I waged His wars, and now I pass and die.
O me! for why is all around us here
As if some lesser god had made the world …
Alfred Lord Tennyson, Idylls of the King

i always come back to the sea ~
in the winter when gardens lay waste
and the contemplative time is upon us
and in summer, languid and color crazy

no matter the season, she shines

decked-out in sunlighted spray
tossing her waves into wild arabesque
roaring her traveling chants

no reluctant tourist, the sea

the eternal sea,
in the power of her isness
she mocks me
marks me as the lesser being
of a lesser god

© 2016, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved; Photo courtesy of morgueFile


Sometimes in the face of nature’s magnificence, I really do feel as though I might be the child of a lesser god, though goodness knows we humans are as much beauty and miracle as any other manifestation of that creative energy, called by many “God.”  When, how, where have you felt like a lesser being … in the face of what? Tell us in your own poem/s and share them or a link to it/them in the comments section below.

All poems shared on theme will be published next Tuesday. Please do NOT email your poem to me or leave it on Facebook.

IF this is your first time participating in The Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt, please send a brief bio and photo to me at in order to introduce yourself to the community … and to me :-).  These will be partnered with your poem/s on first publication.

Deadline:  Monday, June 18 at 8 p.m. PDT.

Anyone may take part Wednesday Writing Prompt, no matter the status of your career: novice, emerging or pro.  It’s about exercising the poetic muscle, sharing your work, and getting to know other poets who might be new to you. This is a discerning nonjudgemental place to connect.



  1. Death’s Immensity

    Stand next to one wall, let’s say
    the north side, of a massive
    building. Look up into the
    sky, noticing only a
    few puffs of clouds. Sweep your eyes
    back down, catching sight of this
    wall — gray, smooth, unending — and

    recall it.

    Instantly, the personal fantasy of
    existence disintegrates,
    leaving only wisps. Lungs


    breath sucked away.
    Only flatness,
    a loss of all
    color and detail.
    Once again,
    know Death
    and be


    Liked by 1 person


    The day did not start well. Dave nearly
    broached the yacht and Dave ( the other one)
    down in the galley was dodging pots
    and flying pans. Order and sanity
    restored we headed out, that Scottish dawn,
    to journey to the Outer Hebrides.
    The sea, quiet at first
    began to grow usurping sky, piling
    higher than the mast, bearing us up
    then down into its trough. We held our breath,
    feeble in its undulating rhythm,
    poised in fear of the breaking, overwhelming
    crests, in silent prayer. But we climbed smooth
    and fell again, learning to work with
    the water’s pulse and flow.
    My father would have
    smiled at this. Wartime convoy service,
    Arctic and Atlantic, torpedoed nearly
    to extinction. He only spoke about
    it once. It was enough.


  3. Hi Jamie –

    my lesser than poem:

    Least of These

    I find myself
    in losing self
    amid the grander
    moments in creation

    for why would I
    settle as the larger
    of the lesser
    among so little

    grant me the serenity
    to seek the enormity
    of a great God’s creativity

    lesser me at the edge
    of Grand Canyon’s
    cragged colors

    lesser me in the depths
    and breadths
    of roaring oceans

    lesser me in the wonders
    of rainbows and cloud banks
    snowstorms and tornados

    lesser me counted
    as one of millions
    stars and galaxies

    never am I so grand
    as when the Grandest
    includes in His resume
    the lesser me.

    Liked by 2 people

  4. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my second response:

    Gust Is Deaf, Hills Are Blind,

    trees can’t walk properly,
    Flowers twitch haphazardly.

    Grass is mute, rivers are dumb.
    Nature is differently abled.

    Mountains are too tall,
    struggle to talk when they can’t

    bend a knee, get down to those smaller
    who are in awe when all mountains need

    is to speak face to face , dispel their myth.
    Same with water that rushes by,

    no time to stand and stare, moments pass
    before they have time to fully comprehend.

    Flux needs a still moment but has to go on.
    Still waters wish they could rush.

    All hankers after what it Is not,
    Cannot accept their place as their lot.

    Liked by 2 people

  5. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my first response:

    My god is

    Imperfect, a perfect image for me.
    Humbled by its mistakes.

    My god is a mistake.
    A wrong answer,

    Differently abled.
    Its winters often in spring.

    Its summers sometime in autumn.
    My god is a fracture, a flaw.

    Gender fluid. Defined by its
    Inhumanity, it is complete

    in its incompleteness. Aspires
    not to aspire. My god is contradiction,

    counter intuitive. Fresh in its decay.
    Its more is always less. Thank god.

    Liked by 2 people

Thank you!

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