We have known each other too long, my brother,
And fought each other, the world and we.

And I dream of the days when work was scrappy,
And rare in our pockets the mark of the mint,
When we were angry and poor and happy,
And proud of seeing our names in print.
For so they conquered and so we scattered,
When the Devil road and his dogs smelt gold,
And the peace of a harmless folk was shattered;
When I was twenty and odd years old.
When the mongrel men that the market classes
Had slimy hands upon England's rod,
And sword in hand upon Afric's passes
Her last Republic cried to God.
For the men no lords can buy or sell,
They sit not easy when all goes well,
They have said to each other what naught can smother,
They have seen each other, our souls and hell.

It is all as of old, the empty clangour,
The Nothing scrawled on a five-foot page,
The huckster who, mocking holy anger,
Painfully paints his face with rage.
And the faith of the poor is faint and partial,
And the pride of the rich is all for sale,
And the chosen heralds of England's Marshal
Are the sandwich-men of the Daily Mail,
And the niggards that dare not give are glutted,
And the feeble that dare not fail are strong,
So while the City of Toil is gutted,
I sit in the saddle and sing my song.
For we that fight till the world is free,
We have no comfort in victory;
We have read each other as Cain his brother,
We know each other, these slaves and we.

poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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They Gave Their All

I may not understand the wars
Or the fields of rotting corpses

I've read all the poems
Of wars from the past

And cannot imagine
The life lived back then

A blood soaked battlefield
Death wading with glee
At those that have fallen
For the right to be free

So many souls lost in time
Fighting a cause, humanity blind
Dare I say, what I read?

In between the lines
A poet soldier
Who needs to be free?

Do I have a right?
To question their fight

They gave their all
In what they believed

Teardrops fall as I continue my rhyme
But what I do understand
Is that they fought through all the wars
So that we can be free
To choose our lives
And live to be
What we want to be

All the bloodshed fields
The entire hero's lost in wars
I bow my head, and pray to thee
Thank you all
For letting me breathe

To learn and discover
The meaning of me
Tears trickle down
As I cry for your loss
You never got the chance to be free
You never found your path in life
You never came home to your loved ones, friends, and family

So what gives us the right?
The generation of today
To say how boring
Our life is today

When those in war
Never had a full life
They gave it all
So we could be free
To live a full life

I thank the hero's
Of past, present and yet to be
What so sad for humankind
Is that war is our history

Perhaps in the future
We can see peace and harmony
Perhaps dare I say it
A world weapon free

poem by Kaila George
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Peace!

Everything comes from God above
Both Heaven and earth agree
That peace will only come through love
Once truth has set us free

When all mankind does Heaven’s will
And rights the things gone wrong
Then peace one day her heart will fill
Then joy will be her song

But still our wars on earth increase
It seems that no one cares
What is this thing the world calls peace?
What are the fruit it bears?

We now must learn to pray as one
Must cease each selfish fight
Until true peace through love is won
And hearts through Christ unite

Before this world can live as blessed
The truth she needs to see
Her differences must come to rest
Her wars must cease to be

We disagree through injured pride
We kill because of hate
Because of foolish things inside
To love, we close the gate

When in the world true love we sow
When love flows through our hearts
In individuals peace can grow
And true Salvation starts

For what is peace without true love?
How can the world survive?
How can a soul join God above?
And ever stay alive

poem by Michael P. Johnson
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The Heart of Australia

When the wars of the world seemed ended, and silent the distant drum,
Ten years ago in Australia, I wrote of a war to come:
And I pictured Australians fighting as their fathers fought of old
For the old things, pride or country, for God or the Devil or gold.

And they lounged on the rim of Australia in the peace that had come to last,
And they laughed at my "cavalry charges" for such things belonged to the past;
Then our wise men smiled with indulgence – ere the swift years proved me right –
Saying: "What shall Australia fight for? And whom shall Australia fight?"

I wrote of the unlocked rivers in the days when my heart was full,
And I pleaded for irrigation where they sacrifice all for wool.
I pictured Australia fighting when the coast had been lost and won –
With arsenals west of the mountains and every spur its gun.

