Spirit Incarnate. . . and other poems in response to the last (and final) Wednesday Writing Prompt

Photograph courtesy of Elena Joland, Unsplash

“I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.”
Douglas Adams, T
he Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul



The delay in getting this posted for you and the reason for it being the final Wednesday Writing Prompt: I was rushed to the Emergency Department few weeks ago and was not expected to make it through that first night.  My wonderful pulmonary team pulled me through. After about two weeks or so of trying various medical protocols, I was released from the hospital and into in-home hospice care, which is where I am right now. I will keep The Poet by Day open so that you can reach for things that you might find helpful and inspiring. I may post periodically if I am up to it and have something worthy to say or news I believe people might find helpful. Family may post periodically as well.  Meanwhile, my affection and gratitude to all of you who have been so very supportive and helpful and such a valued part of my life.  You cannot know the joy you’ve gifted as I watch so many – including me – grow through these years.  You and your work are valued.

Posted here today – belatedly but with love and appreciation – are poems in response to the last and final Wednesday Writing Prompt, With Twice Found Hope and Tender Love, June 24 . Thanks to Anjum Wasim Dar, Irma Do, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Frank McMahon, Mahfuz Rahman (new to our pages and warmly welcome), and Adrian Slonaker. Enjoy! … and poem on all …

In the spirit of peace, love (respect), and community,
Jamie



Spirit Incarnate

I believe I am an spirit incarnate,
Landed from the skies above, on
a plate without a parachute, I
survived, though for many years
of childhood I had a wobbly walk,
would often fall from just anywhere,

and everyone started calling me,
“now what” and “ what next, where?”
Was a runner, everywhere, never hungry
loved the open air, loved books, all fair
life was joyful, life was free but in the
lawn, up the tree, under a watchful eye.

of some one elderly, unaware of witches
dangers, rapists, life had lots of company.
The air was clean, water was plenty, fruit
abundant, home was home not a house
less toys to playwith more books to read
there never was a sad time or an urgent need,

many now say “you had a good childhood”-
16mm screen movies funny films to see
every Sunday a picnic on the hills, must be-
out of war zone safely in peace, I thought
life was fun and love , no care or any worry,
but soon in teens the world all changed, war

came in with blackouts disturbed home-
curfew isolation restrictions all set in-since
1960s war has not stopped, terrorism spread
no place was safe, of race religion or creed
who was the enemy no one recognized- war
was for another’s cause, schools closed and
remained closed, danger at every step outside
what will the future be what will government
decide, uncertainty reigned over country-
peace came in bits and pieces, life was now
a cautionary tale, picnics died, inside, inside
eat homemade inside, where to run? Hardly

space for a short walk in the lane, but come
let’s walk. Let’s practice patience, as parents
became ill, life now is at a standstill, no parents
no kids, no jobs, no travel, no picnics, just press
the button –and plug in the wire life- switch on
the TV, watch the news, how many killed –stress

no, stay clean, wash hands, eat that is healthy
look in silence, other kids are playing in the lane
they do not know yet the pain or gain or war
they have not gone far, nor seen any real war
they fly simple kites, dream of ice cream cones
they look weak, almost skin and bones

life is calm now, to be grateful, and I dream of
flying up to the stars, my home is there in the
Milky way will I be alone ? No, friends will be
there, shining stars all the way, Life at times
makes me dance and I secretly do a few steps
you may laugh if you see me, but the best is yet

to be-

©2020, Anjum Wasim Dar

The Best Is Yet Be

I believe I am an spirit incarnate,
Landed from the skies above, on
a plate without a parachute, I
survived, though for many years
of childhood I had a wobbly walk,
would often fall from just anywhere,

and everyone started calling me,
“now what” and “ what next, where?”
Was a runner, everywhere, never hungry
loved the open air, loved books, all fair
life was joyful, life was free but in the
lawn, up the tree, under a watchful eye.

