No One is Listening (Thank you, Hayden Carruth!)

79 years old

Writer — poetry and prose, storyteller, weaver, gardener, musician.



Sixty years ago we heard the agonizing cries.
First, War — then War No More.
Forty years ago,the same burgeoning lies...

Is it that we fail to see the bloody ties?
Is it that we forget the score?
Sixty years ago we heard the agonizing cries.

I find few truths among the burgeoning lies.
I watch in grief the force, the wrought score.
Forty years ago we heard the agonizing cries.

Again the truths are lost among the lies.
Again, we see War — hear War Mo More.
Sixty years ago we heard the agonizing cries.

There is no Peace in those voices, those cries.
Only disaster underwrites the score —
Forty years ago the same burgeoning lies.

No one is listening to War No More. The lies?
I try to see - reach past bloody scores.
Would that we offer Peace to those cries -
Would that we separate Truth from lies.

(C)2003, Doris H. Thurston

Not In My Name (A Villanelle)

"Kill for peace, is what we proclaim."
The message spread 'cross the land.
Some thought they heard, "not in my name."

"The enemy will put us to shame,
Their threat is bound to expand!
Kill for peace is what we proclaim."

Thinking ones pondered the claim,
Then fervently took a stand.
Some thought they heard, "not in my name."

"We're right and share no blame."
A full scale war was planned.
"Kill for peace is what we proclaim."

What's this insidious game
To murder upon command?
Some thought they heard, "not in my name."

"The patriot's conscience we'll flame;
It's God's will, this plan so grand.
Kill for peace is what we proclaim."
Some thought they heard, "not in my name."

(C)2003, Myrliss Hershey

The Ballad of West Texas Country Justice

I was raised in the west Texas country,
Where an eye for an eye! the good man cries,
Where women are pretty and bad men die.

Justice is swift, it rides in a posse,
Man’s evil cannot flee God’s cold clear eyes.
I was raised in the west Texas country.

I deal justice like the vigilante
And every morning I love to rise
Where women are pretty and bad men die.

You will face the vigilance committee,
Your vile evil will not escape God’s spies.
I was raised in the west Texas country.

I will hunt you down in town or city,
I will hunt you down under desert skies,
Where women are pretty and bad men die.

A man must pay for his duplicity,
The good Lord hates the evil man who lies.
I was raised in the west Texas country
Where women are pretty and bad men die


*Sissified French verse form

(C)2003, Mark Crawford

The Knife: a Villanelle

Itifewerk kissed my feet on the worst day of my life.
We’d given her a little money. We liked her bright boy.
Ethiopia’s beauty cut our hearts with its knife.

The country gave a sudden lurch, trembled with strife.
Her boy sat on our step, whittling a propeller toy,
and Itifewerk kissed my feet on the worst day of my life.

Her beautiful boy. But she was not a wife.
Itifewerk prayed, walked to Kolubi, barefoot and holy.
Her faith cut my heart with its slow knife.

Seventy men shot in our neighborhood, street riven
by soldiers. Nothing could serve as decoy.
Itifewerk kissed my feet on the worst day of her life.

We wanted Addis Ababa to be filled with life
and donkeys and eucalyptus, the usual small boys.
Ethiopia’s beauty cut my heart with its bitter knife.

Where were the husbands? The children? Who could be a wife?
Exhausted and feeble, we saw everything destroyed.
Itifewerk kissed my feet on the worst day of our lives.
Addis Ababa, new flower. Shredded by its own sharp knives.

(C)2003, Margaret Szumowsk

Villanelle of Conflict

this young soldier - new hunter in the woods of war
will speak soon with pride about his first kill
he’ll be offered garland, medal and award

we pray that he lives – although so far
killing has not redressed our world’s ills
this young soldier - new hunter in the woods of war

he knows many could be buried beneath cross or star
but hopes when the guns are silent and he has had his fill
he’ll be offered garland, medal and award

no brooding naysayer his hopes will mar
he’ll drink champagne now and ignore the bill
this young soldier - new hunter in the woods of war

he foresees a hero’s welcome in a long white car
awaits triumph and knows he will thrill
he’ll be offered garland, medal and award

even though we have vowed to fight no more
heads-of-state proclaim again that we should kill
more young soldiers in the woods of war
as our leaders hunt for garlands, medals and awards

(C)2003, Mary Margaret Carlisle

E-villanelle

The proclamation has been made. The time has come.
Terror at our doorstep leaves our world in peril.
Beat your ploughshares into swords. Beat the battle drum.

Media moghuls, politicos invoke corporate resolve to rally behind freedom.
Prodigious capital is spent spinning nameless millions as the gathering forces of evil.
The proclamation has been made. The time has come.

Enemies of the Dream threaten our Way of Life, hearth and home.
Defend the destiny God has made manifest to consume and despoil.
Beat your ploughshares into swords, and beat the battle drum.

Shackle democracy here to free patriotic citizens alone.
Collective fear will fuel the war to liberate captive oil.
The proclamation has been made. The time has come.

Any means or sacrifice, on others' soil, is justified, if loathsome.
For good people besieged by fear, complex questions become simple.
Beat your ploughshares into swords, and beat, beat the battle drum.

