Free submission window closed on 31 May 2026
Writers published in this feature
Each name is linked to the writer’s contribution plus audio and a brief biography
A C Clarke, Adele Evershed, Alan Mansell, Alwyn Marriage, Ansuya Patel, Antje Bothin, Dr., Brendan Dawson, Chintan Girish Modi, Christine Griffin, Clive Donovan, Col Fleetwood, Derek Sellen, Diana Hills, Dorinda MacDowell, Duncan Forbes, Eleanor Lodewijks, Emeline Winston, Eric Nicholson, Geoff Petty, Gillie Robic, Glenis Moore, Heather Cook, Howard Timms, James Goddard, Jonathan Ukah, Jowonder Woodward, Julie Wiltshire, Kate Copeland, Kevin Scully, Marie Papier, Martin Rieser, Matt Minshall, Merlin Flower, Mikail Başyiğit, Oliver White, Phil Vernon, Punyasloka Mohapatra, Richard Devereux, Rizwan Akhtar, Sara Stegen, Shirley Smothers, Stephanie Ross, Stephen Finucane, Sue Gerrard, Tony Bradley, Vanessa Horn
Most of the above writers have their text spoken
Click here for the prompt that produced the Peace Anthology
Jowonder Woodward
The Gun
We, a posse of curiosity boys on bikes,
lounging on banana seats, and taking sideways looks,
headed down the barrel of a gun, moved on down the
gat and quivered a little, all lined up for
the powder flash to shoot us out.
But there was a joker onboard—
a sailor with a fixation on a sweet paper waiting to hatch.
N’ when they pulled the trigger, he was caught off guard.
N ’ we too forgot to shoot! . . . and instead of violence
we all became rapt, as the sweet paper, swirled and swirled,
ahead of us like a walnut whip.
So we held fire, had a talk
n’ decided to form a choir.
The Stopped Time of the Butterflies
Startling unicorns with bright red coats balanced like agile goats along the wall of the ravine.
Some raised their heads and dashed out, while others lazily drifted off to sleep.
The water that pumped under them, held the memories of the dead ones like lumps of jelly. They were only once waiting for the passing sun.
I slid down to where a dull eyed one stood grazing.
She lifted her face half looking at me. Dozens of red butterflies where feeding on the blood inside a cut on her forehead where her horn once grew.
I cut her free.
Smoothing a soft hand from withers to tail, I found a metal cog. The bullet of a clock; it would have been a lethal device for anyone— but for a newborn unicorn it could be fatal.
“Go !” I said, for it was the Buddha’s horse.
She blinked, and her eyes covered over like dark stars.
The butterflies continued on, they had an economy of their own. All they wanted was blood!
“But had I heard the beauty of their feelings expressed in the sound of the water? Or was it just Humpty Trumpty banging a drum?”
If I could just sit and be content, perhaps every one of them would be set free?
The Three Sheriffs
Three men searched the universe
riding horses run on shadow oil.
They blew their noses into thick handkerchiefs,
the night they each got a star.
Three holes appeared in the sky,
ready to be cooked up in a splendid pan,
to make a lone marinade.
But the taste, when eaten, raised memories,
and it surprised them—
feelings that they couldn’t quite place!
Like they’d heard it all before, but
hadn’t paid enough attention.
One man heard a voice,
‘Now you put us back from whence we came!’
So, he guiltily tipped his star down the drain.
That man vanished forever, never to be seen again.
The second man thought hard and put his
star back into the sky; that was at half past three.
Six o’clock, the third man took his watch.
Lit his match, and burnt his star to a flame.
The three men were not wise,
but insane.
Jowonder Woodward. Dame Marina Warner commended Jo’s fairy tales for their subversive use of narrative in her book about fairy tales: ‘From the Beast to Blonde.’
2025—‘Dream Logic,’ an evening of surrealism, Goatstar Books.
2025—”The Riveraine Muse,” a West Bengal publication, three poems,.
2024—’Surrealist Poems About Clocks,’ published by Sulfur Editions, her first solo poetry book.
https://www.jowonder.com/
Emeline Winston
New Year’s Revolution
What are my hopes and prayers for this year –
only one – is there any way to put a stop to the fear?
This acrid sweat and sting of cortisol fear
lived and mirrored by attacker and defender.
When the clock strikes midnight across the world
could the tanks turn into pumpkins, and drones into birds?
Birds which could squawk off on alternate thermals,
to alter the arch and yawn of those dirty rocket bombs.
Aching hearts blown apart onto the concrete rubble,
the overarching terror of the still-alive. Sole survivors
of whole family huddles, nowhere safe to survive,
no one to hug or cry with, no buildings left to call home.
Aching hearts and trapped screams of the hostage families,
unable to rescue, trying to break free from their stone confines,
stuck, desperate to do, to act, to move, to run towards,
to hug and to whisper to “It’s okay, now you’re home”.
Is it not easy to create change or simply not to do?
Is it not possible to
just stop it, stop it, stop it?
To the hands igniting rockets: lay your hands back down
just stop it, stop it, stop it.
To the fingers which press confirm aerial bomb: lay your hands back down
just stop it stop it stop it
and learn to sit still,
like Buddha.
Revolutions of Intransigence
Do you know the one about the Irish man, the Muslim and the Jew?
Sitting on a bench in Jerusalem’s Old Quarter,
after morning prayers in each of their holiest shrines,
the Irish Man said “For God’s teeth, can’t you lay down your guns?”
the Muslim said “Bismillah, they need to stop the drones and the bombs.”
The Jew said “Baruch Hashem, they need to return our hostages and stop the rockets”.
And the Irish Man said: “For God’s teeth, can’t you lay down your guns?”
Though in their soul, they thought they might have heard a punch line
circling on the desert wind. They look into each other’s eyes when
they realise what they had heard swept up on the wind’s broom,
directed through hairy ears into their hardened hearts. Could it have been
“I forgive you”, “I forgive you”, “I forgive you”.
Emeline Winston is a producer of exhibitions in museums. Poetry came into her life unexpectedly. In 2019, she was invited to what she thought was a poetry reading, but was shocked to discover a poetry-writing group. It brought joy — and consolation through covid online meetings that went on for two years. Emeline continued to write and recently started to share her work.
Marie Papier
To be the Other
I don’t want to be in your shoes
but I am. My thoughts are your thoughts
and I pray as I bond with you to
share your grief.
Why should it be you and not
me? not us? why should you have
your father shot and not mine?
Why must you see your mothers raped
your babies murdered and not ours?
You. You. So let me be you.
Let us be in your place, let us lose
our brothers in this war, watch
our houses destroyed by bombs,
our future erased.
We’ll weep with you. We’ll plead
with you for peace on earth.
Peace on earth.
Peace.
Marie Papier has poems published in The North, Stand, Agenda, The Lighthouse, Orbis, Ink Sweat & Tears and others. Online. In anthologies: Smith/doorstop on Running. Indigo Dreams’ ‘Voices for the Silent’; Bristol Stanza’s ‘Calyx’; ‘Weather Indoors’ ‘Walking Words, Poetry Walks in Bristol’s Past and Present’; ‘Bonds’, Lyra Poetry Festival 2024 & Poets’Walk. Shortlisted at Cerasus ‘After Picasso there’s only God’.
Clive Donovan
Rosa
My neighbour is murmuring;
‘It could be almost worth dying to know
that such eulogies would be said of me!’
The local poet is declaiming, over open grave,
his tribute to the daughter love of his life,
in which he manages to insinuate
[as in the order of service so emphasized]
several varieties of her name:
You were a Special Child, Rosa, with an Angel Face.
Born as a little Blue Girl, in a Burst Of Joy,
to the tune of Distant Drums—Good As Gold.
Falling in Love with you was such a Perfect Moment,
when All Dressed Up, to Make Me Blush, Oh My!
You were fragrantly beautiful, a Dream Come True,
Picture Perfect—a Knockout!
And now you have found Peace at Rainbow’s End;
my Sugar Moon, Hot And Sassy, Lemon Drop;
I own you were the White Licorice of my life.
His gardener friends clutch knowingly their caps and nod.
A scarlet Floribunda rests by excavated earth,
the waiting claws of root-ball wrapped in damp hessian.
Ug throw bone
Ug throw bone at Ig
cos he done like face
Ig chuck rock at Ug
then Ug get mad n throw
stick-o-burning wood at dog-o-Ig
So Ig fetch spear n let go
wound one kid-o Ug
oh—Ug fury n shout!
Get bow n arrow shoot n hit
woman-o-Ig in belly where new kid waitin
to cum in so Ig howl then
cum runnin fetch two bros
do bit ax hackin
to Ug famil—kids n wimmin
soon rocks n arrows n spears fill sky
people die blood spill
Old ancient elder maybe he forty year
come by see what noise is mekkem stop
but they no listen to wise
so Neanders big chaps live near
they come over set up peace-camp
call for ceasefire play music start dance
but they no listen for while too mad
then change mind start dance.
