“Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.” Anne Sexton

Be well, be loved
I’m the pond in the park, swim in my heart


[pebbled and gray

Memory, be loved
Campfires strewn across a night sky


[angel kissed

Wild dandelions, atomic yellow
Bluejays call from a buried bell tower
Carry on their wings

[the City, ultimate bliss

© 2018, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved


Speak to or of your city of ultimate bliss: the city you grew up in or the city you grew to love.

Share your poem/s on theme or a link to it/them in the comments section below.

All poems on theme will be published next Tuesday. Please do NOT email your poem to me or leave it on Facebook. If you do it’s likely I’ll miss it or not see it in time.

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

Deadline:  Monday, July 17 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.


Poet and writer, I was once columnist and associate editor of a regional employment publication. Currently I run this site, The Poet by Day, an information hub for poets and writers. I am the managing editor of The BeZine published by The Bardo Group Beguines (originally The Bardo Group), a virtual arts collective I founded.  I am a weekly contributor to Beguine Again, a site showcasing spiritual writers.

My work is featured in a variety of publications and on sites, including: Levure littéraure, Ramingo’s PorchVita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation PressThe Bar None GroupSalamander CoveSecond LightI Am Not a Silent PoetMeta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman.


  1. Thanks for the prompt,Jamie,and beautiful poem. I’ve come at this a bit slantwise.

    I see the city through my father’s eyes Birmingham 1931

    From the terraced
    where he was born.
    The poor end of town,
    near Saltley gasworks
    and sluggish canal
    under the railway bridge.

    Pigeon-roost on slate
    roofs, sheen of starlings
    in rain-puddles, hoot
    and hiss of steam trains
    spiralling smoke and grit,
    roar of Saturday’s home
    crowd at Villa Park.

    Trams and buses trace
    the city’s inner circle,
    drop workers off
    at Ansell’s Brewery,
    Lucas’s,HP Sauce, streets
    humming as he meanders
    to school with his mates.

    They’ll be fourteen, soon,
    time for first suits
    and steady jobs, they dream
    football but know their
    future’s in a car factory
    needing ambitious lads
    eager to learn a trade.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Devastation to My Happy Place

    I remember running across the street to the little old lady’s tiendita.
    After a long day of exploring canals and giving in to vendors (who definitely overcharged me because of my pale skin), I was hungry.
    Can you hear the rain tapping against my window?
    Can you hear that old lady’s silence from across the street?
    Can you hear my stomach growling?
    It was cloudy & dark, but I wanted to continue my adventure.
    I only had that interaction, or rather transaction, with the old lady.
    But as I lay here in my home, I think about that sandwich I bought from her.
    Ham, cheese, & jalapeños. No condiments.
    I’m laying here now, where the worst I’ve experienced is 125 degree weather.
    What happened to that city the day the earthquake hit?
    What happened to the businesses run along the canals?
    But above all, what happened to that little old lady?

    Liked by 1 person


    Paris, Venice, Udaipur: noise, rainbow
    glitter, sensory orgasmatrons yet
    nothing called serenity or the bliss
    of a child carefree on a swing.

    Here is my city, patient work of seeds
    and seasons, pink campion, knapweed
    and hawkbit’s yellow, filling the meadows’
    edge around the solitary ash. High

    ridge on a clear day, chalk or clay
    underfoot, silent, watch the hawk’s lift
    and stoop to the clustered oaks, sheen
    on clear spring water bubbling. Cross

    an open field where the breeze lifts away
    the dreck and bric-a-brac of cares and toils,
    open and be filled with birdsong,
    float in moments endless ethereal.

    Here is my city.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my first response:

    A City In His Pocket

    Searched his donkey jacket,
    business suit and blazer.

    Nowhere. In his dreams hand
    in pocket it felt smooth like wet cobbles

    his hobnail boots slipped on and faltered,
    clattered and echoed in a cave of streets,

    crammed with bread on the bake,
    spicy curry and sweet dark chocolate,

    or the top of a Christmas dome
    you upturned to see snow fall

    on gothic spires and picket fences,
    or hand in pocket spiky and harsh

    like police speed traps or his wife’s voice.
    Pick pocketed now empty pocket.

    Gust blew across the abandoned threads.
    Aha! He’d put it in his hi viz jacket.

    (Previously appeared in The Coffeelicious)

    Liked by 4 people

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