In March, Flowering … and your next Wednesday Writing Prompt

“The worst thing you can do is censor yourself as the pencil hits the paper.  You must not edit until you get it all on paper. I you can put everything down, stream-of-consciousness, you’ll do yourself a service.” Stephen Sondheim



an exercise in stream of consciousness

Redwood City, City Hall
In March, flowering

It’s so palpable, I can
pick it, I think, from
a break in the concrete,
like an intrusive dandelion
Pluck it, from the air,
like a feather
. . . . March!

It’s a good month here,
anything not in bloom is in bud
The Peninsula will strum a rainbow
with extra green on St. Patrick’s Day
The clover in Wendy’s front yard
is mutant, half the span of a hand

at the old place, the deer come down
in season, waiting for the apples
They owned that tree and
Their hunger is honest, don’t you know
a bit of Henry Miller there
They only eat on empty
Human take note!

I need a joke for the poetry reading ~
Did you hear the one about Descartes?
He walked into Milagros near City Center
The waiter asked if he wanted salsa
“I think not,” said Descartes
and promptly disappeared

How about the one on Dante?
[a Robert Pinsky fave]
Dante at the Dodge Poetry Festival:
“I have three poems to read.”

brilliant verse
[first self-deception of the day]
Paces to the rhythm of my steps,
[lost amid the scattered thoughts
and my craving for coffee]
Husband #1 – poor guy
would have rolled his eyes and said  …
“Mind like a sieve!”
That might be why I left
Or did he leave me?
Can’t say I remember,
having abandoned marriage
and domestic suffocation
……..to breathe like this!
during early morning walks
in March, flowering

© 2013, Jamie Dedes

WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT

“As we take, in fact, a general view of the wonderful stream of our consciousness, what strikes us first is this different pace of its parts. Like a bird ‘s life, it seems to be made of an alternation of flights and perchings.” William James

As a writing technique stream of consciousness was named by May Sinclair – appropriated from William James’ idea – in her review of Dorothy Richardson’s Pointed Roofs in which the technique was used. It was brought to us, perhaps most infamously by that prodigal Irishman James Joyce, and by the French Marcel Proust, the American James Thurber and the English Virginia Woolf among others. Though more a novelist’s tool than a poet’s, one March I decided to experiment with stream-of-consciousness as I went digging for a poem on my morning walk. Now I pass the challenge to you.

Share your poem/s on theme in the comments section below or leave a link to it/them.

All poems on theme are published on the following 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 are 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, November 26 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 non-judgemental place to connect.


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Poet and writer, I was once columnist and associate editor of a regional employment publication. I currently 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. My poetry was recently read by Northern California actor Richard Lingua for Poetry Woodshed, Belfast Community Radio. I was featured in a lengthy interview on the Creative Nexus Radio Show where I was dubbed “Poetry Champion.”

* The BeZine: Waging the Peace, An Interfaith Exploration featuring Fr. Daniel Sormani, Rev. Benjamin Meyers, and the Venerable Bhikkhu Bodhi among others

“Every pair of eyes facing you has probably experienced something you could not endure.” Lucille Clifton

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13 Comments on “In March, Flowering … and your next Wednesday Writing Prompt

  1. THE TRUE ARTIST

    This is ecstasy,
    This is love and lunacy,
    This is the Artist.

    The true artist is everyman,
    Is any man,
    Has a child’s sensitivity,
    And knowledge only age can bring.
    Unfettered of his earthly ties,
    Sings through the ages,
    Touching hearts, Touching minds,

    And,

    Creating joy and sorrow,
    In the lives
    of those he meets…
    -J.E.Goldie-

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Hi Jamie:

    My third response:

    Photographs of delerium deceive
    Mimeographs of insects believe
    Radiographs of horribilis dear
    Craniographs of fabulous fear

    Take the ladder of sight into home
    Rake the matter of flight into loam
    Brake on platters of plight into roam
    Ache in tatters of light zone

    Sunlight is finelight is wildlight
    Lifetime is wildlife is darklife
    Finelight is darktime is moonlife
    Deadwild is lifelight is darktime

    Seasons are ripe control artists
    Autumn swells a tuber orchestra
    Winter times a criminal cold watch
    Spring flames a filigree wish
    Summer fry

    History schools disguise hinges gold
    Works marks eyeteeth buys goodnews
    In letters as big as you like miserable
    wherever it goes at the time

    History restores fire original grounds
    Polished integrity shines shoes
    in worn leather arette discerns all
    beauty remarkable story in time

    Tea towel the evidence of tears
    In the fabric of a face distraught
    at broken crockery of living
    Dissolved in the birth of Why.

    Run the tap of silence till it goes cold
    Rip the shower map of patience
    Undone by the bath of life
    Crazy at the loss of switches

    Hunt down a crisis of coffee jars
    Find wonderful in a winos fears
    Wind up a clock that one son
    Happenstance often disappears

    Hit critical button pop up dolled down whimsical forgot me not blues
    Hard assed holy mother of knives
    in cracked wisdom tooth news

    Caustic delivery hides hints and tints
    Highly organised finery total respect
    Oranges juice out frets of guitars
    Willingly dissect green bins

    Finest disarmament heals horror filled theatres bloody cogs log timidity
    Terrorise frigidity in a week of woe
    a great deal more like number.