of some one elderly, unaware of witches
dangers, rapists, life had lots of company.
The air was clean, water was plenty, fruit
abundant, home was home not a house
less toys to playwith more books to read
there never was a sad time or an urgent need,

many now say “you had a good childhood”-
16mm screen movies funny films to see
every Sunday a picnic on the hills, must be-
out of war zone safely in peace, I thought
life was fun and love , no care or any worry,
but soon in teens the world all changed, war

came in with blackouts disturbed home-
curfew isolation restrictions all set in-since
1960s war has not stopped, terrorism spread
no place was safe, of race religion or creed
who was the enemy no one recognized- war
was for another’s cause, schools closed and
remained closed, danger at every step outside
what will the future be what will government
decide, uncertainty reigned over country-
peace came in bits and pieces, life was now
a cautionary tale, picnics died, inside, inside
eat homemade inside, where to run? Hardly

space for a short walk in the lane, but come
let’s walk. Let’s practice patience, as parents
became ill, life now is at a standstill, no parents
no kids, no jobs, no travel, no picnics, just press
the button –and plug in the wire life- switch on
the TV, watch the news, how many killed –stress

no, stay clean, wash hands, eat that is healthy
look in silence, other kids are playing in the lane
they do not know yet the pain or gain or war
they have not gone far, nor seen any real war
they fly simple kites, dream of ice cream cones
they look weak, almost skin and bones

life is calm now, to be grateful, and I dream of
flying up to the stars, my home is there in the
Milky way will I be alone ? No, friends will be
there, shining stars all the way, Life at times
makes me dance and I secretly do a few steps
you may laugh if you see me, but the best is yet

to be-

© 2020, Anjum Wasim Dar

Anjum-ji’s sites are:

“POETRY PEACE and REFORM Go Together -Let Us All Strive for PEACE on EARTH for ALL -Let Us Make a Better World -WRITE To Make PEACE PREVAIL.” Anjum Wasim Dar


A Shining Moment

I am drinking hot coffee despite the 90 degree weather, the sweet creamy liquid warming my nostrils before I take a sip. I hold it for a moment, savoring it’s decadence before swallowing, while watching my children run through the sprinkler. The sunlight glistens off the water droplets hanging onto their dark hair and tan skin. These diamonds sparkle and glisten before being flung into the air echoing the sound of their laughter. I drink my coffee and commit this happy, shining moment to memory.

Growing up, my sprinkler was the fire hydrant in front of my neighbor’s house. Instead of soft, squishy grass underfoot, we had pavement that left our feet raw from scrapes on the unyielding surface. Our laughter gurgled like the fire hydrant while our screams matched the siren wail of the police – a warning that our water play time would soon come to an end. My mother would drink black coffee and watch us from the stoop, her worries emanating from the lines between her eyes, like the sun’s rays burning our already darkened skin.

On this summer day, I drink my coffee, leaning against my marble countertop while looking at my children through the panoramic kitchen window and toast myself for not having wrinkles between my eyes.

Sunshine rewarding
Generations of hard work –
Suburban sprinkler

© 2020, Irma Do

Irma’s site is: I Do Run, And I do a few other things too . .  


Song

“I lost my heart in an English garden”.
My voice was a boat on a turquoise river,
the banks clustered with large red blossoms
framed by dark green leaves. I could warble then,
stretched out in the bath, Ave Marias
and such-like, could follow notes on staves
in the school-boy choir.
Something broke,
the song mid-flow as three girls turned
the corner, giggled and sneered. Later the boat
pitched and yawed, lost its bearings,
timbers creaking, barnacled.

Black on white, phrases tacking between
major, minor and older modes, singing
from heart and page,
no longer lost in a quiet street.

© 2020, Frank MacMahon

At the Storm’s Edge (recommended without reservation)by Frank MacMahon is available through Amazon US HERE and Amazon UK HERE.


.a challenge.

then i was small

with no understanding really

of what went on

now i am small, yet bigger than i was then

&

ditto above.

© 2020,Sonja Benskin Mesher

Sonja’s sites are:


Going back to recall agonies

Time flies and we move forward
It may take just a blink of eyes or a short span of time and everything happens.
Life has variations, however it changes.
Our little child body growing old someday.

Look, when I was a child,
was used to siting beside my mom.
Nowadays, I used to sit beside my beloved gal, but do miss that caress and softness.
Now, I sit alongside the river each and everyday, I look at the serene water. But this water can not extinguish my agonies because my heart is burning for a long since and became a volcano. It has already been broken down and became an ocean of catastrophic storms.

Still, I sit under that bunyan tree but I do miss those days when I was used to playing with my mates; was used to passing my good afternoons under its green shade.
I feel shy to go to under the neighbours tarmarind tree what was once my daily routine to pick up tarmarind.
At present, I write my pains with pen, do write all of the missing times and things.
Am turned young by courses of time, not more than a gradually developed materialistic worm,
Aged a score plus seven.