And what shall Australia fight for? The reason may yet be found,
When strange shells scatter the wickets and burst on the football ground.
And "Who shall invade Australia?" let the wisdom of ages say
"The friend of a further future – or the ally of yesterday!"

Aye! What must Australia fight for? In the strife that never shall cease,
She must fight for her work unfinished: she must fight for her life and peace,
For the sins of the older nations. She must fight for her own reward.
She has taken the sword in her blindness and shall live or die by the sword.

But the statesman, the churchman, the scholar still peer through their glasses dim
And they see no cloud on the future as they roost on Australia's rim:
Where the farmer works with the lumpers and the drover drives a dray,
And the shearer on Garden Island is shifting a hill to-day.

Had we used the wealth we have squandered and the land that we kept from the plough,
A prosperous Federal City would be over the mountains now,
With farms that sweep to horizons and gardens where plains lay bare,
And the bulk of the population and the Heart of Australia there.

Had we used the time we have wasted and the gold we have thrown away,
The pick of the world's mechanics would be over the range to-day –
In the Valley of Coal and Iron where the breeze from the bush comes down,
And where thousands of makers of all things should be happy in Factory Town.

They droned on the rim of Australia, the wise men who never could learn;
Our substance we sent to the nations, and their shoddy we bought in return.
In the end, shall our soldiers fight naked, no help for them under the sun –
And never a cartridge to stick in the breech of a Brummagem gun?

With the Wars of the World coming near us the wise men are waking to-day.
Hurry out ammunition from England! Mount guns on the cliffs while you may!
And God pardon our sins as a people if Invasion's unmerciful hand
Should strike at the heart of Australia drought-cramped on the verge of the land.

poem by Henry Lawson
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What Peace

While still our wars on earth increase
It seems that no one cares
What is this thing the world calls peace
What are the fruit it bears

Though all things come through Christ above
Will Heaven and earth agree
True peace will only come through love
Once truth has set us free

When worldly man seeks Heaven’s will
When righting things done wrong
Then peace one day each heart will fill
And joy will raise its song

We now must learn to pray as one
Must cease each selfish fight
Until true peace through love is won
And hearts in Christ unite

Before this world can live as blessed
The facts she needs to see
Her differences must find their rest
Her wars must cease to be

We disagree through injured pride
We kill because of hate
Through selfish foolish things inside
We close to love our gate

When to our souls The Truth we sew
When love flows through our hearts
In individuals peace can grow
And true Salvation starts

For what is peace without true love
How can the world survive?
How can a soul join God above?
Or ever hope to thrive?

poem by Michael P. Johnson
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The Day Is Coming

Come hither lads and hearken,
for a tale there is to tell,
Of the wonderful days a-coming, when all
shall be better than well.

And the tale shall be told of a country,
a land in the midst of the sea,
And folk shall call it England
in the days that are going to be.

There more than one in a thousand
in the days that are yet to come,
Shall have some hope of the morrow,
some joy of the ancient home.

For then, laugh not, but listen,
to this strange tale of mine,
All folk that are in England
shall be better lodged than swine.

Then a man shall work and bethink him,
and rejoice in the deeds of his hand,
Nor yet come home in the even
too faint and weary to stand.

Men in that time a-coming
shall work and have no fear
For to-morrow’s lack of earning
and the hunger-wolf anear.

I tell you this for a wonder,
that no man then shall be glad
Of his fellow’s fall and mishap
to snatch at the work he had.

For that which the worker winneth
shall then be his indeed,
Nor shall half be reaped for nothing
by him that sowed no seed.

O strange new wonderful justice!
But for whom shall we gather the gain?
For ourselves and for each of our fellows,
and no hand shall labour in vain.

Then all Mine and all Thine shall be Ours,
and no more shall any man crave
For riches that serve for nothing
but to fetter a friend for a slave.

And what wealth then shall be left us
when none shall gather gold
To buy his friend in the market,
and pinch and pine the sold?