Clive Donovan has three poetry collections, The Taste of Glass [Cinnamon Press 2021], Wound Up With Love [Lapwing 2022] and Movement of People [Dempsey&Windle 2024] and is published in a wide variety of magazines including Acumen, Crannog, Pennine Platform, Popshot, Prole and Stand. He lives in Totnes, Devon, UK. He was a Pushcart and Forward Prize nominee for 2022’s best individual poems. clive.donovan@live.com
Martin Rieser
Music Room
This is the reason we bought the house–
large and bright with peaked windows–
looking out on apple trees, a silver birch, and a cathedral,
in the long view between opposite houses.
This is the boat that sustained us in the shipwreck
of your body. Weeks on the sofa while the sepsis healed,
and then your place of recovery after cancer.
The grand piano shakes off the gloom, it rings
and thrums under sure fingers. The arpeggios
ripple around the blue walls, cross and recross the space
until the music and light become calm sea.
In the licence of long marriage
We occupy the bed like two defeated armies
my side, your side, an armistice–
our emissaries are hands, which meet
in no man’s land, carrying no flags.
If you miss me, the hollow in me misses you
as much, because we are now beyond flesh
in our long days, beyond doubts, here
where all the wars end and love begins.
Blue Water Lilies
for Claude Monet
His world is now raw colour.
Things blur into each other, definition–
is not his concern. Relaxed,
he paints a purity of blues
derived from the sky’s cheek
where it touches the water.
Lilies gaze upward
with wide eyes of wonder,
while the willow trails rough tresses
like swirls of flotsam
inside his failing gaze.
Martin Rieser is both a poet and visual artist. His interactive installations based on his poetry have been shown around the world. He runs the Stanza poetry group in Bristol. Published: Poetry Review, Magma 74, Morphrog 22; Poetry kit; Primers Volume 3, Artlyst Anthology 2020, Alchemy Spoon 2022, Ink Sweat and Tears 2019/2023, Write Out Loud Anthology 2025, Vole Anthology 2025. Shortlisted: Frosted Fire 2019 /2022, Charles Causeley Prize 2020;Runner up Norman Nicholson 2020; Winner of the Hastings Poetry Competition 2021.
A C Clarke
Heatwave
A ruckus in the street. Then silence.
Windows being open this stifling night
fresh voices needle in. It promises to be
a long trudge towards sleep.
Gulls clamour hours before first light
spreads its workaday apron over
the belly of the sky. Step by step
drowsiness overtakes me,
I mist into dreams.
At the first touch of the sun
peace homes like a dove.
Trafalgar Square addresses the crowds
Listen up punters! All you who mill around
my familiar sights, feeding popcorn to the pigeons,
wondering who the statued worthies are,
making snide comments about whatever’s showing
on the fourth plinth: docile as Landseer’s lions
you play the good tourist, check off one more sight
stored in your iphones, have a vague notion
of Nelson and Trafalgar, never think once
how people have gathered among my fountains
to cry out against perceived injustice.
From Bloody Sunday marchers clubbed by batons
through bomb-hurling suffragettes
to anti-war protesters, climate warriors,
my few metres of asphalt have seen years
of demonstrations, peaceable or not.
A Christmas tree stood here only last month,
the gift of one free nation to another.
Think of the ties of friendship, forged
under bombardment, under bombardment still.
Put your phones in their cases, turn
to the stranger standing next you,
no matter where from.
Smile, stretch out your hand.
Tranquillity
to all who love peace
A wealth of water birds cluster the shore,
paddle the still water under a bright
heatless sun. A tree spreads out
branches still clutching autumn’s dark finery.
Low hills embrace the loch. The sky
ignores the rainclouds hovering to the east.
A moment and a place at peace.
Despite our fractious times, may you have many more.
A C Clarke has published six collections and seven pamphlets, three in collaboration. She was one of four winners in the Cinnamon Press 2017 pamphlet competition with War Baby. Her last full collection was Alive Among Dead Stars (Broken Sleep Books December 2024). Her third collaborative pamphlet, Chiels & Quines, was published by Seahorse Publications in December 2025.
Oliver White
Imagine
voiced by Ruthie Moriarty
A Place
A knowing
A feeling
Beyond your imagination
Where Essence
drifts in and out
of Essence
The deep, calm rhythm of
the Infinite Cosmic Continuum wrapping itself around Me
External Eternal vibrations seep in engulfing in a gentleness of tranquillity Yet, so overwhelming.
I feel this Calm beyond Calm moving towards Me
I welcome it with openness
Its exquisite purity pervades Me
The Basis of Existence
Oliver White is the pen name of Alan Sanson. Two years ago, Alan started to receive poems from his lighter self. He and Inara Bell have self-published on Lulu.com and have published movies with audios on YouTube. They thank Ruthie Moriarty whose voice brings this and their other poems to life.
Christine Griffin
The Lament of Harry Jones
My name’s Harry Jones, I’m a hundred and five.
Of all my companions the last one alive.
Those men who fought with me, once young and bright,
all of them gone into endless dark night.
It’s Armistice Day and they’ve wheeled me down here
with the legless, the blind, the ones who can’t hear.
but all I can think of is Chalky and Turk
and the others all drowned off the coast of Dunkirk.
They mustered the willing, the able, the fit,
and told us that all of us must do our bit.
So me and those brave lads marched off to the war
to keep Hitler’s army away from our shore.
It’s so long ago I can barely recall
the names of those lads who gave of their all,
to end up forgotten in some foreign land,
the bravest of men, my companions, my band.
I look at these lads lining up in the Mall
and I know what they said was a lie after all.
There’ll never be peace, just suffering and pain
and the whole thing will happen again and again.
There’s a man from the telly who’s asking me stuff
and I tell him straight out that I’ve just had enough
of presidents, rulers, the merry-go round
of missiles and drones and boots on the ground.
And I say to you young folk, when the call comes
and the sabres are rattling, the fife and the drums,
be brave, tell them no, make a fuss, make a stand.
Cry out to the heavens for peace in our land.
My name’s Harry Jones, I’m a hundred and five.
Of all my companions the last one alive.
The men who fought with me, once young and bright,
all of them gone into endless dark night
Christine Griffin writes poetry and short fiction and is widely published in Acumen, Wildfire Words, The Dawntreader, Graffiti Magazine and Poetry Super Highway amongst others. Her work has been showcased in both the Cheltenham Literature Festival and the Cheltenham Poetry Festival. In 2025 she was Highly Commended in the Laurie Lee Prize for Writing for her short group of poems on the theme of ‘Journeys’.
Eric Nicholson
Enchantment
Apologies to WH Auden
About enchantment they are never wrong,
The Poets. How well they understand it isn’t
Found in Distance & Determination.
How well they understand, as the bombs drop
One man’s need to weed his garden;
How one woman sets a moth trap
Inside a shattered shop and in the morning
Lovingly lifts out a Death Head’s Hawk-Moth.
How a mother snaps her son’s
Toy gun across her knee and how
The Humming-Bird Hawk Moth’s hum
Drowns out the sound of distant guns.
In Vincent’s Great Peacock Moth for instance
See how each leaf flutters towards the light;
See how his fragile sanity trembles on
Each transient wing and how his vision
Triumphs in his Starry Night.
Eric Nicholson is retired and as well as writing he paints in acrylics and other mediums. He lives in the northeast of England.
Sue Gerrard
Comfort
Barren, bleak, harsh landscape,
Yet there is comfort here
Beside the stark power of the hills
The water gently laps by the shore,
And the contours of the scene
Are softened by the morning sun.
I shout at the mountains and
They whisper back my name.
Yes there is comfort here, as
The hills engulf me like a friend’s arms
The water ebbs and flows
Like true friendship and sunlight
Warms my face like a lover’s smile.
Quiet Time
The boats have not yet come
To the banks and there is
No family chit chat carried
On the early morning breeze.
There are no signs littering the trees
With warnings about tipping
Or rubbish or walking on the grass.
There are no pop cans with
Ten pence back or special offer foods
Or polythene wrapped super goods
Discarded on the paths.
No chart sounds disturb the air
Or walkers turn the ground,
For this is the quiet time
When nature is around .
I Found Myself
I found myself at the ferry’s end
balanced on the corner of Hoy.
Blue sea shivered between land and land
as strangers waited to go home.
I stood outside the world of cars
And vans and closed my mind to talk
of tomorrow, while yesterday’s thoughts
flew with the wind. As grey day slipped away
I slipped away from the modern world
to find a place of peace
and calming thoughts which cannot be bought
but travel from the gentle touch of nature
given without cost or charge.
Sue Gerrard has 24 published books including 11 poetry collections, 2 ghost novellas, and a collection of ghost stories. Her 9 local history books, some published by Amberley, include St. Helens in Fifty Buildings (2025). She was twice awarded ‘Robert Lord Writing Residency’ in Dunedin, New Zealand in 2019. Pear Tress Press, New Zealand, then published Poems for the Cottage. More information on suegerrard.com
Glenis Moore
Under the flag
Voiced by Marilyn Timms
Peace is something that seems to elude us.
