by 
“I really should talk to him. He’s had a near-death experience!”
“We all have. It’s called living.”
the grandmother stone
at the medical center you put your ear
to the trunk of a birch and listened to my heart
while i roasted potatoes in a snowed-under parking lot
and managed the effects of a shrinking brain
when i heard the door to the crematorium slam shut,
i found myself floating on waves of heat that flayed my skin,
mom held me in mourning and sang Salve Regina
(she was slightly off-key)
but i found the grandmother stone you left in my hand
it pulled me back to the earth and the snow
i heard you say you savored the taste of my blood
in the kalamata olives you ate the day i died
i listened to doves cooing and watched the wind
wrap silver filigree around tree branches
the morning was crisp and fresh
the others came to say goodbye, arms full of flowers
but your arms were empty and heavy with love
i decided to live
© 2017, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved
Back from the Brink
The road to the hospital lies under the weight of fog.
Perhaps that’s as it should be, all things considered.
I’m tempted to fuss with speculations and simile,
though it might be unwise, maybe even unkind,
to say that road is like a passage leading to salvation,
the undoing of cardiac arrest, then I’d have to
knock on wood in my mother’s way, not to jinx it,
not to jinx raising Lazarus from his hospital bed –
The quality of resuscitation is the quality of a mercy,
which might not show itself this day, so we pray.
We wonder, does consciousness survive brain death?
Will he come back from over the brink like a drunk
from a binge, ready to swear-off his bad habits,
suddenly enamored of Christ, whom he’d forsaken?
Will he change from his tech job to a confession
of sins and martyr himself in social services ~
a nouveau-saint of the died-and-came-back genus,
kin to those other types of marketers, not to be rude…
But it is a stretch, though I’d be happy if he survives
and over-brims more Light into our darkness. Amen.
© 2013, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved
WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT
Near Death Experience (NDE): We hear a lot about them these days. For the most part, the experiences reported appear to be consistent with the culture/religion of the person reporting. There are many differing opinions on the validity of the experience and more than a few studies. Tell us about your views, experience/s, observations.
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, October 1 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 
Exploring the memory
A light day…
My granny was a little
woman.
She loved to speak in other
languages:
Italian, French and
German.
And in the Grannies language for their grandchildren:
“my pretty”.
She didn’t get pension (that was
the time) and
our home was thronged with pupils. Surely because of this I learnt
neither one. Or with the guests who
dropped in
often (we lived in the downtown by the tail
of the horse* – they used
to say so), for having a cup of black coffee.
The coffee
was special – for fortune-telling. She
“was telling fortune” and they
were telling us. A lot of stories. Surely
because of this I
know neither one.
Then she started getting less and less and
slender.
One night my mother told me,
“Go to see her…”
A thin, transparent leaf.
Now surely she’s telling the fortune and
is speaking only in the Grannies language
for their grandchildren:
“my pretty”.
……………………………………………
*”the tail of the horse” is slang for the Historical Monument Tsar Osvoboditel (tsar liberator) that indicates the downtown of Sofia; more on the monument can be read here:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monument_to_the_Tsar_Liberator
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♥️
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1.. that feeling, that .
arrives unexpected from darkness, some winters’ mornings,
opening the door to the sound of one black bran bird calling.
track four repeated. that
comes on waking finding peace and comfort bound in clean
linen.
arises with perfume, an uncertain memory.
it may be chemicals, peptides in the brain as love, what
ever the germ or warfare
I find no word to describe, no random feather nor dust on
my plate. pass a finger.
that feeling of trimmed nails upon the keys pounding
words and silences.
while music plays. that feeling. that.
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Thanks Jamie….
:: i too shall die ::
we have a memory or two. the world goes dark, we teach and learn, wait for light to appear
it is the way of things, while there are birds. while you read, you will not understand all words, that is the way of things.
it is natural, it is what they do, they live in the wild. . we have no power, they, no disgust that reels and kicks. yet while small birds live, they too will die. like us.
drift. in air, in words. symbols of poetry, cut and pasted. literally. naturally .
everyday tiny things sing.
when some small birds have failed and gone others sound just the same.
touched by the small things, softly, we drew
we cannot delete things we do not like
sbm
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Last Words
In the style of Dali and Zappa,
fittingly obtuse, I say to you:
We exist only collectively.
We are all one force,
one consciousness.
It is all Love.
There is no I.
I will enter nothingness
so as worldly experiences are concerned.
I will move on to pure energy.
This is all a dream, graded gold,
burst in black light,
thinking of God, as God with God.
Nothingness and omnipresence
are one and the same.
Take my art. Take my writing.
It is all yours now.
Love my son, the best,
the best of all I have done.
In the end, there are no words.
Be grateful, as I am, for our time together.
Be grateful, each day, for life.
Be present, in each day, each hour, each moment
as if you were sure that
the present moment is all that’s certain.
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