At Montauk Point, Long Island, NY – circa 1972.
This is why you were born: to silence me.
Cells of my mother and father, it is your turn
to be pivotal, to be the masterpiece.
I improvised; I never remembered.
Now it’s your turn to be driven;
you’re the one who demands to know . . .
Mother and Child, Louise Glück in The Seven Ages [recommended]
And he …
He was a old soul
with new story, zero
at bone and marrow
adhering to Conrad’s dictum
with little shocks and surprises
in every sentence of his book
wearing Truth as his dermis
seeking tears, not blood
And he, like all good art,
marked me for the better.
© 2018 photo and poem, Jamie Dedes
WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT
Our children often surprise us and always delight us. Write a poem about one of your children or other child in your life.
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, December 3 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.
ABOUT
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 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. 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
“What if our religion was each other. If our practice was our life. If prayer, our words. What if the temple was the Earth. If forests were our church. If holy water–the rivers, lakes, and ocean. What if meditation was our relationships. If the teacher was life. If wisdom was self-knowledge. If love was the center of our being.” Ganga White, teacher and exponent of Yoga and founder of White Lotus, a Yoga center and retreat house in Santa Barbara, CA
“Every pair of eyes facing you has probably experienced something you could not endure.” Lucille Clifton
Clare And The Summer Of ’76
It was a speedy birth that early
August night after the Midwife
checked your heartbeat
and a Doctor rushed to my side.
He delivered you with forceps
and unlooped the cord
coiled tightly around your neck.
You cried in less than a minute,
stopped only when I cwtched you
in the crook of my arm,
kissed your blood-freckled face.
Then I cried too; in a family
of brunettes, you wore a cap
of woven gold as though
the sun-spun summer of ’76
had filtered through my skin
day by day and beamed
at you in your warm-water cradle,
reflected the light you still offer,
Clare, living the name you own.
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Hello! This is a prompt I can write so much about! Two offerings for you this week:
https://iidorun.wordpress.com/2018/12/02/twilight-sonata-a-quadrille/
https://iidorun.wordpress.com/2018/12/03/moonlight-sonata-quasi-una-fantasia-a-poem/
Thank you for all the context you’ve put out this week!
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..africa ..
a slight safari,
the front living room.
we sit there when my
daughter stays
over.
we watch the elephants
and bgt.
i have two living rooms.
the other is in india.
sbm.
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:: gay pyjamas ::
my daughter says
that pyjamas are cool
on every one,
and she wishes
she could wear them
all the days.
as i plod around
this morning,
mine a gay tartan,
i tend to agree.
perhaps that why
they wore them in china
a long time.
awoke arms high,
a little happier,
since the doc
said i was not broken too bad,
and since the taps stopped running.
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I am unsure if this was received – sorry if a duplicate
Time Frames
I carried him for nine months and strangers said
‘It will be over before you know it’-
the bulge that kept me slightly off
balance for the last trudging month
until labor started with the pangs and contractions –
but nothing short in that process even
as nurses assured
‘it will be over before you know it’.
Wrapped him in blankets of blue and pink stripes
and then the going home outfit of white and blue,
to begin real motherhood
of crying afternoons
and sleepless nights,
well meaning friends who assured
‘this will be over before you know it’.
Wet diapers, wet beds and my wet shirts,
and those who had been here ahead whispering
‘It will be over before you know it’.
Then rocking and hugging and sweet times
and grandmas saying ‘hold on to this,
it will be over before you know it’.
Crawling, climbing, chewing everything
walking, talking, playing,
toddler to young boy
preschool to kindergarten
‘Help me’ turns to ‘I can do it’
‘Pick me up’ to ‘Let me down’
‘Come with me’ to ‘You stay here’
‘Look at me’ to ‘Leave me alone’.
And he walks away with his backpack loaded
so self assured
and boards the bus
Turning to wave and happy to go
to first grade, then middle school, then
high school
Then driving himself off to college and a future.
I watch and wonder why someone
didn’t tell me
it would be over before I knew it?
deb y felio
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Just fine, Deb. No worries.
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Oh my goodness! I can do relate to this. 😢 The saying is “the days are long but the years are short” is so so true. You’ve captured it beautifully!
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3 Haiku and a Tanka
ordinary day
the slow unfolding
of butterfly wings
—
the nest
louder than usual
youngest child
—
11th birthday
the tenderness
of a sapling
—
unwrapping
the day
with laughter
my child
turns two
Billy Antonio
Laoac, Philippines
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I love the images you’ve created. Gorgeous work!