It hides in the muddied trenches of war,
afraid to show its head as the missiles fly.
It runs, like a scalded cat, from the noise of battle,
flooding the bombers’ flight paths with its tears.
It turns away from the blood and pain of orphaned children
too tired to even acknowledge their loss.
But, when the fires have all burnt out,
we look for it and ask it to stay,
just for a while, until our hatred returns,
with its promise of death to those we once embraced
in friendship under the flag of a hope
we once unfurled for peace.
Glenis Moore is a poet who currently lives in the flat lands of the Fens just outside of Cambridge UK with her partner and three rescue cats. When she is not writing, Glenis reads, makes beaded necklaces, knits, cycles and runs 10K races slowly.
Julie Wiltshire
Finding My Peace
voiced by Marilyn Timms
Words call out from this page,
Fight or flight.
The psychoanalysis of my behaviour,
My justification, childhood scars.
I learnt to survive at a very early age.
My sensitive and gentle responsiveness
Leant only towards my grandmother.
My hardened characteristics,
Moulded from the past,
Remain tattooed on my tattered heart.
The power within the wilderness of my muddled mind,
Was to keep myself unconquerable.
Over the years my scarred emotions,
Became too deep for tears.
Many times, I teetered on the edge
Of the abyss but stepped backwards.
My eyes became absent of passion.
Grievances grew into monsters.
I picked at my weeping scars,
Through the loneliness,
Of the aching night time hours.
Alas I yearn to change.
I wish my tomorrows,
To be void of all sorrow.
I wish, to be acquainted with miracles.
To view the world with a sparkle
In my diamond faceted eyes.
I’ll seek out my solace,
And fill the constituency of my thoughts
With love, tenderness and forgiveness.
Blow, blow a feather of gentleness
Upon my healing heart,
And let my splattered soul find the peace,
It now, in old age, so richly deserves.
Julie Wiltshire has been writing poetry most of her life and has just had her third book published – A Plethora of Poetry and Prose. She has been published in many anthologies.
Sara Stegen
Fjord horse peace
Iris said:
‘Relax your back.’
‘Don’t work against Gwen.’
“Breathe out through your shoulders.’
I believe Gwen heard
the cicadas
in my back
relaxing.
I never would have believed
that a Norwegian Fjord could breathe
peace –
into me.
Battle-weary hearts on sticks
You tell me I should trust
but the signals point the wrong way
red lights flashing
how can I trust
these things you still say.
There is a highway of hurt
running through these flatlands
and I do not know where to stand
you may have stuff planned
but I so do not understand.
Please, please
I will throw my heart again
on those barbed wire songs of yours
one more time
once more to the breach
battle-weary heart of mine.
See me waving my heart
a white peace flag
on a stick.
Please surrender to me
yeah, you the one ou t there
so, I do not misunderstand
anymore –
no more, no more
hit the road Jack
and open – just open the door
and put your hurting heart
out on a stick
perhaps we can hold a swordfight
with both our hurting hearts
I will even let you win.
Sara Stegen is a Dutch poet and non-fiction author. Sara is a mother of two neurodivergent sons. She is a member of the Poetry Society Germany Stanza group. Home is a boulder-clay ridge in the northern Netherlands where her bike shed contains eight bicycles and where she works on a memoir about apples and autism and her first poetry collection.
Kate Copeland
peacefeeling
when rain falls, sweet
heart, choose the pines
that open arms
and root in motion
when roar rises, sweet
love, draw present
word-whispers, past
the surfaces of sea glass
in a world where nights
continue royal, the clouds
neatly on a trot, a shore
under the carpet and
whenever you waver
my sweet, aim for temples
that sun and moon
and bad ends up best
peace being
picturing with eyes open, escaping
for so long, she yields up strict walls
like a roundabout, no interluding, no
yonder, and the blue hour
wins over crests on driftwood lands,
royal swans protecting cygnets, clouds
ward up, for so long, the rowing sculls
cleave words beyond, and her
moon quarters around his angels’ day,
picturing her state, the eyes certain as
a poem washing in high palms, peace
she reifies, being on her way.
Day between daze and consolation
Out of a chaos of sheets and
shower towels, rises a sixth
sense, a voorgevoel, she opens
curtains to hear the clear
radio announcing: they cease
the fires – Unbelievables
can happen, right
when all, alles, has become un-
believable, the day became
everything, alles; maybe
now, despite, everything may be
after all – set right.
Kate Copeland’s love for languages led her to teaching; her love for art & water to poetry. She is curator-editor for The Ekphrastic Review, and runs workshops & open-mics for several writing networks. Find her poems @ TER, WildfireWords, Gleam, Metphrastics, Hedgehog Press [a.o.] or @ https://www.instagram.com/kate.copeland.poems/. Kate was born in harbour-city & adores housesitting in the world.
Richard Devereux
The Lasting Peace
The Great War was over –
the War to end all Wars.
Now, the lasting Peace.
The peal of bells faded,
even the sorest of heads cleared
in a couple of days,
and men climbed long ladders
to take down the bunting.
Old men could now die happy.
Some did.
Others knew better
the nature of the species.
They watched and waited
as the victors fixed the sum
of the loot they required,
redrew boundaries with crude tools,
and institutionalised peace.
Institutions pickle the mad;
perhaps an institution
could preserve a big idea
like Peace?
Then Christmas came,
and families counted places
around the table
for the living and the dead.
Richard Devereux lives in Bristol. His pamphlet Coal and Fire has recently been published by Culture Matters. His poem “Beirut” won the Mist and Mountain International Poetry Competition in 2025. He is a committed philhellene and is interested in all aspects of Greece, ancient and modern. He often writes about Greece. His greatest poetic influence is the Greek poet Yannis Ritsos.
Duncan Forbes
The Great War
In November, feeling sombre,
I remember Wilfred Owen
dying on the Oise and Sambre
a week before the armistice.
A man of peace on active service
must have known how hard it was
to cross that water, dawn on Monday,
against the gunfire and the gas.
One more week and it was over,
seven more days, 11.11,
till great rejoicing, yells and bells,
the war to end all wars forever.
But on that day a doorbell rang
and then the telegram was read
by parents, Tom and Susan Owen,
informing them their son was dead.
Rudyard, Rupert and John
Some readers detest the sentiments of ‘If’
by manly Rudyard Kipling and yet I
have more affection for it than I should.
‘You’ll be a man, my son’, and die
his only son did – Battle of Loos, I think.
That changed his jingoistic tone to only
lonely epitaphs extolling peace, but this
was what the British Empire expected of
its sons and as yet non-existent me.
Garden Bench
Through my declining years
I have spent more of my time
sitting here on this bench
a garden seat of teak,
hearing the church clock chime
the quarters and the hours.
I have sat here in the sun
and watched the clouds take shape,
vaporous grey and white,
to dull sun’s light and heat
over yew-shadowed lawn
which daisies dot like sheep.
I smell the plants and flowers
several of which I planted
as rhizomes, bulbs or roots,
pink Gertrude Jekyll roses,
red tulips and blue iris,
imploring sunlit hours.
Here I have read the news,
drunk coffee, tea and wine
and listened to the noise
of people hurrying by
in traffic on the street
more active now than I.
It is a restful place,
this garden seat of teak
curvaceous in design,
where often now I seek
some sanctuary of mind
by contemplating peace.
Duncan Forbes has been published by Faber, Secker and Enitharmon, who produced a Selected Poems (2009), drawn from five previous collections. He has won a Gregory Award, Stephen Spender Prizes, Hawthornden Award and TLS/Blackwells prize. For his most recent collections, Human Time (2020) and Under the Sun (2024), see www.duncanforbes.com
Eleanor Lodewijks
A Run Around The Mangroves
The soft pitter patter of her footsteps hitting the concrete
Wind gushing her face, tickling her curly locks
A laugh like a lark
Joyous, free
Vibrates across the reserve
The mangroves trembled at her stride:
Sure, assured
Just as a tulip begins from a seed
She began from the night sky
Birthed from the inky darkness
Empty blackness
Fearful, uneasy, hesitant
She was
Charcoaled with shame
Her peace in herself flew with the dove
That never returned
Until one morning
The kookaburra cawed
The sky was a periwinkle blue
The light gave her fire
She went running.
Puffing, gasping, wheezing
Sweat trickling down her forehead
Croaking, groaning, burping
A sore sight to behold, she was
She ran for a little, then doubled over
Gasping for air that would not reach her lungs
Yet the next morning, she did the same
Months on, you find her
Taking long strides, jogging around the mangroves
At first, she was shameful
Amongst all the body builders, a wheezing jogger
Old shoes on, crinkled up shirt
Peace in herself had rushed away
As harsh as the tide
Yet the tide tickles the cheeky sand
So day after day, she went running
Until she stopped
Noticed her reflection in the pool of rainwater by the tap
Marvelled at her own beauty
Chestnut curls
Bright, fern coloured eyes
And the dove sang from the evergreen tree
Peace had come to her
Come to her from the mangroves
Her confidence could beam from deep within
As she ran around the mangroves
With Our Friends
The screen flickers, shards of images coming in and out. Finally, it clears, leaving us with a sickening photograph of a young boy, blood gushing down his legs, a lost, desperate expression clouding his face.
