“When I say it’s you I like, I’m talking about that part of you that knows that life is far more than anything you can ever see or hear or touch. That deep part of you that allows you to stand for those things without which humankind cannot survive. Love that conquers hate, peace that rises triumphant over war, and justice that proves more powerful than greed.” Fred Rogers 

MIster Rogers (photograph in the public domain)

Fred McFeely Rogers (1928 – 2003) was an American television personality, musician, puppeteer, writer, producer, and Presbyterian minister. He was known as the creator, music composer, and host of the educational preschool television series Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood (1968–2001). The show featured Rogers’ kind, neighborly, avuncular persona, which nurtured his connection to the audience. [Wikipedia]

The last Wednesday Writing Prompt, from the wind wipped edges of the earth, July 18, was probably the most serious and perhaps the most difficult, angering and painful in the history of this effort. Brave, angry, despairing, hopeful responses from newcomer Debasis Mukhopadhyay and from old friends,  Paul Brookes, Debbie Felio (Deb y Felio), Taman Tracy Moncur, and Marta Pombo Sallés. Feed your soul on these this afternoon and be with us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt.

I hope you’ll visit and get to know these poets. It’s important for us to support and encourage one another in our art and in our solidarity for peace, sustainability and social justice.  I’ve linked in blogs for your convenience. If the poet doesn’t have a site, chances are you can catch up with them on Facebook.

butcher them carefully

i hate how these metal benches are now sighing for the the stall of dawn / how impossible to have again between his eyes & mine evening stars becalmed by a darkness in which we can cry only in dream

the toll-free number destined for detained parents weave rehearsal for life like the dance of corn fields too far to see by / that is that / what better road to the door of dawn could kid draw on the ribs of my cage with his broken piece of chalk

fuck dawn

the warm vapor of morning ablaze in ICE detention center becomes elegies for his dragged off cries / being told that the best chance i have of seeing my son is to plead guilty i am now peace with memory games

© 2018, Debasis Mukhopadhyay

DEBASIS MUKHOPADHYAY is the author of the chapbook kyrie eleison or all robins taken out of context (Finishing Line Press, 2017). His poems have appeared in The Curly Mind, Posit, Words Dance, Yellow Chair Review, I am not a silent poet, New Verse News, Anapest Journal, Thirteen Myna Birds, Of/With, Scarlet Leaf Review, With Painted Words, Whale Road Review, and elsewhere. His work has been nominated for the Best of the Net. Debasis lives & writes in Montreal, Canada.  Follow him at debasis mukhopadhyay, between ink & inkblot or @dbasis_m on Twitter.

Hopelessness Is Life

Only the hopeless live.
Only hopelessness makes you smile.

When all hopelessness is gone
then you will grieve at the loss.

There are three streets we can go down,
Faithlessness, Hopelessness and Selfishness

Without one of these the others cannot exist.
There must always be hopelessness

in the best of times. It reminds us of an edge
to life. Surrender to hopelessness

and all will be well. It is the force that drives
all that is worthwhile and good.

© 2018, Paul Brookes (Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration, History, Imagination)

Hope In Small Spaces

since September the public have been invited to name storms that blow hard enough. Today’s storm is called Barney. Last week it was Abigail.

while black patches of damp splatter on the white bathroom, plaster crackles off, dark marks around the double glazing and aroma of decay, the morning shower is good

you travel to hospital to have the active cancer removed from your womb, while the grandkids, your mam and I distract ourselves with a meal in The Horseshoe

© 2018, Paul Brookes (Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration, History, Imagination)

our unbattle (Apologies to re cummings)

in unwars, highly untrained unsoldiers
unskilled in unkilling, unhelp

unrefugees unhomeless untrek
thousands of unkilometres

to an unwelcome in unpeaceful uncountries,
with untightened unborder uncontrols.

unghosts unhaunt their and our undreams
with unscreams where every unnoise

is the undead unwounded, unfathered,
unmothered children unstare with uneyes.

© 2018, Paul Brookes (Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration, History, Imagination)

To Avoid Absolutes.

Advice given to me
as a novice know it all writer

when I used words “hope,
love, hate, beauty, ugly.”

Keep it concrete description.
Answer five questions: Why,
how, when, where, what.

What did they know? I
would write what I wanted.

Why? Because I could.
How? Simple, read this.

When? Just this minute.
Where? In my hand.

What? Look there. On
the page. What’s the frown for?

© 2018, Paul Brookes (Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration, History, Imagination)

Let There be Peace

we look for peace as an outcome
of war with other nations
we look for peace as product
of selfish accumulation

we look for peace in pridefulness
mistaking bullying for might
we look for peace in hiddenness
keeping deception out of sight

we look for peace in armies
enlisting those who may be lost
we look for peace in destruction
never counting all the costs

we look for peace within the walls
that keep the others out
we look for peace in laborious laws
without knowing what they’re about

we look for peace in blame and shame
to quiet all the voices
we look for peace in entitlement
thinking we just need more choices

we look for peace in fulfillment
pretending it’s only about just me
we look for peace in breaking rules
re-labeling it as free

we look for peace in marches
in protests, walk outs and such
we look for peace in demands of others
without shifting ourselves too much

we look for peace in a million ways
repeated as if each one is new
but until we know it within ourselves
there’s little we can do.

Let it begin with me.

© 2018, Deb y Felio

Planting Peace

the peace rose doesn’t grow
in desert and hostile ground

the peace rose doesn’t grow
when pulled up from its planting

the peace rose doesn’t grow
when left unattended

the peace rose doesn’t grow
when damaged and rejected

the peace rose doesn’t grow
in famine and in drought

the peace rose doesn’t grow
when sheared from all sides

the peace rose doesn’t grow
in poverty and war

the peace rose doesn’t grow
when left unplanted as a seed

the peace rose can only grow
when nurtured from beginning.

© 2018, deb y felio

Peace is
The heart of mankind beating the drum of unity
Seeking the pulse of a people
Whose voices are lifted in harmony
Singing the song of difference…

© 2018, Tamam Tracy Moncur

Lights park at night.png


We are…
mad, glad, sad.
Sometimes they call us mad
for revolutionary ideas.
Others we are glad
when things go fine.

But now we are…
so sad, sad, sad…
for the lack of justice
for the increasing oppression
for starting a new period of life
where things will be much harder.
For so many years
a privileged life.
Or was it just a mirage
on a surface apparently peaceful
though underneath dwelt
the threat of violence
in case you wanted too much freedom?

Yet mad, glad, sad
must always mean hope
a way to carry on
through the dark tunnel.

Mad, glad, sad
please tell me there is light
in our peaceful legitimate fight.

© 2017, photograph and poem, Marta Pombo Sallés (Moments)


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.


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