Poets Against War continues the tradition of socially engaged poetry by creating venues for poetry as a voice against war, tyranny and oppression.
Henry Howard
50 years old
Los Angeles peace and justice activist, eternal believer in love and nonviolence as a way of life, not just protest tactic. Thrilled that we are standing on the cusp of history-making regime change, but ever-mindful that REAL change can only be GUARANTEED by the PEOPLE, never politicians alone.
Regime Change
REGIME CHANGE
Sometimes change arrives unnoticed, Like a secret whispered so softly Only fate can hear.
Sometimes it comes like a hurricane, Sweeping history before it, A mighty wind that scoffs at defiance And knocks down doors and walls allied against it.
In this year of regime change, History walks a tightrope; The expectations of millions Hang on tiny pinpricks in a wafer-thin sheet of paper.
This year, political change grows not from the barrel of a gun; The lowly ballot fires a charge As deafening as any atom bomb.
No matter who wins this transient election, The changing of the guard Has already occurred. This change has crept upon us, 200 years in the making.
It has come painfully, Like pulling teeth; The blood of thousands Mark each forward beat Of history’s timepiece, But it has come without stopping.
The clock cannot be turned back. In 1963, a black man stood At the feet of Lincoln, And shouted to the cold stars, “I have a dream!”
In 2008, another black American stands At the feet of Lincoln, And shouts to the multitudes, “The dream is fulfilled! Change we can believe in!”
We can believe in this: Change has already come, Poignant, thrilling, inescapable and permanent. The baton has been dropped By a warrior of the guided missile, And carried to the finish line by a warrior of ideas.
A new torch blazes, Rolling back the darkness of the past Brighter than any burning cross.
The season of change is upon us: Change in the colors of the leaves, And the colors in the halls of power, Change in the cool fall air that teases our skin And dares us to dream that freedom is coming, Change we can believe in. Regime change.
The Year of the Woman
THE YEAR OF THE WOMAN
A new man will take his seat In the Oval Office, But 2008 will also be remembered As the Year of the Woman.
Elections come and go, But leaders are forever. This year, a woman stood Where men had held their reign to be supreme, And dared to say, “I want to lead!”
In 1908, women were at the bottom Of the political ladder. In 2008, a woman climbed to the highest rung, And shouted across the wall Meant to hold her back, “A woman’s place is on top!”
It was a clarion call, Heard in every corner of our land. It was a wake-up call, Heard in ever bedroom and every boardroom: “Sisterhood has been declared beautiful forever!”
Tomorrow’s schoolgirls will read That a former First Lady Strove to become Today’s first woman President.
From Seneca Falls to Seattle, From Rosie the Riveter To Hillary Rodham, They are women, And we have heard them roar.
It is the roar of history Rushing headlong for the future like an unstoppable tide, The thunder of crowds stomping through doors Newly opened and fully ajar, The joyous scream of a force more powerful Than the sexist barricades of a crumbling past.
2008 was a year When men could no longer ask, “What do women want?” Because the answering shout Woke them forever from their complacent slumber: “WE WANT EQUALITY—NOW!”
2008 was the year When the gauntlet was thrown down And the shackles of the past Were thrown off forever. It was the year the glass ceiling cracked beyond repair, And the walls almost came tumbling down. It was a year of hope that cannot die, Of change that cannot be undone. It was the Year of the Woman.
Crosses in the Sand
CROSSES IN THE SAND
So many crosses in the sand, Each marking a life stolen In a war that seems without end. Some have names etched On the thin wooden sticks, Men and women alike, For war and death make no distinction. Others have names known only to the grieving, Whose loss is too great for any name.
Every Sunday, from dawn to dusk, The crosses stretch in a neat parade To the very edge of the shore, Like the white gulls who fold their wings And rest from their endless task Of riding the wind.
On the Santa Monica pier above, Viewers glance uneasily and wonder Why they must share their sunbathing With a cemetery, Even a symbolic one.
They seek, after all, the comforting pleasures Of the amusement park that colorfully adorns The elevated boardwalk, And elevates the spirits of weekend strollers:
In the noisy arcade beside the old wooden footpath, Children play the latest war games And with agile fingers, fire ceaselessly at on-screen targets. The higher the body count, the more points they score. Meanwhile, the horrors of real war Are safely out of sight on the beach below.
From the graceful carousel, Swinging high above the world, The bone-white crosses are easy to miss In the gold-white sand, And couples lie content in each other’s arms On sun-kissed afternoons.