Nay, what save the lovely city,
and the little house on the hill,
And the wastes and the woodland beauty,
and the happy fields we till;

And the homes of ancient stories,
the tombs of the mighty dead;
And the wise men seeking out marvels,
and the poet’s teeming head;

And the painter’s hand of wonder;
and the marvellous fiddle-bow,
And the banded choirs of music:
all those that do and know.

For all these shall be ours and all men’s
nor shall any lack a share
Of the toil and the gain of living
in the days when the world grows fair.

Ah! such are the days that shall be!
But what are the deeds of to-day,

In the days of the years we dwell in,
that wear our lives away?
Why, then, and for what are we waiting?
There are three words to speak;
WE WILL IT, and what is the foeman
but the dream-strong wakened and weak?

O why and for what are we waiting?
while our brothers droop and die,
And on every wind of the heavens
a wasted life goes by.

How long shall they reproach us
where crowd on crowd they dwell,
Poor ghosts of the wicked city,
the gold-crushed hungry hell?

Through squalid life they laboured,
in sordid grief they died,
Those sons of a mighty mother,
those props of England’s pride.

They are gone; there is none can undo it,
nor save our souls from the curse;
But many a million cometh,
and shall they be better or worse?

It is we must answer and hasten,
and open wide the door
For the rich man’s hurrying terror,
and the slow-foot hope of the poor.

Yea, the voiceless wrath of the wretched,
and their unlearned discontent,
We must give it voice and wisdom
till the waiting-tide be spent.

Come, then, since all things call us,
the living and the dead,
And o’er the weltering tangle
a glimmering light is shed.

Come, then, let us cast off fooling,
and put by ease and rest,
For the Cause alone is worthy
till the good days bring the best.

Come, join in the only battle
wherein no man can fail,
Where whoso fadeth and dieth,
yet his deed shall still prevail.

Ah! come, cast off all fooling,
for this, at least, we know:
That the Dawn and the Day is coming,
and forth the Banners go.

poem by William Morris
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What is Peace? ?

What is peace? ?

Peace is when you care for others,
Peace is when there is no violence in the world,
Peace is much more powerful then evil,
Peace is easily found when you give others what you desire,
Peace is the answer to all the wars in the world,
Peace is when there is unity among all the people,
Peace is when your soul can rest,
Peace is when there is hope of good above,
Peace is when there is love for others,
Peace is when there is acceptance in the world,
Peace is bringing joy to the world,
Peace is in helping others

This is what Peace is,
This and much more!

poem by Uzma Nadeem
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England

ENGLAND, England, England,
Girdled by ocean and skies,
And the power of a world, and the heart of a race,
And a hope that never dies.

England, England, England,
Wherever a true heart beats,
Wherever the rivers of commerce flow,
Wherever the bugles of conquest blow,
Wherever the glories of liberty grow,
'Tis the name that the world repeats.

And ye, who dwell in the shadow
Of the century-sculptured piles,
Where sleep our century-honoured dead,
Whilst the great world thunders overhead,
And far out, miles on miles,
Beyond the smoke of the mighty town,
The blue Thames dimples and smiles;
Not yours alone the glory of old,
Of the splendid thousand years,
Of Britain's might and Britain's right
And the brunt of British spears.
Not yours alone, for the great world round,
Ready to dare and do,
Scot and Celt and Norman and Dane,
With the Northman's sinew and heart and brain,
And the Northman's courage for blessing or bane,
Are England's heroes too.

North and south and east and west,
Wherever their triumphs be,
Their glory goes home to the ocean-girt isle,
Where the heather blooms and the roses smile,
With the green isle under her lee.
And if ever the smoke of an alien gun
Should threaten her iron repose,
Shoulder to shoulder against the world,
Face to face with her foes,

Scot, and Celt and Saxon are one
Where the glory of England goes.

And we of the newer and vaster West,
Where the great war-banners are furled,
And commerce hurries her teeming hosts,
And the cannon are silent along our coasts,
Saxon and Gaul, Canadians claim
A part in the glory and pride and aim
Of the Empire that girdles the world.

