[su_box title=”Peace” box_color=”#2D2D73″ radius=”0″]The topic for Creative Writing this issue is peace, and with good reason. As of late, the world has been reeling from the shock of terror in our midst – the evil actions of a small few to punish innocent people. I chose two themes for the writers this time – ‘a call for peace’ or ‘the vigil’, and once again the responses display UEA’s unique sensitivity and empathy for those who are suffering around us. – Jay Stonestreet, Creative Writing Editor[/su_box]

[su_spoiler title=” The Flame of Kindness – Imogen Swash” style=”simple” icon=”chevron-circle” anchor=”Flame”]

We all hold the flame of goodness, Deep within ourselves.
It burns on love, on family, on the gift of kindness
And is distinguished only with our last breath.

Sometimes our flames struggle and flicker,
They fight against desert winds and hurricane rains.

Wavering with sorrow, our flames weep their smoke,
Which unfurls and soothes with its rich homely scent.

Every ember will grow again,
Each will transform into its original, beautiful body,
We can all radiate the warmth of love, With each flame of goodness the bat- tles will be conquered
And desert winds and hurricane storms will be no more.

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[su_spoiler title=”Gazing Peace – Jay Stonestreet” style=”simple” icon=”chevron-circle” anchor=”Gazing”]

I set out on my walk, a half-minute till the midnight dawn. The silver moth wing wisps agape show me diminutive visions of age.

Behind them, consciously emptying and filling always with bomb and bursting birth, Supernovae happening away at the instant of my footfall.

Ever a witness in mind, for these expiring lenses live like a fly through summer, Buzzing and batting but just as brief with reflected colour, frantic dream, teasing prophecy.

Eyes ascend from leaves, leaves, sodden yellow, sulphur under lamps, Over eaves, eaves and steaming tiles.

Thud, thud in gazing peace. A loamy damp obstruction

Scatters and scrapes colourless cold.

All you stars, now and then a now away,

All you stars here and gone.

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[su_spoiler title=”Mungu Wetu – Carlo Saio” style=”simple” icon=”chevron-circle” anchor=”Mungu”]

Morning broke this morning,

sleep caught like crystal dew

in the prison call of the sun

dawning far away

 

from the grey

bland aftertaste of day,

the horizon’s lifeless grain;

a mauve shawl of the dying winter

emerges in splinters, wanting to dawn

more, more than just day, today

 

Flitter falls, fell with the night,

first eyes, found first blossom trails

on silent fairy lights, carrying the wind.

 

Feet step on delicate origami worlds

 

scattered miniatures of all we hold,

revolve in the breath they blow

 

Life glows the starblood centers of the blossom

 

uncurled and alive from where they fell,

the mist pressed them onto themselves

into one amassing tide of perfume

of the most delicate youth, running beneath

the powder fall of thoughts,

of possibilities,

of life

That morning masks and mutes,

numbs the focus of the fall

and renders the sweet stung scent

blanched by its own discovery

when in the full circle of a year,

all stops, suddenly aware

as if hung on a weightless impasse,

clung to a belief that will never come

and through this infinite, the miniature worlds

of the blossoms curls,  slowly part;

mark the splintering of their white

by creases of crimson spills of sight

and find refuge in the fight to grapple

and turn a shadowless light;

a transparent disguise

to their inseparable selves

one hundred and forty seven selves

fell into the blossom’s plight

in my first sight of spring

each whispering

 

– when we fall, we fall

each and all, to the one floor

from the same great height-

 

and on they fall, and on we fall

converging in woe, engrained

in the dirt pressed from our past;

the identity cast of our footprints

mar on the blossom grounds of life,

unable to live out of difference,

outside of reasons, too afraid of seeing

ends, when they are the beginnings

to the hemlock spin of our blossom season,

 

We are the spiral of the gyre’s design,

The heliocentrism of no sun

but ourselves

forgotten as fingerprints of spring

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[su_spoiler title=”Calling for An End – Charles Pritchard” style=”simple” icon=”chevron-circle” anchor=”End”]

Now do I appraise that which I did not.

The gall of Gauls rising to the throat.

La musique, L’ivresse, et la joie

A beautiful trinity,

Because it is human,

Not tediously divine.

They need not pray to Muses

While they dance already in the Paris bars

Beaten in drink yet never sinking pissed –

As though hung from young vines

Curling to the night.

They have thrown the crosses from their shoulders

And ripped shirts of imperial stains

Beyond repair.

What would redeem the revellers

Who heard the band sing

That they had met the devil

As they played His song

With pleasure only fauns evoke.

And He was there.

Sprawling in the detail

Branching like paths of thoughts

That culminate to joy –

The numbness with no death –

Pulling his people with release and contraction.

His muscle flexes stronger than God’s tongue

If he does have one.

But those fires that arose

Were not of Hells’ design –

Merely from martyrs to the temples built on air.

They who revive the timeless inanity

Of revenge upon Death’s lovers

Who are of no nation,

Who are of no heart.

I cry for waving crescents

And steep my head for the mothers

Who over them once ruled.

For our redemption in their eyes

Let us bring an end.

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