Cafe Writing

We seek to find peace of mind in the word, the formula, the ritual. The hope is illusion. — Benjamin Cardozo

Using the quotation above as your inspiration, write a poem (any form is fine) about peace, hope, and ritual.

This is one of the December Writing projects at Cafe Writing.

This link is to all of the participants this month in all six categories.

Also this week at the Writers Island the prompt is ‘The Promise’ and I think this poem works for both sites.

It’s been awhile since I’ve written a sestina poem, so here are the basic rules once more. (You can read my other nine sestina poems at my poetry blog.)

Sestina poetry rules. 1-2-3-4-5-6. The lines of the next stanza must then proceed to be 6-1-5-2-4-3. 3rd: 3-6-4-1-2-5. 4th: 5-3-2-6-1-4. 5th: 4-5-1-3-6-2. 6th: 2-4-6-5-3-1. Now, the final stanza, the envoy, is three lines long and each line will end with 5-3-1, with 2, 4 and 6 being buried in the lines.

“Tis The Season”

The voice of a thousand bells rang out with hope
that winter’s day. Bright colors warmed the snow
and the pallid sun strove to melt hearts. Peace
be upon you and all of yours in this time of strife.
For it is said that one shall come to share our ritual.
Glad tidings for some, but others remained cold.

Speech would not fill empty bellies, nor heat cold
rooms. For the poor and desperate, little hope
in empty promises. Had many a century of ritual
and still the land groaned under tyranny. Snow
drifted high and blame placed on the rich. Strife
was now the norm, black looks instead of peace.

Soldiers marched, steel swords kept fragile peace.
Riven with dissension, leaders thoughts grew cold
and harsh. Crushed beneath edicts, grim strife
erupted. All through the night flares alight, hope
blazed and consumed. Come daybreak, the snow
stained red. Too many were given last rites ritual.

Hollow eyes and paupers graves, the empty ritual
of death. The silence felt in town after town, peace
at last, for no one left. The earth, covered in snow
lay dormant. Spring, far way on this biting cold
day, would return once more. The sense of hope
had been crushed, but still cause for more strife.

Change would come, forced from below. Strife
channeled into words and deeds. Codified ritual
replaced heredity, slowly the actions gave hope.
A concept not readily grasped, perceived peace
to be weak. Throughout the long, dark night, cold
plots designed. Strike they would, in melted snow.

At last the heated rays revealed fresh green. Snow
had gone and with the warming earth, false strife
commenced. Old ways and new corruption. Cold
calculations yielded poor harvests for the ritual
of change had sprouted deep roots. At last peace
and prosperity had replaced the longing of hope.

No longer a burden was snow, but a blessed ritual.
No more harsh strife, but harmony and peace.
No longer starved and cold, but a future of hope.