England, England, England,
Wherever the daring heart
By Arctic floe or torrid strand
Thy heroes play their part;
For as long as conquest holds the earth,
Or commerce sweeps the sea,
By orient jungle or western plain
Will the Saxon spirit be:
And whatever the people that dwell beneath,
Or whatever the alien tongue,
Over the freedom and peace of the world
Is the flag of England flung,
Till the last great freedom is found,
And the last great truth be taught,
Till the last great deed be done,
And the last great battle is fought;
Till the last great fighter is slain in the last great fight,
And the war-wolf is dead in his den–
England, breeder of hope and valour and might,
Iron mother of men.

Yea, England, England, England,
Till honour and valour are dead,
Till the world's great cannons rust,
Till the world's great hopes are dust,
Till faith and freedom be fled,
Till wisdom and justice have passed
To sleep with those who sleep in the many-chambered vast,
Till glory and knowledge are charnelled dust in dust,
To all that is best in the world's unrest,

In heart and mind you are wed.
While out from the Indian jungle
To the far Canadian snows,
Over the East and over the West,
Over the worst and over the best,
The flag of the world to its winds unfurled,
The blood-red ensign blows.

poem by William Wilfred Campbell
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A Message of Peace

THERE once was a pirate, greedy and bold,
Who ravaged for gain, and saved the spoils;
Till his coffers were bursting with bloodstained gold,
And millions of captives bore his toils.

Then fear took hold of him, and he cried:
'I have gathered enough; now, war should cease!'
And he sent out messengers far and wide
(To the strong ones only) to ask for peace.

'We are Christian brethren!' thus he spake;
'Let us seal a contract—never to fight!
Except against rebels who dare to break
The bonds we have made by the victor's right.'

And the strong ones listen; and some applaud
The kindly offer and righteous word;
With never a dream of deceit or fraud,
They would spike the cannon and break the sword.

But others, their elders, listen, and smile
At the sudden convert's unctuous style.
They watch for the peacemaker's change of way;
But his war-forges roar by night and by day.
Even now, while his godly messengers speak,
His guns are aflame on his enemies weak.
He has stolen the blade from the hand of his foe,
And he strikes the unarmed a merciless blow.

To the ends of the earth his oppression runs;
The rebels are blown from the mouths of his guns;
His war-tax devours his subject's food;
He taxes their evil and taxes their good;
He taxes their salt till he rots their blood.
He leaps on the friendless as on a prey,
And slinks, tail-down, from the strong one's way.
The pharisee' s can’t goes up for peace;
But the cries of his victims never cease;
The stifled voices of brave men rise
From a thousand cells; while his rascal spies
Are spending their blood-money fast and free.

And this is the Christian to oversee
A world of evil! a saint to preach!
A holy well-doer come to teach!
A prophet to tell us war should cease!
A pious example of Christian peace!

poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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The Secret People

Smile at us, pay us, pass us; but do not quite forget;
For we are the people of England, that never have spoken yet.
There is many a fat farmer that drinks less cheerfully,
There is many a free French peasant who is richer and sadder than we.
There are no folk in the whole world so helpless or so wise.
There is hunger in our bellies, there is laughter in our eyes;
You laugh at us and love us, both mugs and eyes are wet:
Only you do not know us. For we have not spoken yet.

The fine French kings came over in a flutter of flags and dames.
We liked their smiles and battles, but we never could say their names.
The blood ran red to Bosworth and the high French lords went down;
There was naught but a naked people under a naked crown.
And the eyes of the King's Servants turned terribly every way,
And the gold of the King's Servants rose higher every day.
They burnt the homes of the shaven men, that had been quaint and kind,
Till there was no bed in a monk's house, nor food that man could find.
The inns of God where no man paid, that were the wall of the weak.
The King's Servants ate them all. And still we did not speak.

And the face of the King's Servants grew greater than the King:
He tricked them, and they trapped him, and stood round him in a ring.
The new grave lords closed round him, that had eaten the abbey's fruits,
And the men of the new religion, with their bibles in their boots,
We saw their shoulders moving, to menace or discuss,
And some were pure and some were vile; but none took heed of us.
We saw the King as they killed him, and his face was proud and pale;
And a few men talked of freedom, while England talked of ale.

