“A garden to walk in and immensity to dream in–what more could he ask? A few flowers at his feet and above him the stars.” Les Misérables
At the flower market this morning
I thought of us and our naked lives
Did you notice the star lilies bowing
and the whirling cups of green calyxes?
A painter’s pallette of color there
fretting in terra-cotta, feral and windblown
A fabulous fusion of scent and form,
forests of nectar-pots on knobby stems,
the stuff of heaven for the anthophilous
In just a day or two, they’ll be gone
I couldn’t help but think that these
yes! … these are our human days
our days to sow or steal our human joys
Another day will inevitably transform us
The moon will stew us in a sofrito
of tulips and night-blooming jasmine
At dawn on the day I decide to die,
we’ll sip oolong at the Tudor Rose,
but I won’t be there, I promise I won’t
You’ll eat orchids to celebrate our love
and our long walks in kempt gardens
Once you picked forget-me-nots –
meant as the soul of our redemption
When their colors fade and leaves wither,
it will be time to look for me …
Look for me where the wisteria grows
With subtle euphony my blue-violet tendrils will
call you, weaving and binding you in love again
© 2017, poem, Jamie Dedes; Photograph courtesy of Geoff Doggett, Public Domain Pictures.net
WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT
If our spirits are allowed to hang out anywhere they want, mine would hang out with flowers and use them to wrap my family with love. Where do you think your spirit would like hang out and what will you be doing? Tell us in poem/s and …
Share your poem/s on theme in the comments section below or leave a link to it/them. All poems on theme will be published on the first Tuesday following this post. (Please no oddly laid-out poems.)
No poems submitted through email or Facebook will be published.
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, March 18 by 8 pm Pacific Standard Time.
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.
You are welcome – encouraged – to share your poems in a language other than English but please accompany it with a translation into English.
https://poeticoceans.wordpress.com/2019/03/19/for-the-poet-by-day-g-jamie-dedes-wednesday-writing-prompt-o-restless-spirit/
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Jamie – What a beautiful prompt. Thank you for the inspiration. My one and only offering:
When My Spirit Returns
Once freed from this world’s gravity, my spirit would ascend the skies
encounter the Almighty who welcomes me,
in love and purity, I rise
Empowered with all knowledge I never knew before
He offers me a choice of how to serve and live
and how to love him more
One is resting in the magnificence of his kingdom’s golden streets
another is in the heavenly choir,
Every note his praises release
The third is different, within his hand
a bloodstained cloth he holds
a shelter and a comfort for all in every land
I would return unseen but felt
when others cry from death, abuse, so many reasons
grief and pain are dealt
I choose this path to visit earth
now with new found power and purpose
surrounding others with the remembrance, they have been loved from birth
this cloth brings hope, comfort, and healing
for times when nothing else could
believing they were forsaken, forgotten and would rather be dead than feeling
I watch as the power of that cloth, blood stained,
dries tears and comforts loss, returns their hope, and courage
for another day, regained
It shelters them in the dark of night, in storms and in affliction
wrapped around them they hold on
receive it as a final benediction
My spirit never wearies since it is no longer of its own
but is with the child, the mother, the man
whispering, ‘you’re not alone.’
This is my hope for eternity, finding paths to trod
to bring hope, and comfort to anyone
needing the love of God.
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Thank you! Lovely.
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Thank you, Lovely Lady.
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https://starlightandmoonbeamsdotblog.wordpress.com/2019/03/16/a-memory-in-response-to-the-poet-by-days-poetry-prompt-where-the-wisteria-grows-a-poem-mar-132019/
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https://starlightandmoonbeamsdotblog.wordpress.com/2019/03/15/and-so-it-goes-in-response-to-the-poet-by-day-poetry-prompt-where-the-whisteria-grows-3-13-2019/
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Hi Jamie,
Here’s my eighth response:
Feast Of Larvae
just atter midnight
man of house
I do this ritual.
Get out of bed
call upon me dead folks
to help me this neet.
