the helpless, hopeless, remorse-filled blues
when you’ve seen the doctor and she’s seen you
when Time runs out and Eternity beckons


the darkest hues with shivering slivers of
pewter muting to gray, muting to black,
muting to light fractures in a surface
permeable and permissible, heavenly Light

or, so “they” tell me …

But lost in that Universe of Light
will “I’ still be?
will “you” still be?
answer me that

What is the character of this Light?
Matter or myth?

Ah then…
after all, pondering on
I find I really don’t care
I’ll poem my blues and poem my light
until all that’s left of me is
what I leave behind…

and you?

Will you leave your unwritten
blue poem hanging in the air to be
sensed by the few who can?
Or, will you, like slaves of old,
paint yourself blue and boiling tears
dance round the fire’s edge and rebirth
your broken blue soul into wholeness?

This poem is written out of being diagnosed some eighteen years ago with a fatal condition. Still kicking!  Nothing untoward is pending … except, of course, for the fact of a world gone mad and who knows what’s next with that …

Apologies to all for any confusion. I put up a different writing prompt a few minutes ago and immediately took it down when I realized I’d offered it as prompt once before. Some of you may have seen it and, of course, I can’t delete it from email subscriptions.

© 2017, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved


As a poet/artist/human being, what do you hope to leave behind? What message for those who follow?  Tell us and leave your work or a link to it in the comments section below.  All work shared on theme by Monday evening 8:30 pm PST will be published here next Tuesday.  If it is your first time responding to a Wednesday Writing Prompt, please send a photo and short bio to me at They’ll be used by way of introduction to readers and other poets . . . and me. 🙂  All are welcome to participate in this prompt: novice, emerging or pro poet.  Wednesday Writing Prompt is about exercising the writing muscle, sharing our work and getting to know other poets, perhaps some who are new to you.



  1. My first response Jamie :

    #Lost My Blues #
    Kakali Das Ghosh

    Blues ,my measly blues pursued me
    Emerging from the bottom of that grave gorge
    Surging from the waves of that deep ocean
    Sprouting from the storm of that black forest
    Blues ,those insistent blues
    never waved to me a song ,a farewell song
    And followed me unto rocky mountains and flowing rivulets
    Chased me to red plateaus
    and dusty desserts
    Halted I -where golden beams reflected from a broken mirror
    Where a phoenix arose from its ashes
    Where pearly rains oozed from a misty cloud
    And where a scarlet dandelion peeped from a rocky chest
    And by my astonishment
    I lost my blues ……….
    Footsteps of my measly blues —-

    Liked by 2 people

  2. More or less on time this week! Nice prompt! Best Wishes, Jamie!

    there’s one way

    and another way
    and a third way
    of doing things; but it’s useful
    to think of doing things

    ‘otherwise’ as the Master said in line with
    what (gazing at the bridge of his nose)
    his grandmother told him:
    viz ‘in life never do as others do;

    either do nothing—
    just go to school—or do something
    nobody else does’
    when she promptly died…

    this my children
    and my children’s children
    is what I would have you
    take inside your uttermost being:

    never go along with the herd;
    never copy others; let your uprush
    of learning be your very own
    never dependent on others


    Note: The Master = GIGurdjieff

    (from my ‘The Recovery of Wonder’ 2013)

    Liked by 2 people

  3. Here’s my response to your prompt, Jamie, thanks for the challenge.

    Rites of passage

    To you,earth,I leave my ashes.

    To you,sky,my unfinished dreams.

    To you, ocean, blown kisses.

    And to you, wide world,
    the very best of me
    warm and alive.

    Two daughters, one son,
    already entrusted
    when I birthed them years

    ago into your light,
    heard their first startled cries
    on a March morning,

    an August night, in May’s
    early hours; watched
    the midwife lift each

    perfect body still plaited
    to mine, gift-wrapped
    and glistening with my blood.

    Liked by 2 people

  4. . we too shall die .

    we have a memory or two. the world goes dark, we teach and learn, wait for light to appear

    it is the way of things, while there are birds. while you read, you will not understand all words, that is the way of things.

    it is natural, it is what they do, they live in the wild. . we have no power, they, no disgust that reels and kicks. yet while small birds live, they too will die. like us.

    drift. in air, in words. symbols of poetry, cut and pasted. literally. naturally .

    everyday tiny things sing.

    when some small birds have failed and gone others sound just the same.

    touched by the small things, softly, we drew



    Liked by 3 people

  5. Hi Jamie,

    My third response:


    Sunblaze drinks thee pint as it were after doing thee a favour, stop thee brain box from wondering

    an thy art beholden to it for doing so. Then mizzle sets on tummeling down, drizzles like it were making gourmet dish of the day with attractive swirls.

    And ice cold thinks you owes it a living, serrates your bones like a decent knife sharp butcher

    Who knows which cut hurts most and where to prolong the wound so it slowly bleeds out a sunset.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. Hi Jamie,

    My second response:

    Suddenly The

    Sky opened and closed
    Earth darkened and glowered.
    Ocean frittered and wittered.
    Air garnered and hoary.

    Child across the earth.
    Teenagers stretch clouds.
    Adults narrow seascape.
    Aged pinpoint gust.

    Travellers are still.
    Homely explore vastness.
    Refugees carry home.
    Ghosts are solid once more.

    Liked by 1 person

  7. Hi Jamie,
    My first response is this:

    The Book

    When born he opened
    The Book Of Everything
    that had all the questions.

    It was too much so he skimmed
    chapters that didn’t seem relevant
    until much much later in the book.

    Later in life he closed
    The book of nothing
    That had all the answers

    because it was too much effort,
    to find his glasses put somewhere safe.

    Liked by 1 person

  8. ah that gorgeous poem in a blue blues! thank you, Yamie!


    and not to eternity the predefined will happen accidently
    but to a cry
    unheard and clear and the sermon that will BE
    to shelter the torn off grains in the summer
    the sunspots priest in the reflections
    of the water
    in blue

    Liked by 2 people

Thank you!

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