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I love the Tanka in particular,beautiful.
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Yes! 🙂
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“A Moonlight Sonata”
(Raanana, April 24, 2016)
The moon slid down through my open window
On a slippery ramp of pale light
Strangely silent for a child
Falling toward his father’s arms
But then the moon was not a child,
The child had grown older,
And I am just an old man
Rocking in the moonlight.
Words when they have no ears waiting for them
When they are not the words that wanted to be heard
Are swallowed by the vast silence
Like drowned sailors
But your words would have had my ears
And the world I’d have given to hear them.
My suitcase is in the trunk of the cab
You hug me hard
I kiss your forehead and tell you to write
But you’re too young to know the value of words,
You only know the value of grace and loveliness.
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“A Riddle”
(Raanana, January 17, 2014″
Don’t have much history,
I’m only four days old.
To most of you my name’s a mystery.
I’m the promise of the Promised Land,
I’m the crown on top the tree
Whose roots embrace the sea and sand.
I’m the fullness which you’ll never faze,
There’s nothing you can add or yearn,
These are all the things my name conveys
In a tongue I’ve yet to learn.
My face will launch a thousand rhymes
And maybe I’ll write some of them myself.
My future’s bright-eyed, ‘tween the lines.
If my riddle makes you kneel
Don’t lose heart,
My name is Klil.
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“Phantom Limbs”
(Raanana, March 28, 2014)
He felt ambiguated
Yes, he thought, that might be the word.
His unbounded happiness had saddened him.
After all, it was bounded
By the foreshortening of his life
From his perspective.
His wide unwieldy wings ached
To enfold his young granddaughter
Whose hair smelt of fresh wheat on a summer hillock.
He wanted to take her in his arms,
His heavy wings thrumping the air
Until slowly rising above the treetops
One with the cobalt sky
They’d soar and swoop
Over quilted fields and shadowed valleys,
Then back for tea and hoops
And lessons.
Back at home
Sometime during the night,
Or was it when he woke?
His wings were gone
But the ache remained
Like phantom limbs.
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This is beautiful!
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“Ori”
(Raanana, June 22, 2018)
You sit on my shoulders
And I hold your chubby legs
In my calloused hands.
“Look, Saba, a flag!”
“Take care, Oriki, the branches are low,”
I say. He ducks his head
And I duck my knees.
“Look, Saba, the moon!”
And I think my light is weightless
On my shoulders
Like walking on the moon.
Notes:
1. “Saba” means “Grampa” in Hebrew.
2. “Ori” is a name meaning “my light” in Hebrew and “Oriki” is a diminutive of “Ori”.
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“Little Flame”
(Raanana, March 25, 2018)
I cupped my hands around your little flame
Protecting it from susurrating air
So finite against the infinity of night
Until you rise above the eastern mountains
And light the skies with your burnished rays.
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“Ellah and the Terebinth”
(Isaiah 6:13
Raanana, March 18, 2018)
Just five days old such big hopes
Rest on such tiny shoulders,
Little Ellah, are you a goddess
Or a terebinth tree?
Your name means both these things.
Maybe you’re the goddess of the terebinth,
The holy seed foretold in Isaiah’s prophecy:
No matter what befalls us,
Like a terebinth that has been felled
Above its grounded roots
We shall grow back,
Stronger
Taller
Sweeter.
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Hi Jamie,
Here’s my second response:
Why So So Hard
Mam?
– I were brung up with pillows
– Pillows are soft Mam.
– Not held over your mouth, love.
– I were given cake.
– Cake’s sweet, Mam.
– Not made of seasalt and road grit, love.
– I were cuddled.
– That’s what I like, Mam
– Till I couldn’t breathe, love.
– I were bring up reight.
– You’re bleeding me, Mam.
– How it should be, love.
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Hi Jamie,
Here’s my first response:
Bairns Are Old Codgers
Before I get taken to play at my soft playcentre,
my one year granddaughter toddles with her zimmer frame.
Later we will take her to the memory cafe
where she’ll remember her past lives.
“Hard”, of before dawn and midnight hours:
A welder in the Clyde shipyard, 1942.
“Stinks that,” she says of the steel shavings, and Swarfega.
“Heavy”, of the hammer…
A kitchen servant in a big house.
“Hurts”, of calloused pestle and mortared deferment…
I’m all giddy at tumble down
slides, scramble nets and ballpools.
(From my “A World Where” (Nixes Mate, 2017))
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