by 
“Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out that going to the mountains is going home; that wildness is a necessity” John Muir, Our National Parks
Still for a moment the church bells
pealing the ancient canonical hours.
Still the lyric call of the muezzin.
Silence the Shacharit, the Mincha, the Arvit.
Stay the wheels and the flying flags.
Let nature’s prayer alone reverberate
in the unfettered canticle of trees.
“A few minutes ago every tree was excited, bowing to the roaring storm, waving, swirling, tossing their branches in glorious enthusiasm like worship. But though to the outer ear these trees are now silent, their songs never cease.” John Muir (1838-1914), Scottish-American naturalist, environmental activist, and author
© 2014, poem and photographs, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved
WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT
I wrote this poem for National Wilderness Week in 2014. Around here (Northern California), we have forests of sturdy redwood that bring joy to eyes, heart and spirit. As you might suspect from my poem, the redwood forests make me feel as though I’m in a cathedral. They’re a religious experience. I’m wondering today what you feel like in the wilderness: awed, intimidated, comforted, inspired? Perhaps you’ve never been and you have speculations to share. Perhaps you went camping and it was a hugely enjoyable adventure; or, maybe it camping was the worst decision you’ve ever made. Tell us about your thoughts and adventures in a poem or poems.
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 joining 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.
PLEASE send the bio ONLY if you are with us on this for the first time AND only if you have posted a poem (or a link to one of yours) on theme in the comments section below.
Deadline: Monday, August 27 at 8 p.m. Pacific.
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.
ABOUT
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 Porch, Vita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation Press, The Bar None Group, Salamander Cove, Second Light, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman.
Jamie Dedes' THE POET BY DAY Webzine 
Such beauty expressed. Thank you all!
Whose
Once again
we lay a claim
on land
not ours
chop down
build up
less natural
habitation
wildlife wanders in
refusing to give up
its native lands
to secluded cabins
in awe filled
fairy forests
bears feast on
chokecherries
and bird feeders
share trashed
leftovers
with foxes,
raccoons
toms, hens and chicks
claim grasses
and trees
for homes
deer leave
calling cards
thank you for
the flowers
mountain lions
prowling
remind all
who is king
I am grateful,
they share the space.
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Thank you! Deb.
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Thanks for the lovely prompt Jamie.
sillyfrogsusan.wordpress.com/2018/08/26/born-on-the-wind/
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To the river
This is where we came, here, to the river
for the first time, along the rutted path,
cowslips, bluebells crowding at its edge; past
the dandelion meadow, its pale-white
quilt of puffballs waiting to be blown and cast.
Together to the river to explore
vigorous and sinuous, limpid rills
and ripples,the glistening flow of water.
Beneath the cobalt sky, each moment
folding into itself the heat,intense
upon our faces, the stones’ cool splash and spray,
shouts and birdsong; each uplifted stone setting
free the grains of memory,where we were
one time held, entranced, imagination’s
captives in the bubble of our dreams.
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Hi Jamie,
Here’s my fourth response:
Extracts from ‘Woodbrains, woodbrides, woodwives’
Grovemind, groovemind
synaptic branches
neuron tipped limbs
sacred grove recovery
oakbrain opens doors in my head
ashbrain spears my ideas
elmbrain plays the fey
electric gust moves limbs
inside my head
barkskin neural net
circumnavigates damage
fruited hemispheres
replenish, restore, reimagine
senses water roots
grove in my head
grooves in my head
between oaklimbs
between ashlimbs…
…Whispering forest
walk among us, as us
known as oakman
known as birchwoman
known as elmlad
known as ashlass
Each one gentle,
one is strong
one elegant
all older than they look
their voices not listened to
“I talk to the tree”
“Hug a tree”
“I am a tree”
seen as signs of waywardness
to be laughed at,
pilloried and scorned.
later they will scream
when cut down
or have a limb amputated
we ought to listen.
(From “The Headpoke And Firewedding”, Alien Buddha Press, 2017
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Hi Jamie,
Here’s my third response:
This Brash and Burn
1. To Burn Brash
Sat back barked.
Small insects crawl
down tree stretched above
inhabit hair
worn gloves
bruised brashed branches
Breathe wet peat,
damp soil, leaf decay,
autumn dead leaf dance,
spring bluebell wend
summer sacred stainglass
canopy sunshaft play
winter heavesnow clear paths
Sat back barked
canopy leaf horizon
floats shimmers
Calm
2. Our Wombwell Boxed
Lift small boxes wooden lid smell
broadleaved woodland
before rail/road
Press plastic button hear
Skylarks, Meadow Pipits, Woodpeckers,
before rail/road.
Press plastic button watch
Videowalk ancient Beech, Oak, Birch
before rail/road.
