Poets Against War continues the tradition of socially engaged poetry by creating venues for poetry as a voice against war, tyranny and oppression.
Carol Knepper
61 years old
I am a published poet and retired teacher of Enlgish Literature. I share the website ww.spiritsinpeace.com with the remarkable poet Ricahrd Doiron.
Number The Poppies
Number The Poppies
Number the poppies that are cast on graves that war has wrought. Count the red blossoms as the drops of blood shed in the futile fight for peace, and let each droplet give its red alert that this, our human folly, must now end.
Number the flowers in those Flanders Fields, and in the fields of death the world around. And let those tokens of remembrance bring to mind not only that some have fought in the belief that their battle might bring our freedom, but that so many have shed their red arterial drops to no avail. Their deaths are marked not by a poppy, nor blade of grass, nor crosses white, but remain unacknowledged, mere memories in the hollow heart of a mother, a wife, or a child.
Number the poppies as we pray that war will end, and no more shall we need to count the hearts now stopped and minds now stilled. Number no more those drops of blood, but let us be ever grateful for the poets’ pens that flow with ink, no blood there spilled, and for those flowers which we spread in peaceful soft pastels.
Sunrise In Kandahar
I rise from my small cot and watch the early sun rise brilliantly behind the towering minaret outlined against the crimson morning sky. I hear the mullahs’ call to prayer, and know that I must make my way to the magnificent mosque that stands nearby. I wrap my scarf around my head and walk in quiet contemplation with my little son as soldiers swiftly storm our strife-filled streets on missions that defy my comprehension.
For I am not a member of the Taliban, but just a loving mother like those women who reside in western lands. I do not see how nations from afar can tell us how our to operate our government or understand our ways, which to them may admittedly seem strange. I know the Quran not to be so different from other holy books, and I wonder how they see us as their loathsome enemies.
I kneel in prayer and ask that soon this conflict may abate, and that my little boy may someday stride in safety down this street. I plead that he may live to be a man and perhaps a parent in a place of peace. I watch the clouds roll in and think that sunrises of scarlet always lead to days of rain. And as I feel the first large drop splash down upon my face it mingles with my tears, as trembling I begin another dreary day in war-torn Kandahar.
