The Contours of Joy, a poem … and your next Wednesday Writing Prompt

FullSizeRender. . . . . .

“The ego gets what it wants with words. The soul finds what it needs in silence.” Richard Rohr



Rest. . .

In that place where endless sky meets ocean wave
Where plump blue berry meets thin green leaf,
Where clarity gifts a kaleidoscope of joy.

. . . . . Breathe and breathe and never mind

The house begging for repair, the tree wanting a trim.
Never mind the floors awaiting the broom
The accounts begging for their balance . . .

. . . . . . Observe the contours joy …

From the quiet mind and the stilled pen,
Joy! dancing on sunbeams and resting
On the limb of a moon-lit tree . . .

© 2019, poem and photograph, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved

WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT

Are we frail humans able to embrace the light, forgo the mundane for the miraculous? Maybe? Maybe not? Maybe sometimes?  Maybe we try and fail. Tell us about it in your own 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 25 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.


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34 thoughts on “The Contours of Joy, a poem … and your next Wednesday Writing Prompt

  1. Joy is…
    Joy is the hue of a sunrise triumphantly spreading shades of blue pink purple orange across the galaxy declaring goodbye to yesterday’s sorrow, heartache, and misery.

    Joy is swimming through the river of time butter-flying through waves of oppression dolphin kicking out of gloom and darkness into exhilaration…into a new day of expectation.

    Joy is a baby’s wide eyed smile radiating innocence gurgling short outburst of “wat dat” in anticipation of exploring the newness of existence.

    Joy is a four-year old’s discovery of a candy galore store with dinosaurs and many more gizmos and gadgets along with rows of amazing displays of sugary sweets…any child’s fantasy.

    Joy is jazz piano tones cascading from fingers moving at an allegro pace filling the emptiness of space with messages of hope.

    Joy is riding the harmonic emotional high church choir singing connecting with celestial sounds evoking the Holy Spirit to fill all hearts and minds with a love and peace that will never cease.

    Liked by 4 people

  2. Small Miracles Of The Moment

    I’m sitting in a blue armchair
    in a Ward called Acute Assessment.
    A folded blanket covers my legs
    and potassium chloride
    is dripping into my veins.

    I’m waiting in my own rootless place
    between fear and the absence
    of fear; between pain and the absence
    of pain. I close my eyes
    and see a narrow gravel path
    crawling to the edge of the world.

    This will pass, he whispers,
    locking his fingers into mine.
    This won’t last forever.

    He’s going home to fetch my nighties,
    toothpaste, toothbrush, towels, soap.
    He’ll break the journey
    into signposted miles, turn car wheels
    towards the warm dark of dusk
    and a capella of birdsong.

    I think of morning’s hospital window-
    an oblong of light
    that showed a young tree
    catching pin-drops of rain
    on early pink blossom.
    The rain grew heavier, hurried
    through the tree’s torn umbrella
    of branches and leaves
    and grass shone like polished glass.

    I cling to the memory of spring rain
    anointing the dry earth.
    I breathe the good air around my chair
    and drip-stand and purse of healing salt.
    I taste the moment and let it melt
    on my tongue: this moment
    now. The present. The gift.

    Here’s my contribution,Jamie,I love the prompt.

    Liked by 3 people

  3. March Miracles🌹

    March miracles are afoot, new
    beginnings are catching our breath
    from every corner, as nature spreads
    her wings sprouting new life, there
    is a renewed lightness of spirit.
    Yet in this month of miracles we
    hear of tragedy and the dichotomy
    of this duality, reminds us of, our
    responsibility. Our mother, earth,
    is taking a beating from her children.
    Her children are killing each other.
    In this month of miracles may we find
    a renewed lightness of spirit and hope
    that love will universally prevail,
    taking joy in the love we create in
    this season of rebirth
    and new awakenings.
    @J.E.Goldie

    Liked by 4 people

  4. https://starlightandmoonbeamsdotblog.wordpress.com/2019/03/23/march-miracles-in-response-to-the-poet-by-days-poetry-prompt-the-contours-of-joy-a-poem-3-20-2019/

    March miracles are afoot, new
    beginnings are catching our breath
    from every corner, as nature spreads
    her wings sprouting new life, there
    is a renewed lightness of spirit.
    Yet in this month of miracles we
    hear of tragedy and the dichotomy
    of this duality, reminds us of, our
    responsibility. Our mother, earth,
    is taking a beating from her children.
    Her children are killing each other.
    In this month of miracles may we find
    a renewed lightness of spirit and hope
    that love will universally prevail,
    taking joy in the love we create in
    this season of rebirth
    and new awakenings…….
    @J.E.Goldie

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Let Go Of

    weight that writhes
    in your hands returns life

    to your bones.
    Water supped when parched thrills.

    Air tastes lighter with more colour,
    Sweeter.

    Can’t get my breath breathes.
    When you think you are alone
    surprise of a familiar warm hand in yours
    in cold caves colour leaps out

    a fish released.