But the strange cemetery by the sea Tugs at the limits of vision, Demanding to be acknowleged. The crosses spread their outstretched arms Like the soldiers they plead for, Crying in silent chorus, “Remember us! Remember us!”
This is a cemetery like no other. The volunteers who lovingly embrace The memory of the dead Are veterans themselves, Now Veterans for Peace. They call this sacred space Arlington West, A haunting mirror of that vast national cemetery in the east.
Walk gingerly between the ghostly tombstones. No bodies rest beneath them, But the lives they speak for Feel present in the very air.
Here and there, the visitor may see A family photo tacked to the simple crossed boards, Or a pair of soldier’s boots placed neatly at the base, Or a favorite teddy bear meant to comfort the wounded spirit At rest from war, but still craving peace.
Take a deep breath, and explore without hurry These wrenching tributes, The yearning of families and comrades who made it back To continue the life now recorded As a cold single number in a register of death.
In every row, a few crosses are topped By a Star of David or a crescent moon. All religions, all races die side by side in war, And the only line in the sand That can never be crossed Is the red one of every soldier’s blood.
Look carefully, too, at the signs Marking the entrance to Arlington West: The number of American soldiers killed in Iraq Creeps steadily upward, While crosses for the Iraqi dead Would fill the entire beach.
Here is the ultimate anti-war memorial, A place of mourning Without politics or judgement, For the rows of silent crosses Speak louder than a million words. No words can exceed the horror conveyed By this cemetery in the sand.
And so they are drawn each weekend Like a magnet, The surviving veterans, sorrowful and proud, The families of fallen veterans, Grieving and proud, Old warriors whose backs are bent From the weight of ancient conflicts, And students too young to fight, Whose turn will come in conflicts not yet named.
Death wears the same uniform As every soldier on earth, And rules every army as Commander-in-Chief, Whose ultimate order can be deferred But never disobeyed. Only a permanent end to war Can override that warrior With the faceless skull Who stalks the world’s battlefields With a scythe blade in one hand, And an automatic rifle in the other.
So the living and the dead Share the beach at Arlington West, That place of safety to reflect, To cry, to remember, To honor the sacrifices, Whatever we may think Of the leaders and their wars That demand such sacrifice.
Slowly another Sunday will end, And the last visitors will leave their prayers, Their mementos, and loving kisses, As night falls on a strange wooden army Of crosses in the sand.
THE RED PRIEST WORE WHITE
The Monsignor girded himself In the soft, white vestments of his faith, His hands lifted in supplication To God and Man alike: stop the repression!
Romero’s enemies called him “The Red Priest,” A communist traitor with a dangerous voice, But the Salvadoran masses Gave him a beloved name, more dangerous still: The “Voice of the Voiceless.”
Instead of time-honored rituals In the cool Sanctuary of the grand Cathedral, Romero roamed the countryside in the blazing sun, Digging for corpses and the truth, Seeking Christ’s body and blood In the roadside ditches, Where his people lay bound and bullet-riddled.
This was his church, And he took coffee and testimony From all his congregants, The living and the dead alike, For the confessions of the latter Could not be buried in the silence of the grave.
Theirs was a testimony of bodies That still bore the marks of “la tortura:” Smashed teeth, lips and eyes sewn shut, Rope burns on the wrists and ankles, Traces of lime from the capuchas placed with tight precision On the faces of students, Who begged for mercy with their last choking breathes.
Reading with moral fire on a radio That spoke to every ear in El Salvador, Romero tallied the dead and missing, Reciting the crushing numbers Until his spirit howled with pain, And he begged the soldiers, as brothers, To remember the ancient command of their one true captain: “Thou Shalt Not Kill.”
Romero did not believe In death without resurrection, And he promised to rise again In the Salvadoran people.
Then a bullet split the silence of the chapel And silenced one man’s heart, But he kept his promise and rose undefeated In the souls of all the Salvadoran people.
F0R MY SANCTUARY FAMILY—1984-85
Below the cathedral of jungle trees, A rustle of life echoes close to the ground: Furtive bodies, glimpsed by the quetzal bird Glancing up from his lunch of seeds. Three humans, cautiously sniffed By the hunting panther.
What crime? Cries the jungle, What crime are you blamed for That causes you to flee When the moon cloaks her cheeks in darkness?
The rain forest has borne mute witness to horror. If trees could speak before the courts, How painfully their green heads would bow Beneath the weight of evidence!
The Guatemalan waterfalls Wash the stones free of blood From a village of peasants, Butchered to make the good earth safe For the sweet profits of United Fruit Or the fragrant wealth of Folgers coffee.
