"plowshares" poems
In 1963
Mahalia prodded
the good reverend...
“tell them
about the dream
Martin”
transfixed on
a yonder time
he recounted
prophecies of
a near future
from a mountaintop
he foretold a
history of a people
returned again to
gardens of paradise
thriving in friendly
democratic soils
overflowing with a
colorful biodiversity
governed and
nurtured with a
vibrant sunshine
of divine justice
welcoming all
weary sojourners...
from the
pinnacle of
a Birmingham
jail cell
Martin burst
the bars with
the clarion peel
of a golden trumpet
proclaiming the gospel
of liberation to
the wardens of
unholy gulags
“free yourselves”
the horn emblazoned
in streaking lightning
across the sky
cowed by
prophetic truths
of righteousness,
shamed by
lies the pride
of arrogance
bespeaks to
placate the
intransigence
of dominion,
we prayed the
the walls of racism,
bigotry, prejudice
would tumble down as
Martin lit the Battle
of Jericho
today our country’s
profit driven gulags
overflow with people
of color as justice
lingers on death row
begging for a plea bargain
of a life sentence in
solitary confinement...
from the
****** Sunday Bridge
in Selma, Martin
offered a prayer for
peace, rebuking
the dogs of war
admonishing
the tenders of
blood thirsty
machines to
beat the gears
of war into
pruning hooks
and plowshares
advocates of peace
hope to steer
the plow across
the battlefields of
acrimony to sow
rich seeds of
reconciliation, planting
new gardens where
the rich yields of peace
will be consumed
by all God's children
yet these gardens
remain unplanted,
untended and defiled
by the machinery
of war that churns
churns, churns...
Martin last
dream occurred
on a balcony
in Memphis
witnessing
to the divinity
of those considered
untouchable after
a hard days work
collecting a city’s
refuse
he insisted all labor
was worthy of dignity
and the economic
justice of a fair wage
Martin looked squarely
into the eye of the gun sights
of those who thought differently
he never blinked, he dreamed
Martin formed his last
testament to an angry nation
yearning for the reconciliation
of stability and peace,
unmoved that it’s violence,
exploitation and bigotry only
stoke bonfires of acrimony
and division, condemning
the reprobate principality
to the bleakness of a
smoldering discontent and
continued generations
of recurring nightmares…
Martin's dream continues
in awakened hearts
sojourning on
Music Selection:
Mahalia Jackson
Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho
MLK Day
2014
Oakland
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
Dry land,
quiet land
of night's
immensity.
(Wind in the olive groves,
wind in the Sierra.)
Ancient
land
of oil lamps
and grief.
Land
of deep cisterns.
Land of death without eyes
and arrows.
(Wind on the roads.
Breeze in the poplar groves.)
Village
Upon a barren hill,
a Calvary.
Clear water
and century-old olive trees.
In the narrow streets,
men hidden under cloaks,
and on the towers
the spinning vanes.
Forever
spinning.
Oh, village lost
in the Andalucia of tears!
Dagger
The dagger
enters the haert
the way plowshares turn over
the wasteland.
No.
Do not cut into me.
No.
Like a ray of sun,
the dagger
ignites terrible
hollows.
No.
Do not cut into me.
No.
Crossroads
East wind,
a street lamp
and a dagger
in the heart.
The street
quivers like
tightly pulled
string,
like a huge, buzzing
horsefly.
Everywhere,
I see a dagger
in the heart.
Ay!
The cry leaves shadows of cypress
upon the wind.
(Leave me here, in this field,
weeping.)
The whole world's broken.
Only silence remains.
(Leave me here, in this field,
weeping).
The darkened horizon's
bitten by bonfires.
(I've told you already to leave me
here, in this field,
weeping.)
Surprise
He lay dead in the street
wit ha dagger in his chest.
Nobody knew who he was.
How the streep lamp flickered!
Mother of god,
how the street lamp
faintly flickered!
It was dawn. Nobody
could look up, wide-eyed,
into the glare.
And he lay dead in the street
with a dagger in his chest,
and nobody knew who he was.
Soleá
Wearing black mantillas,
she thinks the world is tiny
and the heart immense.
Wearing black mantillas.
She thinks that tender sighs
and cries disappear
into currents of wind.
Wearing black mantillas.
The door was left open,
and at dawn the entire sky
emptied onto her balcony.
Ay, yayayayay,
wearing black mantillas.
Cave
From the cave
come endless sobbings.
