The War For Peace
by Bobbi A. Miller-Moro
Sunday, February 01, 2009
Rated "G" by the Author.
Print Save Become a Fan
Recent poems by Bobbi A. Miller-Moro
Mama, what is war?
>> View all 3
Where my mind travels to in those moments of weakness, those sobering thoughts of reality vs the surreal.
By Bobbi Miller-Moro
Although I am a warrior woman, with extraordinary skills and the ability to carry out bodily functions that I never knew possible, endure physical and laborious pain beyond any human understanding…My Spirit is Peace.
Although I live in a volatile planet, there are so many beautiful serene places, and spots-so peaceful and quiet. With just the wind and the rock and the sun to greet you. These places do exist.
But I ask; Is it possible to be a Peaceful Warrior? Carrying out acts of Peace and waging war at the same time? How I exist in this oxymoron is beyond me. The deep, low frequency of Peace. Slow, pounding vibrations of heat and light permeating and penetrating my flesh.
How can I be peace and fight wars of life? Why cannot I exist in this Earth somewhere at the top of the highest peak, or below by the canyons creek, wet and rushing with life?
Why cannot I fly above and beyond, right now whilst I sit here at my keyboard? Couldn’t my body remain as I take flight through the roof of my house,
cold wind rushing by, as I pass a hawk in flight and soar to destinations unknown?
My soul, my spirit, my eyes, my ears long to drink in the beauty of God’s Earth, no matter the condition. To be able to walk unseen through the streets of Bangladesh, and the hills of Morocco? Unseen by man, I will travel far and wide, tasting the teas of Switzerland…
I stay here for the little voices that call my name twenty times in 15 minutes. The jarring wake-up to reality as I gaze at Earth’s beauty, the splendid magnificence of a Meditation video on You Tube with Inspiring Quotes.
I know myself to be there, in those images, I inhale slowly. My earphones trying to drown out Nemo in the background, feeling the plush plether seat under me. In my little office at home. I hear the music intertwined with voices, little and big voices; speaking to me, needing to hear me and their own voices.
Sweet faces, with angelic eyes they look at me; I am their mother. I made them, they are here because of me. No matter the wars, and the bills, the credit, and repossessions…no matter the stresses of life they want cereal. They want to know how to put their shoes on for the tenth time today and when is their cell phone going to be fixed?
I breath slowly, inhaling the air of my home with tears running down the inside of my face. I respond, taking in their beauty, and wondering how did I become this matrimonial, sacred being of healing, answerer of questions, errand runner, forever domestic cleaner?
What happened to the mist slowly creeping over the cliff, rolling onto the water? What happened to me being there to witness that? I look outside my window, the bright, crisp sky touching the mountains with playful curiosity. The white clouds bouncing over my head-through my window they call for me. They are peace and timeless. The sun shining in all her brilliance is taunting me, playfully teasing me to join her, her heat melting into my wanting pores. But, I do not move from my chair.
Cartoons blare into my background, and I realize my keyboard is my paddle to the shores I am rushing faster and faster to get to. If it sells, if they buy it, If we have enough, if I can afford, If the babysitter is affordable now, If help exists for us-then maybe….
Maybe I can run up to the treetops and sing with the eagles. Maybe I can smile at the dandelion as it blows so delicately. My Soul is Peace, My Spirit is timeless.
My body longs to join them, but trapped here in this wicked game of life. A trick maybe?
Under my steel skin, and my bones made of sheer rock and my searching eyes- there lies a gentle flowing wizard, a Goddess of light. All things possible, all things available, it is so in her world.
What would happen if I gave into her? What happens if I tear down my fortress of rock and steel? What happens if Iet her loose from my tomb of skin? Will she shine in exquisite brilliance? Will she remind me of stories, long forgotten of worlds and times had? Will the Earth remember her?
I long to know. I pacify her daily, hourly, minute by minute. Shhhhh. We will have our time, it is not now. It is not now.
I lower my head in shame, for I cannot loose her. I am helpless to the demands of gravity and my human body and my pull for delivering child rearing and care. So, I whisper to her-go to sleep, and I borrow her trinkets of Gold and Sapphire; and her staff, and while she waits patiently, her giant orb of energy thousands of yards in diameter still and quiet- I plow through the sea of words.
Submitting light into the darkness of twisted darnage of profanity and hate, I work relentlessly. Since I am working at something, the toil of man-I might as well work at something that helps to bridge the gap, and heal the wounds, rescue the weak. Forgive the lying, love the wounded, and pray for the twisted tormented souls among us.
This is my journey.
The eagles will have to wait. The rocks will be climbed later. The sunset will be seen again, and the colors of the sky against the reflection will be witnessed one day. But, not now. Not now. Now is the time for the war for Peace.