A war that we understood not came over the world and woke
Americans, Frenchmen, Irish; but we knew not the things they spoke.
They talked about rights and nature and peace and the people's reign:
And the squires, our masters, bade us fight; and scorned us never again.
Weak if we be for ever, could none condemn us then;
Men called us serfs and drudges; men knew that we were men.
In foam and flame at Trafalgar, on Albuera plains,
We did and died like lions, to keep ourselves in chains,
We lay in living ruins; firing and fearing not
The strange fierce face of the Frenchmen who knew for what they fought,
And the man who seemed to be more than a man we strained against and broke;
And we broke our own rights with him. And still we never spoke.

Our patch of glory ended; we never heard guns again.
But the squire seemed struck in the saddle; he was foolish, as if in pain,
He leaned on a staggering lawyer, he clutched a cringing Jew,
He was stricken; it may be, after all, he was stricken at Waterloo.
Or perhaps the shades of the shaven men, whose spoil is in his house,
Come back in shining shapes at last to spoil his last carouse:
We only know the last sad squires rode slowly towards the sea,
And a new people takes the land: and still it is not we.

They have given us into the hand of new unhappy lords,
Lords without anger or honour, who dare not carry their swords.
They fight by shuffling papers; they have bright dead alien eyes;
They look at our labour and laughter as a tired man looks at flies.
And the load of their loveless pity is worse than the ancient wrongs,
Their doors are shut in the evening; and they know no songs.

We hear men speaking for us of new laws strong and sweet,
Yet is there no man speaketh as we speak in the street.
It may be we shall rise the last as Frenchmen rose the first,
Our wrath come after Russia's wrath and our wrath be the worst.
It may be we are meant to mark with our riot and our rest
God's scorn for all men governing. It may be beer is best.
But we are the people of England; and we have not spoken yet.
Smile at us, pay us, pass us. But do not quite forget.

poem by G.K. Chesterton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Secret People

poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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In a School Chapel

THE clear young voices rise and soar: 'Oh, pray
Pray for the peace of Jerusalem: they
Shall prosper that love thee.' Yet each boy's heart
Harbors the hope that he may have a part
In war- the roar of guns, the roll of drums
Before this anthemed peace he prays for comes.
But in the quiet gallery above
Where eyes grown dim look down on those they love
The prayer for peace rings true; although in truth
Worse things than death can come to eager youth.
But nothing worse can come to age than knowing
That it is safe, and boys are going, going,
Are going forth to war till all wars cease:
The old, so safe and lonely, pray for peace.

poem by Alice Duer Miller
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WHERE WARS ARE WON OR LOST & SEPTEMBER 11th

Wars are waged by older men
In battle rooms in countries apart.
Who call for greater firepower
And troops for the combat chart.

While out among the shattered flesh
The dreams of all have turned gray.
So young and determined their faces were
Till on the battlefield they lay.

Unable to overcome their pride
The politicians cast their vote.
For this or that or something else
As the rage of war sounds its note.

Wherever wars are won or lost
The soldiers fall like toys.
Down through history it remains the same
Most who die are hardly more than boys.

Like monkeys in a revolving cage
Man squabbles for the peanuts of power.
When will we rise above our greed
And become as a beautiful flower?

Death to death, dust to dust
The wrath of war is a horrible crime.
It’s the beast within that still prevails
As it has through the torments of time.

WAR IS THE GREATEST PLAGUE OF MAN

As war is fought it takes charge
And events spin out of control.
The madness of men can alter the soil
Which nourishes the roots of their soul.

Many things will forever change
Far more then wished to be.
As the wrath of war starts to destroy
Those things we fight to keep free.

War is the greatest plague of man
Religion, state, and sanity.
Any scourge is more preferred
Than the one which disables humanity.

When war breaks out, boundaries change
And all who die are a token
Of the rage that must run it's course
Before words of peace are spoken.

War I hate, though not men, flags nor race
But war itself with its ugly face.
When we lose faith in the brave, which die
Then we're not fit to greet those who cry.