I can’t escape the present. What I can is to ruminate the bygones; am overall a reminiscient.
Thousands of days have been flied over
Millions of memories have been engraved with.

© 2020, Mahfuz Rahman

Mahfuz Rahman is from Bangladesh. He writes poems and short stories. His work is featured in Tuck Magazine, Persian Sugar in English Tea, and Gideon Poetry Review.


Quand J’étais Petit

Quand j’étais petit,
I preferred pink to blue
and flowers to football.
I longed to learn languages and
relished the garish gooseflesh
inflicted by ghost stories
and pizza after swims on
sweltering July afternoons with the
girl on Sunset Avenue I dreamt of
sharing a purple house with.

Maintenant que je suis grand,
complications have cropped up;
celeste bests salmon, but
bubblegum beats cobalt.
I still delight in deep-dish
and cool dips in the pool
and fancy a fistful of forget-me-nots,
but pigskin takes priority on
Super Bowl Sunday, and
I survive on my own in
an ivory building,
ruffled and flushed by
at a life far more real than the
showy shocks of
any Gothic thriller.

© 2020, Adrian Slonaker

You can find more of Adrian’s poems by using the search feature here at The Poet by Day and on The BeZine.


Jamie Dedes:

Your donation HERE helps to fund the ongoing mission of The Poet by Day in support of poets and writers, freedom of artistic expression, and human rights.

Poetry rocks the world!


“Every pair of eyes facing you has probably experienced something you could not endure.”  Lucille Clifton

Update on Tuesday’s collection here and the June Issue of Womawords Literary Press

“To be a poet is a condition, not a profession.” Robert Graves, a response to a questionnaire in Horizon, 1946.



I am without computer for the moment and will have to publish the responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt later in the week. This is about as much of a post as I can manage on my cell.

The June edition of Mbizo Chirasha’s Womawords Literary Press will post on Monday. Search it out. Thanks to all those who submitted work. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Meanwhile, everyone can read the ten poems selected for publication.

Hope your hearts are filled with joy and peace and that you are staying safe and healthy.

In the spirit of peace, love (respect) and community,
Jamie


Jamie Dedes:

Your donation HERE helps to fund the ongoing mission of The Poet by Day in support of poets and writers, freedom of artistic expression, and human rights.

Poetry rocks the world!


“Every pair of eyes facing you has probably experienced something you could not endure.”  Lucille Clifton

 

With Twice Found Hope and Tender Love, a poem . . . and your next Wednesday Writing Prompt

“If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance.”
Immaturity, George Bernard Shaw, The Collected Works of George Bernard Shaw: Plays, Novels, Articles, Letters and Essays



We four, we fumbled our pas de quatre on river rocks in
a faraway place of raging Hudson and an antique cloister.
No escape from mutilation but for books and theater,
old stories reborn, told in graceful moves and music made
for those with better breeding, more cultivated minds.

Home, our home, a place of first loves, unfounded hope
where simmering, Sidto* served soup to my sister,
a dark-olive girl-fugue in tar black and char dust.
In that place whirling with church spires and myrtle trees,
grimacing and breathless, we spun along twisted shores.
The mothers buried anger in silence. Cold bile leaked. I
slipped, broke my ballerina legs in a premature grand jeté.
I failed to heal those fissured old hearts.

We were lost, our frenzied dabke* danced in crazy time,
passing green humid summers and silver crisp winters,
swinging the stone shackles of the earth-bound. Home . . .
At home, such a tangled skein of love and lies and ties where,
by the bogey breeze, tripping on river rocks, hysterical
imaginings, one stepped lively in schadenfreude.

Solitary now

Alone above rainforest layers of a lyrical mind, I dance
triumphant, a pas marché on rain clouds, plumbed, bursting
with hard-won poems in roses, willow greens, and light.
With twice-found hope and tender love, I dance for them.

*Sidto (Arabic) – grandmother; Dabke (Arabic) – folk dance of the Levantine peoples 

© 2019, poem, Jamie Dedes; Illustration courtesy of Fran Hogan, Public Domain Photograph.net.

WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT

This week’s challenge is to juxtapose your life as a child against your life now as an adult. Share your poem/s on theme and . . .

