Bay City, Poem I

San Francisco Bay. Seagulls plant themselves

near heavy metal, making tracks across a bridge.

It’s well know for its span and golden beauty.

Like a gothic cathedral, it spins toward heaven,

stops short, dips and trips to the other side.

Same story. Only the address has changed.

Bay City, Poem II

The seagulls spin and spiral and call.

They fly into the wind and over water.

Dawn catches them wings spread,

hang-gliding over ports and beaches.

© 2018, poems, Jamie Dedes; photograph courtesy of Petr Kratochvil, Public Domain


There are many reasons why place is important to poets and writers. The reasons include not just inspiration – though that may often be primary – but also to evoke mood, to underline theme, and often even as a “character.”  Write about a place you find particularly beautiful, meaningful, evocative or compelling in some way. Post your poem(s) or a link to it/them in the comments section below.  If this is your first time responding to Wednesday Writing Prompt, please be sure to email a photo and brief bio to so that you might be introduced to readers.  This weekly theme-based prompt is all about exercising the writing muscle, showcasing your work and getting to know other poets. Please feel free – encouraged – to join in no matter the status of your career: novice, emerging or pro. All work shared in response to this week’s theme will be published next Tuesday.



  1. My first response Jamie :

    #It Was The First Time #

    It was the first time
    I was there
    It was the first time
    I felt his touch on my shoulders
    Bay of Bengal :gazed at me with its profound look
    With its stories untold for years immemorial
    With its beach bathing under April sun
    With its wavy dance dashing over boulders carving relics
    It was the first time a heavenly child on a horse threw a celestial smile at me while passing through rocks
    It was the first time he rehashed me
    a statue spellbound
    And it was the first time that tamarisk wood in the skyline
    swayed each corner of my heart
    My courage unfolded to say you -“I’m yours -just yours .”

    ©Kakali Das Ghosh

    Liked by 1 person

  2. the phoenix and phoenix

    phoenix arizona lies
    asprawl across the valley of the sun,
    and that sun in summer stuns one
    who is wise to heads indoors,

    but the winters, mild and tasty,
    bid a million phoenicians rise
    and form a wing-flexing phoenix
    of basking and bonhomie
    and renewal.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. the phoenix and phoenix

    phoenix arizona lies
    asprawl across the valley of the sun,
    and that sun in summer stuns one
    who is wise to heads indoors,

    but the winters, mild and tasty,
    give a million phoeni

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my third response:

    Flinch At Cold, Cold,

    sticky touch
    of scaffold pole steel,
    in the sunblaze,

    negotiate unlashed wooden
    planks of a half built brick house
    opposite my Mam and Dad’s,

    miss my foothold, bang my knees,
    graze my elbows, dazed, brickdust gob,

    see behind closed eyes, few years earlier,
    another bright, warm summer,
    my fall

    fifteen feet from a branch
    in a tall forest, to sharp earth,
    concussed, bruised, rip

    my jeans, leaf litter gob,
    so mate John,
    who I’ve played with

    for months takes
    me, where I’ve never been,
    over the massive quiet

    of the cricket pitch of a cut lawn
    his dad’s garden,
    crunch pristine, white gravel

    to his big sandstone Hall,
    John says “Take them off.”,
    as he takes his shoes off,

    I take off my forested sneakers,
    through white barndoor
    of a front door, smell fried onions,

    pad over red tiled hallway,
    into a bright, high frontroom,
    bigger than our village school

    assembly hall,
    to a vast leather settee
    and first colour tv I’ve ever seen,

    looks small in the centre
    of this space,
    asks me to sit while his mam

    fetches a warm
    cup of tea in a china cup,
    and asks if I want her

    to fetch my mam or dad.
    I say “It’s kind of you to say,
    but, no. I’m ok.”

    And sunblinded, sore,
    bloody again, on the scaffold,

    as mam said, “And don’t let me
    catch you clambering over
    that building site!”

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my second response:

    My Black Spot

    A treasure island mark on a palm
    for which mam says she has blankets
    in the airing cupboard.

    For any metal crashes
    we might hear from
    the busy A one.

    A grey metal bridge
    over the spot
    I trundle my Raleigh bike

    to meet with crystal set Duncan,
    bright as the guards
    on his new bike.

    An overgrown cottage
    with walls like broken teeth
    and shattered windscreen glass

    meets me at the footbridge bottom.
    There is no blood,
    only what’s left after the event.

    On return footbridge
    is now flyover, black spot removed.
    Folk fly by too fast.

    My old home is a turn off.
    into village quiet.
    A place folk glance at
    on the way to elsewhere.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. :: wonder land ::

    it was a long winter

    spring came, and i went to


    finished work, drove the hill,

    there before me, misted,

    pink polaroid,

    pointy trees,

    i could not breathe

    for wondering.

    plas newydd, the house

    of lady friends

    who flew from family

    to nest in looking


    a world away.

    breathe came,

    all there was in the

    whole world was this place


    pin pointed, pinhole,

    and mindfulness.

    Liked by 1 person

  7. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my first response:

    Our Wombwell

    sunbreaking brought bling jewels from overnight
    rain, droplet tiaras/earrings trees, lampposts ankle bracelets.

    On bus glimpse un netted/unblinded windows massive TVs window on window on corporate images: ogle goggle boxed.

    Fresh grass laundered, barbeque wafts, rounding white clouds sky ablaze: Natural delights

    cat trots downhill to bike shop. Black stringtied purse roadside. Folded bus pass at bus stop: ways home

    Liked by 1 person

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