What distinguishes war isn't death
But that man is slain by fellow man.
Crushed by cruelty and injustice
With his enemy's murderous hand.

War tends to punish the punishers
So the losers won't suffer alone.
The essence of war is but violence
Till the survivors come marching home.

Sometimes it's hard to defend what's right
Sometimes we're forced to rise up and fight.
Sometimes we survive, while others must die
Sometimes never knowing the reason why.

The rush of combat is a natural buzz
Caused by fear, leaving nothing as it was.
Hunting one another like wild game
Without a shortage of those to blame.

Sometimes victory comes too slow or quick
Sometimes the cost on both sides is sick.
Sometimes God is asked to intervene
To help stop the savage from being so mean.

War is a hell we visit before death
Fueled by the whisper of the devil's breath.
There must be a reason man destroys man
But why it is so, I can't understand.

SEPTEMBER 11th

After suffering the wrath of a sneak attack
America now mourns to her very core.
Though soon her enemies shall all but flee
From the sound of America waging full war.

Let there be no doubt, no doubt at all
That the devil has decided to give us a call.
We shall defeat hell’s soldiers and cast them out
And if we die; that's what freedom is about.

We shall seek them out wherever they may hide
Street by street, house-by-house, cave by cave.
They will be eradicated from the face of the earth
By the righteous, the loyal and the brave.

SATAN’S HORDE SHALL BE REMOVED

Overrun with war and uncontrolled leaders
Our world becomes more dangerous each day.
Dishonest politicians, criminals and the media
Survive by their falsehoods at play.

Bible believers preach, that the end is near
Our world as a whole is beyond reform.
God will eradicate all which is wicked
By His fire of eruption and storm.

To evil’s victory, I will never concede
May its supporters anguish in hell.
By the grace of God and the power of faith
The goodness of man will prevail.

What we accomplish is heaven’s measure
As patriots respond to the threats of man.
Protect and defend what we love till death
As the soldiers of Satan arise from the sand.

FREEDOM

In their new uniforms
The young march off
Not knowing who shall return.
With a proud devotion
They brandish their flag
Leaving loved ones to wonder and yearn.

May we all be buried
By all of our children
Is an ancient tribal prayer.
They're so easy to lose
But so hard to forget
Such a burden for a parent to bear.

Oh, the taste of victory
Shall soon be forgotten
But, never that which was lost.
For those rows of white headstones
In peaceful green fields
Make it easy to tally the cost.

America has survived all attempts to destroy
Knowing the cruelty of war
And, we who remain
Must help keep her free
For those who can march no more!

OUR FLAG

Our flag is fabric wove of thread
Carried by heroes live and dead.
She stands for justice and courage too
With her colors; red, white and blue.

For all who serve her, there’ll be cheers
For any who die, there’ll be tears
For all who love her, honor will prevail
Any who harm her, shall suffer and fail.

How many moms have cried before
As they sent their children to war.
How many dads have not returned
Because our freedom must be earned.

Wars were waged where brave men died
As patriots fought side by side.
Our flag is still the pearl of Earth
Because of those who prove her worth.

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poem by Tom Zart
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Lets Promote Peace

Can I give u some advice, don't be angry
you can't fight anger with anger,
you can't fight ignorance with hate
you can't put out a fire by throwing fuel on it
true we want peace, so let's encourage peace
laugh, smile be happy, do what u do
dance, sing, be merry
but don't be angry
Don't give in to the terror
don't be like them, don't be angry
Trust me I know, its a disease
it won't go away, and it grows and grows
Yes we will fight, but not with anger
not like an animal, not like that beast
Don't serve that beast
Their is a purpose, a mission
reach out to the heart of others
there must be education, enlightenment
let us promote peace
but don't be angry, let it go
If u were to wash someones heart,
like a stone idol is washed outwardly
the hate will be removed
the soul will be cleansed
dont let the anger sit in your mind
don't let him sit their,
keep that seat; for peace of mind
the calm mind, that will bring peace
within you, and outside of you

poem by Cyprus Jones
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Yes I Believe

