I Hope This Peace March
I hope this Peace March is gonna make a big difference on this Earth.
I hope the Earth feels better. Peace means no War.
It means no “W”’s on the flags.
Time Capsule
You have in your hands a time capsule,
capturing the state of mind, the hearts and hopes, of some of the Great Peace
Marchers in 1986. The Poetry Anthology
committee met in the Bookmobile, planned to offer these poems to publishers for
outreach and financial help, but the project did not survive Survival Mode.
Frank Sahlem had the collection until September, ‘99, and passed it on to me at
Carpinteria.
Like the Marcher who said “I think we should take whoever God sends us
and make marchers of them,” I have included everything from Frank’s folder
here, plus a few new items
Reading these pages now, years later, dusty
and maybe tear-stained or wind- and rain-blown, I can almost feel the
campground feelings: the camaraderie, the loneliness, the courage and fear and
hopes and determination that kept us saying “We’re Still Here” all those dusty,
windy, rainy miles. I thank all of you
for capturing and sharing those moments.
We’re Still Here, aren’t we, and we’re passing on the gift. If you have
something to add, let’s figure out how to make a Millennium edition. Sue Guist, sueg@allover.com
Dear
Folks Back Home,
What’s it like on the Great Peace March? Cold and miserable. Up to our ankles in mud as we stand shivering in the chow line. My cup filled one half with hot pea soup – the other half with cold, heavy rain. My pizza: sprinkled not with grated cheese, but drizzled with rain, rain, rain. And fierce winds, 50 mph, blowing a nasty sand storm in our mouths. Twelve cases of hypothermia. Twelve peace marchers treated with hot soup, hot food. Some placed naked in a sleeping bag with another naked (warm) body.
What’s it like on the Great Peace March? Hot and happy. Sweltering sun for many miles as we walk singing our hearts out. Sun screen, sun visors, sun glasses. Heavenly nights. The million grains of sand in our eyes replaced by a billion brilliant stars in our eyes. Five hundred peace marchers holding hands in a circle as round as the moon. Two people touching lips in a yellow tent/cocoon.
What’s it like on the Great Peace March? Sad and lonely. My walking companion with whom I laughed and talked and sang…my survival partner who helped me with my laundry, my tent…my body’s delight who shared my sleeping bag…my soul mate is gone. She left the March. But hundreds of warm, wonderful, attractive, talented women remain. A guy could fall in love ten times a day. Already I’m getting sweet on someone.
What’s it like to be on the Great Peace March? Elation and joy. The children who run out of class to greet us. The old folks in nursing homes who roll out on wheelchairs to meet us. Entire towns adopt us. Donations, love and kisses. I love every second of this great adventure. I want it to go on forever.
But please write soon for the greatest joy on the Great Peace March is simply a letter from home.
I
am the furnace
this is a new housing start
the government doesn’t know about
i haven’t filed the plan
you might not recognize it
it has no walls
the plumbing is a stream
the bookshelves are trees
the hallways are interstates
imagination is the window
the roof is nothing but faith
i am the furnace
Haiku
greeting from grizzled
stranger to new acquaintance:
cold desert sandstorm
How
to Stop War – A Manifesto
It used to take masses of men
to fight wars.
Now it takes masses of men and women
to make weapons:
a very few can fight
a very big war –
a very final war –
using nuclear bombs.
We used to say
“If people refuse to fight,
war will end.”
Now we must say,
“War will end
if people refuse
to make weapons,
or if people stand between
the war-making few
and the terrible buttons they can push.
If we stand between politicians
and those who get rich
from owning plants
where arms are made –
with our money –
there will be no arms.
And without arms,
who can make war?
It’s still people who can stop war.
In the Desert
in the desert
i’m losing a dream
peace
slipping from my frozen fingers
peace
drying in the arroyo bed.
in the desert
where the weather hurts
too much to tell
we crawl into shells
gasping in frayed pain
at what endurance means.
we are alive
and nothing more.
in the desert
four obscure nights.
just as the nightsky
forbids the stars from swelling
my body forbids my eyes from flying
so I lie under the darkest cover of night,
allowing my own eyes to swell.
watching the stars fly.
the lighted finger of the moon
points my way to sleep.
in the desert
I surround myself
having outrun my words
but not my grief.
