his hands flutter over and on the kebero
a world constructed in the moments of sound
a world razed in the moments of silence
a rhythm of birth and rebirth
of heartbeat and life-blood
he’d gone to Africa, this young man
to chase down his roots
to buy exotic drums
to make rhythms with his brothers
to sing with his sisters
to learn, to grow, to come home and teach
he was full of grace, brimming with jazz
just rocking his universe, rolling with spirit
alight with green and gold,
the breath of wild savannas and
wilder cheetahs, monkey pranks
and elephantine tuskedness
what, i had to ask, was the take-away
after the safaris and the drumming
after the injera, the wat, the niter kibby
and berbere spices, the many fine meals
downed with ambo wuhteh
I met a sister as i was driving a forlorn road. She was walking alongside, carrying a bundle of wood and I stopped, offered her a lift. No, she said, NO! If I ride today, I’ll want to ride tomorrow. It’s a recipe for unhappiness. She’s right, you know, he said, from wanting comes despair …
and so i drum, just drum, he said
his hands fluttering over and on the kebero
a world constructed in the moments of sound
a world razed in the moments of silence
a rhythm of birth and rebirth and peace of heart
Tell us in poem about the most important take-aways you experienced from a vacation or other travel. Leave your poem/s or a link to it in the comments section below. All poems shared on theme will be published next Tuesday. The deadline for response is Monday evening, 8:30 p.m. PDT. All are welcome – encouraged – to join in: novice, emerging or pro. It’s about getting to connecting with other poets, showcasing your talent and having your say. If it’s your first time sharing a poem for Wednesday Writing Prompt, please send a brief bio and photograph to thepoetbyday@gmail.com. These are posted with the work of first participants by way of introduction.
(what I wrote while traveling
back to the town we met in and fell
in love, and back again)
dancing tall in my living room
to George and Elton
(does it really happen
if no-one sees it
like that tree in the forest)
he says sometimes I never go out
(could tell him stories about 1985
when I lived ten years in 12 months)
and I dance and dance
my head full of 1990
(wonderwall,hammer,hit me baby)
one more time–let’s dance as one
I’ll lead this time–you follow
if you still have that notion
that 1+1=1
and 2+1=no end of joy
perhaps we will find
a new kind of happy-
ness, wrapped in understanding
and lessons learned
(old flames, new rites of passage)
let’s not forget, and dance to now
(rhianna, poison, blended with
the Beatles, Eagles, and 21
pilots, shaken and stirred)
once I thought it was most crucial
to fly without a net
but I believe
the trick
is
to not let go
18 in 1980 week afore starting uni,
lads night out and your dressed
in Burton’s bright yellow like a canary,
socks, shoes, shirt, jacket, because it’s cool.
Lads boast they down 11/12 pints
of John Smiths bitter a night,
shag a lass then do same next night.
You’ve never done neither.
Follow lads round like fresh meat,
loud and brash, they talk of shagging
bints, fast cars, live bands you’ve
never seen coddled by your mam and dad.
Four pints in and your eyelids droop,
bitter makes you fall asleep, lasses
in short skirts with intentions nuzzle
up but loud music means you can’t listen
to what they’re saying and wouldn’t know
what to say. Lads jostle you. “We’re off
to neet club. A tha cumming?”. I shout
an apology. “Got to be in by 11.”
They get off. I leave the pub, buy
a pizza and pissed walk home uphill
chomping on greasy slices, cardboard
box too big, one side of road to another.
dark wraith,
elegant, rangy,
float russet and goldflash,
above winter’s woodland,
street cleaner,
snatch roadkill from gutters,
pavements, lobbed pizzas, chips,
knickers, jackets, teddy bears,
odd shoes, toy giraffes
rest with my feathered young,
decorate my nest.
by 
Jamie Dedes' THE POET BY DAY Webzine 
My first response Jamie :
# I’d depart this land #
His visage is still vivid in this misty evening
Those eyes
Those pink hands
Those lips
Those jowls
Those days in Kashmir
still call me in this lonely evening
That crystal lake
That stream
Those golden apples
Those flower boats
Those diamond peaks
Are playing in my weepy eyes
His words
His kisses
His smile
His last touch
Perhaps still have retained a token of our fancy
In the last cherry tree of that garden
I’d depart -I’d depart this land
To searh for those flying hairs
Those heavenly fingers
Embracing me
in that florid houseboat….