I potter round our house
barefoot no belt or owt.
Nine dried black beans in my gob.
Me hands raised
thumb thrust through
me clenched fingers,
after protruding clit
of Mater Manua,
mam of good dead.
wi this I ask she look art for us
aginst any unwanted spirits,
the larvae
who broke into our house.
I wash me hands,
chuck some beans with me left hand
over me left shoulder look farard
turn me head,
avert me face to right,
as I raise palms of both hands
against left a says
“With these beans I lob,
I redeem me and mine.”
I do it nine times
every room in our house. wash me hands agin,
clang a gong and shaht
nine times “Ancestral spirits,
time tha flitted!”
(From the third and final book of my three volume “A Pagan Year” called “Ghost Holiday” as yet unpublished, also previously published in “Three Drops From A Cauldron”)
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Hi Jamie,
Here’s my seventh response:
Time Fetches
Watch thee sen as time fetches on
as tall hawthorn hedge that bars
tha from t’other worlds
in its cloud ghosted ditch
gets thin this season so as folk
from other side can fetch them
sens over an bleed through to ours
and tha’ll see these weird folk
take a stride outside thee door.
Blaze a candle in tha home
and set a flicker lanterns, jack o’lanterns,
candles outdoors to show
the weird folk, spirits and all
direct way back to where
they bide from, so as they don’t
detour where they’re not welcome.
Respect them, they’ll respect thee.
This night light a fire
in tha hearth
for to protect thee sen
or better thee sen.
Scribe on a scrap a paper
a part of thee life
tha wish to be rid on
anger, a baneful habit,
misplaced feelings, disease.
Lob it int flame
so tha may lose
that part tha ashamed on.
(From the third and final book of my three volume “A Pagan Year” called “Ghost Holiday” as yet unpublished)
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Hi Jamie,
Here’s my sixth response:
Ghost Holiday
Briefly open the gate into your dark,
allow your dead to move among you,
the living,
sup in their old pubs,
enter their old homes,
a room has been left as it was
when they died,
others find their goods given
to charity, sold, some kept,
their home lived in by strangers
who chase them off crashing
pots and pans too loud for the dead.
Soon they must return to your dark.
(From the third and final book of my three volume “A Pagan Year” called “Ghost Holiday” as yet unpublished)
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Hi Jamie,
Here’s My fifth response:
“Can We Play Ghosts?
I want to be a ghost?”
A young girl shouts in the street.
A newspaper blows in the street.
It says a young girl was killed
In a road traffic accident last Wednesday.
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Hi Jamie,
Here’s my third response:
Across This Street
Death and I are in separate rooms.
It lives across the pitted street,
keeps grey lace curtains open,
shadows flicker across the pane.
bricks made of cremation ash,
the window frames coffin wood.
Mummified flowers in a pale vase.
I see myself in its black linteled window.
My encoded consciousness will move
house, when I die. I will look back
at my old home and remember,
how the floorboards creaked,
where not to place my feet on the stairs,
how the whole house breathed in winter
and find myself in Death’s home, and know I’ll never die.
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Hi Jamie,
Here’s my third response:
Death Is
solid. My son never complains
he can’t walk through walls or people.
He dies only with wishes not to become
the shadow of a building or street furniture
recycling or public bin, lamppost, unwanted old sofa or bed.
Better to be people’s shadow as he leaves this world,
then find himself with skin, breath and blood
where before floated as air, as mist as we do.
Soon whatever he becomes in death.
as his Dad and Mam we will move through him
and he may not even know we do so.
And if he does we will be ghosts to him.
Perhaps he’ll recall his time as a ghost.
(From my collection, “A World Where”, Nixes Mate Press, 2017)
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Hi Jamie,
Here’s my second response:
My Afterlife
is a half life.
is a rainbow.
Brief but colourful.
A bucket and spade
left on a beach
for the sea to play with.
A sentence ending
in a connecting word.