    Dance time crunch time grey time
    Flounce your skulls into bounce
    Castles in a sky of cat bowls half eaten hidden menus of menace

    Let bygones be sandwiches made for you in the neatest handwriting all over the willingness of your body of truth or dare trembles terror

    So much is about where we are in our days of telling each other where we are not half suspecting they know already the half truth you give

    May you dream on the edge of time with the wild things and happen upon sanity when a penny drops in the morning

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Hi Jamie,

    My second response:

    The Hair

    Grasp the hair of the snog
    Paddle crevasses of the fog
    Handle delights of worlds washbasin
    Grapple sights of awful bootlacing.

    Darken desperate ways wanton
    Harken fenestrated days spoken
    Loosen raids out into darkness
    Gruesome braids entangle starkness.

    Gargle the grimness of the day
    Snaffle forgetfulness of yesterday
    Hustle the heavenly toast buttered
    Sisel roped fitness unfettered

    Thimbleful of radiator love
    Nimbleful of aviator dove
    Hastle hungry heavy heads up
    Castle chess players beds up

    Delight in eyes of green and gold
    Despite the sight of preen and mold
    Alight the flight of mean and sold
    A kite of might is lean and bold

    Tucked behind the ear of a desk
    rucked beyond the fear of a whelk
    barrage ballooned beneficent bedlam
    garaged consumed munificent headroom

    Resistance is mobile
    Subsistence is virile
    Subsidence is active
    Defiance is reactive

    Pro plus days in delight
    Ominous rays indelicate plight
    Luminous phase conflagrate
    Numinous ways profligate.

    Allow broad canopies desperate energy
    fall guarded heat intense jack knife
    lilt motionless nervous oranges
    permeate quietly rampant succumb
    tremble under vernal wishes xeme your zest

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Hi Jamie:

    I call them “Riffing”. Here’s my first response:

    Clamped

    Clamped in the upright station of the world
    Drowned in the come uppance daylight
    Hunkered half light knowingness
    Hefts hollow along kerbside

    Ferret the mammal heart of the world
    Become harsh chandeliers
    Become rude shoeless adjectives
    verb your character into business

    letteropen an alphabet of fire,
    a draining board of desire
    a kitchen cupboard of flesh
    a knifeblock of words
    unseating themselves

    Griddle down lightning days
    Heavying nights moisten to open
    Forgiveness in a handshake of trees
    a massage of fields amid the nursery
    Of war

    record visual media
    stand to attention wall
    mounted retreat into hill
    stations of past lives
    lived hands free
    autobot rainbow of perception

    Tinker, tinker with children’s toys
    repair your own gored scars
    fix bro
    ken and Barbie cars without
    wheels pieces
    lost toothless jigsaw

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Dusk

    Dusk comes earlier now!
    ever pleasing,
    “bird on the wing.”

    The Sun was out
    to play today!
    I turned around
    and she was gone…

    Welcome Night…….

    Jen G

    Liked by 1 person

  6. I saw the Moon tonight!
    It shone down like a beam
    from heaven,
    It made the stars more bright!

    I’ll leave a sunshine path tomorrow,
    That’s what I’ll do!
    Wherever I go,
    I’ll leave a little light,
    enough for you to follow.

    In celebration of the Moon Beam.

    If you follow the light
    You will see me there,
    When you follow the light,
    You will know I care.
    ………..Friendship………..
    Jen G

    Liked by 1 person

  7. I had a marvelous Professor who stressed “Stream of Consciousness” as a method of writing. My first awakening to this was looking at a tree. Simply a tree. I hadn’t realized why I love images of trees until just now. He emphasized being in the moment, which is so fleeting. If the moment moves you to write. You MUST write!
    “I saw the Moon tonight!
    It shone down like a beam from heaven.
    And made the stars more bright.”
    Its the moments that most people miss in life. A poet cherishes those moments, and from what I’ve seen so far, all of the people who have graciously shared their moments with us have been “In the Moment”. Thankyou Jamie for yet another challenge.
    Jen G

    Liked by 1 person

  8. ..you ask me to explain..

    it is said i write abstract, in time to save

    your feelings. you asked me to explain,

    i did so lightly. the other said no one else

    dare ask.

    i tell you it is a full and complicated story

    that may upset.

    i wrote it quickly using shape,colour,

    metaphor and symbol.

    was loathe to read it for i may cry.

    you wish a pretty picture yet i cannot

    make it.

    i thank you for asking, where others

    do not read.

    the writing circled

    sbm.

    Liked by 2 people

  9. .the dying field.

    dense night ; memorial

    green underhedge ; hoar

    frost ; rhythms of black

    birds ; black

    jack ; flap

    jack

    stream of conciousness

    there is no rhyme

    these recollections ; another time

    eighteen hundred

    eighteen hundred

    too many dead

    .

    Liked by 2 people

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