“Turn it off!” I scream, hiding my eyes in my palm.
The image shifts to a recording where a missile hits a hospital. The sound of a mother’s anguished cry and the bang of gunfire echoes through our living room. Mum finally finds the power button, and the ABC news turns to black. Thank goodness. Here in our home, thousands of miles away, peace feels like a given and conflict a fable. We feel like we live in a bubble that the outside world can never pop.
Later that evening, I call my friend. No reply. Frowning, I dial again; Zara always picks up. Eventually, I set the phone down. Then it hits me: some of Zara’s family is trapped in the middle of the war.
Suddenly, I jolt upright. It’s though there’s some hazy whiteness coming over me, cutting off my bedroom. I feel dizzy, ill… Until everything clears. And there, lying on her bed with tears streaming down her cheeks, is Zara. I try to rush over to her, yet I find myself unable to move, as though my legs are embedded in cement. I cry out, shriek her name, but my voice is silent. I watch her expression, pure terror and devastation. Face scrunched up, her usually perfectly braided hair lying in a knot above her shoulders. Her hands tremble.
And that’s when I realise; the war reaches me too. Its smoke infects my community, snaking through our cracks and barring our connection with each other. I find my voice again.
“Mum? Can you turn the television back on?”
Eleanor Lodewijks is a school student developing her writing by starting to submit poetry and flash fiction for publication. She loves cooking, netball and playing with her cavoodle, Monty.
Derek Sellen
True Armistice
… is not capitulation or humiliation,
but greeting, song, kiss
between those who fired across divides.
Soldiers of all colours and beliefs
emerge from carapaces of armour
to yield their weapons.
They topple field-guns
as if they are chess pieces,
planes draw heart-shapes in vapour
above the cities they once bombed
while disarmed nuclear submarines
surface like harmless luminescent fish.
Chem labs are mothballed,
dictators abdicate
to spend time on hiking, poetry and art.
But some rogue aggressor always remains
to sabotage the truce. Even before
the dead are brought home, war resumes.
One rifle-shot’s enough
to breed a nuclear face-off,
troops massing, regimes proclaiming.
Today’s fudged treaty
must serve for now, no true armistice
but a diplomatic plaster.
False words, fake handshakes
are traded — not without honour —
for the fragile prize of “lasting” peace.
Derek Sellen lives in Canterbury. Over the years his poetry has done well in competition, winning Canterbury Festival Poet of the Year twice and O’Bheal Five Words three times, also other competitions. His second collection, The Other Guernica was a finalist in the Poetry Book Awards. His new collection, The Night Bus, will be published by Cinnamon Press in Autumn 2026.
Brendan Dawson
Clues for Peace
Sometimes, I wonder where peace comes from
Where it goes when it’s done
Invisible, odorless, and tasteless
With unclaimed clues to its presence
It is easily forgotten and often times misplaced
It is bartered for in an exchange of lives, one at a time, tripped over, and stepped beside
It is a convenience scheduled on holidays rather than an inconvenience fought for everyday
It is grown in gardens but doesn’t get packaged in tin cans
It is eaten when it’s needed but not valued when it’s fully enjoyed
It is the main ingredient in our food but sours in the bellies of our youth while we feast
It can be held until it rises and strangled until it dies
It has blistered feet hanging from prayer-ground knees
It speaks in ancient languages not found in a thesaurus
It digs deep into the corners of the globe to find the worst in others
It does what it wants and goes where it pleases
It thinks its own thoughts in vapors of communal tolerance
It tells no lies and can’t hear you call
It waits patiently for you to want more
It is not quick-clicked and delivered in brown paper boxes
It is not recently rolled in wax wrappers and passed through windows at just the right time
It is not squashed under thumbs sliding in infinite dives to the end of the internet
It is not binge drunk in a slurry of dopamine and serotonin cocktails
So is peace
A slippery image of what could be
As I sit in it comfortably
And watch for clues
Brendan Dawson is an American-born poet and writer based in Italy. Brendan writes from his experiences while living, working, and traveling abroad. Currently, he is compiling a collection of poetry and short stories from his time serving in the military and journey as an expat.
Ansuya Patel
Wild Sweetness
Walking back from the beach,
a boy half hidden in the shade
waves flies from plump purple figs.
We split open the ripe flesh, bite
into tender skin bursting with
honey nectar, tasting wild sweetness.
Each mouthful leaves us wanting.
We devour the fruit under
the spreading Ficus.
Our mouths stained, juice on our
fingers, sun on our cheeks,
sharing moments. We relish
the taste inside. We take in
the sun setting, peeling back
the skin of our day where
time wraps its arms around us
from sunrise to sunset. We live
in the palmed promise.
I Swam in the Sky
across the Prussian blue skin
over the Himalayas, tasted iron
and pine resin. The wind rang
in my ears like glass bells.
Below a lammergeier moved
as a shadow over a slope.
The bar-headed geese soared
into silvery thin mist
and disappeared. Nearby,
snow flakes danced on
the crimson breast of a blood
pheasant. Even silence
has a pulse. I tilt, falling
bones as wires in winter. I land
inside a pool of feather and find
it beating my heart.
Courtesy of Distance
All I want is to be left in peace.
Blackbirds squall on the lush green lawn,
a gaggle of geese parade honk, bark
and stop. And questions—do I want water,
a fan, weather report for England?
Tourists gaze at the bright blue sea
frolicking her curves. I lean in as a close up
lens, observe the thin long black legs
of an egret. Her bright yellow feet take
deliberate steps, snowy body moves as if grass
were sacred. She pauses, a slight tilt of her head
as the world rearranges itself around her.
Ansuya Patel’s work has appeared widely in Allegro, Broken Spine, Crowstep, Gypsophila, Ink Sweat and Tears, Last Stanza, Rattle, Renard, Wildfire Words and elsewhere. Her poems have been short-listed for the Alpine, Aurora and the Bridport Poetry Prize. She was a joint winner of the Geoff Steven’s memorial Prize in 2024. Her debut collection Wolves At My Door was published by Indigo Dreams Publishing. https://indigodreamspublishing.com/ansuya-patel
Alwyn Marriage
An old man waits in the queue
Sudan
Although I’m not yet 50, I am
already an old man: weak
and weary, worn out before
my time, and totally alone.
Sickness has claimed my
beautiful wife – my kind
and faithful, dark-eyed
lover and soul-mate –
who bore me seven babies,
all now gone to gun
or bomb, starvation
or disease.
Patiently I stand here
waiting to receive
a portion of the rich
world’s charity,
aware that there are
children in the queue
behind me, whose need
is far greater than mine.
Words, tokens to excuse
barbarity, drift through my head:
genocide, famine, insurgency,
collateral damage, civil war,
all stripped of meaning as
I struggle to see another day
while wondering whether
death would bring relief.
The darkness of hatred
is swallowing our land
and I do not think that
I will live to see the peace.
But when my bones have
rotted into this sacred earth
and nobody remembers my
sweet wife and children,
will armies then lay down
their weapons, neighbours
learn to trust each other again
and barren land recover
so grain can ripen in our fields,
trees share abundant fruit, seed
swell to grow good food for all.
Will flowers bloom once more?
Sight-seeing
Ukraine
Welcome to my city. I hope you’ll
let me show you round. I thought
I knew it well, have lived here all
my life, but now that streets and
buildings are no longer where they
used to be, it’s easy to get lost.
A hospital once stood here; you can still
see remnants of the walls. Oh, please
take care, it’s not a good idea to walk
among the rubble. Although my babies
were all born here, it’s becoming difficult
to remember what it was like before the war.
The school was new five years ago, but
no lessons learned there ever prepared us
for this. Children now play among the ruins:
climbing, jumping, hide-and-seek. They usually
find each other in the end, but I wonder
what else they are at risk of finding – and I fear.
This row of what were once our local
shops was flattened recently. Now
the old man who ran the grocery has
built a shed amid the rubble and sells
whatever he can lay his hands on which,
to be quite honest, isn’t very much.
I bought a pack of tea there
yesterday, so if you’re free and
the sirens don’t start up again,
I’d be pleased if you’d accept
my humble hospitality and come
home now to share a cup with me.
Eight years – old
(First published on Poetry Wivenhoe website 2025)
Gaza
She doesn’t understand why death
rained down from the skies last night
stealing her baby sister’s breath;
he cannot understand why faith in God,
inherited from many generations, should
lead to the slaughter of innocents.
Will either or both of these pale, dark-eyed
children grow to adulthood? And if they do,
will they ever live at peace or learn to smile?
Alwyn Marriage‘s eighteen books include poetry, fiction and non-fiction. She was recently commissioned to write poems for an exhibition of modern art. An experienced workshop leader, mentor and lecturer, she particularly enjoys giving poetry readings from her many collections.