(Purple
over red.)
The gypsy
calls forth the distance.
(Tall towers
and mysterious men.)
In an unsteady voice
his eyes wander.
(Black
over red.)
And the white-washed cave
trembled in gold.
(White
over red.)
Encounter
For you and I
aren't ready
to find each other.
You... as you well know.
I loved her so much!
Follow the narrowest path.
I have
holes
in my hands
from the nails.
Can't you see how
I'm bleeding to death?
Don't look back,
go slowly,
and pray as I do
to San Cayetano
for you and I
aren't ready
to find each other.
Dawn
Bells of Cordoba
in the early morning.
Bells of Granada
at dawn.
You are felt by all the girls
who weep to the tender,
weeping Solea.
The girls
of upper Andalucia,
and of lower.
You girls of Spain,
with tiny feet
and trembling skirts,
who've filled the crossroads
with crosses.
Oh, bells of Cordoba
in the early morning,
and, oh, the bells of Granada
at dawn!
5.9k
They gathered by Williamson Road at sun-up
from neighboring spreads across the Tioga valley.
They came with carts laden with lumber stacks -
with saws, adzes, hammers and sundry tools.
They gathered with the homesteaders bond.
to co-build their neighbor's' dreams.
Sweet music of community echoed off the hills.
Chisels clanged into rock, shaping the foundation,
saws sang into boards to frame a timbered skeleton.
The staccato syncopation of hammers fastened walls
that soon would shelter plowshares, stock and grain.
A smithy leaned over his fire and forge -
chiming iron into sturdy latches and hinges.
Children scurried about mixing squeals and laughter
with exuberant fetching and lifting whenever called.
In two short passings of the sun the deed was done
and a handsome new barn, decked out in a wash of red
was silhouetted tall and proud against the fading light.
Homesteaders gathered at a celebration table
to share a hearty meal adorned by the music
of fiddles, grateful smiles and easy laughter.
Then one by one they steered their wagons home
gazing back at what their labors had wrought -
knowing to the depth of their communal souls
that we are more together than we are apart
Listen up, America! This is the music of community.
We are more together than we are apart.
© 2016 by Robert Charles Howard
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 10:16 AM UTC
[On my birthday]
At low tide like this how sheer the water is.
White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glare
and the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches.
Absorbing, rather than being absorbed,
the water in the bight doesn't wet anything,
the color of the gas flame turned as low as possible.
One can smell it turning to gas; if one were Baudelaire
one could probably hear it turning to marimba music.
The little ocher dredge at work off the end of the dock
already plays the dry perfectly off-beat claves.
The birds are outsize. Pelicans crash
into this peculiar gas unnecessarily hard,
it seems to me, like pickaxes,
rarely coming up with anything to show for it,
and going off with humorous elbowings.
Black-and-white man-of-war birds soar
on impalpable drafts
and open their tails like scissors on the curves
or tense them like wishbones, till they tremble.
The frowsy sponge boats keep coming in
with the obliging air of retrievers,
bristling with jackstraw gaffs and hooks
and decorated with bobbles of sponges.
There is a fence of chicken wire along the dock
where, glinting like little plowshares,
the blue-gray shark tails are hung up to dry
for the Chinese-restaurant trade.
Some of the little white boats are still piled up
against each other, or lie on their sides, stove in,
and not yet salvaged, if they ever will be, from the last bad storm,
like torn-open, unanswered letters.
The bight is littered with old correspondences.
Click. Click. Goes the dredge,
and brings up a dripping jawful of marl.
All the untidy activity continues,
awful but cheerful.
2.8k
Listen closely and hear our collective vernacular in a state of constant mitosis.
Live and see our language begin to rival our own complexity.
A myriad of inter-connecting word highways with more twists,
turns and travelers than that of any physical road.
A body of thought massing in our collective conscious,
an infinite man-made addition to our finite physical reality.
Every addition is another color, another taste,
relative to the user in enunciation,
becoming ever less limited by geography.
Emotion attaches and tints the tone of individual words as we grow with age.
Without it enabling us to define ourselves, we are left ignorant and insular.
Memory accumulates casting a shadow and adds depth,
communication cultivating perception to leverage change in corporeality.
Pulsating slang spreading locally with fresh life to be globally colloquial.
A wordsmith may use this power to celebrate
or condemn their perception of reality,
more still- will wield words like plowshares
and escapism flourishes with such an expansive field
where all of humanity is brought out to play.
