Poems about personal growth

Peace is Here


The wasteland of my soul

Is littered with bodies dead and dying

The wounded hoist a tattered pole

On which the flag of freedom flying

Dares to claim a victory won

Among the spoils of battles lost

The rising of a better sun

Though shadows linger in the frost


The dawn is nigh and long awaited

The injured soldiers hold their ground

Their wailing stopped with breath that’s baited

Amid the gloom, the hopeful sound

Of marching feet from distant parts

And cheering voices growing near

A salve for tired and broken hearts

The war is over; peace is here.





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  • :-)

    When one has just interbeen
    what’s there to talk about at tea?
    Maybe chat of what we’ve seen…
    all one can say is, ‘I saw me,’

    It’s really such a bother
    when everywhere one turns
    nothing’s really other
    whatever one discerns

    Narcissus did not need to die,
    he did not even need a pond;
    Poor Echo didn’t need to cry
    or even grow so very fond

    for if we’re always interbeing
    there’s nothing new and nothing lacking
    since the only thing we’re seeing
    is ourselves in other packing.

  • Wonderful reply. I'm tempted to call it interbeing! 

  • Thanks, Dennia. Nice. Here's a reply...

    The war is never over, dear,
    the soldiers just return to base
    to drink and boast and clap and cheer
    the hero and the flying ace

    while all the while the sky grows dim
    to pressage the next round or two;
    the cup was full up to the brim
    it now o’er spills on me and you

    as we are caught up in the mill
    of love and hate and happiness
    yet quite unable to be still
    while all the world seeks fair redress

    for histories we can’t allow
    that niggle hidden in the dark
    so that no matter when or how
    the bell may toll, we have to hark.

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