  • please submit your poem/s by pasting them into the comments section and not by sharing a link
  • please submit poems only, no photos, illustrations, essays, stories, or other prose

PLEASE NOTE:

Poems submitted on theme in the comments section here will be published in next Tuesday’s collection. Poems submitted through email or Facebook will not be published. If you are new to The Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt, be sure to include a link to your website, blog, and/or Amazon page to be published along with your poem. Thank you!

Deadline:  Monday, June 29 by 8 pm Pacific Time. If you are unsure when that would be in your time zone, check The Time Zone Converter.

Anyone may take part Wednesday Writing Prompt, no matter the status of your career: novice, emerging or pro.  It’s about exercising the poetic muscle, showcasing your work, and getting to know and befriend other poets who might be new to you.

You are welcome – encouraged – to share your poems in a language other than English but please accompany it with a translation into English.


Jamie Dedes:

Your donation HERE helps to fund the ongoing mission of The Poet by Day in support of poets and writers, freedom of artistic expression, and human rights.

Poetry rocks the world!



FEEL THE BERN

For Peace, Sustainability, Social Justice

Maintain the movement.

“Democracy is not a spectator sport.” Bernie Sanders



“Every pair of eyes facing you has probably experienced something you could not endure.”  Lucille Clifton

The Darkness . . . and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

Photograph courtesy of Jian Xhin, Unsplash

“All of us, whoever we may be, have our respirable beings. We lack air and we stifle. Then we die. To die for lack of love is horrible. Suffocation of the soul.”  Victor Hugo, Les Misérables



And this being Tuesday, it’s time to share the responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Hypoxic Moment,  June 17, which invited poets to share poems about situations that are suffocating, literally or metaphorically.  Thanks to Anjum Wasim Dar, Irma Do, Irene Emanuel, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Adrian Slonaker, and Mike Stone for this collection, which invites you to ponder and to sympathize.  Enjoy . . . 

. . . and do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are welcome: beginning, emerging, and pro poets. This is a safe place to exercise your poetic muscle, to introduce yourself to our community, and to meet other poets who may be new to you.


To my Stubborn Father from your Stubborn Daughter

Dearest Dad – You always stood your ground
With standards high above my reach
Standing on that moral hill
Cloistered rules, you did teach
I inhaled it all
Principled breath
Held belief
Until
Truth
Breathed
Knowledge
You don’t know
Of the “Other”
Exhaled, these old rules
No longer hold my views
I have climbed another hill
And stand on ground planted by you
With love and principles – Your Daughter

© 2020, Irma Do

Irma’s site is: I Do Run, And I do a few other things too . .  


Oxygen a Lifeline

Then in hypoxic moments everyone must be
sometime, in some moments of life, as human
beings, me, a restless soul nurturing anxiety
facing confusion, falling often suffering a neck
injury at the age of six, unconscious, for long, I
survived that hypoxic moment, to live with pain,

a tiny insect that killed a powerful king, entered
my body through the skin, injecting poison that
polluted my blood, caused shivering, sweating
intermittent fever and occasional hypoxic gaps
a severe sudden abdominal spasm would
put me off balance , gasping into oblivion.

unconscious falling into a terrifying hypoxic
moment,I survived,fortunately with help close by
“Malaria can do anything”. The doctor said, “Keep
quinine in your bag”, the sweaty feverish attacks
would drain my energy leave me bedbound for
days and weeks, the tabs prevented but did not cure.

There would be recurrent attacks, more,what caused
them, I never was sure,long time later, one night, a
severe painful spasm twisted the system inside me
nausea intense, vomiting gasps, seconds later collapse
in a hypoxic moment, no breath, no consciousness
lifeless, my head fell from side to side, darkness engulfed

the door of light closed.
“She is all blue, she will not survive”.
All was dark again, no breath, no sound, no movement
I sensed being lifted, hypoxic moment prolonged but
I had time to stay on Earth, a fast falling drip hung by
the window’s bolt, Father’s faint vision appeared before my
eyes, I slipped back into darkness unknown unfelt,

I could not breathe, someone rubbed the top of my head,
someone my feet, this hypoxic moment finally faded away
a new life blessed, my head felt empty I had no voice nor
strength in the eyes. I lay in bed for days, sipping orange
juice with glucose and D.vitamin,
I saw the line between life and death is fragile and thin.