Electronic ringtone.
We would like to advise all visitors
The museum is closing soon.
Please exit through main door.
We hope you have enjoyed your visit.
Please come again.
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Hi Jamie,
Here’s my second response:
Oaksong
oaksongs
How can you be in two places
at once? I asked. A Christian
friend replied ” You can have
one foot inside the door
and the other foot outside.”
You would be forever
on the threshold, neither
one nor the other, or both.
A fence sitter, neither
Summer or Winter
God or Man.
Would you sacrifice the other
to be wholly another? To step
in and close the door
shut out the weather
from the other side.
Are you coming in or what?
Your letting in a right breeze?
Put wood in the hole.
Decide whether your in or out!
*******
I watch the traffic lights
consider a walk this way or
a green man allows me
to avoid bloodied bone
my mouth and ears
thresholds and doors
full of oaklimbs and leaves
reborn I stretch down
to deep dark moist
I stretch up to cloudlight
barkskin palmtouched
I let others breathe
shelter and endure
*******
moors were once forests
national parks heavy industrial
this oak headland a pitsite
lads snap off livelimbs
anarchic coppicing
black dogshitbags sway
on limbs left alone
don’t visit in a storm
oaks are lightningtrees
people can be oaks
oakgroves of druids
duir means a door
exit and entrance
raw open wounds of sacrifice
still bleed sap
this hand has molded
a garden out of wildlife
words out of nonsense
she used to say “when
one door closes
another opens”
(From “Stubborn Sod”, forthcoming from Alien Buddha Press, 2018)
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Hi Jamie,
Here’s my first response:
Thorns
pale and too weak to move
cough your guts over
edge of your bed
in faint light from the door
two trees
walk towards you
one black, the other white
black tree becomes a pair of eyes
you inhale smoke drifting up from a fire
sharp fruit fragrance
spiky, dark, sinewy, stiff bark,
oval leaves with a serrated margin
move
quickly over your body
touches points here and there,
painful thorns nick out bubbles
of your blood
it mutters strange
under its breath
with a low, crackling voice.
The night grows old,
dawn approaches
dissolves into
the white tree
with long bright hair,
lays a cool gentle hand on your brow,
mutters with a sweet bell-like voice
your sight sharpens
until the white tree,
becomes a woman,
your pain eases. She sweeps
brown-grey, knotted
and fissured skin,
slender and brown limbs
covered in thorns
that do not hurt
up and down
your body, touches same places
as the black tree
pain vanishes
refreshed
into easy, restful sleep
(From ‘The Headpoke And Firewedding, Alien Buddha Press, 2017)
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Patricia’s Garden
The tall oak tree…a sentinel
Standing guard over the small yard
Wards off invasions of mayhem
Keeping peace in the inner sanctum
Painted rocks surround pathways
Leading to artistic creativity
While small tables and chairs
In camaraderie congregate together
The mums sing colors across the garden
Yellow and lavender tones harmonize
Brilliant red petals bellow magnificence
In a perennial summer performance
Peace and compassion frolic in fun
Chasing joy between the evergreens
The sun’s reflection shimmers off the muraled wall
As happiness dances slowly towards the impending fall.
The tall oak tree…a sentinel
Standing guard over the small yard
Wards off invasions of mayhem
Keeping peace in the inner sanctum
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.the wild wood again.
when the fog clears we creep back into the wild wood watch birds eat wettened crumbs. softly rain falls each year falls an anniversary
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.the new arrival.
hear that , crashing in the old wood, trees fall and die.
seems time stands still, nothing moves . happening.
older times are done, quiet now, seamlessly it will start
again.
one word, one sound, then blindly we will crash into the wild woods
again.
i met a man who did not know, had just arrived.
we may learn in time.
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Thanks Jamie. First Response.
..wild wood..
photograph the trees. notice the wild wood
early while walking, imagine it may
be mine. to care for , to let be. it could.
it is for sale. new sign on the gate, today
the charcoal burner . he is a woods man
smoke rises grey. price is mentioned . plenty.
I think on his words, the idea, owning land,
crashing back into the wild wood. empty
headed. it is good to be quiet, alone
away from their thickening throng , the dread .
soft voices. smoke rises slow, ashes. old bone.
dust and dust , by dust we bury the dead.
he will split the wood. they may come and buy,
yet in my head the wild wood will be mine.
sbm.
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Very beautiful poems, Jamie and Carol. Here is my contribution:
https://momentsbloc.wordpress.com/2018/05/25/that-evening-english-catalan-versions/
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Cathedral of trees,
where I worship every day;
Where I go to breathe in peace;
Where I go to be restored;
Where I go to bring back faith:
persevere in drought;
sustain my weak soul;
grow beyond eons.
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