And sometimes-
for me,
it is just barely enough to grip a word with impunity.
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 9:11 AM UTC
The Salvation Army Soldiers
Should take on new roles
Be a little bit more bolder
Armed with their three poles
And big black iron pots
Venturing across the world
To put out fires in hot spots
And demand the enemies
To turn to making plowshares
Place their indemnity
Bandoliers and bombardiers
Into those big black pots
Manned by the Salvation Army
r
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 7:06 AM UTC
I extolled them as they went about their
Menial tasks in suits of silk;
Sunday bests amidst the concrete, the earth,
The broken shards of
Bamboo splintered skin, hiding interiors
And further, the broken mirrors of
The broken memories of the
Broken histories upon the
Broken backs become names wrought ancient.
Though further from fractured, a family calls,
Beholden to the absolute intent, but one wish –
Eternity amongst the bountiful brethren left behind
Atop tea-brimmed Mountains and a
One malevolent, revered benevolent,
Mao.
One more saga prerequisite this newer dynasty red –
Witness the
Wives huddled plowshares,
The daughter scribbled arithmetic
And sons assumed thrones to legacy.
I scrutinize soiled – smoke amid pear peelings,
The dirtied – unscathed and archaic,
So very fatigued – just one more nail,
For his eternity, with scratch and
Sliver of blood, a sanctity upon chin
Beyond cradled hammer,
Hand hugging thumb,
Thumb beyond nail, iron or the
Heart impaled homesick;
But I and hand asserting tie, freshly pressed,
Almost gleaming with an embezzled prestige –
Born unto Arcadia, a puzzle near complete
Continued to run, with only second’s pause to admire,
So very far from the fields of, “father,” or first blink,
While Sunday’s best weep, work and wither.
This man with joint autographed, “end,” and
Soon to be mound, history wrought dust,
A chipped Henan ceramic
And hours in attempt to breach;
Behold the back of Chen.
The title of this piece was inspired by observing constructions workers wearing suits we'd typically wear for an interview. That being said, my venture in China is near an end - years in the making. What's next? Ecuador? Japan? Morocco? Montana? Either way, I could never thank China enough for all that'd become naked before I and my pilgrimage christened, "world."
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 11:08 AM UTC
You Gentiles,
Unwashed, unclean,
Prepare for war,
Come vent your spleen.
Beat the plowshares into swords,
Your harvest tools to mighty weapons,
Feel the surging doom and think you strong,
Gather in the Valley of Decision,
The Valley of Jehoshaphat,
Where stand we all for judgment.
The Sun, the Moon, go dark;
The Stars remove their shine,
And full earth shakes beneath
The coming doom,
Before the lasting Peace
Descends on Israel.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 8:38 AM UTC
They were down to less than a hundred
When they met on the battle front
That's when they beat their weapons back into plowshares
As each of them headed home
What it was that made the difference
Is they finally took the time
To really see the enemy
And themselves in each others eyes
All the peoples in the villages
Cheered their hero's back
Who brought with them sweet freedom
And in town center hung its flag
On the pole they wrote down the names
Of those who never would return
And all made a vow that day
That their lesson had been learned
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 2:14 PM UTC
the fissures spiderweb across
the glaciers, torn asunder
by invisible hands.
a rising tide doesn't lift all ships,
it capsizes them.
the fat cats will turn dead presidents
into sails to catch the earth's dying gasps,
but they will flutter, helpless
to progress in this disaster economics.
green business won't save us.
infinite growth on a finite rock,
a pale, blue dot circling until it, too,
burns up. the tires are spinning
in the mud. we've no other option:
we cannot reinvent the wheel—
we'll have to break it.
reformist logic leaves us soulless,
servants cowed by corporate forces
whose sole motive
is cashing in
on our projects.
they'll serve us up
without a second thought.
they'd raze the world
if they could make a profit.
fascism is capitalism
plus more ******
we must admit our losses:
false hopes and letter-writing campaigns
are too little, too late.
a petition won't halt climate change.
beat their bombs with hammers
until they're shaped like plowshares.
the Earth will be consumed
by the sun long before
the State saves us
from our fate.
if we're to be prophets
of the future,
then it's time to ******* rage.