© 2020, Anjum Wasim Dar

Anjum-ji’s sites are:

“POETRY PEACE and REFORM Go Together -Let Us All Strive for PEACE on EARTH for ALL -Let Us Make a Better World -WRITE To Make PEACE PREVAIL.” Anjum Wasim Dar


The Darkness
What blackness pulls me,
protesting that I prefer the light,
but still wrenches my soul
into its glacial madness.
What triumphant tentacle
tweaks my tiredness
into tedious paralysis.
What despicable emotion
delivers my self-respect
into oblivion.
What relentless ribbon
encircles my lungs and
rivets my breath
to my throat.
It is the dull depressive dankness
that deprives my brain
of its life-force
and I die by degrees.
© 2020, Irene Emanuel
Choking
Why is it called a “Heat Wave”
when it doesn’t wave;
it sticks around and burns
up all the moisture within its reach?
It feels like the heat is choking
the life out of everything;
it’s so still and oppressive:
Please let it rain soon
before the World shrivels
into the “Heat Age.”
© 2020, Irene Emanuel
You may read more of Irene’s poems by using the search engine on this site.

..ocean challenge..

1.
write the words, she says
that helps.

it is a drop in the ocean, and cannot
help those already lost.

it was said in depth we drown, and so
it is
so.

we cannot rescue the drowning, record the names.

here.

so we draw dresses.

black dresses do not sell so well.

2.
looks like you are drowning and
hope i am wrong. i can see the
struggle
the turn about in water.

i have done that too
pat says that i have paid the price
but i wonder

i hope

you survive and come clean bare
your feathers.

fly high

if not
i will lay a petal
and think of you

as i think of the others
that drowned before you

3.
to explain to you who cannot see,
the cloy, the quantity of water, tasks, and other
hurts, that fit into a day. the moment
your feet slide into mud, with one word.

heard , read, imagined, the sentence dives and plays
whole, yet as days move on, flotation occurs,
buoys, slowly we face back to sea , swim on.
either that or drown.

4.
will you watch the world treading.
water floats my heart high, reflected red
below, sky above.
will you hold me up when i am failing, no
longer floating . will you play soft music
say
that we are in this together. meanwhile shall
we keep swimming
together?

5. will you save me from drowning?
will you let me breathe?

© 2020, Sonja Benskin Mesher

..verdict..

she

lay as dead did not speak nor ask for fear

lay quiet did not write nor tell there were

new shoes by the wardrobe at an angle

still

did not move nor participate in anyway

did not breathe nor cry there are new

shoes by the wardrobe new shoes

found

guilty always guilty

there was no charge

there was no trial

there were no photographs

no evidence no one talks of it no more

she no longer breathes

no more

© 2020, Sonja Benskin Mesher

.. there is a dampness..

they called it heavy

the adults

before a storm

pits hang damp

lips prickling then he said it

he said it

so I hid in the plant house amongst the smell; the frogs

should I add fetid air or will that just be another cliché

look my device added the required accent there

so it was all dripping down reminding of grandma’s kitchen

brown gloss paint & mustard walls running in cabbage juice

she boiled it dreadful

well they did in those days

no al dente then

it was after the war

now where was i

yes hiding

my heart beating my head out

breath catching

oh no is this my asthma or the disease

going round, have you heard of it

if I tell him I have it will he go, leave me alone

should I cough a lot or is that against the guidelines

even in this situation

I hid a long time, maybe days and when I was sure he

had left

I finally breathed out

© 2020, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Sonja’s sites are:


Terror

Step by step,
unsteadily clawing
away from the
tentative comfort of my sanctuary –
with even the moving molecules of air
too public, too exposed, too raw,
the corridor too wide,
fingertips touching, clutching,
tapping, groping, palpating
wallpaper, columns, strangers’ doors
before I drag my boulder-like body,
mind lurching from lucidity,
into an inescapable elevator
I’ve waited a maddening current of minutes for,
wobbling in loafers as a dry mouth
panted, praying to God and Jesus and the Virgin Mary
it’d be empty and no one would witness the
trembling and fidgeting of feet and hands and
the heartbeat hammering like the hits I
used to dance to in nightclubs in
less dangerous times
(please don’t stop or retreat into an arrhythmia that’ll make me pass out or die and bang and crash against the tiles with the pattern of sixteen perpendicular lines I’m trying to focus on)
and the smears of sweat on my forehead,
only to scowl or snicker at a scapegoat
perceived as a pale druggie on
coke or meth or heroin or angel dust or bennies,
a stain on sane society,
instead of a frantic agoraphobe
(a shut-in before it became fashionable)
burdened by a daily panic attack
on the way to check the mail.

