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there’s a portrait in February of percale sheets
and the tempting rondure of warm shoulders
tucked under a rosy duvet and late mornings,
coffee in bed, playing your hips like the strings
of a harp, the rhyme of a true love’s honor,
soft, the whiff of spring, the meadow violets
their heart-shaped leaves and felicitous flowers
promise of summer peace in damask gardens
wealth of silver roses, tart lemons, frisky mint
finger tip the faded hillock of hair on your neck
and let go of all that is false and mean for this –
the warmth of our ardor, the trust in our kiss

© 2017,  poem and photograph, Jamie Dedes

WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT

Take the characteristics one specific month – any month that you like – and turn it into a sensual poem … and let’s keep it tasteful please. If you feel comfortable, leave your prompt-inspired poem or a link to it in the comments section below.  All shared work will be featured here next Tuesday. The deadline is Monday night at 8 p.m. PST.  

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15 Comments

  1. Thank you Jamie :my second response ##
    #Autumn’s blaze in September #

    Ablaze is my hamlet ,
    Sheeny it is with autumn ‘s color in September ,
    Bounteous it is along azure blazing firmament
    with dotted aerials ;
    A ravishing secluded garden it is ,
    with border less kash dandelions  in skyline ‘s shine ;
    A whisper -levitating through ravines and deep gorges ,
    An inkling creeping through the cerulean kiss -curls of the deep bay ,
    smearing the mysterious realm of twilight and moonbeam ,
    casting  a gentle kiss to a conch -cell in dormancy ,
    on the glittering sand chest fondling a  golden rivulet ,
    enunciates the inhalant of Devi Durga ;
    Ample shiulis loving the hardes ,
    The goggle of the stubborn kingfisher in the Eastern hills ,
    The red specked butterflies ,
    Clink of anklets of a maiden solitary ,
    Everything -everything is just to light up ,
    Its a durbar to love ,
    to kiss ,
    to  thrill ,
    and to worship the Goddess the mother .
    Kakali Das Ghosh

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  2. In response to your wonderful poem Jamie :

    #Autumn ‘s blaze #
    Ablaze is my hamlet ,
    Sheeny it is with autumn ‘s color ,
    Bounteous it is along azure blazing firmament
    with dotted aerials ;
    A ravishing secluded garden it is ,
    with border less kash dandelions  in skyline ‘s shine ;
    A whisper -levitating through ravines and deep gorges ,
    An inkling creeping through the cerulean kiss -curls of the deep bay ,
    smearing the mysterious realm of twilight and moonbeam ,
    casting  a gentle kiss to a conch -cell in dormancy ,
    on the glittering sand chest fondling a  golden rivulet ,
    enunciates the inhalant of Devi Durga ;
    Ample shiulis loving the hardes ,
    The goggle of the stubborn kingfisher in the Eastern hills ,
    The red specked butterflies ,
    Clink of anklets of a maiden solitary ,
    Everything -everything is just to light up ,
    Its a durbar to love ,
    to kiss ,
    to  thrill ,
    and to worship the Goddess the mother .
    Kakali Das Ghosh

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

      1. While reading this poem, I was wondering (was it a déjà vu or a more real experience?) if I had read it before. I am not yet sure. Still the poem felt already familiar but still fresh like the first time ever (and I had no other poem in mind), which is so good. I am convinced that beautiful things gives us unending satisfaction without us getting fed up.

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        1. I am using mostly old poems (some revised) for the Wednesday Writing Prompt. So, you probably did read it before. You are probably aware that publishers don’t want poems that have been published online, so for the most part I am reserving newer poems for magazine publication and a collection that is in process. I’m delighted to find from you and others that you and a few others say you remember certain poems. 🙂 Thank you, Thoithoi!

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  5. Hi Jamie, Here is my first response:

    April

    1. Flo’s Day

    Perhaps thas a thought I’m boss
    only of fragile bunches, cocker;

    but I also overlook tilled fields.
    If crops have flowered well,
    threshing-floor is stacked;

    if the vines flowered well,
    there’ll be wine; and fruit.

    Once blossom nipped,
    vetches and beans wither,
    and thy lentils. Wines also bloom,

    stored in great cellars in jars
    a scum covers their surface.
    Honey is my gift. I call bees,

    to the violet, and clover,
    and grey thyme.

    I charge youthful years
    to run riot with robust bodies.

    Tha wears colourful togs, mucker, walk around with flower bouquets in thee fist,

    your neck or hair wreathed in flowers. Tha scatter lupines, bean and vetch. Homes
    scented by large purple Lilacs.

    Go to races, or hunt deer, goats
    and hare, enjoy bawdy plays and mimes.
    Tha dance, sup and eat a feast
    of roasted Lamb, homemade breads, fresh

    and roasted spring vegetables, fruits, nuts, pastries. Give fresh cut flowers to tha neighbours, lay them on tha closest’s grave.

    2. Victory’s Sacrifice

    These are victories

    fresh green shoots, leaves and flowers,
    woodlands heady scent of wild garlic ,
    bird song and bleating lambs

    wild daffodils appear alongside the river
    smaller and more delicate,
    trumpet shaped flower a paler yellow.

    kittiwakes, guillemots, razorbills, gannets, fulmar, shag and puffin return to seacliffs

    blackthorn blossom a froth
    of clustered white flowers
    on thorny branches
    before the leaves burst bud.

    curlew’s soft, bubbling call,
    Ring Ouzel’s a blackbird
    with white bib blasting
    out of the heather

    emperor’s, orange and yellow
    day-flying moths, eyespot patterns
    on their four wings, struggle
    from cocoons on the moors.

    I sit and down a sacrifice of golden ale
    sunglint on pint glass, a fine sup,
    thankful another winter’s
    deaths and distress worked through.

    3. White Lady

    Crowned white lady with flowing hair,
    and fiery shoes, carries a spindle
    and a three-cornered mirror
    that foretells the future.

    For nine nights before May Day,
    chased by Wild Hunt Winter,
    hounded from place to place,
    she seeks refuge among villagers.

    Folk leave their windows open
    so she can find safety
    behind cross-shaped panes.

    Implores a farmer she meets to hide her
    in a shock of grain. He does.
    next morning his rye crop
    is sprinkled with grains of gold.

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  7. third response-

    . while in october .

    stand back to spite the craving,

    look on as from afar.

    leaves fall.

    people, some write hymns & mantra

    others watch tv, not the news.

    oh no not the news, the truth is too

    depressing, a bit near the mark.

    good to live gentle, bites of reality

    to flavour your safeness.

    leaves fall.

    with gratitude. the bakers has

    closed as has the dress shop.

    a side table will be convenient.

    while children are in hell , Aleppo.

    leaves fall.

    sbm.

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  8. second response –

    .september.

    i did not want to get involved, nor be noticed.

    particularly, nor impress.

    yet you said you loved me, never mind the diagnosis,

    mirror image.

    so that was done.

    dusted.

    they came in differing aspects, by now I did not

    want to get involved, nor did i.

    remember I told you that I do not fall

    in love?

    we were in the garden.

    this is not a mystery, just reality.

    sbm.

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Thank you!