Kevin Scully
At the burial mound of a dead monk
The once quiet woods now echo
with suburban dog walkers;
a woman in flipflops,
toddler-filled pushchair and pet
outstride my hoped-for contemplative entry
into the cool monastic forest shade.
Each layer of soot is a coating of holiness,
evidence of another smoky session of prayer.
Postulants’ numbers thin—
they pray in and out
of broom, mop and sponge,
scrubbed clean of silent restoration.
Inside the chapel
the journey to the interior
quickens as the heartmind slows…
all changed, changed utterly
in an eternal assurance that all wells
of plumbed wellness are, well, well.
Retreat
Once again
I go outside
sit in the sun
to wrestle with rhythm
alliterate allegories
parse pauses
and work with words.
But then warmth
enters my bones
and I hear nothing
but trees speak
to birds who sing
for no-one
but not no purpose.
And I sit.
And it is enough.
This pub is called an hotel
It’s heaving, the front bar,
twice the size I remember it,
pool table to one side
under a TV half the wall.
It’s safe from the swing doors
where once, after fluking a magic
break, a tough insisted we pair up,
lay a tenner on the side. I tried
to wriggle out of it, but yielded
to his three middies’ bravado.
I fluffed two, missed a sitter
and the bastard turned nasty.
Forty years later I sit on a stool,
the punters about the same age
as I then, now women welcome,
wine, cocktails no affront to anyone.
The back room, a restaurant,
was a barn back when
my wife’s first lover and I vied
to win the pub quiz, compose
the bonus limerick prize.
Tonight no one notices
as I sip cider, see no threat
coming from or to me.
Kevin Scully‘s poetry has appeared in print and online journals. He won the Ashdown Forest Poetry Competition in 2024, and was longlisted for the Live Canon Poetry Prize in 2017 and 2024. He was in the inaugural Poet in Residence on the Cuckmere Pilgrim Path, from which came his pamphlet For The Journey.
www.kevin-scully.com
Antje Bothin, Dr
Decades Ahead
I wonder what 1944
Will be like
Will our children live in peace?
I wonder what 1954
Will be like
Will the world be enough for all?
I wonder what 1964
Will be like
Will someone fly to the moon?
I wonder what 1974
Will be like
Will workers talk to machines?
I wonder what 1984
Will be like
Will people travel through time?
I wonder what 1994
Will be like
Will humankind still exist?
At present in 1934
I wonder what
Next year will bring
Or even just tomorrow
The light in the darkness
Shadows of people
Hiding under umbrellas
Of hope
Ready to go
Hands holding books
Of wisdom
People unite
People fight
The best is yet to come
Antje Bothin, Dr, is an author who lives in Scotland. She loves poetry. Her poems were published in several international anthologies. When not writing, she can be found volunteering in nature or drinking tea. Find her first novel Annika and the Treasure of Iceland here: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Annika-Treasure-Iceland-Antje-Bothin/dp/B0CD93WQ27/ Links: linktr.ee/languagedoc
Chintan Girish Modi
Bloody bystander
The tree wept
in silence
as I did nothing
when the goons came
to assassinate her.
She refused to die
without a fight
and left me
with this curse:
no shade
no oxygen
no fruit
no hugs
You’ve betrayed me,
You scoundrel!
And traded love
for development.
Noose
This insane desire
to be loved
frequently
consistently
perfectly
is driving me nuts
I look for it
in all the wrong places
Instead of turning within –
the only true home
Chintan Girish Modi is a Mumbai-based poet, journalist, educator and peacebuilder advocating for queer rights, interfaith dialogue, nuclear disarmament and people-to-people contact between Indians and Pakistanis. His poetry has appeared in anthologies including Bent Book and Fearless Love, and in International Gallerie, The Chakkar and Mumbai Meter. Find him @chintanwriting on Instagram.
Dorinda MacDowell
I Say
You who embrace hate
I say
I shall not join your ranks
for hate is a self-inflicted wound
which is designed to destroy you
as it surely will
and I shall not be a part of it
Dorinda MacDowell is an 81-year-old woman, in love with life, and life, and words.
Heather Cook
Life
We are unprepossessing
As we slither into being,
Draped in blood and slippery,
Demanding food and peeing.
And yet our raw ingredients
Were bequeathed by long-dead stars,
So keep some stardust by you
To sprinkle through the years.
Heather Cook has been placed or short-listed in competitions including Ware, Wildfire Words, Arundel and Vole. Heather is a member of Woking Writers Circle and enjoys taking part in open-mic events.She was a joint winner of the Frosted Fire Firsts Pamphlet Award in 2023 with Out of the Ordinary and her pamphlet, Beware the Exploding Yoghurt Pot, was published by Crystal Clear Books in 2025.
Matt Minshall
One Green Bottle
Touch down at last light,
Relief from a dank blank flight;
But free and far from the hot core
Of the dire, fiery forge of war.
Thoughts then roam to journey’s goal:
Home, tho’ it’s just an empty hole
In a small village, but wherein
But a few steps down’s an Inn
So local they know my name,
In where I seek a flitting fame.
That time is driving swiftly near
The so longed joy of fresh pulled beer.
Then traffic flow sudden failing,
Many miles of anxious snailing;
Costly clocking minutes ending
Last orders time so depending.
But the door’s shut, the bell has struck,
The old pub’s as dark as my luck.
I fight open my door, kit to the floor.
Fridge wrenched open reveals no more
Than one wretched cold green bottle,
Grizzled iced fizz tries to throttle
With freezing gloop that makes me choke
That I follow with chains of smoke.
Strangely then I yearn the desert;
Just simplistic waiting… inert…
…’til the fleet frankness of the fight.
Sudden angry tears spear my sight;
Alone, comrades a world away,
I am afraid, bereft, astray,
My angst begins in fear to grow;
What my father knew I now know…
Tho’ this is what they say is peace…
… I see there can be no release…
Matt Minshall is an author on the crises of climate change. He is a Council Member of the Cloud Appreciation Society, which he supports for the science and the beauty. From deep experience of the Middle East, he gives briefings on Arab culture. He is an Ambassador for Resolution, a charity which assists servicemen and women suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Merlin Flower
A Rohingya in India
She wanted to see some raindrops fall on the concrete, instead there was the pale wrinkled landscape as the noon showed little mercy.
Her gaze lingered at the double lines of sweat on the edge of her co-worker’s brows that debated on the direction of flow and went downward. The sun-shined chapped lips threw restless reflection on the half-finished windowpane that, at times, let in a thirsty breeze to hover over the neatly packed sweets that did provide a ‘not so’ bad income. She thought the black jaggery sweets and sweat had different murky smells unlike the sanitized whiff of the letter of deportation in her almarah. They had used open Al to identify the so-called infiltrators, which it did smarting on names that hinged on one religion.
Reactive to the order, the foreigner in her who called the land ‘home’, wondered where to go as her mobile chimed with an incoming video call. With a pink frangipani above the left ear, a calico cat sleeping on the almarah behind her and rain lashing on the window, the refugee councillor said, “your file is approved and we are happy to welcome you to warm and cozy Melbourne, the land of Wallabies, Kookaburras, kangaroos and sunshine.”
Merlin Flower is an independent artist and writer.
Punyasloka Mohapatra
Lollapalooza of Peace
Voiced by Howard Timms
First, they televised a premium handshake.
Doves looped above calibrated smiles.
A violin leaked from an unbombed district.
Crowds leaned forward, grateful for edited silence.
Experts arrived with disinfected language.
Peace, they said, scales better than casualties.
Silence outperforms sirens, properly monetized.
Graphs rose like missiles, forgetting targets.
Soon, everyone subscribed to calm futures.
Peace stocks surged on the anticipated absence.
Influencers posted ruins with warm filters.
CeasefireGlow turned ash into lighting.
A child closed a door without flinching.
The latch clicked like swallowed history.
No one noticed that small correction.
Algorithms prefer flames, even simulated ones.
Governments exported calm in sealed treaties.
Fine print pressed flat against bodies.
Speeches inflated above managed ruins.
Conflict defeated by clapping hands.
History autocorrected itself into innocence.
The dead remained cached, never reopened.
The same child learned to keep doors open.
Closed doors, they said, resemble intent.
Markets found peace consumable, then scarce.
Withdrawal arrived, dressed as concern.
We feared quiet, like a delayed detonation.
The door stayed open, even at night.
Peace sat misquoted in its language.
You bought tickets: Lollapalooza of Peace.
Punyasloka Mohapatra is an India-based poet whose work interrogates memory, conflict, and the politics of language. Blending satire with lyric intensity, his poems explore how public narratives shape private lives. His writing often experiments with form, drawing on contemporary poetics to create sharp, image-driven pieces attentive to silence, power, and human vulnerability.
Shirley Smothers
Two Tiny Mouses
Voiced by Marilyn Timms
Tiny Mouse 1: “If the Humans kill themselves to extinction, do you know what that means for us?”
