I looked for peace
not in the temples,
but in the ruins behind them—
among bricks that still remembered
how silence sounds
before a missile arrives.
I searched for stillness
not in the slogans of diplomats,
but in the eyes of a child
cradling a doll
with one missing arm.
The world,
they say,
is preparing for peace—
but they build it
with barbed wire and budgets
dipped in blood.
They call it strategy.
I call it
the art of forgetting
what a lullaby sounds like.
I asked the wind—
where does peace live now?
She said:
“Wherever a woman
chooses to forgive,
but not forget.”
I asked the moon—
how do I find it?
He whispered:
“In the breath
you take
before you strike back.”
Once, I thought peace
was a treaty,
a table,
a handshake.
Now I know—
peace is a mother
choosing to feed
a stranger’s child
after hers is gone.
Peace is a man
who buries his weapon
before his father.
Peace is a country
that learns to weep
for its enemy’s dead.
They say
war writes history.
But I have seen—
it is peace
that writes
what is human.
In the end,
peace is not found—
it is chosen,
by those
brave enough
to stop shouting
The watchman wakes to the drone of the swarm,
The falconer’s voice lost in the engine’s scream;
Damascan sands shift beneath the iron tread,
And ancient Elam stirs from its long-held dream.
The midnight hour is bruised by crimson flare,
The innocent bartered for a desert throne;
Diplomats falter, hollowed of their prayer,
While zealots reap the whirlwind they have sown.
A sign, the temple veil is torn once more;
The end draws near; the King stands at the gate.
Prepare the way through smoke of Eastern shore,
Behold the Lord who masters time and fate.
The martyrs rise when His command is heard;
The Kingdom comes—fulfilled in Christ the Word.
By Rick McGrath, Ph.D.
At the SIS fortress,
where the Thames mirrors silence,
they placed a photograph before me.
“We know his history,” they said,
“but tell us what lies beneath his skin.”
I studied his face—
rebellion carved in the jaw,
yet the stars betrayed him:
a Cancer Moon, a Cancer rising.
“Family is his chain,” I replied,
“pull that thread,
and the man will unravel.”
The chamber walls glared with portraits—
statesmen, kings,
criminals polished as diplomats.
Here, souls were stripped bare,
their desires charted like maps of war.
Every smile a mask,
every silence,
an unspoken crime.
And yet, each time I walked these halls,
a question haunted me:
When Elizabeth opened this house of secrets in 1994,
what prophecy stirred her mind?
Did she see guardians of the realm,
or merchants of deception?
Protectors,
or puppeteers?
The Thames whispers no answers.
It carries only reflections—
of men who gamble with empires,
who write destinies in shadows,
where truth is a currency,
and ghosts
are never at rest.
Grandma’s ghost has taken up
knitting rattlesnakes in the drapes.
They hiss when someone lies.
Now, my mother only speaks
in noodle metaphors.
I ask her how she is, and she replies,
al dente, then goes back
to stirring the aquarium water
she'll later take a bath in.
My sister gives birth
to a daughter who levitates
during thunderstorms.
She answers to the name Unclaimed Bag.
In other words, we all gather once a year
to shed what’s left of politeness,
to laminate new rules:
No bleeding at the table.
Far less mirrors in the fruit salad.
All grudges must be gift-wrapped,
left at the door with the shoes,
with the husbands.
And when it’s over,
we nod like diplomats,
swap our favorite spells,
(that is to say recipes), pretend
we don't notice the fresh claw marks
on the floor.
It ends when we remember
our names again, who we are.
Then we leave—
each of us, in a different skin.
Wooden Box
In my deep deep wooden box I keep: in
triumphant completion of
something’s; depending on
whethers; keyboards with
buttons who don’t make notes audible to
the human ear; descriptions and reports on
equipment and clothing for
a specific activity; a
few arrogant diplomats; cutlery who aren’t
consistent with or
aren’t in harmony or
aren’t unanimous with
cutlery sets; pompous ducks who
scribble notes concerning the annoying to
them smell of
chimney smoke not in an
unobtrusive manner; and finally
people who use the word
“consequently” ad nauseam. However the box isn’t
locked. They can come and
go as they wish.
Since the earliest Olympic games, history
Has provided the players in dramatic scenes.
Where the acts would command the physical,
As they performed to the kings and queens.
Their display of strength and speed,
Gives rise to power that would adore.
While leaping and throwing to the heavens,
As if they no longer touched the floor.
The early games bred many great warriors,
Whereas today they create better diplomats.
Even though they may not be the best role models,
They're often effective in dealing with aristocrats.
Generations come, generations go
War and Death are what they know...
In defense of land
blades of grass, grains of sand
Men battle for their very lives
their precious children, their fearful wives
If not this skirmish, then the next
injuries mount, futures wrecked
While diplomats stack the decks
to preserve their privileged necks...
