A Puppet Dancing in the Dark, a poem … and your Wednesday Writing Prompt

800px-CharnelHouse


I saw you walking through the charnel house,
harvesting the bleached and disarticulated bones
of our ancestors to make our rote Sunday soup
Nights, you hung lifeless prayer from rotting teeth

At dawn you regurgitated the remains and our
foremothers spoke sadly of disease and diaspora
I wept to know how you suffered for your fantasies
We are left spineless and bloodless by our history

Crowned with the prickly thorns of your illusions,
you were greatly given to infusions of wine and bread
and daily rosaries traded for the remission of sins,
the very ones you would indulge again …

Now I know these bargains are Faustian and that
a puppet dancing in the dark has many lies to tell

©2014, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved; photo – a Greek charnel house – by Tom Oats under CC BY SA 3.0


WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT

Ideals, religious or otherwise, are they a matter of heart or of rote repetition and habit, fatuous fixation or even fetishism? Sometimes there is depth and understanding of history, traditions and traditional wisdom. Sometimes not.  Post your thoughts in prose or poem or a link to your work in response to this prompt in the comment section below. Responses to Wednesday prompts are published the following Tuesday on The Poet by Day.


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13 thoughts on “A Puppet Dancing in the Dark, a poem … and your Wednesday Writing Prompt

  1. My first response Jamie
    #The grave of darkness #
    The brightest of lights is obscuring my vision ,
    An aroma of darkness is permeating my vein,
    Please -come as storm addicted to rain and thunderbolt ,
    I have kept my tears in a camouflaged hide in dew drops over grassy lawns ,
    Craving the dumb show be arranged as a farewell through the last faraway train,
    I’m waiting lonely for your storm in this dark station
    Descrying a tormentor’s kick in an impoverished stomach ,
    My acoustics is shattered in lakhs with a cramped girl’s cry ,
    And witnessing to a stabbed sanguineous boy
    lying down on the railway line ;
    A demon of darkness is swallowing me wholly ,
    Is everyone born deaf ,dumb and blind ?
    None has illuminated a flare,
    Whistles of the trains reverberating through the night are no more greeted ;
    Perhaps one more corse
    or corpses would be waiting to be evacuated ,
    I’m scaring of the fair of sky burial
    And eagerly waiting for your storm with celestial light and pearly raindrops,
    As I’m encountering a gloomy grave frantic for drops of blood .
    Kakali Das Ghosh

    Like

  2. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my third response:

    A Toleration

    So I says to our Vicky
    ” ‘ow come thas back so soon lass.”
    Well she were in a right towing.
    says “I were right with him, only he weren’t with me, the wazzock.”

    Well, I like a strong fella, misen,
    makes us all soft inside and tha feels cossetted, but when as they start, demanding tha do this or that.
    It’s a right pisser.

    That lad, Olly, asking to wed her,
    says to her, ” I think it best love, as tha abandon this pagan stuff so we’ve a regular going on.”

    Vicky says, “I’ll not abandon my faith,
    and that of folk afore me.
    I don’t want thee to abandon thy Christian doings, either.” Understanding his predicament, like.

    Well, laddo, sloshes her int face
    with his glove. Tosser.
    Well, she slaps him back,
    as you would, and
    comes back home, quicksticks.

    Tha can only tolerate so much.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Asphyxiation

    The jungle crow is truthful. When he caws, he is the grandfather
    and great grandfather too. The soul doesn’t differentiate between
    male bodies charred at different times. The feminine rots to mute dust.

    The rat snake and the cobra are slinky eyes
    crawling over female forms-young, widowed or both
    Fertile coconut palms brood over the misogynist terrain

    The curry leaf plant recognizes friend from foe. The *Koovalam
    disapproves of monthly spurts. The lemon tree withers away
    upon female touch but is immune to bird eggs in its straggly, green shirt

    The kitchen steps face south. I must not sit there, elbows on knees
    or chin in hand. It is mourning that they fear here, more than death.