Tiny Mouse 2:” What?”
Tiny Mouse 1: “We inherit the Earth!”
Tiny Mouse 2: “Yippee!”
Shirley Smothers is a writer, artist and poet. She mostly writes short stories, some of which can be viewed at Shirley Smothers @Storystar.com
Shirley’s artwork “Butterflies on Flowers” was chosen as the online cover of Glomag Magazine, Facebook, June 2025. Her artwork, “Rainbow of Maddness” was the online cover of The Cultural Reverence Magazine. Her collection Poetry from the Heart can be seen here.
Stephen Finucane
Our Part in The Shoa
We are not innocent. We share the guilt.
The ark flew unaided. It spilt. It sank.
We were pliable; when pressed we would wilt.
The sediment of history, the silt,
swallowed whole; we raised it, tilted and drank.
We are not innocent. We share the guilt.
Claiming Kultúr, we must cleave to the kilt
we find there: a subdued rustle, a clank.
We were pliable; when pressed we would wilt
instead of standing firm. Our myths are built
on sand. Little to admire. Few to thank.
We are not innocent. We share the guilt.
To refuse assistance? To spurn? To jilt?
In the space where the soul should be, blank. Blank.
Destiny knocked; we hid beneath the quilt,
while just outside the corpses stacked and stank.
We are not innocent. We share the guilt.
We were pliable; when pressed we would wilt.
Xmas 2023
What I prefer is a dry winter day.
Winds don’t trouble me; I don’t fear the cold.
Some things we humans do cause me dismay.
From Auschwitz one had a tale to relay;
I heard it and wished it had not been told.
What I prefer is a dry winter day.
In Gaza the arc of the story may
finally force equations to unfold.
Some things we humans do cause me dismay.
A raped froy, a dead child; profit holds sway.
This fell tale the prophets left unforetold.
What I prefer is a dry winter day.
Some damn fool’s faith and tradition may spay
a babe in a manger. Old fools’ fool’s gold.
No symmetry be ever attained. Play
out competitive follies, we’re cajoled.
What I prefer is a dry winter day.
Some things we humans do cause me dismay.
Stephen Finucane has worked in education for the past thirty years, at present in adult education. He lived in London in the late 1980s and early 1990s. He has taught in Ireland, in London, in Germany and in Cyprus. His work has appeared in Crannóg, Poetry Salzburg Review, The Wild Word and [in the upcoming edition] Drawn to the Light.
Diana Hills
That Roar Again
A dreaded familiar roar — ears scream,
out of sulphurous sky
the bomb falls, GBU39, Spice 2000
it matters not,
a cumulus ball of fire,
the bitter night freezes in shock,
walls shake, tremble, crackle,
but defiant, valiant, stand,
our room spared just — for now.
I bend over the shuddering cot,
he sleeps still,
his peace a mirror of hope,
sister creeps silently
curls her fingers in his,
I freeze, where to go?
Road burns,
apartments aflame,
despair overtakes relief,
no rescue from this endless hell,
abandoned here like scorched trees
in a forever wasteland.
prey to old men of hate.
Peace drifts into my mind’s eye,
deliverance by a humane world,
waves of silence, safety
ruined cities healed by common purpose,
leaders legacy, harmony, aid.
Peace drifts out of my mind’s eye,
as bombs, drones crash and kill,
for us, flotsam of war,
floating in debris,
peace a vision,
empty of hope, faith,
empty of a future, a decent life,
for now.
No need to count anniversaries here
No call for anniversaries here,
for in war, there are winding roads,
where broken families drag spilling loads,
tragic bags filled with pots and clothes,
anything grabbed from bombed out homes.
Suffering parents bow down in grief,
once their land had some kind of peace,
children stand, pole axed by noise,
clutching what’s left of their favourite toys.
Dust crowds the air, the sun beats hotter,
the queue on the road gets longer, longer,
the checkpoint’s now a bottomless crater,
lives in the hands of a vengeful dictator.
Flimsy tents drop from sulphurous skies,
feeble gestures from governments that lie,
promise aid, soldiers, weapons that kill,
nothing for innocents whose lives have stopped still.
And so the long and winding road
Becomes a seething refuge of lost hope,
Entrance by birth, exit by death
life survived by a hairline breath.
Diana Hills started writing poetry late after a life-changing event. She read at Poetry Open mics, local poetry societies and generally has fun writing (when it goes well!)
Tony Bradley
Peace
Peace
The absence of war
The absence of conflict
Need we say more?
Absolutely.
As many say
If it is worth having
It must come with trust
But you see
And this must never escape us
Jesus prayed for it
Gandhi worked for it
Our fathers fought for it
Luther-King saw it
Lennon imagined it
A waste, because
They all died for it
It was all in vain
Where is it?
So do not say to me
It is worth it
We will get it
Peace
The absence of war
The absence of conflict
Need we say more?
(This is a reverse poem – now read from the bottom to the top)
Tony Bradley hails from Derbyshire, but has lived in Gloucestershire and South Gloucestershire for the last thirty-five years. A retired teacher, Tony has been a poetry enthusiast for over sixty years. Tony has had several poems published by Wildfire Words, and one poem in the Black Eyes Publishing UK Anthology, “The Rise of the Badger and The Great Shrubbery”.
Rizwan Akhtar
Wundervei
a splintered branch flaked
like a limb attempting
an embrace, tongue-twigged
paths-poked a soliloquy
resonant with leaves, evening’s
slowing shadows hung over
shoulders, trunks showered
overnight grains kept by birds,
a squirrel’s intimate scuttle
beaming like a voyeur, skittering
over a patch of grass dishevelled
by feet’s entangled choreography
roots creaked, barks shook
wind-trance, a presence lingered
over the sky, deep in conversation.
This Ramzan
The pluvial cadence of March rain in Lahore sets
the scene before Eid, as the bangles clink on women,
bodies olfactory, petrichor inhaled in small gaps.
Lahore is mist-kissed, touch-tender, food-pattered.
Like an aquarelle painting, the drops wait on windows,
this urban sonata, drizzle-driven; pouring rose sharbat,
dates in mosques, long rows of people squat on mats.
The libations continue like a symphony, now adapted
by muzziens; the tongues are already damp, the pangs
of craving subsided.
Dark clouds persist, as if listening,
hearts beating, as time gets closer, breaking the fast.
The rain returns in waves, like Ramzan every year.
A Postcard from Tehran
Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles, Miles and miles— Robert Browning
bed-bruised I opened eyes on pellucid puddles
after the last night’s rain, the lissom branches
of juniper swayed rather edited by the wind
picking like a pen on a page makes me jot down
over a cup of tea, a well-earned security strip
by the news that a friend in Tehran had died,
we shared Hafiz, set to collaborate on an exegesis
on Rumi, talked in Farsi on the phone, our lingual
consanguinity, an elongated cadence on the tongue,
like moosiqi, other guttural Arabic sounds softened,
last summer, he sent me a postcard from Isfahan
peach blossoms in umbrous orchids, the clouds
returning like aerial strikes, as if skies missed
them over there under shapeless rubble, like
stanzas abandoned in despair, smoked eyes
a parental congregation of school girls|
bombed, moist but unyielding, and the world
disputes what if a false flag!
crepuscular hues around mountains ringed by
a halation halo, people stick to their tasks, burials
break the monotony, on viridescent slopes
a few sheep grazing, come home.
Rizwan Akhtar is a writer from Lahore, Pakistan. His debut collection of poems, Lahore, I Am Coming (2017), is published by Punjab University Press. He has published poems in well-established poetry magazines in the UK, the US, India, Canada, and New Zealand. He was also part of the workshop on poetry with Derek Walcott at the University of Essex in 2010.
James Goddard
Pax
“and where they make a desert, they call it peace” – Tacitus
Blinded are the eyes that see
The beauty of the bodies,
Lying in a foreign field.
Not abandoned by their kin,
For their kin lie beside them.
Deafened are the ears that hear
The silence beyond fury,
The horror as screams cease.
Knowing, in that awful peace,
What will come to take their place.
Severed are the tongues that speak
Of how glory lives in war,
Naming desolation peace.
They kiss the lips of death,
Which hungry, whispers more.
Broken are the hands that feel
The echo of sensation,
Clutching what will not remain,
To touch the tender magic
In unmaking all creation.
Skull-like is the nose that smells
The scent left when life has fled.
It fills the senses full,
With what must come next
Breathless, like the dead.
So reason abandoned us,
Leaving only momentum.
And still, it carries us.
When the sun rose again,
We did not remember them;
Even death was not enough.
When the sun went down again,
We did not remember them;
The gods will not raise them up.
We called it PAX.
When they wept we named them liars.
When they bled we named it peace.
We called it PAX.
Until even memory forgets its name.
Until even guilt must turn away.
When the marble cracks it does not shatter;
It parts like flesh before a blade.
When the weak wall that gives you shelter falls;
It parts like flesh before a blade.