I am trapped
in the collapsing light of my tent.
through the dry pool of my tears
the cactus speaks.
there’s little water
and enough for everyone to drink.
in the desert
an underground rumbling,
a mountain wanting to form.
the hands of the sky press down.
patience, the earth knows.
fear rumbles through our veins
and returns as courage.
faith, the heart knows.
in the desert
first clear night.
we attach eyes
affix our face to the skies,
stars slippery in the rising shadows of space.
we wipe memories from our brow,
crawl into sleep,
reciting prayers of tectonic magic
walking the forbidden miles of day.
in the desert
where the weather strips us down
to whom we are
we shed our skins
ready to move into our hearts
where we’ve never been before.
we are alive
like never before.
in the desert
i’m remembering my dream
peace
spreading like spring wildflowers,
peace
burning into us like high noon.
Decade, American, Psyche
That old ‘50’s anxiety possesses me occasionally. I jump at every sound expecting it to be the sirens calling me to duck and cover. This is my most compromised tear-filled loveless position, crumpled beneath the repressive wood and metal of desk and chair, hands over my head. Eisenhower’s crackling mumbled father figure voice doesn’t soothe me but floods me with more masculine tears.
Such moments make me long for the simplicity of the 40’s, with gallant tuxedos blowing raucous jazz full of gangster lingo made comical. Romantic simplicities blossom but merely briefly in these painful high-heels that tap-dance through trivia marathons where war bond speeches are made hourly. It takes a Truman to bomb one era out of existence and instantly make born a full-grown nuclear age.
But these nostalgic sentiments slip away swiftly when my boisterous 60’s come to mind, painting the morning with bursting pop pastels, talking the capuccino afternoon Dylanesque inspirations, visionary evenings of economic and ecological democracy and nights of passionate electric psychedelic eternal rock. Yet in my exuberance, I can’t control the mind-altering paranoia that factionalizes the movement for ending terrible war. Such experiments create a fashionably unquenchable thirst in this throw-away society, replacing one nude encounter group for another guru with spaghetti hair, breaking hearts with a nutcracker. This form of burn-out was once my religion, yet the planet turned me, clasping sitars and guitars, flipping hot teriyaki hamburgers into the shocked unsconed lap of a nervous New Yorker babbling a symphonic structuralist song of Nietzche, numbers theory, and nipple envy.
My expectations and preconceptions were traumatically seized when East and West met, in the angry crowds of Calcutta, and the ecstatic silent Zen gardens of Kyoto. It was in Times Square that the future seemed to already have passed. A post nuclear world of shadow people and fallout air. But my faith was and is deeply reborn every day by the verses of heavenly music that plays in deep silent meditations.
I float moodily through my ‘70’s that quietly restructure opposing elements. The wailing of folksy long-haired millionaires make melancholy the underlying pains in our luxurious pleasures. Bittersweet harmonies celebrate shaky cooperative ventures, dirty health food restaurant-collectives bite the realtor’s dust. Talk no more of politics and don’t work so hard ‘cause there’s glittery clothes to redress the forbidden opposite sex – and now the jumping yahoos forget themselves and their elegantly cussing speeches in favor of securing acres of mountain land and back-to-the-farm. The disco craze dizzies me, these consecutive one night stands with gurus in platform shoes.
Such a decade fades into these harsh contrasting ‘80’s. The insistent desperation of billionaire computer commuters poisoning their own drinking water. The age of a terrorist lifestyle that fear makes anger strike out randomly. Aspirins, luxury liners, airport counters are in my nightmares. My ‘80’s are a surreal science fiction world whose roots are constant irony. Here is where I grow my sanity, a flower boldly blooming in a wintry junkyard.
Peace is Achieved
Peace is achieved when I can go inside my mind with my thought and contemplate peace and its source…
Then I can see hear and feel what peace is all about and bring to this life what I have learned.
Serenity’s
Silent Song
Rings of light,
dancing on a pond,
where a stone was thrown
beneath the moon
Reflections From Within
Growing, changing
Awakening bit by bit, day by day
Insight flashes/fades/flashes...
No two moments feel alike.
My soul's in constant conflict with my fears
My path demands that these subside
because fulfillment cannot be achieved
by creating rooms — or minds — which cannot be
entered.
Who is this journey really for?
Are we saving the world — or saving ourselves?
Are we the world?
The pursuit of Truth demands utter honesty
Steadily carving away the bullshit
Lopping off the comforting self-deceptions
Recognizing and accepting
the bare,hard, laughable realities
when kind Intuition permits us a glimpse.
The pursuit of Truth:
man's universal unconscious preoccupation.
Each minute's advance along the path,
every infinitesimal growth-change in an
Individual,
moves humanity closer,
ever closer,
to the Truth
we have always known we must be.