2020, Adrian Slonaker

You can read more of Adrian’s poetry using the search feature on this site andThe BeZine.


Obsessions

Raanana, November 6, 2015

The obsession of breathing
In out, in out
Quickly
Slowly
It doesn’t matter
As long as it continues
In out
Forever
You think about it
And you dream about it
In out, in out
But then the time comes
And you hold onto it
Until you can’t.

The obsession of thinking
The eternal internal babbling
The great chain of associative thought
One thought leads to another
And another
And
Another
Without end
Without silence.

The obsession of loving
Another
So much that you cease to exist
Against the other existence
And how can you love
If you don’t exist
But your love swallows you
And you try to escape love
But it runs along beside you
Holding your hand.

The obsession of writing
About my obsessions
Because writing fulfills one’s obsessions
In the imagination of following them
And to write about her breathing
And to write about thinking of her
And to write about loving her
Is all that a writer wants to do.

The obsession of reading
About other people’s obsessions
If they are like mine
And they write about her breathing
And they write about thinking of her
And they write about loving her
And you can do anything in the world
But look away.

The obsession of living
Of watching the sunset in the roiling sea
And of watching it rise from behind the eastern hills
Ex Oriente lux just one more time
Of hearing the well-practiced flute
From the open window of an apartment
While I’m walking Daisy
To feel the freshness of rainfall from the sky
Like manna from heaven
And her skin against mine
To taste the tang of tangerines and bitterness of coffee
To breathe the fresh washed smell
Of my granddaughter’s hair
Just one more time
One more moment
And not being able to let go of her hand
Or to look away.

Excerpt from Yet Another Book of Poetry

©  2015, Mike Stone  

In Cold Blood

Raanana, September 7, 2015

Cold, oh so cold,
The life and all colors bled from the air
Too cold to breathe
My lungs fill up with coldness
And my blood carries only coldness to my dying limbs
But my dying eyes still see you
Moving away from me
The summer warmth of your beauty
The colors of your eyes and your hair
The warmth of your breathing
And the sound of it
Retreating but returning
Your arms open towards me
To keep me from retreating
But I’ve already gone
Too far away
It is night now
And I am lost.

Excerpt from Yet Another Book of Poetry

© 2015, Mike Stone

Last Will and Testament

Raanana, February 2, 2013

I John H. Doe being of sound body and mind
Do solemnly wonder what it will be like
To have a last will,
Not to will or want anything more
In this life, of this earth,
Not to change my fate or my mind,
Not to stop, turn around, and go back from the edge.
I John H. Doe do solemnly wonder
What it’ll be like to draw my last breath,
To look around for more to breathe
But to find none,
To understand that that is probably that.
I John H. Doe being of sound mind and body
Do solemnly wonder what it will be like
To lose my first marble
My favorite Cats Eye memory of my very first love
Or my last marble,
My best won Dragonfly memory
Of my last and lasting love,
The smell of sunlight on her skin,
The weight of summer against her thigh.
I John H. Doe being of sound body and mind
Do solemnly bequeath my best memories
To the wind whispering through her hair.
I John H. Doe

Excerpt from Yet Another Book of Poetry

© 2013, Mike Stone  

The Mullet and the Osprey

Raanana, October 7, 2018

O what a perfect day
Fragments of dappled sunlight play on rocks
Swimming is effortless as
We fly over and between the smooth rocks
One with the browngreen flow of water,
My friends on either side of me.
Days like these make me happy
For no reason whatsoever.
My friend leaps with joy into the breathless air
And like a ripple, his friend leaps too.
Now it is my turn to leap above the water
O joy!
O stabbing pain!
I can’t breathe, release me, pray!
O horror, stab and crush of talons,
The thud of wings pounds the air
Death awaits me in the nearing nest,
Death, pray, release me from life’s pain.

Excerpt from Call of the Whippoorwill

© 2019, Mike Stone

Mike’s website is HERE.

Call of the Whippoorwill is Mike Stone’s fourth book of poetry. It and other books of poetry and of science fiction by Mike are available from Amazon all over the world. Mike’s U.S. Amazon Page is HERE.


Jamie Dedes:

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