©Kakali Das Ghosh
LikeLiked by 2 people
You Do The Math
(what I wrote while traveling
back to the town we met in and fell
in love, and back again)
dancing tall in my living room
to George and Elton
(does it really happen
if no-one sees it
like that tree in the forest)
he says sometimes I never go out
(could tell him stories about 1985
when I lived ten years in 12 months)
and I dance and dance
my head full of 1990
(wonderwall,hammer,hit me baby)
one more time–let’s dance as one
I’ll lead this time–you follow
if you still have that notion
that 1+1=1
and 2+1=no end of joy
perhaps we will find
a new kind of happy-
ness, wrapped in understanding
and lessons learned
(old flames, new rites of passage)
let’s not forget, and dance to now
(rhianna, poison, blended with
the Beatles, Eagles, and 21
pilots, shaken and stirred)
once I thought it was most crucial
to fly without a net
but I believe
the trick
is
to not let go
LikeLiked by 1 person
Hi Jamie,
My fourth response:
I’m Man Enough
18 in 1980 week afore starting uni,
lads night out and your dressed
in Burton’s bright yellow like a canary,
socks, shoes, shirt, jacket, because it’s cool.
Lads boast they down 11/12 pints
of John Smiths bitter a night,
shag a lass then do same next night.
You’ve never done neither.
Follow lads round like fresh meat,
loud and brash, they talk of shagging
bints, fast cars, live bands you’ve
never seen coddled by your mam and dad.
Four pints in and your eyelids droop,
bitter makes you fall asleep, lasses
in short skirts with intentions nuzzle
up but loud music means you can’t listen
to what they’re saying and wouldn’t know
what to say. Lads jostle you. “We’re off
to neet club. A tha cumming?”. I shout
an apology. “Got to be in by 11.”
They get off. I leave the pub, buy
a pizza and pissed walk home uphill
chomping on greasy slices, cardboard
box too big, one side of road to another.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Hi Jamie,
My third response:
Servant
For a time I do bother
to polish the surfaces,
hoover, wash and iron.
If only for myself,
but then myself is not enough.
Dust piles, crumpled clothes dirty.
I fall asleep among dirty sheets,
empty crisp packets,
half eaten cold pizzas,
stink of mice piss.
Awake to freshly laundered sheets,
clean carpets, clothes washed, ironed.
Surfaces polished smell of Lavender.
How could this happen?
Again I fall asleep while tv on,
amongst discarded chocolate papers,
left over cake on plates,
half drunk cans of lager.
Awake to tv off, rubbish binned,
plates washed, dried put away,
Citrus not stale beer and rotting smell.
I’m intrigued. Curious.
It takes no effort to be a slob, again.
Spill crisps down sides of chairs,
dribble tea into carpet, crumbs.
Energy drinks ready I stay awake.
Energy sup is the biz. Make
Me hyper so I see these two tiny
Folk, man and woman, like regular
Nanites sorting my crap.
Like my old man never were
this one hoovers up crumbs,
packs his black bin bag with cans,
busies, polishes, scrubs to his bones.
His old woman like mam, I guess,
dusts, scours a whirlwind devil.
Part of me says they do as they must,
the other sees what they lack.
Next night I leave them a gift
of nothing to tidy, to put away.
They seem contented as I watch
surrogate mam and dad leave for good.
LikeLike
Hi Jamie,
Here’s my second response:
I A Glede
dark wraith,
elegant, rangy,
float russet and goldflash,
above winter’s woodland,
street cleaner,
snatch roadkill from gutters,
pavements, lobbed pizzas, chips,
knickers, jackets, teddy bears,
odd shoes, toy giraffes
rest with my feathered young,
decorate my nest.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Hi Jamie,
Here’s my first response:
Our Takeaway
always on a Friday. A menu
taken out of the kitchen drawer,
unfolded. Dad scribbles what everyone
wants. I choose egg fried rice.
Using phone on the phone table
in hallway Dad rings order through.
Sister and I chorus:
“Can I come when you go, Dad?”
After days of school meals,
meat and two veg. at home,
takeaway is exotic. In the car
usual casual joke “egg flied lice.”
Inhale fragrance of garlic,
soy and foreign voices far above
as we join the queue, Dad collects
a thin white plastic bag that bulges
with sharp edged foil cartons
on kitchen side carefully
extracts each box, bends back lips
releases plumes of spicy heat
to put on already warmed plates,
carried through to front room.
Empty cartons are placed back in white bag
rushed out to a bin so smell does not linger.
LikeLiked by 1 person
2.
. permanent traveller .
having had a few days off, no not from honest work,
yet writing, rests the mind, i find that everyday
things, mote well on my behalf.
i heard the cock crow early,
looked for swallow flight, seeing none,
cleaned, tidied, then came to write.
it has been a pleasant morning.
sbm.
LikeLiked by 1 person
it is a holiday .
they say, and close the stores.
it is complicated, to do with floor space and employees rights.
we had chocolate eggs, worked hard, let our arms loose.
warmer now, the sun shone, people came, visited,
smiled, fondled the wool, spoke of age and weaving.
he said there were many looms in his day.
he is eighty eight, he told me many times.
sbm. shot_1394462193517
LikeLiked by 2 people