The spirit of Christmas is the spirit of love
Still there when the innocence has gone
But we have each other we laugh and we cry
The cares of the world still carry on
Yes I believe in a better world
And like the rest of us I pray
For peace on this earth and a better life
With every beautiful day
I once met a holy man who showed me the way
The road to tranquility at last
The more he was listening, the more he would say
With the tales of the days of future passed
He said "Yes I believe in a better world
And like the rest of us I try
To hold on to hope for a better life
With every day that goes by"
And if we dare to dream of Paradise unseen
It might come true
And if you stand by me
I swear with all my heart
I'll stand by you
Yes, I believe in a better world
A world where my sisters can be free
And I have a place in my brother's heart
For everybody to see
I dream of my destiny, my days in the sun
To live in the garden of our love
I search for some happiness
I search for my soul
I pray for some strength from God above
Yes, I believe in a better world
And like the rest of us, I pray
For peace on this earth and a better life
With every beautiful day
With every beautiful day.

song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Maceo

Maceo dead! a thrill of sorrow
Through our hearts in sadness ran
When we felt in one sad hour
That the world had lost a man.

He had clasped unto his bosom
The sad fortunes of his land --
Held the cause for which he perished
With a firm, unfaltering hand.

On his lips the name of freedom
Fainted with his latest breath.
Cuba Libre was his watchword
Passing through the gates of death.

With the light of God around us,
Why this agony and strife?
With the cross of Christ before us,
Why this fearful waste of life?

Must the pathway unto freedom
Ever mark a crimson line,
And the eyes of wayward mortals
Always close to light divine?

Must the hearts of fearless valor
Fail 'mid crime and cruel wrong,
When the world has read of heroes
Brave and earnest, true and strong?

Men to stay the floods of sorrow
Sweeping round each war-crushed heart;
Men to say to strife and carnage --
From our world henceforth depart.

God of peace and God of nations,
Haste! oh, haste the glorious day

When the reign of our Redeemer
O'er the world shall have its sway.

When the swords now blood encrusted,
Spears that reap the battle field,
Shall be changed to higher service,
Helping earth rich harvests yield.

Where the widow weeps in anguish,
And the orphan bows his head,
Grant that peace and joy and gladness
May like holy angels tread.

Pity, oh, our God the sorrow
Of thy world from thee astray,
Lead us from the paths of madness
Unto Christ the living way.

Year by year the world grows weary
'Neath its weight of sin and strife,
Though the hands once pierced and bleeding
Offer more abundant life.

May the choral song of angels
Heard upon Judea's plain
Sound throughout the earth the tidings
Of that old and sweet refrain.

Till our world, so sad and weary,
Finds the balmy rest of peace --
Peace to silence all her discords --
Peace till war and crime shall cease.

Peace to fall like gentle showers,
Or on parchéd flowers dew,
Till our hearts proclaim with gladness:
Lo, He maketh all things new.

poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Peace Around The World

MY DREAM CAME TRUE,
PEACE HAS ARRIVE,
HARMONY IN THE AIR,
THE WARS ARE DONE,
NOBODY WON,
IN MY DREAM, IN MY DREAM
OUR SONGS GOT HEARD,
OUR SIGNS GOT READ
THE MARCHES MADE IT THROUGH
TO THE PRESIDENT
NOTHING HE COULD DO
ACCEPT JOIN TO,
IN MY DREAM, IN MY DREAM
THE SEA SHELLS SING
AND IF YOU LISTEN CLOSE ENOUGH
YOU CAN HEAR THEM SING
GIVE PEACE A CHANCE
WHILE THE STAR FISHES DANCE
BECAUSE THE WORLD IS ONE
IN THERE OWN SWEET ROMANCE
IN MY DREAM, IN MY DREAM
LISTEN TO THE BANDS
AND READ THERE BANNERS,
HOLD SOME ONE HANDS
HELP PULL THE RIBBON ACROSS
THIS GREAT LAND
IN MY DREAM, IN MY DREAM
THE FATHERS AND THE PREACHES,
SISTERS AND THE POPE,
PROUD THERE PRAYERS
GOT ANSWER AND THERE FAITH
STAY BY THERE SIDE
ALONG WITH THERE WISHES
THAT NEVER LEFT THERE SIDE,
IN MY DREAM, IN MY DREAM,
THE POPE SPEAKS TO MILLLIONS
OF HIS FOLLOWERS
AND TO THE BILLIONS OTHERS
AROUND THE WORLD
BLOOD ONLY FLOWS IN THE INSIDE,
NOT ON THE OUTSIDE
AND FLOWERS GROW AT OUR SIDE,
AND GUNS ARE BURY WAY DOWN
UNDERNEATH THE GROUND,
IN MY DREAM PEACE IS AROUND THE WORLD,