(These 2 poems were printed in "Darma Voice" (September, 1986;
And What Would Heaven Be
And what would heaven be
with earth
And what would earth be
with heaven
TAI
Peace
Heaven and Earth
Unite
All beings come
into form
Reaching out to beauty
Reaching out to beauty
looking through a window or windshield,
Seeing a sunrise evoke magic.
Watching a playground full with fun,
flickering before each reality’s eyes
I imagine
missiles’ white arches,
vibrant orange clouds
bellowing devastation
loss bound to infinity
leaving only the universe growing as a face of God.
The leaves swirl in gusts
following momentary patterns.
Wrapped in comfort from Grum’s black 1951 pea coat
I sit holding my own body and breathe
trying to heal the raw pain.
My huddled tears fall along the sloping green hill
in autumn.
My heartbeat, , is a prayer
its very existence
a joyous overture with yours as I feel
your continuous pulse –
a planet of heartbeats praying.
ENVISIONING a world without weapons
I walk
sharing touchstones and a possible powerful reality
one step at a time
one blister after another.
mile after mile
wearing blue ribbons through the rain and sun,
sweat and chill.
In the
vision I find a strengthening face of God.
The Fires In Our S-O-U-L-S
(A marching song)
Though our bodies may be tired
and we may be burning holes into the
bottoms of our s-o-l-e-s,
We will hold our heads up higher
‘cause you can’t put out the fires that are
burning in our s-o-u-l-s.
Though our bellies may be shrinking
and our sneakers may be stinking
after marching on our s-o-l-e-s,
We will hold our heads up higher
‘cause you can’t put out the fires that are
burning in our s-o-u-l-s.
Yes it’s true, we’ll get through,
and you can’t deny the glory of our goals;
Yes it’s true, we’ll get through,
‘cause you can’t put out the fires in our souls.
As our hair is getting longer,
and our legs are getting stronger
and we use up many cans of Dr. Scholl’s,
You may think that we are liars
but you can’t put out the fires that are
churning,
yearning,
burning in the bottoms of our souls!
Every Step
3 months poetryless
time to open the dream-head again.
welcome.
deposit your fears
step between these words,
discover me as i discover me.
chunk up the fire
and wait for conversation to begin.
today it will be served
with plastic on paper plates.
suck the outside in
we will change the weather as we go.
the outcome of these events will matter.
even god may take note.
its late
even darkness has fallen asleep.
in the REM of night
a heaviness of breath.
the grass plays its water marble game
inviting bare feet
and a warm body or two.
we lie out in the fields,
under the stars lying in their fields
watching us.
for hours they watch
and with entrance into sleep
follow us inside.
peace begins in the
first bells of tibetan morning.
continues at the tips of waking’s first stretch.
beating even the sunrise
from reaching the outside first.
watch the light fly
from horizon to eye
back to horizon again.
honor the pain of waking up
even if the sun sometimes sleeps in.
savor your breakfast
fill your stomach with eight miles
pack your lunch with seven more.
out on the road
notice your feet close to the tarred earth.
forgive your legs
forgive the pain
that has left no muscle unburned.
remember the cheers
remember the ugly stares.
swallow the love
and yes
swallow the hate.
you have grown stronger
remembering every step
and every step has already
left its mark (cont.)
Every Step (cont.)
walk,
walk and know one day
the world will walk with you.
walk and remember
your grandmother’s grandmother
watching from a candlelit room.
walk and remember
your grandchild’s grandchild
watching from a future womb.
after dinner
after the glow and shadow of evening
midnight arrives
a new day
five hours away.
stop.
let the day go.
let the miles go.
let the people go.
listen.
the brilliant notes of peace
filter through the silence
and are heard by all people in their sleep.
tomorrow their dreams will remember them.
enter sleep knowing peace watches over you.
yes, tonight peace.
and tomorrow
we must learn it again.
Great Peace Marchers
Please Take Me With You in Your Hearts
I was with you at the start,
full of wonderment and awe –
but you stole away my heart
in Barstow, because of what I saw.
You reached out and touched me,
with your faces full of hope and pride –
and talking with you helped me see,
what keeps you at your stride.
When I ventured out to see your camp,
my emotions tore in half –
knowing how insignificant I am,
made helping you an impossible task.
Tho I tried to help and gave you food,
I wanted to scoop up all of you –
and really be of some good,
I died to trudge along too.
