by 
“Trauma is personal. It does not disappear if it is not validated. When it is ignored or invalidated the silent screams continue internally heard only by the one held captive. When someone enters the pain and hears the screams, healing can begin.” Emerging with Wings: A True Story of Lies, Pain, and the Love That Heals
they dwelt in houses of silence
chewed through grudging fences
swam in oceans of best intentions
tried to find one another on the
shores of their fears and confusions,
alienation was their warrior shield
their lives were lived in a boxing ring
the fist in the glove was a malignancy
and the mom passed her days sparring,
she thought the winner would be the
woman who was pretty and hushed
she saw herself as a victim,
she exhausted her own mother’s charity
when she turned her silence on kinfolk
there was no one else she could
beat upon or say her grief to or even
show her bruises and lacerations ~
except for that wee child of silence,
useless in matters of such magnitude
© 2012, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved; color sketch by Jiri Hodan, Public Domain Pictures.net
On a Whim and a Whisper
over the woman’s left shoulder
your breath hummed
a background dirge…
for the echo of her lonely feet
plodding the snow-covered streets
to St. Elizabeth’s Hospital,
dripping shame with her broken water
while you wed another in the Byzantine manner
No used-goods for you though you were the user
The child born saw the mote in your eye
growing like Pinocchio’s nose
when, as kin to a secret vice,
you kept her in your dresser drawer
to be pulled out on a whim and a whisper
Is anyone looking?
© 2017, poem, Jamie Dedes; Phoenix Rising photograph courtesy of morgueFile
WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT
We’ve all seen it and perhaps everyone experiences and passes it on to one extent or another: if not physical abuse, then emotional, or some combination of the two, perhaps with the added whammy of abandonment. My mother’s default parenting position was silence. My father’s default parenting position was absence. Both are expressions of abandonment.
I’d never publish these poems were my parents alive. Parents are, after all, in process. They don’t come to parenting in full blossom. They have their own painful holes to fill and histories of which we will never be fully cognizant. I know my parents were wounded soldiers. It’s very likely yours were too. Such things are a matter of degree and it’s good to write about them to help raise the general consciousness, to build understanding, and to clear the trauma, our own and perhaps that of others if the writings are shared. So write about parenting or being parented and the complexity and the issues you’ve experienced or observed.
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 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, September 17 by 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, showcasing 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 
My fourth response:
No More Fetch
you here,
Fetch you home.
Fetch my lips to thine.
Fetch my arse to this.
Fetch you dinner.
Fetch you a snog.
Fetch your groceries.
Fetch your washing and ironing.
Fetch your slippers
Fetch my social to your wallet.
Fetch my hand up to stop thy fist.
Fetch your belongings in a black bag.
Fetch your gob and its mouthful.
Fetch mesen to thy want.
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My third response
“A fist in
the ear.”
he whispers to me
“What she needs.
She pushes me to it.
Harder than any squaddies.
And her children.
Her little bastards,
that’s what they need
I tell her,
a fist in the ear
and they don’t
lack discipline anymore.
They’ve got to tell me
she’s got to tell me,
where she goes,
what she does,
who she meets.
I’ll not worry then
will I?
What she needs,
If she’s off with some other
I’ll bring a shotgun to her.”
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Tears Of
God
My sons eyes are cold.
I have seen this look before.
He lugs my dog Sheba by her mane,
hauls her along the floor
a piece of meat, slopping over gunnels
in an abattoir, blood down the drains.
Her paws scratch and scrape
he dumps her at my feet.
“Bite its ear!”
I shake my head.
“If it’s done wrong, and it has
bite its ear.” I shake my head
mumble
“Done nothing wrong.”
“Eh! Speak up woman!”
“It ‘aint done nothing wrong. Jack!”
Fine rain falls through grey skies
in the pub yard, and a yellow
fluid flows out from under the dog.
“Dirty bitch!”
He kicks Sheba in her side.
She whimpers, puts her head
pleadingly on the black shiny
surface of my court shoes.
“I’ll do it then!”
Snatches her up
by the scruff
“Getting a dog
and not bringing it up right.
Stupid cow!”
He snaps at the silk of her ear.
She yelps. I cry.
“Stupid sodding cow!”
He slaps me hard
across my face. I feel
his gold rings on my cheek.
“Stop whimpering!”
Pushes me up against
the wet wall. His cold eyes
up close make me shiver.
One hand on my throat,
the other points at her. I mumble.
“Not again Jack. Please!”
My legs have gone.
“Treat the bitch right
and it’ll treat you right.”
Sheba inches against the wall,
low and hung back like the grey clouds.
Jack lets me fall. The pub door slams
Sheba, up on her legs again,
licks my face, lays down by my side
puts her head on my black court shoes.
Her neck is warm. My back hurts.
They call the rain the “Tears of God”
(Previously appeared in Degenerate Literature, Domestic Violence Edition, Weasel Press)
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Sad.
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Hi Jamie,
Here’s my first response:
Billy
still wears a nappy at seven
doesn’t understand
why folk tell him off
climbs through an open
window with his six year old
sister whose dress tears
as they tumble on wet
grass in the garden
amongst the dogshit
and mucky diapers mam
has chucked out the kitchen
door, and they walk
on the broken glass
from beer bottles dad
has lobbed out onto
the asphalt path to the front
garden gate that has only
one hinge and they totter
down the street to the big
sign of the supermarket
where steal some sweets
and sit outside and somebody
shouts at him and tells him off
and he doesn’t know why.