Asymmetrical warfare, bunker busters, smart bombs, urban firestorm,
Dispossession of the dispossessed stir converts of any righteous cause with our example,
To beat their ploughshares into swords, and to beat, beat, beat the battle drums.

(C)2003, Deborah Ujie

Villanelle for George W. Bush

When thoughtful men wage holy war
And civic stream is damned in tears
We all become death's haggard whore.

To service his great need for gore
We suckle youth on time-tipped spears
When thoughtful men wage holy war.

The reason's nothing - just the score;
See how the enemy now fears.
We all become death's haggard whore.

God's on our side, his favored shore;
Brute harvest of the fertile years
When thoughtful men wage holy war

And hunger for the winning lore
Ghosts shriek in virgin outraged ears -
We all become death's haggard whore

And spread our bloodied legs for more
As sanctimony panting nears
When thoughtful men wage holy war
We all become death's haggard whore.

(C)2003,Sandy Bieler

Villanelle Against the War in Iraq

A nation looking for a war to start
might pose a danger to a world at peace,
like all with power, but who lack a heart.

A fragile universe can fall apart
when cowards feel themselves at ease
with nations looking for a war to start.

George and Tony, Jacques, even Gerhard,
all strain to do their very best to please
those with the power, but who lack the heart

to stand for virtues that the humble guard
through willingness to speak from bended knees
to nations looking for a war to start.

The wise seem stupid, the perverse seem smart
the wretched are the ones who lose their lease
to those with power, but who lack the heart.

Who knows how it will end? Or how we start
to lose our way, defending wealth and greed?
When we have power, but we lack the heart
to shame such nations with a war to start.

(C)2003, Michael Blumenthal

Villanelle of Protest

Haven’t we been here before?
Same story, a different year
Bush, don’t push for more war!

The threat of bombs and killing, and your
thinking it’s our right to domineer.
Haven’t we been here before?

It’s too easy when it’s not on our shore--
Why are lives less value when not from here?
Bush, don’t push for more war!

Like half the others, I voted for Gore
but got stuck with politics of another sphere.
Haven’t we been here before?

I agree there are actions we can’t ignore,
but through diplomacy, we must persevere.
Bush, don’t push for more war!

With dread, I see this drawing near,
But it’s not too late, so I implore:
(Haven’t we been here before?)
Bush, don’t push for more war!

(C)2003, Lauren Cerruto

VILLANELLE FOR ALL OUR SONS

What no one admits, what no one wants to hear, is precisely that which has to be repeated all the more.
Goethe

Incisions on black marble seal our bonds
to veterans who fell in "syndrome's" way
No war is worth the sacrifice of sons.

Our faces mirrored deep within fierce calm
aesthetic shock to tethered pain convey
incisions on black marble seal our bonds.

Lost voices beg to pound all guns to none
"like sweet bells jangled, out of tune"* they play
No war is worth the sacrifice of sons.

Admit the folly that was Vietnam
and in warm Spirit's Light lift Death to Day
Incisions on black marble seal our bonds.

Redeem the Peace for valor and beyond
These names that wail for all to kneel and pray
No war is worth the sacrifice of sons.

"Mere puffs of wind"** brave sons of Absalom
abhor the past, how dare we look away
Incisions on black marble seal our bonds
No war is worth the sacrifice of sons.

(C)2003, Patricia D'Alessandro

Published in Call & Response, East Bootleg West,
Sacramento, CA 1993
l. William Shakespeare
2. Psalm 144 - War Hymn

Punchinello in Chains: VI. Punchinello Dreams of Escape

The ship at anchor wasn’t what it seemed—
yet Punchinello gripped the eagle’s neck.
(The dream of life is just another dream.)

It soared above the masts, canals, the steam
of chimneys, till our Punch was just a speck.
The ship at anchor wasn’t what it seemed,

the harbor, Venice, Europe—even the gleam
blazing San Marco’s horses shrank. A fleck!
The dream of life is just another dream

that really wants a king, a god’s regime,
or some poor hurricane to wreck
the ship at anchor. Wasn’t what it seemed,

Punch’s old life, another Ponzi scheme?
Weren’t sailors waving from the quarter-deck?
The dream of life is just another dream

that none of us will live to see redeemed.
Death scrawls his bold John Hancock on your check.
The ship at anchor wasn’t what it seemed.
The dream of life is just another dream.

(C)2003, Wiliam Logan

Looking In at Night

Asleep, alive, her shape makes me afraid.
Afraid to lose what lasts a little while—
A curl of light along her shoulder blade,

One elbow up but the round ear in shade,
Mouth serious, eyes inward in denial
Of waking life—her shape makes me afraid.

She is like a statue they’ve displayed,
A maiden’s (from the porch), with her unseeing smile.
Light is sketched along her shoulder blade

And weaves around her head like waves of braid,
Suggesting hair in an archaic style,
Asleep-alive. Her shape makes me afraid,

Every year the marble more decayed,
The lines less clear. Time starts its slide,
Curling the light along her shoulder blade

Then rubbing out the features we have made
To take the wing and numbers from the dial.
Alive in sleep her shape turns, unafraid,
Drawing the night along her shoulder blade.

(C)2003, Mary Kinzie