I can’t go along and knew it from the start,
restlessness deals me a fit –
I beg you to take me with you in your heart,
BUT, PLEASE DON’T QUIT!
The People
These are the people who will not accept
What some say is fate.
And the feeling the feeling
Is great so great!
Theirs is a dream so wonderful
That few dare to dream it.
They take each step with determination.
And others will see that they really
Do mean it.
They sing of a world of peace and love
And the sunshine pours down on
Them from above.
Their power lies in their simplicity
And their unified spirit of hope.
A power so strong that through
Any hardship they will cope.
They accept each challenge day by day
And refuse to yield to what others
May say.
These are the people who will not accept
What some say is fate.
They say it is not too late.
And the feeling the feeling
Is great so great!
The Spirit of Youth And The Wisdom of Age
The spirit of youth might rescue this world
in yearning for beauty and truth sublime,
But dreaming itself has never done more
than waste everyone’s precious time.
The wisdom of age might rescue this world
by using the knowledge of history.
But elders are usually listless and snide,
having lost faith in life’s mystery.
Therefore, in order to rescue this world
I offer this brief proposition:
All the world’s children should learn from their elders
while maintaining youth’s high ambition.
And while all the youngsters are doing their parts,
the elders, as well, have a task to fulfill;
They should recapture the dreams of their hearts
while maintaining discipline, knowledge, and skill.
In reaching this goal we can stifle our strife,
and man’s evolution will turn a new page;
For we can regain our great purpose in life
By joining youth’s spirit with wisdom of age.
We’re Walking for Us All
Where are we going?
and why are we going?
and what are we gonna do?
We’re on our way to D.C.
THE GREAT PEACE MARCH and YOU!
What’ll we see there?
People that DO care!
What’ll be the big surprise?
We’re gonna take the nooks down
Before your very eyes
We’re on our way –
We’re reaching out –
We need support –
To bring about –
The end of bombs
That could destroy us all
Yes we’re walking, we’re walking
for us all.
LOVE is our tool
PEACE, our school
We’re walking for us all
The GREAT PEACE MARCH and YOU friends
We’re walking for us all!
Writers Walking for Peace
For those in need of truth
We radiate beyond
Acceptable background levels of propaganda
Unearthing, enriching and exploding
The rich veins of reality
Buried in the yellowcake of lies.
For those in need of more than truth
We walk the epic we write
Listening to high desert winds
And mountain rains
Speaking in poems
And rustling raingear
Seeking the sun-myths that renew.
Truth,
the Liberator
If truth were turned to water
and rained across the land,
There’s not be one unhappy soul,
nor tear-stained grain of sand.
If truth could be the very wind
which fills each void and pocket,
Man could speak the bravest thought
and none would dare to mock it.
Jeff Free Turnbull
Thought
Things
Our world is wallowing in Plenty and Poverty at the same time.
The highest form of life on earth contemplates self destruction.
Our PROTECTION is more dangerous than our enemies.
We are taught to hate and fear our own species/
800 billion dollars, time, energy, effort and resources, for Killing Equipment this year – that we don’t dare use.
The Military cannot protect themselves or their employers.
Survival is the first order of the Universe.
You must not commit our genocide.
The total cost of war today makes the enemy look good.
Each generation, in each country, brainwashes its youth into believing that the only way to solve a problem is to slaughter our own species.
There is little security in Death or Bankruptcy.
People don’t make wars, they just get to fight them – and pay for them.
We are responsible for what we do, and don’t do.
We are not happy with what you have done, what you are doing, your lack of results, and your lack of efforts.
We do not wish to die as heroes or victims, or prepare new heroes for the coming generation.
MANKIND is more important than Nations.
After the slaughter, the waste, and the cost, we negotiate.
We are always good. - They are always bad.
Is God happy or content to witness his highest creation slaughter each other?
Man’s needs and wants are basically the same and there is enough for All.
Is it justifiable for man to slaughter his own species to promote jobs?
We have bought the end with our taxes and our complacency, and we have brainwashed our own to use it regardless of consequences.
Doing nothing perpetuates the problem.
You can make a difference!
Together, We can make a difference!
PEACE
Empty I Come
Empty I come into the world
a cry of joy my mind unfurls
the memories that I shall store
remembering when I was a boy
the loves I lost—and those I keep
the dear departed—the tears I weep
for when the end draws very near
I shall cry a happy tear
so lucky for life with its ups and downs
I laughed, I cried—with smiles and frowns
I came with life—with Death I go
my memories gone like melted snow.