poem by Bruce Martone
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I'm Tired Of Life

I'm tired, I'm tired of life, brother!
Of all that meets my eye;
And my weary spirit fain would pass
To worlds beyond the sky.
For there is naught on earth, brother,
For which I'd wish to live;
Not all the glittering gauds of wealth
One hour of peace can give.

I'm weary,--sick at heart, brother,
Of heartless pomp and show!
And ever comes some cloud to dim
The little joy I know.
This world is not the world, brother,
It seemed in days agone,
When I viewed it through the rainbow mists
Of childhood's rosy dawn.

I would not pain your heart, brother--
I know you love me well;
And that love is laid upon my soul,
E'en as a holy spell.
But I'm weary of this world, brother,
This world of sin and care;
And my spirit fluttereth to be free,
To mount the upper air!

I know not of the world, brother,
To which I wish to go;
And perhaps my soul may there awake
To know a deeper woe!
They say the pure of earth, brother,
Find there undying bliss;
While all the wicked ones are cast
Into a dark abyss!

I look upon the stars, brother,
That gem the vault of blue;
And when they tell me 'God is love,'
I feel it must be true;
For I see on all around, brother,
The impress of a hand
That blendeth and uniteth all
In one harmonious band.

I am that which I am, brother,
As the Creator made;
To _Him_, all-holy and all-pure,
No fault can e'er be laid.
He knows my weakness well, brother,
And I can trust his love
To bear me safe through Jordan's stream
To brighter worlds above.

poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sonnet: Lasting Peace on Earth

The peace that’s found on earth lasts not for long,
As leaders break their promises often;
The peace that wars bring serves to just prolong
The rivalries, when differences soften.

Man needs the peace of mind, of heart and soul,
Apart from peace surrounding his earth’s space;
Progress in fields occurs when peace is goal,
And keeps the health and wealth of human race.

The peace that wars unleash is quite futile;
The peace that dialogues bring, much better;
The peace that world bodies give is fragile;
The Maker is the final peace-setter!

The peace that man bestows on earth is short;
The peace that God ushers, none can abort!

poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The World Needs Peace, Not Through Wars!

What loss of lives and destruction!
Can lives all lost ever return?
How many more will have to die?
Can one man’s death bring back lives lost?
What pollution, a war can add!

Let Cats who declare wars on mice,
Take the blame and pay the price!
War is a gambling game like dice;
War is a futile exercise.

One cannot fight wars with mere knives;
War is a waste of human lives;
Alas, will nations realize
That keeping peace is always wise?

Wars can begin without a cause;
The world can’t have a single boss!
One nation can’t stifle the rest,
Or try to be always the best.

The world body must give OK!
The world must say to wars, all ‘nay’;
For lasting peace, war isn’t the way!
The cost of wars, who will repay?

The world must find out other ways,
Avoiding wars in future days;
Each nation must unmask its face,
And set on peace, its gaze always!

poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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War And Peace.

What is peace if there is
No war, something to fight
Wordy or towards murder,
We cannot but exist
Without war, tired we find
The peace, sometines
A momemnt. sometimes
A long time, till our tiredness
Wears off, then again
It is fight all right,
Like life is made to fight
To finish till the last breath,
While we fight away
To gain some goods, fame,
Our life is never complete
Without great many
Number of wars, battles
Or at least a wordy duel daily.......

Ravikiran Arakkal

poem by Ravikiran Arakkal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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