This is dedicated to all those people,
those who are blatantly themselves.
….…[[[You know the ones I mean.]
Some, when seedlings, had family or teachers
who jabbed a finger yelling: You! You! You!
accusing them of being quintessentially themselves
. . . as though that was wrong.
They are the YOUs who come from multi-colored places
with varied dreams and
hearts woven of wonderlush
They are the womanly or manly,
childlike and wise.
They run from the gray streets to the green forest.
They take to long-lost roads and never-found pathways
with their song in a backpack and
a brown-bag lunch of no-baloney sandwiches.
When they elder they arrive back at the beginning
knowing who are they are
. . . and why.
© 2016, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved
“The moon does not fight. It attacks no one. It does not worry. It does not try to crush others. It keeps to its course, but by its very nature, it gently influences. What other body could pull an entire ocean from shore to shore? The moon is faithful to its nature and its power is never diminished.” Everyday Tao: Living with Balance and Harmony, Ming-Dao Deng
WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT
Write a poem about being being true to ourselves, true to our inherent nature. If you feel comfortable, leave your work or a link to it in the comments section. All poems shared on theme will be published in next Tuesday’s poetry collection. You have until Monday night, 8:30 p.m. PST to respond.
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What a great theme and poem Jemmie! Here is my first response..
—————————-
#The Little Insane Atin#
Kakali Das Ghosh
Tramping the earthen road in a rainy morning
through the brimming field
walked the little insane Atin
Kissing a puzzled infant snake in a rainy morning
In the brimming field
smiled the saviour little insane Atin
Reposing the baby snake on his lap
fetching it to home
cherished it the little insane Atin
Being a snake rescuer
With painted snake tattoos over the whole body
grew up the little insane Atin
Making abode in the snake kingdom with hissing sounds
playing with snakes
rejoiced the little insane Atin
Abiding in a world beyond our sense
trampling an way isolated
could love selflessly
the little insane Atin
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Some years back,
I packed a part (major one) of me;
The void now left
To fill with whatever flowed.
Some years since,
I let distances grow between
parts I missed and the ones new;
The mirror mocked,”is that really you?”
Some months past,
The bells rang loud and clear
I sacrificed my self and peace some,
To chase the dreams of someone else.
Went back searching what was locked away,
The yellowed photos,the dusty hopes,
Fixed them,framed them,gave new light
And yet the person I seeked, refused to step out.
Neither here, nor there I feel
Yet I like this person – mix of old and new;
Maybe this is how it has to ideally be,
Or perhaps I the transition is our true being.
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I have been missing g the prompts and writing due to a busy busy month. Hope to be back now ! And I loved this prompt and the poem too Jamie 👍
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Great. Thank you! Look forward to something on this then from you. You have some time.
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Playing for the Win
I’ve never been good at playing games—
I can’t bluff to save my life
all that I feel is written across my face,
so cards are out.
And chess would not be my forte;
I barely have the ability to see one move ahead
much less twelve to the win.
Monopoly, like poker, and chess,
requires certain skills,
none of which I possess.
No, my life is more like Snakes and Ladders
a mix of skill and chance, good and bad,
of climbing and slipping back again.
How many times have I ended up where I’ve begun
—falling back to square one?
I can only hope when the game is complete
that the good will outweigh the bad
that I will find the salvation that awaits
those who persist.
Ginny Brannan
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This speaks to me in many ways as I am sure you might have thought it would. Truer words have not been spoken my friend. Be well.
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Hi Jamie,
Here’s my first response.
EVER Themsens
Tow their own barra.
Have no truck wi anyone elses.
Not beholden to no one.
Learnt early only themsens
Is reliable, can be trusted.
If they ever do ought for free
It’s allus for themsens.
Keep their own counsel.
Quiet as a muffler with a flat cap on it.
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White shirt
I am passing by at dusk
in a white shirt.
I am looking sidelong
in the boiled soil
the growth so wild
of yellow flowers.
I do not know
what Evil is
(“Flowers of Evil” –
how did you guess which ones they were?
Oh, Baudelaire!) .
I do not know,
what Good is
(in His name
I swear) .
And I am passing on again so distant,
again in a white shirt…
In an endless sorrow.
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Gorgeous poem!
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Thanks! Very strong look.
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Oh wow, I do so love this poem. ❤
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Thank you for saying so, Alethea.
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*Fated to love*
Destiny thought I was born under the brightest star
Thought I would conquer worlds from near or afar
But he miscalculated by one grade
And fated me to love you till the end.
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Lovely! Since this will be your first time, please send me a sort bio and – if you’re comfortable, a photo so that I can introduce you to everyone next Tuesday. Welcome to Wednesday Writing Prompt. 🙂
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Please send to thepoetbyday@gmail.com
Thank you!
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Thank you so much! I highly appreciate it! I will do it!
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Wonderful!
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Love is the beginning and the end. Greetings!
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The alpha and the omega.
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Perfect description of the quest for the real coming out of your own well lived life. Thank you.🙏
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Thank you, Gretchen.
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boy howdy
his pockets are lumpy. heavy. marbles
and a little money, a golf pencil,
bent feathers, string,
something for luck, something
metal lying on a canal bank,
and much more
he cannot remember
fifty-eight years later.
what he does remember
is emptying those pockets,
marveling at the quantity
and variety of that boystuff,
and gloating over it.
some went into a drawer of treasure,
some got thrown out,
some got spent,
and one thing was held up to the light
and found miraculous.
remenbering, the man
looks at the surface of his drawing table,
so cluttered, so discoverable,
and knows the boy
abides.
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Wow. Words to read many more times today; I feel like you wrote a poem about me, and I’m sure many more people feel that you’ve used a magical telescope to look down the passageway that has been your young selves
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to all those who truly are themselves
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. admission of guilt .
perhaps it was the weakness,
brought on with aspic jelly,
perhaps the truthfulness
that lives inside me.
i admitted it was me, and in
the confusion babbled and fought
embarassment. it is truthful
and honest work i do each day,
yet i am discovered now.
secrets will come out, lies will catch
you some day, they do say.
he was a nice man, who explained,
who takes photographs. I will leave
him gifts.
sbm.
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