Scatter my Ash
on a sea of plastic,
on the remains of the last living
thing that is now extinct.
In the concrete underpasses
tagged graffitied dismissed.
Under the feet of refugees,
on the drowned water
of those that did not make it.
Scatter me like fragrant leaves
In the baths of the rich.
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Oh, I am sorry, I forgot to include the title of my poem again.
It is called “The Thread of Intimate Resistance”.
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Dear Jamie, thank you for giving us another lovely poem of yours. I also love the other people’s contributions to this magnificient poetry exchange. Here is my humble response:
Ominous winds sweep the earth
Brazen.
Flames get higher and almost
Burn you.
Breathing fresh air while rowing,
Your journey
Goes on.
The piercing ground lies at your feet,
The sheltering sky is also pierced
And more distant
Than ever.
Take your needle
Start to sow
Recompose the broken pieces
Of life’s puzzle.
This thread is your most
Intimate resistance.
Sow the sky, the ocean and
The earth.
Make a dress to protect the nudity
Of the leafless tree.
Save the heart from burning
And keep on rowing your boat.
Keep yourself afloat.
https://momentsbloc.wordpress.com/2019/03/14/the-thread-of-intimate-resistance-2/
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A Seepage of Spirit
The flesh in which I resided
Spilled its life’s blood onto the asphalt
And last vibrations that influxed
To my twin tympani of eardrums
Were Screech Thump Holy/Sweet Jesus
and the fog of my spirit meandered
with the help of–what else?–a spirit guide
whose nonvoice soothed nonadmonishingly
and invited my fog to revues
I had had
Love and waste,
Graceless gluttony,
Needless haste,
Petty cowardice,
Endless friending,
Harsh truth-grapples
Spiral-trending.
the angel (might as well call her so)
freed me of some
of my nonsensical notions
and told me my elsewhere was coming.
not quite yet though.
she invited me to skim
the landscapes and tableaux
of the venues where i’d
devoted my life’s energies,
and my fog narrowed in
to a ceramics studio
and the furnace roar
of a gas kiln
where i let my fog fill
the interior, becoming
a volume of inbetweens,
everywhere the vessels
and statuettes and frieze
weren’t.
i controlled sensing
so that the heat
was a perfect hot bath. i seeped
into the glaze-fusing forms
and blessed them, peeking
with bucking-broncos omniscience
into the lives
of the students who created them.
Suddenly I doppelganged
Into the 1979 lobby of the MGM Grand Hotel,
Pulled a cashwad out of my pocket,
Threw $140 into the table,
Received my chips,
Put $80 on the Pass Line,
Rolled an Eleven, and let
Myself dissipate
Into the
Elsewhere.
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👏
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Hi Jamie,
Love your poem. Here’s my first response:
Where You Will Find
where to find me
in this home of seasons
what you will find
in the quiet between gusts
where I am, what I mean
to the spring vase on the windowsill
where you are, what you are
to the summer dust on the mantelpiece
where things stand, how they are,
up and down the autumn of stairs
when they will be what you want
once the winter mattress is turned
how my tongue rests on
what I have said to you
when the sun rises, when it sets,
how it is to be in the rain.
what tears mean when you cry
what there is between us
in this home of changing weather
we pass on to our children
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♥️
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Dear Respected Jamie Ji
Striking poem. Reflects the Frostian horror, and a deep touch of Keats, ‘when I have fears that I may cease to be, but with the positive side , can Spring be far behind? Heaven is a place of beauty that we will prepare by our good deeds in this world. The prompt inspires a dichotomy of life in its acceptance and rejection. A challenge to poetic endeavor, indeed
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Dearest Anjum Ji, Serious stuff, I know. I tried to phrase the prompt itself to leave an opening for humor or faith. Don’t know that succeeded. We’ll see what comes. The great fun/interesting thing about these prompts is getting to see the diversity in the responses and reactions. Look forward to reading what you write, my friend.
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Brilliant analysis!
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Thank you Dear Friend
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You are welcome.
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