by 
he thought it would be . . .
some version of heaven’s gate
his move to the big bright noisy city
dusting off the black and blue of his old life,
ready to flint-spark a new fire and a new hope
but a change of venue is not a change of character ~
flames wouldn’t burst from green twigs, nor a
spirit roam given the bounds of a mental dovecote
no matter then, the variegated humanity or
the plummy metropolis and apartment view
he took himself with himself
his heartbeat sluggish and dull on the
daily feed of the same old self-delusions
© 2013, poem and photograph, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved
WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT
We’ve probably all been there and/or known someone who’s been there, thinking if they change where they live, who their married to, where they go to school, things will be better. Maybe they will, but probably not unless there are some internal changes. What’s your view or experience? Tell us in poem or prose. If you feel comfortable, share the link to your work in the comments section below or – if the piece is short enough – just post the piece. Work shared in response to this writing prompt will be featured here next Tuesday.
THE WORDPLAY SHOP: books, tools and supplies for poets, writers and readers
We continue with the current recommended read: On Tyranny: Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century by Timothy Snyder. Left, right or center – American or not – it’s a must read.
LESSON TEN: BELIEVE IN TRUTH “To abandon facts is to abandon freedom. If nothing is true, then no one can criticize power, because there is no basis upon which to do so. If nothing is true, then all is spectacle. The biggest wallet pas for the most blinding lights.” Prof. Snyder, On Tyranny, Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century
Jamie Dedes' THE POET BY DAY Webzine 
Hi Jamie! I like your prompt and poem. Here is my response to your prompt at https://reneejustturtleflight.com/2017/04/23/flight-of-a-fashion. Thanks!
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Thank you!
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Parable of the Red Birds
The cardinals outside my window
Have two babies cuddled in the nest-
I peered in to see gray downy bundles
Rather ugly little fellows, mouths all agape.
Today, the fledglings are out of the nest.
The male cardinal has been vigilant,
Constantly flying to the little dears,
Dropping food in their open mouths.
While they flap clumsy tiny wings
The father flits about, devout in his care
Leaving me to wonder, where is Momma?
What is that Momma Cardinal up to?
After a little reading, I have discovered
No—she didn’t fly the coop with a lover-
She’s off to make her second nest of eggs.
The father is feeding her and the babies!
So what does this have to do with the grass
Looking greener over the fence? Nothing.
Sometimes everything is as it should be-
Your home is where your family assembles-
Either the family you’re been born with
Or the cackle of friends you’ve chosen
And gathered, dear one by dear one,
And it’s the place you build your wings.
Sharon Frye
4/20/17
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Well done, Sharon. Thank you!
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quite often these days
I focus on a moment from the past
identify strongly with it
and very soon find myself back there
pursuing a path that leads
from that moment into other moments
that just might have been
so that I am lost in passageways
I never took—corridors of time
I maybe only half-explored; it’s an effort
to wrench myself away back here
where all’s strange and unaccountable
& forlorn with a sense of great loss
so it was when I discovered (used as
a bookmark) a letter I never answered
asking me if I was happy now
I had left her and gone my own way—
if I could let her know (she said) she’d
rest content so I disappear into her
missing me and start wondering how
to reply—the letter is fifty-five years old
for god’s sake but as I said I’m prone
to follow up these distant naked leads
fully expecting the characters I bring to life
to make a response to me as I do to them
(From ‘The Recovery of Wonder’
published in 2013 under my Hub Editions imprint)
[Title in bold!]
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Wonderfful Colin, and I love the title. It’s evoative in itself.
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Hi Jamie,
Here’s my submission on today’s prompt
Picked Apple Falls Hard On Him
i) Him On Her
agápē
apples, little earths
of laughtered kisses
of words that tickle
of giggle flesh,
deep red and green
or change in colour
from one to the other
windfall
or pick one.
Your apricots, peaches
and nectarines
a predatory sweetness
invites the unwary
as you feel slightly soft
and pull away easily
blackcurrant berries
swell to full size and turn
a shiny blue-black
incise deep past
the mantel to core
molten with sweet
juice oozes
over your tongue
out of the flesh
out of the month
through holes in the bones
life agape
Picked Apple, woodbride,
you tend gardens with skill,
devoted to orchards’ care,
love fields and branches
laden with ripe apples,
carry a curved pruning knife,
cut back scraggy growth,
lop limbs spread too far,
split bark, insert a graft,
provide sap from different stock
for trees bairns.
Will not suffer them being parched, waters twining tendrils o’ their thirsty
root. This is your love, your passion,
no need of lust. Workaholic, close
yourself off in an orchard, post a notice, ” No Men Allowed”.
2) Her On Him
glance and you’re a scraggy girl darkened in denim,
a bespectacled man in a ballooned jumper, honeyed farmer, shy hunter,
mollusced fisherman.
I wake up to a tupped shepherd,
come back to a wick carjacker.
You’re everyone else, but yourself.
can’t pin you down,
my turning year,
first grape that darkens
on purpling bunch,
spiky corn-ear that swells
with milky grain; near my toes
you’re sweet cherries, autumn plums and a mulberry redder
in summer,
a change in the weather,
a new set of clothes,
an alteration in the air,
and I love you.