(previously published in Nixes Mate Magazine)
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The long road home
The umbilical cord between us,
Invisible to the naked eye,
Has a life of its own.
No matter how hard I try,
To pull away, even at my age,
It has an elastic snap
And cuts me short, then bounces
Me back to you.
I wonder how long it spans,
Even as you get carted away,
Across highways,
Somewhere upstate,
I know I will feel the internal tug,
Pull and tug and pull,
Till the pain brings tears to my eyes
And I run to the kitchen to grab hold
Of the scissors to cut and cut and cut
Me away from you.
But no matter how hard I try,
The damn thing finds its way back
And re-attaches itself to my heart,
To my gut- to your beating belly center
From which it was born.
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♥️
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The Shadows of Addiction
Addiction
Affliction
Abuse
What’s the excuse?
Substances infuse the brain
No pain
Worries…anxieties flee
Mocking reality
Illusions of joy
Permeate the atmosphere
No fear
Confidence in abundance
Eradicates the twins
Insecurity and timidity
Crack cocaine dances with heroin
Down opioid lane
The life of the party has been born
Sworn in only to begin
The cycle over and over again
The belle of the ball
Begins to fall
Tumbling…tumbling…tumbling
Into the depths of despair
Where even love-starved children
Cannot pierce the fierce
Grasp of addiction
Brokenhearted families
Succumb to the numbness
Of a devastating madness
Found in pipes…pills…powders
In the streets…prescriptions
over the counters
living death destroying
the fabric of love…
Addiction
Affliction
Abuse
What’s the excuse?
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Hi Jamie, Enjoyed your poems here. My own mother always said she longed for a mother and not a friend. Here is the link to what I wrote in response to your prompt. Hope you are well. reneejustturtleflight.com/2018/09/15/oranges-and-apples
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It’s No Big Deal
A minor slight —
sliver of glass
under the skin
every day
how bad could it be?
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Thankyou Jamie
Second response
..slabbed..
lay dead . do not speak nor ask for fear.
lay quiet. do not write nor tell. there are
new shoes by the wardrobe. at an angle.
still. do not move nor participate in any
way.
do not breathe, nor cry. there are new
shoes by the wardrobe, new shoes.
sbm.
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a powerful prompt, Jamie. Thank you.
Broken
How can we not
when it is in our
blood
How can we not
when it is in our
histories & herstories
Broken love —
self seeking,
conditional,
misunderstood
assumptions.
How can we not
when it is in our
cultures
How can we not
when it is in our
pasts and presents
How can we not
hurt/break others
when we start that way
enter broken —
what else can be given
but brokenness
passed generations
to generations
in disguised iterations
I will never be
her, him, them
but how can I not
Memory in words
action, emotion
overwhelm, repeat
How can we not
what else is there —
only practiced brokenness.
Father forgive them
Father forgive me
When I cannot.
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.mother love.
mother loves; son loves.
three. sons arrive. two.
father disappears a while,
&
while he is gone they grow.
up.
mother loves; son loves.
a while.
middle one dies, elder blames
mother, abuses her daughter.
a while.
the younger blinks and stutters.
mother loves; son loves.
he has a different story.
mother loves; son loves.
sbm.
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😥
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Apologies if this comes up twice. I wasn’t sure my first one went through.
Parenting and being parented comes with traumas both big and small. I wrote this last week but thought it would also be apropos here.
https://iidorun.wordpress.com/2018/09/10/fighting-age/
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Parenting and being parented can be traumatic in big and small ways. Your words were powerful.
I wrote this one last week but I think it fits with the prompt for this week.
https://iidorun.wordpress.com/2018/09/09/details/
My parents are still alive and follow my blog. I worried that they would be upset by this poem but fortunately, that was not the case. Thank you for sharing your story and inviting us to share ours.
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♥️
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I am very impressed with Jamie’s poems and idea! The trauma must be spoken so that it does not remain in the subconscious, as Freud claims. I underline the very interesting cultural fact that the term “Byzantine manner” used by an American poet is used in a context characteristic of people living in neighboring countries of Byzantium.
Pain In Your Heart
“Art creates the dream of life”
Is that the season?
The leaves are hitting the silent windows
and some roots of trees are creaking,
but I am a dream.
I do not recognize the colors,
when the sun of that town
without time shelters me like Mum.
Which flowers shall I gift to you?
I am not a saint – I cannot revive you.
I cannot even grief.
To gift to you – a last flower.
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♥️
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toughish love
dad had a note he would send
one of the three of us brothers
to the store with: “please sell my son
2 packs of pall malls”
i didn’t like to do it
i never liked to do it
one day i refused.
i had to not lie.
“dad. i’m not going to do this
any more.”
i looked at him
and made my eyes say You
Want Me To Help Kill You.
in his eyes
was a question.
Do I Let You Defy Me?
Then there was an answer:
Ah, Well,
It’s Because He Loves Me.
dad said, “okay,”
and i never bought him cigarettes again.
i was twelve,
he was thirty-three,
but i was the parent that day.
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♥️
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