Generations come and go ~
lives of peace, they never know
Last year
they told us
nothing
to see here,
no unknown
enemies
there
or elsewhere
with secret weapons
tuned up
and targeted
to screw-up minds.
Now
they say
it's Russia,
Russia, Russia
with secret telepathic
energy weapons
tuned up
and targeted
to seek out
minds
of high level
diplomats
and whomever
stands in the way
of a nefarious agenda.
Did they lie
last year
or are they
lying now,
and why
hasn't Russia
if it has
such a weapon
tuned up
and targeted
Vladimir
Zelenski?
Meanwhile
China is
suspiciously
quiet!
Santa could you help me out, I’m in a dozen shades of doubt
Half the world is ‘weapons out’, all the rest just scream and shout
“Don’t do this and don’t do that, would you kindly pause your spat?”
Arms dealers are getting fat… I can’t afford to heat my flat
Grain and fuel are pricing high, body bags in short supply
And thousands duck yet thousands die
But Santa it’s the time of year to spread a little Christmas cheer
And let those that wont listen hear the guns fall silent far and near
So Santa could you help me out and sprinkle your goodwill about
To link the arms of atheist, agnostic and devout
For whilst so many gods abound at every compass point around
Can there not be a middle ground
But all the world says, “We’re the good,” or, “You’re the villain in the hood,”
Or, “You will soon be gone for good.” And diplomats are blocks of wood.
So Santa can you clarify the who, the what, the where, the why
For far away the people cry and one man says that nukes may fly
So war may soon be hereabout, I hope we have sufficient clout
Hey, Santa, could you help us out?
This time of the year again
She has gone shopping for gifts to give the young
she would not take me along, knows I would be grumpy
and sarcastic and impatient.
I sat on the plaza with a glass of Chianti, not because I like this wine but because it is the only Italian name I could think of,
A mist of people around me, a crescendo of voices
talking about about a topic they agreed upon, Noel
I unfold the paper “Stalemate in Gaza.”
It does not ring a bell for the consumers, in the thrall of the glittering street decoration, fake snow, and humbug
We have been invited to a restaurant so grand waiters
dress like diplomats, call out your name when entering
Our esteemed Senor Hansen from Sweden at table number 12. What! I am not Swedish but never mind
I will get revenge when asking for Alentejo Red Wine
When we come back to the Algarve, it can be cold
in January, a man will come from the upland with a truck
of firewood, ready cut and dry.
The only sound we will hear during the festivities are
are the bleating of the lamb
Vote on a partner
limiting fighting increasing diplomats;
It’s a moment for supporters
to balance international
offensive and deep concerns,
consequences largely unchecked;
Whatever decision defend and implement;
Reality complicated when the war began;
Militant kidnapped retaliation
death of majority;
Resolution
strong signal change conduct;
Protect
always use influence;
Pressure
use power
allow resolution to represent
a major warning.
Russia pounds Bakhmut to dust in 2022
Putin bombs and tortures civilians too
Western diplomats warn, "Naughty, naught, shouldn't do!"
No marches, no protests, no counterattacks, no coup
Putin smirks: "Civilians? Them, we do not attack!"
Words of a fox, a liar, a megalomaniac
Zelensky and Ukraine fight back with all their might
But in 2023, Ukraine's nearly out of arms
~ quite a desperate plight
Zelensky awaits reinforcements from the West, but alas
The delivery system is almost out of gas
Enmeshed in partisan jawing and enmity on Capitol Hill
Never forget: If Ukraine loses, Western lives pay the bill
my attempt at a simplistic limerick suite
thank you
"cats and hats"
I once went to the beach with hats
and noticed in the back seat were my cats
I couldn't leave them in the car
so we ended up sitting at the bar
later I placed them on cool mats
we stayed until the sun went down
in between they managed to be a clown
they nestled and played with my hats
in style as true diplomats
now for all it was a showdown
as our day was nearing end
we were happy and could not pretend
my cats were never alone
my love and patience had grown
but now my hats I need to mend
SkyWatcher
06-17-23
Like Romeo and Juliet
By Michelle Morris
21/11/2021
Like Romeo and Juliet,
we were warned;
Our love was like a fire
and we'd get burned.
Completely forbidden
by our feuding families;
Sometimes in life
love is seen as the enemy.
You were my Romeo,
and I was your Juliet;
Didn't want that story to repeat,
so we ran away instead.
Settled on a hillside
in a village far away;
No more feuding families
to have their say.
We had a family;
taught them love and grace;
Kindness to all life; all
empathy, no hate.
They grew up as diplomats
and changed the world;
So much more peace now
around our country's soil.
You stayed my Romeo,
and I was your Juliet;
We created new history
of love and light instead.
And as we grow older,
getting old and grey,
We still love each other,
since that first embrace.
© Michelle Morris, 2021
A muddle of voices
all crying foul
Cacophony's in now
budding diplomats howl
Scowls on their faces
deceit in their hearts
tourists buy scorecards
to tell them apart
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