The emerald canopy yields to dust In the long, hot valley. The stones crunching underfoot Point the way north, Mile upon mile, Yard by yard, Until at last you stand before the cattle fence That straddles two worlds.
Your hand is pierced By a thicket of barbed wire, But unlike Jesus, You will not be nailed to this cross! Wincing as the skin tears, Freeing you, You turn to help your family Step into the unknown.
The last part of the journey is the easiest: A caravan of gentle warriors drives north, Seeking the churches to shelter your way, Offering food, sleep, and the company Of black, white and brown babies To play with yours In a circle of love.
At last you come to rest in New York. From your stained-glass windows, The cool spice of the Hudson river Tickles your nose with memories of the Suchiate river.
Yet it is far from home, and it is scarcely freedom. A knock on the door at night makes the heart beat faster: Is it a volunteer who comes to bear witness and comfort, Or La Migra, bearing a summons and a ride to a waiting plane?
To stay safe within these walls Is to suffer the little-death Of being strangers in a strange land, Yet real death awaits you If you obey the quetzal’s call to return.
When caught between two worlds, Sanctuary is a state of mind as well as place. So to ease to your mind, You choose to share this place with us And rest awhile. But in the sanctuary of your heart, There is no rest And the Quetzal calls without relent, “How long?”
Surging to Disaster
SURGING TO DISASTER
In Afghanistan, the winter snows That bring respite from endless war Melt fast before the guns of spring. The Taliban arise, and send a message To their brethren, Hiding patiently amidst the brown, silent hills: The Americans are coming. And we are ready.
Are you ready, Mr. Obama, For our next Vietnam? From your Oval Office, half a world away, You speak of Afghanistan and Pakistan As if they were our timid, next-door neighbors, And we, the overconfident schoolyard bully.
You fervently promise to avoid The mistakes of the past, Yet those mistakes Already link up with the present In an unbroken chain.
History repeats itself With dangerous symmetry: You present your war plan In the tone of your predecessor, Whose lips overflowed with mendacious words Of retaliation, Justification, Occupation, And triumphant American pacification Of a country not our own, Remade securely as an image of ourselves.
But that image is merely a Fata Morgana, A fabulous mirage that shimmers In oases of political dreams, And dissolves in the deserts Of policy nightmares.
In Afghanistan, Mr. President, You are surging into a nightmare All your own, From which you will not easily awake.
The high passes are littered With the tanks and helicopters Of nations too blind to see a simple truth: Cruise missiles and troop surges cannot dislodge A people simply rooted to their land.
The British, the Soviets, And your predecessor, too: All who planted occupier’s boots on Afghan soil Have been crushed underfoot And booted out.
Surely you recall the words of Kipling, Who warned that “East is East, And West is West, And never the twain shall meet?”
The road to Kabul is mined With the failure of leaders, From East and West, Who dreamed of their flags Above the ancient gates, Only to watch their dreams die hard.
Our own dream of revenge, For a single great attack Upon our once-virgin soil, Will crumble as surely as the towers On that bright fall day.
Let it go, Mr. President. More than eight years have passed Since humble planes Destroyed our citadels of glass and steel, And we are still at war.
The dust from shattered skyscrapers No longer darkens the skies Above New York. The Pentagon rises anew, A five-pointed monument to the art of war, Yet our nation is still at war.
Let the dead of 9/11 rest at last, And move on, Mr. President, Or the War on Terror will terrorize Your administration for years to come.
You cannot defeat extreme beliefs, Born in the hovels of the poor and desperate, With war plans ill-conceived In the board rooms of the prosperous and mighty.
In the crowded markets of Kabul and Kandahar, Rigged explosives are hidden in trash cans Or strapped to donkeys. The unfed sign up to attack our convoys, The unemployed plant roadside bombs, While the unclothed are fitted with suicide vests In small, medium and large.
Iraq was your predecessor’s Vietnam; Be careful, lest you make Afghanistan your own. Will you rethink your so-called new strategy, Before you make an old mistake?
Hearts and minds cannot be won, And tattered nations be rebuilt, By surging to disaster. The hour grows late For you to step back from the brink.
Our young men and women Ready their gear, Guns heavy with a pointy reckoning for the enemy, Backpacks heavy with mementos Of homes they may never see again.
While in Afghanistan, deep within the shadowed caves, Warriors polish their long rifles And whisper, one to the other, Like an echo among the frosted peaks, The Americans are coming. And we are ready.