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 12:00 AM UTC
Ten Word Challenge: orphan/ gilded/ scattered/ fins/ library/ pavement/ plowshares/ stamp/ outcry/ tomatoes
Orphan books at the library
scattered on rickety tables
set up on the cracked pavement
await a new home at bargain prices
Books whose stamps
of classification are faded
Some with gilded edges
like the fins of goldfish
Books rich with knowledge
ready for curious fertile minds
like soil being turned by plowshares
for corn, wheat or rich red tomatoes
Books that - if not re-homed
if tossed or burned -
would rightly cause an outcry
from book lovers everywhere
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 9:27 AM UTC
Words
Forged in the mouth
Executed by the tongue
Cut deep without compassion
Words
Hewn from bigotry
Stained with hatred
Abandon love in every nation
Words
Change a friend to foe
Pierce the truth with lies
Are weapons of our destruction
Words
Divide us into faiths
Encourage self righteousness
Paint a picture of mass delusion
Words
Can be melted down
Can turn into plowshares
Can be the crux of our salvation
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 12:26 AM UTC
* In days to come the mountain of the Lord's house.
shall be established as the highest of the mountains,
and shall be raised above the hills;
all the nations shall stream to it.
Many peoples shall come and say,
"Come let us go up to the mountain of the Lord,
to the house of the God of Jacob;
that he may teach us his ways
and that we may walk in his "
For out of Zion shall go forth instruction ,
and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem.
He shall judge between the nations,
and shall arbitrate for many peoples;
they shall beat their swords
into plowshares;
and their spears into pruning hooks;
nation shall not lift up sword against nation,
neither shall they learn war any more. *
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 7:21 AM UTC
See all things - gathered in one
The reign of joy has just begun
Gardens thrive in total peace
Harvests rich will never cease
The ancient fullness all restored
Plowshares made from every sword
Health and strength arise anew
Light and truth distill as dew
Kindness and compassion flow
Eye to eye we’ll see and know
Trials may come before this time
Just do your part, and I’ll do mine
Jun 12, 2020
Jun 12, 2020 at 10:55 AM UTC
Down in the valley of the fleeting stream,
Parched Syrian tongues are crying aloud,
Below, below, the sacred river
Where war took away my sweetheart.
She was bright, now she is blue,
Like the cataracts dividing the stream,
And the tearducts dividing my eyes,
Below, below, the sacred river
Where war took away my sweetheart,
Torn in our tumult
From the bleak parade,
Starve we all like her delicate face,
Now forever blemished.
Therefore let us dine on hardtack!
Suffer for the things of the marble world;
Fast along the toiling road,
To the land of reward, we go.
I compared her to a flower:
The fairest fragrance ever conceived;
To think her smile is a nest for ants,
Below, below, the sacred river
Where death took away my sweetheart.
Alone I sit, I weep,
My face is clenched by nightingales;
A country stained by grief,
At night, I hear their biting wails
From ill-wrought molten blades,
Alike to man and woman;
How can I reason fate away
By crying o'er her *****
Change these feelings about me!
I am eager to see her again,
But I won't obey the winds
Above, above the sacred river—
As far as the fragrance is concerned.
No more mourning in silence!
Turn your plowshares into swords,
Let the weak say, "I am strong";
We may yet have the final word,
Before the vanguard departs this world.
Apr 26, 2019
Apr 26, 2019 at 2:50 PM UTC
Oh that wars may cease,
oh that peace might reign.
Oh that men may seize
brutes who are the bane
of societal peace,
so that peace and love
may never be lost
nor our fragile trust
become precarious.
May our many foes
be saved from death's throes.
May tanks be plowshares,
and guns harvesters.
May our daily cares
on neighbours be cast.
May all our youngsters
cease evil to learn
by working to earn
their wages by day.
Oh may the boisterous
child be not consumed
by his fatal fall.
Oh that people may
seek good roles to play
in a world so small
and shaped like a ball.
Oh that we may fast
comprehend the times,
as the clock bell chimes,
and all our callous
deeds be not resumed.
