what a morning, good morning
burst of apricot, showering light
drizzling glee, a child’s laughter
if I had to live for just one day
it would be this one, morning-glory
nodding her bright-eyed blue head
and i know, there’s no such thing
no such thing as a death star
there’s only life, over hill and field
shining into windows, on warm grass
Look! the daisies are smiling
and the California poppies are
popping yellow like corn in a pot
the moon was muse last night
today the sun is in love with me

© 2013, poem and photograph, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved

WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT

Tell us in poem or prose what it feels like to be you on your best day.  If you are comfortable sharing your work, leave it in the comment section below. If it’s too long, you can leave a link to it. All work will be published here next Tuesday. Enjoy!

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15 Comments

  2. response 2.

    27 May ( another day in paradise )

    we walked the stone,

    he kept the place special, closed a while,

    is open now . as the sky clears

    through willow arches, white calves

    and butterflies.

    he cuts the shrubs, hedges, and rakes the path tidy.

    it is arthur’s stone.

    sbm.

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  3. Jamie, your poetry is simply fabulous. I wrote about my very best day and I couldn’t get serious. I put it on my blogs before I sent it to you. however I can whip up another by 7 if you would like; i’m writing one or two prompts tonight anyway. got a lot of thinking to do.

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  4. as you take the road to Paradise [bold title!]

    about half-way there
    you come to an inn
    which even as inns go is admirable

    you go into the garden of it
    and see the great trees and the wall
    of Box Hill shrouding you all round

    it is beautiful enough (in all conscience)
    to arrest you without the need of history
    or any admixture of pride of place

    but as you sit in a seat in the garden
    you are sitting where Nelson sat
    when he said goodbye to Emma;

    if you move a yard or two you will be
    where Keats sat biting his pen
    thinking out some new line of poem

    *

    Box Hill is in Surrey, England. It is my ‘soul home’.

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    2. Wow! And yes we do all have a soul home. Lovely! See it here next week. And you didn’t miss a week, Colin. I had to take sometime away to take care of other responsibilities. Hope all is well in your world. See your work here next week. Thanks for participating.

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  5. Please ignore last message. This is my submission

    My Summer Town zoom

    Zoom in to gold world,
    on green metal celebratory gate
    in centre of town between the shops

    Look at it’s green metal pictures.
    an old pump, miners lamp,
    glass bottles, cricket/tennis bats,
    canal boat navigates nothing

    Rain constellations bus window,
    cars backwash tarmac,
    droplets break tension ripples natural birdbath.

    Squashed plastic blue pen,
    empty grey fag packet,
    lobbed lottery ticket
    middle of road
    revelation.

    Empty black/red polystyrene
    Coke Zero cup circles
    street middle black/white fat cat
    waddles across road life design.

    After nimbus drops
    inhale moss
    like marine pool kelp
    after wave sea breeze fresh glowing Wombwell by the sea.

    Pigeons, spuggys
    shadow puppetry streets, houses.
    Tarmac warm shivers.
    Radiant windows flash mirror
    passing traffic.

    Evening spitting,
    growling, flaming,
    fluid lads/lasses on heat,
    short shirts tempers.
    This is the barbecue.

    backyard, eye swag silver,
    two joy, pica pica purplish-blue
    iridescent sheen
    wing feather green gloss tail.

    On train squeal chatter,
    vivid, green, blue, beavers,
    cubs, scouts, ventures
    anarchy in uniform.

    Unshaven bald man,
    open green raincoat,
    brown leather shoes,
    hauls local paper
    packed lime green trolley.

    Old folk bench gab,
    mothers stroll babies
    down funeral paths
    eye gambolling squirrel,
    cemetery a parkland.

    Blackbird gob skyward
    atop Victorian six pointed
    terracotta Crown top
    chimney pot
    trills red brick streets

    bright yellow sharp
    edged box hedge sun
    cracked pavements
    yellow metal skip
    blocks alleyway
    All sun snogged

    Bright cemetery leaves
    behind dark,

    bakers window 6 loaves,
    one burnt,
    nurse boards bus,
    ‘I was miles away’

    Sunstruck leaf bunch
    drips bright molten
    green glass, other leaves
    luminescent silver stars
    in green matter, shade cut.

    Patient silver hubcap
    rests under stone cemetery wall
    behind blue bus stop halo,
    full moon fall: day waits.

    Shadows pass over bus
    as if it is stop motion animated.
    I get on the animation.
    Hand held camera
    glare work journey.

    Town a small canvas tent
    unzipped tied back crowcall,
    fragrant grass, earth close,
    sun blue. Is on holiday

    light quality early noon
    than morning, 3 patient
    full brown potato bags
    by grocers,
    cloud dispersal pend

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  6. Thanks Jamie. Hope you are ok?

    here is one response…..

    ::these days ::

    are longer now, i feel younger now,

    i am older. we do so many things.

    we are no longer afraid.

    make the best of summer days,

    winter follows.

    he remarked that it was

    good enough for the

    chelsea flower show.

    sbm.

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Thank you!