3) My Seduction
A challenge. Never impress
you as myself.
Too young, no prospects.
Men have to invent
themselves to get anywhere.
I want to see you all the time.
So I turns up at your door
a rude farmer,
brought you a basket
filled with ears of barley.
Next, my forehead bound with freshly cut hay, as I might have been tossing new-mown grass.
“Sorry. No men. Busy.”
Another day I lumped horses
bridle in my stiff hand,
so you’d swear I’d unyoked
a weary team.
“No stables. Goodbye!”
With knife I were a female dresser
and pruner of vines:
“No vines here. I’m busy.”
Sometimes I’d carry ladder
and bucket a Window cleaner.
“No windows here. Goodbye.”
A scraggy girl darkened in denim,
beg a bunch of wildflowers
for her mam and you say
“Nothing wild in this garden, girl.
Sorry, mowed them all down”
A bespectacled man in a ballooned jumper, honeyed farmer, shy hunter,
mollusced fisherman.
“Sorry. Read the notice. No men allowed.”
4) The Old Lass
I wrap my head with a coloured scarf,
lean on a staff, sprout grey hair, wrinkled
as a decaying fruit, caved in hollows,
thin skin, fungus faced, moles, brown
blotches, sour breath, stink of stale piss lingers, and a small spiky moustache.
She lets me in her well-tended garden,
to admire fruit and fruit of her
She a Pear’s sweetness
salves a searching tongue,
a Peach’s blush like sunrise
a Plum’s scent entices, smooth and laughing,
a Cherry’s scarlet lips rain sodden
a blossoming branch
makes bees dance
a secret orchard
‘You are so much more lovely’,
I snog her.
Then apologise.
Sit on flattened grass,
look at branches bend weighed
down with fruit.
Vine and Tree
There is an elm opposite,
gleaming bunches of grapes.
I tell her
“Remarkable tree, and its entwining vine.
But, if that tree stood there, unmated,
without its vine, it wouldn’t be sought after for more than its leaves, and vine
also, joined to and rests on the elm,
will lie on the ground,
if it were not married to it, and leaning on it.’
You reply “It is a tree. Marriage means nothing to me.”
“A thousand men want you,
you shun them, turn away.”
But, if you are wise,
if you want to marry well,
listen to me, an old lass,
as loves you more than you think,
more than them all, reject others
and choose Change to share your bed!
You have my pledge as well:
he’s not better known to himself
than he is to me: he does not wander
hither and thither, lives by himself
and he doesn’t love latest girl he’s seen.
You’ll be his first love, and his last.
He’ll devote his life only to you.
He’s young, blessed with natural charm,
can take on a fitting appearance, if needs be. Whatever you want,
though you ask for all of it,
he will do.
He doesn’t want fruit of your trees,
or sweet juice of your herbs:
he needs nothing but you.
Take pity on his ardour,
and believe that he,
who seeks you,
is begging you,
in person, through my gob.
I’ll tell you the tale
of Stone Lass
“Spunk sees Cruel lass from afar
gobsmacked by her looks
he gets smitten hard
and determines she’ll be hooked
Asks her mates for her mobile number,
and all her social media pages,
scours internet for details,
winds himself up in rages.
Gets his message through once
or twice but she mocks him
” Fancy me. You do right. I’m gorgeous”
and promptly blocks him.
Finds her home and knocks
and her Dad answers and says
“She don’t want to know, son.
Thinks your a stalker. Away!”
Writes his first letter and posts
it personally through her door,
it tells her she’s won and he’ll be gone
she can celebrate and more
she can see him lose his life
which is all he has left for her.
Cruel scoffs at this but goes along
for the crack and laughter.
She sees him throw a rope
already knotted around a beam
put his neck in the noose
and let out a scarifying scream.
Then she feels herself harden
stone thoughts
stone mouth
stone neck
stone chest
stone limbs
stone heart
calcified flesh and bone
she is a statue.”
Picked Apple has no reaction.
Change thinks stuff it
and becomes himself
young, virile and fresh.
Picked Apple falls hard for him.
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Thank you! Well done, Paul.
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Two responses. Bravo! 🙂
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and…..
:: when ::
when small boys wake early,
when the journey is long,
the other disturbing the night
until all around is tired,
no real work done.
breaking backs.
have you really lost your arm,
have you really changed your life,
have you lost your sun glasses
in paradise?
do you know the people here,
who think i have sold my house,
who look after the dead,
sbm.
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I rather think this is too commonly observed human characteristic … well documented here. Good poem, Sonja. Thanks!
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Thanks Jamie. Here is my response to this week’s prompt.
. poeticize .
this piece more.
it can be an indication
of disorder, a slight
abstraction. tasks
repeating, sleep hard.
wake to find a black shape
floating.
should i make some rhyme
or less subtraction there.
change the tune,
bless birds that some
have shorter names.
know this is a critic’s site,
take the words on board,
try to change.
i am just not critical, nor italian.
sbm.
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