The victor must lose all to win,
So sin will sin against sin.
What use is a name,
If no one is left to speak it?
What use is a city,
If none return to its gates?
What use is victory,
If all it conquers is ash?
PAX is the stillness after fire.
PAX is the silence before storms.
We did not end war.
We became it.
I am peace.
I destroyed it.
James Goddard lives in England and writes poetry and historical fiction about the people history forgot, or never knew. His work has appeared in Wildfire Words,The Words Faire and the Birmingham Writers’ Group Annual Edition. He writes at Meditations on Permafrost
Phil Vernon
Museum of peace*
Once through the marble colonnade
and sweeping stairs, we enter rooms
so grand we almost feel afraid:
great men, great speeches, sepia views
of Strasbourg, Rome, Berlin, Versailles;
then on past endless photographs—
high collars, confidence, low guile,
diplomacy, late night cigars.
And then, behind a hidden door
we’re welcomed with an open smile
to views across a boundary wall,
tired children straggling home from school,
a woman unsure where she stands,
but standing freely where she can.
*Originally published in Guerrilla Country
Phil Vernon retired in 2024 after four decades in international humanitarian and peacebuilding work. His third full poetry collection is Guerrilla Country (Flight of the Dragonfly Press, 2024), exploring peace and conflict within our social, political and physical environment. He was one of three poets featured in Tree Poets: Rivers of Stone (Hedgehog Poetry Press, 2025). He was a 2022 Hawthornden Fellow. https://philvernon.net/
Vanessa Horn
My Peace
I hear you within monochrome keys,
pressing gently to unlock melodies which
focus and soothe,
outer layers fade
as I thrill in your timbre.
I inhale you walking along the seashore;
salty breaths which regulate my heartbeat,
breezes wafting worries into compliance,
your respite granting me
strength to face each day.
I embrace you between whispering pages
which amplify into mysteries and thrills,
enveloping me into vicarious experiences
with the knowledge I can leave
at the turn of a page.
I stroke you with paint on canvas,
luxuriant greens to reflect lush landscapes
to stroll into, cool and serene,
daydreams enclosed within the image’s dimensions,
protected and private.
I describe you in words I can’t say aloud
but can freely scribe on pristine paper.
Thoughts, emotions, sentiments –
each releasing droplets of dopamine
to soothe and comfort.
I feel you on Freddie’s silky skin,
his tiny fist clasping my finger
in a union of recognition,
our breathing strengthened
in synchronisation.
These, to me, are peace.
Vanessa Horn is a part-time Junior School Teacher who loves writing flash fiction, children’s stories, and poems. In the last year or so, she started to write poetry and is now working on a collection of poems combining her love of music and the environment. These include explorations of melody and harmony within nature and the different synchronisations these involve.
Jonathan Ukah
Like a Song that Fell from the Sky
We were seeking a presence in the wilderness,.
when we heard a song worthy of our praise.
It was not the drumming of drones in the sky,
not the butterflies whispering in the trees.
We ran to the spot in the middle of the night.
and saw the moon rolling from side to side.
We gathered around the fallen lob of song,
wondering how you’ve got no time and season,
and how you’re God from beginning to the end,
your light shines through the night, no argument.
As our faces lit up, each shadow reflected
moments from the distant ages and aeons.
In that glow, we remembered the days
we felt helpless and still like fallen leaves.
Days we died, coaxing shadows to help us rise.
Out of your belly flow rivers, which bring life
and strength, surging forward, defying darkness,
and all our lives, you’ve been faithful and good.
Many have called you a thousand names,
some of which lick the delight of the hour,
while some were the choice of Heaven to us,
though we did not have a choice in the matter.
We call you our mother in the Lord, our grace,
in whom the Spirit of peace and prayers,
builds a honey of crystallisation of hope,
like a slice of cake on a table of celebration.
See how grace made you our stone of help,
we call you a virtuous woman on a silver platter,
on the fulcrum of time between despair and hope.
We call you a Woman of Substance, a fountain of joy,
delivered as a love letter to Hope of Glory Church,
and this is a picture of what love looks like.
It’s like a man sacrificing himself for his friends,
dying and returning to bring them with him;
it’s like when men mock you to your face,
and call you names while following a strange path,
led by the Holy Spirit, guided by the divine light.
This song that fell from the sky sounds powerless,
from the rising of the sun to the setting of the same,
is the thing that gives broad light all around,
scattering its bread over the simmering waters,
and will find it after a million days in the darkness.
Jonathan Ukah’s Chapbook, A is for Anfang, was published by The Island of Wak-Wak (December 2025). His awards include Poem of the Month at The Literary Shark Poetry Contest 2025, Winner of The Atlantis Poetry Award 2026, Alexander Pope Poetry Award at The Pierian, 2025, Winner of Sublimation Annual Poetry Contest 2026.
Mikail Başyiğit
Voiced by Howard Timms
Little Girl
I first saw you playing in the street, little girl,
With those large, dark eyes and hair as black as night.
A wide smile on your face, chewing gum so sweet,
Combing your doll’s hair in the trees’ dappled light.
You rose on your tiptoes, silent as a breeze,
Walking toward the trees—willow and oak.
A silver stream rested, flowing with total ease,
While sunlight drifted, soft as smoke.
A sound startled you—eyes heavy, half-asleep,
Then you called for “Mommy,” a heart-wrenching plea.
Yes, she was there, with a promise she’d keep,
Treats in her hands—all a child needs to believe.
Then, from the distance, came those foreign cries,
Restless, loud, and dangerous—tearing through the sky.
Like toys of iron they seemed to her eyes—
But metal wings were flying far too high.
The roar erupted, and flames engulfed the old trees,
The little girl, too young to know why the earth bled.
My eyes searched for yours, desperate to see,
While you searched for a mother’s arms, filled with dread.
I searched for those dark eyes, once bright and deep,
But I found you in crimson, beneath the sun’s glare.
I first saw you playing in the street, little girl,
With those large, dark eyes, and your jet-black hair.
And it was the last time.
When You Leave (2026)
Voiced by Howard Timms
When you leave me,
Turn off the lights.
Since the strike on Iran
Burned all LNG.
When you leave me,
Take me from Ukraine front.
If you can pass the drones—
Those modern draculas.
When you leave me,
Be quick before the U.S. invasion;
Because a wreck with oily hair
Would catch Goliath’s eye.
When you leave me,
Take the wars, the deaths, emotions.
The hopeless gaze buried in soul—
Or please, just leave.
Mikail Başyiğit is an Assistant Professor of Metallurgy and Materials Engineering at Marmara University, Istanbul. A father of two, his poetry fuses industrial, metallurgical metaphors with raw human emotions and modern geopolitical crises. He explores the circular economy in both science and society, seeking to extract beauty from ruins and give voice to the innocent silenced by global systems.
Col Fleetwood
Hibakujumoku: Ginkgo biloba
Act 1, Sc 1
Me sits in a pool of gold under a Ginkgo tree. The year is 1426 BCE. Me is holding a scribing implement and the collarbone of a water buffalo – an Oracle Bone.
Me: (Explaining) The emperor employs me to answer his most pressing questions. But today I have a question of my own: will there ever be peace? I carve the words into one side of the sun-scorched bone. On the opposite side I chip out some shallow pits. My metal rod has been prepared in the fire. I insert it into each hollow in turn until the bone cracks. Now I possess the wisdom of the gods. I flip the bone over and begin to scribe their reply.
Act 1, Sc 2
Me sits in a pool of gold under a Ginkgo tree. It is clearly the same tree as in Act 1, Sc 1. The year is 2026 CE. Me is typing on a device.
Me: Bot, I have a question for you.
Chatbot: Ask away.
Me: In one word, how can we end war?
Chatbot: Understanding.
Me: What about love?
Chatbot: Love is powerful – but justice makes it sustainable.
Me: How can we achieve justice?
Chatbot: Justice is achieved not through a single act, but through a continual process of aligning…
Me: (Interrupting) Look, they’ve only given me three minutes, can you distil that into one word?
Chatbot: Courage.
Me: How can I be courageous?
Chatbot: In one word?
Me: Yes please.
Chatbot: Integrity.
Me considers this for a moment, then continues typing.
Me: World leaders who show understanding, justice, courage and integrity. (Me scans the screen, then sighs.) There must be someone out there who has what it takes to be our saviour.
Col Fleetwood lives and writes in the wild and beautiful borderlands spanning Scotland and England. He is a prize-winning short story and essay writer and a recent poem was featured in the highly respected webzine Ink, Sweat & Tears. Col is a long-standing supporter of Berwick Literary Festival and regular compere of the Berwick Writers’ Forum: Cabaret of Words.
