"Peace & War" by Felicia de Chabris

Poetry

Peace

Here, on the beach the children play 
                                                           cheerfully in the summer waves: 
parents and sitters dust away
                                                sand, reapplying sunscreen to 
the barely tanned little ones
                                               eager to rejoin their games and friends. 
Manicured dogs, well trained, 
                                                   polite, stretch and rest under the 
cover of bright beach umbrellas.
                                                      Here and there colorful chairs
and coolers lie, filled to brimming
                                                      with epicurean fare. In this genial,
safe enclave the neighbors share 
                                                         picnic cups of chilled Rose and hardily 
exchange tales from recent holidays, 
                                                            comparing the price of lobster rolls
at various cafes. Here, on the beach,
                                                            in this convivial summer haze, 
friendly jokes and laughter reign.
                                                       Before dinner time, they gradually pack 
away assorted paraphernalia from 
                                                        the day and walk a few blocks or steps
away to houses with barbecues and 
                                                           fresh from farm stand vegetables, 
baked triple berry pies and other 
                                                     unperturbed delights. 

Here, near this beach no danger lies






War

Here, on the beach some children 
                                        play and others grieve 
hopelessness behind their eyes. 
                     Some run and 
chase the roiling waves. 
                                     Some barely make it through the days 
No families here. 
                         So many died. 
No one to dust them off
No one to supervise 
                       The sand remains until it dries
on little sun burned bodies and unshod feet. 
No picnics here 
No food, nor wine. 
No food at all. 
No dinner time. 
No homes to head to at bedtime. 
Here, amidst the 
                   Ever. Present. Fear, 
              Amidst the shelling,
Endless.
Near.
        The shelters fill and
                                      even so, 
no one can guarantee tomorrow. 

Piles of rubble, 
                      the cratered land 
          reeks of the dying.
Little stands. 
The only thing
                      the next day brings is more 
Interminable 
Suffering 
and the expectation 
                               of more lives lost.
Here, 
the countless bear the cost.
Near this beach, 
         Here in this land
                              Nothing, but daggers lie at hand.

From the author: As a severely dyslexic child—unable to read until 4th grade—I tended to avoid writing entirely. I never entertained the idea of being a writer; certainly not a poet. Visual art, ceramic art in particular, was my passion and career for many years. However, a diagnosis of lung disease curtailed this abiding passion. However, within the last several months, on walks through the woods or along the beaches where I live, I found words and concepts begin to evolve within me. They were compelling enough to jot down.