Feb 1, 2018
Feb 1, 2018 at 1:28 AM UTC
If I could only see in the truth
to look beyond our simple ways
I would love knowledge even more
than all the lies of long gone days
If man could put away his sword
and beat to plowshares all he'd worn
Then I might be able to see the light
and forget the failings, of those I scorn
If we were not such fragile beings
that prayed for things not needed
Then I might think we had a chance
but all the lessons still go unheeded
If life would only start as it ends
with great knowledge left to share
We might not trample each other
then sin to hide what we must bear
If life could only do all these things
I would live deep in the truth so wise
To take the life, that I've been given
and turn to God with forgiving eyes
Tate
Original poem with pictures and music
http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/aristate/442189/
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 2:07 PM UTC
Respect is something to be given and earned
But if you've got crosses and money to burn
Y'all ******* are gonna have to wait your turn
Because you've got something to learn
See, I stand with the spurned
Yellow, red, pink and brown
gonna use my privilege
And put my boots on the ground
Revolt, revolver,
fight to turn it around
See you can drone on
With your dog-whistle cries
I'll be teaching my children to see through those lies
You plant bodies
While we plants seeds
Herbicide, genocide resistant weeds
Gonna choke you out
For making us bleed
You keep turning our plowshares into swords
So we ain't gonna work on Sammie's farm no more
So my elders in the hoods in the back of the truck
Drunk on power can all go get ******
There's more of us than there are of you
And when we all wake up,
What you think you gonna do?
We're gonna just keep firing bullets of the mind
And your armies that are fam gonna leave you behind
Or make you think they're yours for true
When their mind is turned on
And it's turned on you
You're in deep **** now
With no canoe
So I ask again, what the hell you gonna do?
May 15, 2019
May 15, 2019 at 4:46 PM UTC
We Pray Peace,
And Act War.
Beat our swords into plowshares?
Ah, but the world has closed to old ideas.
Lay down your arms soldier,
For who are you fighting for?
And for what?
And why?
The Tournament Of World Power
Is now into overtime.
And the players tire.
But the coaches move us,
With the pep of a teenager's drive and intellect,
Oblivious.
The blissful oblivion of conscience undone.
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 9:34 AM UTC
I’ve felt the stir of resolution
to throw off careless greed.
I’ve heard the soothing voice of reason,
long thought to be extinct.
So pound your plowshares into words,
turn your anger into votes.
Let’s march together towards sanity,
reclaiming fragile future’s hope.
Oct 24, 2020
Oct 24, 2020 at 5:44 AM UTC
It’s no one’s idea of paradise, this land of dust and wind.
Yet this is where God spoke to man and he first conceived of sin.
The land is dry and stubborn, like the people of the Lord.
Even now I see them turning their plowshares into swords.
Ever since the Maccabees revolted against Rome
(Rome did not understand those Jews who worshiped God alone.)
This land of Dust and wind has known no peace
The men wield blades and staves.
In such a place the only peace Is the quiet of the grave.
How I long to comfort them, but where would I begin?
The people here have lost their way and lost their sense of sin.
The dispossessed now live in camps and old hatreds here still simmer.
It’s hard to parse the difference between the righteous and the sinners.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 7:04 PM UTC
By callow bodies, fallow fields, and old,
We march again to fight our battles long.
Through drifting snows and whipping winds in cold,
With plowshares beaten into swords and song.
Our sixteen summers’ boiling heat in blood,
We chase away the numbing cold of cliffs—
A slip away from death in icy mud,
In steel and prayer, bearing crimson gifts.
By smoke and dust, we end by bitter vow;
In breath and bone, the death for us to shape.
On blood and ice, we see all shattered—woe;
Through glass and light, and see no true escape.
Our valor, shield; our spite, a spear we wield,
And here we stand with eyes bright and spines steeled.
Feb 16, 2025
Feb 16, 2025 at 10:37 AM UTC
“And the Lord’s servant
must not be quarrelsome
but kind to everyone,
able to teach,
patiently enduring evil,
correcting his opponents with
gentleness”
Why is it
That passion,
Anger- named zeal-,
Rebuke
Reproach,
And doom
Fill the tongue
Of those
Called to be
Peace-
Do you praise the one who cut off the ear
Do you praise those who would not hammer their swords to plowshares
Do you praise those who slaughtered men for their god
Do you praise those who use guns to silence their oppressors-
Is there no understanding?
Is there only passion?
Is there no Holy Spirit?
What fruit is born from your actions?
-
We were not called to destroy, but to be destroyed
We were not called to hate, but to be hated
Not to be loved, but to love-
Do we understand what it means to take up a cross
Can we patiently endure evil
Or must we destroy all evil
And evil doers-
Do we relish in our fallen enemies?
Do you find comfort that evil people go hell?
Do you enjoy their suffering
While never having suffered yourself-
May
The
Light
Pierce
Through
Every
Dark
Secret
Corner
And
Precious
Conviction
We
Try
To
Ignore
-
May
We
Change-
Be
Made
New-
Be
Better
Than
Before.
Jun 14, 2024
Jun 14, 2024 at 4:16 PM UTC