    I will lie in the clearing, strangled by the vengeful biota
    and the temple priest will chant mournful curses to free the trees

    -Reena Prasad

    (*Koovalam = stone apple tree)

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Hi, Jamie

    Here is my view about ideals, history, ideologies and other concepts like these….
    We are spinning endlessly
    Around the sun
    A sun who
    From time to time is hiding under the moon
    Probably he is bored too
    History, a book of tales
    Bible, a book of tales
    Ideologies, some well sewn tales

    Why do they feed us with tales
    Are they responding to a need
    Our need?
    The need to fill the time between two blinks of the sun…

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Third response –

    . magna carta .

    is left behind with tiny writing. salisbury cathedral.

    the back way. written in latin for those who matter.

    those words and those words

    an historian uttered sent me reeling outside.

    where air is cleaner.

    oh , by the way

    left you both there too. were you trying to appease

    the barons?

    sbm.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. Second response

    .. cooking carrots, and thinking of belief ..

    the other side of the mirror

    orange.

    it is a source of inspiration, and research. it is written, yet having writ. we use. imagination, add a dose of suggestion, slightly thinking this is fact we do not move on when perhaps we should. so moving on quickly……

    cut them.

    maybe we need to check our numbers at the end, see if one or more are missing. need to count them carefully, one side then the other.it is all a pattern, that keeps us safely, leads us onward.

    simmer them.

    what about this list, to do it before you die, well as she said, you probably can’t do it after. some may disagree – another belief. we try not to judge, yet that bucket was not worth five pound,so

    we paid two.

    strain them.
    ready for later.

    sbm.

    Liked by 1 person

  7. Thanks Jamie……

    my first response

    “1712 we write of wool”

    again, and weaving.

    listen to the coventry carole,

    little tiny child, fingers tapping

    in time, the medieval, the membrance

    of cathedral . walking up hill chanting.

    repeatedly. they moved the stairs.

    we hold the cotton, the wool

    for comfort.

    sbm.

    white linen

    Liked by 2 people

  8. Hi Jamie,

    This is my second response:

    A Bridge

    anastomosis [ah-nas″to-mo´sis] (pl. anastomo´ses) (Gr.)

    It is bin day. Sound of breaking glass.

    A vein.

    between places,
    one person and another,

    A Bridge

    anastomosis [ah-nas″to-mo´sis] (pl. anastomo´ses) (Gr.)

    It is bin day. Sound of breaking glass.

    A vein.

    between places,
    one person and another,
    you and your kids,
    a busy crossing between beliefs.
    from wick to ash.
    full to empty.

    Broken, blocked, under investigation.

    No link, information dammed,
    Adamant your side is right,
    other side apostate.
    Bloodied metal sends a message,
    via media bridges.

    Bins must be wheeled back to their places.

    a busy crossing between beliefs.
    from wick to ash.
    full to empty.

    Broken, blocked, under investigation.

    No link, information dammed,
    Adamant your side is right,
    other side apostate.
    Bloodied metal sends a message
    via media bridges.

    Bins must be wheeled back to their places.

    Liked by 2 people

  9. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my first response:

    Red The Strong Says

    “Belief is a ship
    on the fish flecked sea,
    close hauled and tacking,
    against this Christian gust.

    It has a dragon’s head,
    and aft a crook, which turns up,
    and ends in a dragon’s tail.

    Gilded carved work on each side
    of the stem and stern.
    I call this ship “The Serpent”
    Its hoisted sails are dragon’s wings.

    I’m brought before me boss,
    who offers me baptism.
    “And,” says he, “I will not
    take thy property from thee,

    but rather be thy mate,
    if thou wilt make thysen
    worthy to be such.”

    I exclaim with all me might
    against his offer, say
    “I’ll never believe in Christ,
    and this so called God.”

    Boss was wroth, and says “Thee
    shall die worst of deaths.”

    He orders I be bound
    to a beam of wood, me face
    uppermost, and round pin of wood
    set between my teeth
    to force me gob open.

    Boss orders an adder
    rammed down my gob,
    but adder shrinks back
    when I breathe against it.

    A hollow branch of angelica root
    is stuck in my gob; others say boss
    put his horn into me mouth,
    and forces adder in
    holds a red-hot iron
    before me open gob.
    So adder creeps into it,
    down me throat,
    gnaws its way out me side.

    My last breath is a ship
    on the fish flecked sea,
    close hauled and tacking,
    against this Christian gust.”

    Liked by 1 person

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