“If life is not a celebration, why remember it ? If life — mine or that of my fellow man — is not an offering to the other, what are we doing on this earth?” Open Heart,
What a treasure of a collection, these serious thoughts this week in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Riding the Ebb-tides of Eternity, September 5. Touching. Stunning. Thoughtful.
Thanks and a warm welcome to Jim Wardell, new to The Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt. Thanks to Gary W. Bowers, bogpan (Bozhidar Pangelov), Tamam Tracy Moncur, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Carol Mikoda and Susan St. Pierre. Special thanks to Susan and Bozhidar for sharing illustrations.
Read. Enjoy. Be inspired. And do join us for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are encouraged to participate: beginning, emerging, or pro poets.
On this dew soaked morning
gentle sunlight streams between
the dampened boughs of an awakened day.
I think of you and of me
and of the many misted mornings
we laughed and whispered
until we had to part for a time.
Afternoon and evening sped by
but morning always lingered.
We moved at the pace of sleep
slow and without effort
to prepare the day for ourselves
while hustle and bustle and rush and whim
scurried and fretted about us.
Hidden smiles and secret plots contrived in haste
deals brokered in the light of the rising sun
conspiracies bound in blood and love
carried us through the day apart
the time of our unknowing.
Always when evening came
separated paths joined once more
promises of morning were fulfilled
in the drifting dusk.
As this morning of our lives lingers
I sit share laugh cry
etch upon my heart this memory
of hidden smiles and secret plots.
We have not changed
You and I remain bound in blood and love
we have not changed.
Morning ends as it always does
you on your path and I on mine
frightened to be alone.
We now step into the time of our unknowing
confident that when evening falls
the other will await.
© James Wardell (A Day of Wind and Moon)
JAMES WARDELL, a native of Kentucky, is a musician and educator who has made his home in the mountains of southwest Virginia. He plays, writes, teaches and learns at the University of Virginia’s College at Wise. Some days he works.
Previous publications include Jimson Weed Journal, Tipton Poetry Review, Goliath, Snakeskin Magazine, Bitterzoet Magazine and Press, and Voices Literary Journal.
teapots and tempests
some crafted some not
tosspots and destinies
often are wrought
if you behold
you’re beholden eh wot
and then blossom some more
doorways to wayfaring ferret
the rising signal
A hell it made
not merely of manglecrush forms
but of the simmering magma
the bombs we make we
lob into crowds
and they unmake
and we know it is wrong
but it is again a signal
that we are lost
but some of us love
some see seedlings
and keep them for spring
and some beyond us
save all endeavor
a tempest is not endeavor
a teapot is endeavor
thought is endeavor
some thought is divine
for the preservation
was its larva
movable type its nymph
and eons hence
its adult form
will be the very texture
stars do not die
they become something else
as will you
as will i
© 2018, Gary W. Bowers (One With Clay, Image and Text)
How do I look at my own demise?
It’s not a surprise because the one thing we all know
Is that one day we too shall die
We will pass from this plane into eternity.
At 73 many people close to me have made
This transition in creation to another place in space.
Twice in my dreams two of my loved ones have appeared
at different times in my life
To free me from fear and doubt
First my grandmother and then years later my son
Each came during a time of hurt
Each came during a time of spiritual pain
Each came during a time of emotional distress
My grandmother and my son
They made that journey from the world beyond
to give me a supernatural hug
A magical hug
A mystical hug
A hug that enveloped me in God’s love
A hug of reassurance strengthening my mind
And my endurance to always walk in faith
Until my ultimate release into peace comes.
© 2018, Tamam Tracy Moncur (The Road of Impossibilities)
along the rivers Maritsa floats the cut head
– „no,“ he had told the Maenad,
but they did not understand
in this land only in this land
„yes“ is for a return
the legend tells you that in the autumn you can hear
the tender sounds of the Lira, for everything is back –
only on the sounds and on the drops of blood
you can find me
© 2018, bogpan (a.k.a. Bozhidar Pangelov ) (bogpan); illustration, “The Death of Orpheus (1494) by Durer,” public domain
To be remembered…
Leave footprints in the
Fresh sand of youthful wonder,
And seek wisdom found in
Questions you can’t answer .
Make memories on the
Pristine palette of a baby,
And explore forever with an
Eye on being present.
Eternity belongs to those
<Who stand out in a child’s life>
Etched in time and tradition,
You’ll be remembered.
© 2018, photo and poem, Susan St. Pierre (Silly Frog Susan)
as can we, yet i guess
a duck can’t smile, ian.
can snails smile, i know
i smile a lot, learned it
at dance class, whatever
happens, keep it up.
continues now, at work,
they say it cheers you up,
makes your cheeks hurt,
© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher
sundays is three things.today may be one.
sometimes it comes easy,sometimes it
it is warm today, just look at all there is
as opposed to elsewhere.
© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher
- Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA paintings (This is her Facebook page, so you can connect with her there as well as view photographs of her colorful paintings.)
- Sonja on Twitter
- Sonja’s daily blog (WordPress) is HERE.
The first postcard from hell said, “Don’t you get sick of being honest all the time? Everyone is always checking and making sure. Why not give them something to surprise them?” So I allowed jewels to fall from my mouth along with my impeccable word and flowers and once in a while bolts and washers with no nuts. Everyone was continually surprised.
The second postcard from hell told me I could relax, slough off my usual care and meaningful intention. “It’s so hard when you’re always trying to do your best, isn’t it? You deserve a break!” So I collected up a million of my favorite human beings and tooks us all to a resort where we relaxed in hammocks and beach chairs. All of our beverages included blossoms and little umbrellas. We napped.
The third postcard from hell was direct but a bit strained: “Some of these people? The ones with you at the resort? They look funny or smell funny or eat weird foods or speak funny languages! They don’t match you. Who knows who is lurking in there?” So I walked among those million people, talking, laughing, singing with them, sharing meals, until we all found something in common, like the color of our socks.
The million human beings had to go back to schools, jobs, homes, so I read the fourth postcard from hell all alone sitting in a broken beach chair. “Ha! They left you! Loser! They don’t like you! Go eat worms!” So I invented a machine to rearrange the grains of sand on the beach to send messages to the stars. The message I sent was:
L O V E
© 2018, Carol Mikoda (At the Yellow Table / We Are Stardust: Change Is What It’s All 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.