Stephanie Ross
Being
inhale–dip–stroke–exhale, inhale–dip–stroke–exhale
portage–portage
I move in clear waters, a steady pace for noticing
buds emerge, enlarge, blossom, and bloom violet and fuchsia
from muted greens as moose munch pond weed
in shallows and willows wisp in a spring breeze
a child plays in eddies around a cluster of rocks
and I smile as I pass by, then surge
through the narrows banked by boulders and fallen logs
onward toward salmon seeking refuge
in sparse pools under shade of cottonwood and Douglas-fir
portage––portage
inhale––dip––stroke–––exhale, inhale––dip––stroke–––exhale
a million times toward rolling tundra
made vibrant in fall rains where terracotta
and ochre lichen surround life hiding in the cracks
a hare dashes briefly before
I glimpse shape shifting snowscapes
and bow my head to the howling wind
in roiling rapids – each stroke stabilizes
until I return to measured breath in calmer waters
inhale–––dip–––stroke––––exhale, inhale–––dip–––stroke––––exhale
portage––––portage
downstream I travel, carried under hazy skies
and brilliant stars as I steer myself in the divide
between shores of life and death
in this vessel of human experience
buoyant and merged with the river
now flowing toward ocean’s embrace
Seagulls Lured By Icarus
Skyward, bound for nowhere seagulls fly higher than ever before–
false belief in waxless wings
prompts bravadountil
sunbursts that bring life also bring death
sending them reeling
back to the law of gravity
If only we held ourselves together with wisdom
If only
we could go anywhere
without seagulls crashing upon our heads
on a trajectory towards demise and misery
like the egoic patterns we treasure
If only
we could fly skyward without our hearts
being tossed carelessly into fires of mistrust
aiming instead to love endlessly
across rivers of resentment
If only
we could see this cosmic plan
lighting a trail of warmth and gongjing
–our alternative to the destruction
created by ignorance of Dao
If only
we could tend this inner light
as if all life depended upon it
–fuelling every need we have
on this internal flight
If only
we could soar
beyond the patterns pulling us down–
If only we would try
__
gongjing: humility, true respect, oneness
Dao: laws of the universe
Stephanie Ross writes at the confluence of inner inquiry and the living world. Guided by her practice as Ren Xue Yuan Qigong teacher, she crafts poetry, fiction, and nonfiction that invites readers to relax, soften, and develop connection to heart and True Self. Connect with her: https://www.stephanierossauthor.com
Gillie Robic
Miraculous Draught
the ground is not cold
nor the sand unflowing
the sun is boiling
the clouds away
leaving deep deep blues
to stipple the ocean
with colours of peace
and a silver shadow
glides over waters
following the flight
of glittering fish
which cannot be caught
which cannot be caught
in their element
Gillie Robic was born in India. Poet, voice artist and puppeteer, Gillie has 3 poetry collections and a pamphlet from Live Canon. Last year Clayhanger Press published Visiting Hours, a collaboration with doodles by husband Michel. Although she has many poems about lack of peace in conflict and violence, here she felt the need to focus on peace itself.
Geoff Petty
How to Make a Monster
There is no YouTube on this,
the skill evades my Aunt Ina,
and whole countries like Switzerland.
Never-the-less, monster-making is surprisingly easy.
Please follow this outline guidance…
An eye for an eye is too even handed,
it only disappears a friend,
or, at best, creates an enemy.
Your retaliation must be brazen,
Your revenge must offend.
So give a whack for a tap,
a thump for a bump,
you must backlash their lashes voraciously,
pong their pings viciously,
with an avid escalation fixation.
It is vital now to develop selective amnesia,
you forget the ping-pong history and say:
“There was I, innocently minding my own business
and giving to donkey charities,
when out of the blue, you hurt me, body and soul.
I am an innocent wronged,
but I have the right to self-defence,
so I will teach you a lesson.”
Then, while remaining self-righteous and proud,
you repeat your amnesiac attacks,
multiplying the agony, whether they hit back or not,
until their monster emerges, as it surely will.
But! Not as easy as it sounds:
avoid listening,
ignore history,
no discussion,
Remember: Their malice is without cause,
yours is corrective education.
A little practice now: say after me,
“I did nothing to deserve this.”
The monster count, will now be two,
Your adversary, and you.
Geoff Petty is a retired physics teacher and educationalist who has written best-selling books on how to teach, and a critically acclaimed book on creativity. He now campaigns on the climate and nature crises. His free novel was shortlisted for the Green Story Prize.
Adele Evershed
Peace Out
I saw a poetry course called ‘Writing Peace’
And I thought what a lovely idea
Imagine if we all could just pick up a pen
And spill our grievances on a blank page
Fill it with invective and inky smears
As black as old blood or border crossings
Maybe empty our spleens into a sonnet
So the march of an army
Becomes the rhythm of iambic pentameter
One soft beat / one hard / ba-Boom / ba-Boom
Syncopating until the jackboot’s threat
Walked right off into a rhyming couplet
So I signed up and sharpened my pencils
Hoping to blunt the lead of others on free verse and rainbows
Or any fresh-cut flower rammed into the muzzle of a gun
Like an extended metaphor that might change the world
And there were plenty of metaphors
Falling over each other
like a line before a firing squad
Peace as a dove or a clear blue sky
Peace as a garden or a warm embrace
The susurrating sea and even a floating balloon
Although I think that was a nod to the Nena song
That we all sang along to in the 80s
I even thought about sharing one myself
Something I’d read about from 1925
When the whole world was looking for promises
Across Wales a ‘Daffodil Day for Peace’ sprung up
And the idea of our humble flower reblooming light
Into all the dark spaces
Seemed perfect—until I realized that was many years ago
The women who offered the metaphors
(because we were only women)
Seemed earnest and passionate
And ultimately defeated
You see the problem with writing peace
Is that at the end of the longest day
You still need someone willing
to read it.
Adele Evershed is a Welsh writer who moved from the Valleys to the American East Coast. A Pushcart Prize–nominated poet and Touchstone Award winner for an individual poem, she co-edits Thin Skin Journal. She has published Turbulence in Small Spaces and three novellas-in-flash. Her work appears in leading journals including Poetry Wales and Modern Haiku among others in print worldwide.
Alan Mansell
The Ben Nevis Peace Cairn*
(Thoughts on VJ Day Anniversary, 2025)
Did Highland mist clear quickly that August morn
or linger, like the clicking dust dawn over eastern cities,
howling souls of the massacres past and present
caught up in grey purgatorial swirls.
Did the cairn’s stones then glow with youth’s energy flow
of hope, for on reaching his proud peak of mass slaughter,
mankind must surely accept “thou shalt not”,
the Charter given again in these stones.
Is the dream now gone of peaceful days in bright sun
or cloud-hidden, as the storms of rhetoric brew,
for if bitterness and hate we perpetuate hope crumbles,
like the castle above the cairn builders’ home.
*On VJ Day 1945, the Peace Cairn was built at the summit of Ben Nevis by a party of boys from Vicar Street Bible Class, Dudley, led by the tireless peace campaigner Bert Bissell. Their hometown is overlooked by its ruined castle, slighted during the Civil War.
Alan Mansell is retired after a career mainly in Higher Education Finance and lives in Shropshire. He writes mainly poetry. In recent years a number of Alan’s poems have been listed/commended in competitions and/or published in various magazines/anthologies. His interests include conservation, music, history and following a notably unsuccessful local football team!
Howard Timms
The man who never found peace
He lived through three wars when the U.S. failed
to change a regime in a far-off land —
one that hadn’t attacked America.
He dodged the draft for Vietnam
with a cowboy claim of “spurs on his heels”
something never medically proven.
He longed for a peace prize bauble
tried blackmail to gain nominations
but was firmly told he didn’t deserve it.
He spent his life on verbal attacks
on any who opposed him
and forgave only those who flattered him.
When he started another foreign war
a spotlight shone on his lifestyle
of attacking anyone — to divert attention
From his Achilles heel —
Trump’s very active friendship
with villainous Jeffrey Epstein
Howard Timms’s biography is here
Prompt for the Peace Anthology
What does peace mean to you, your family, your local area, your country? Peace of mind? The end of a war, battle, fight, argument, disagreement, misunderstanding? Having friends, lover, partner, family, job, money, security, untroubled future? Avoiding aggressive situations? Finding a peaceful environment?
How much peace do you expect or need? Today, this week/year/decade/lifetime? Are you optimistic or pessimistic about future peace, and why? Who or what is threatening, preventing, risking peace? What puzzling, misguided, intriguing, attractive ideas of peace have you encountered?
Peace in our time? The Peace theme was chosen in early February, as the prospect of a peace settlement in Ukraine seemed to be dragging its way nearer. Since then, another huge war started when Israel and United States attacked Iran. Soon 13 Middle East countries were targets of deadly attacks. By mid March the U.S. had lost 13 military personnel.
The road to peace is a vital part of this theme. Was Winston Churchill right when he said in the 1950’s that it was better to Jaw Jaw than War War?
In short, what poems or stories do you have relating in any way to Peace?
Whatever you submit, the Wildfire Team looks for writing that grabs our attention, pulls our heart strings, leaves us open-mouthed or holding our breath, makes us think, makes us laugh or cry, and/or is strikingly original. In short, words that excite us enough to share them with Wildfire Words readers.
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