    (From a forthcoming collaboration with Iranian artist, Hiva Moazed, called “Fish Strawberries”, to be published by Alien Buddha Press)

    Liked by 3 people

  6. The Tricycle

    It isn’t the wonder of the wheels turn
    As my feet press the plastic pedals,
    But the big curved metal boot at the back
    Where there is room to store my wonders:

    Elastic bands, cotton reels, a shiny sixpence,
    Grandad’s hat badge from when he went to war,
    A bus ticket saved from my first trip last week
    On two busses to Nanna’s new home. Must have been

    Thousands of miles away but Mam says
    It’s only three miles. I bet I could bike
    to Nannas but Dad says its too far
    And I’d get tired with all the hills to go up,

    But I can wheely down them dad, I told him.
    He nods and goes back to his pencil scribbles
    On bits of paper in Mam and Dads bedroom.
    I take my brilliant bike down our drive.

    It sparkles like our gold fish did we won at fair
    On The Stray when mam brought it back
    And put it in a glass bowl where it swims round
    In circles and I told mam it would get dizzy

    So I try to ride round in circles but Dad
    Says I must go on the road or onto the other
    Road out of our sack I think dad said but
    We don’t live in a sack, we live in a house

    I tell my daft Dad, I can only ride half way round,
    Turn and ride half way round again,
    Then I hears it. Icecream van dinging and singing

    It must be close so I run to Mam and shout,
    Can I have a Ninety-Nine, Mam. Can I? Can I?
    And Mam rummages in her bag and pulls out

    Her purse and am telling mesen come on,
    Mam cos I can hear the dinging singing
    Outside and know he only stays a bit
    Less he’s got a queue. Come on Mam.

    She puts coins in me hand and I almost
    Don’t close it when I run like the clappers
    And see there’s a queue and look up
    At all the bright colours of what you can get

    On side of his van and lads and lasses walk
    Past with ice-cream dribble down their fingers
    As they try to catch the sweet melt.
    Then I see my bike in the road

    With a lass I don’t know on it. Stolen
    It. And I’m in the queue and just at end
    I run to get my bike back cos its mine
    Not hers, and she cries when I push her off

    Onto the road. “My dad says not to ride in
    The road I tell her., and she sobs and I see
    The ice-cream van go out the sack,
    And I almost cry but I’ve got my bike back,

    And I check my boot to see its all there
    My elastic bands, bus ticket, shiny sixpence,
    And hear mam calling me in to tea
    When she’ll ask Where’s me ice-cream.

    (From a forthcoming collaboration with Iranian artist, Hiva Moazed, called “Fish Strawberries”, to be published by Alien Buddha Press)

    Liked by 2 people

  7. We Shouldn’t Wonder

    What so special about stars?
    Attention seeking baubles
    we shouldn’t wonder.

    What’s so special about spring?
    Gaudy flowers showing off
    we shouldn’t wonder.

    What’s so special about children?
    Eyes hugging the breath from you
    we shouldn’t wonder.

    What’s so special about you?
    Flaunting yourself in next to nowt
    we shouldn’t wonder.

    What’s so special about wonder?
    Makes you better off than you should be
    we shouldn’t wonder.

    (Previously appeared on Medium)

    Liked by 1 person

  8. Yon Dream Ont Cross

    Al tell thee best dream av ad
    in any midneet while folk were fast on
    a sees a reet cross tree,
    a ghoast in plated gold
    ringed by shiny moon fascinator,
    jewels like worth summat glow worms
    rahnd base, five more ont cross beam.
    Throngs o’ God’s angels tacked on it. This were no scam artists cross but every heaven spirit and earth folk had peepers on it: a see universe agog

    And me, aware of wrong doing,
    that native wood-beetle, eyed it too
    felt a shiver of glory
    from that cross barkskin beaten gold
    wi jewels suited a cross a Jesus
    and tha knows through all that gold barkskin
    rattled folks bloodless yammering
    how bleeding as stained crosses rightside.
    Harrard an horrored
    a that sullied wi leaked blood.

    a lay there yonks
    in agog sorrow fort Saviourcross
    till me lug oyles heard glimmering cross pipe up:
    “Ages since, I fetch back I were hacked
    dahn at holt-edge, lugged off, hauled
    shoulder heaved, squared top on a hill
    adsed to a cross to carry wrong doers.
    Then I see Christ, his balls ready fort hoisting. For us there’s no flitting, no shirking on God’s mind to: I might a fell on these folks. Then
    God himsen, med himsen naked, to naked balls,
    laid on us afore throngs of eyes
    when saving on folks flitted in his bonce.
    A shuddered at his touch, afeard splintering,
    A had hold, I were raised as a cross,
    hold heaven king high, afeard cracking. They tapped dark iron in us: scars tha still can see,
    A cannot bear ’em stroked. They jeered at both on us. A felt his blood seep from his side
    as he sighed himsen upards.

    Av seen pain on this hill
    saw Christ as on vicious rack
    then roilin’ storm clouds, death to sunblaze,
    covered o’er that blaze on God: a glowering gloom creation’s sorta: Christ on cross tree.
    A see folk come forard, a felt splintered
    as if added, but gev ne sen.
    I were in their dannies, gore-wet, nail gashed.
    They laid him art, a dead-weight atter ordeal,
    final knackeredness. Then afore
    murderers peepers, those folk med
    a stone oyle and set Christ inside it.
    Then late int day flitted knackered : left
    Christ by himsen.

    Long atter soldier’s lottery natter and cold rigor on Christ’s limbs,
    us kept our places, drahned wi blood.
    Then they sets to
    felling us,
    bury us in delved grahned, but disciples, friends fahned us…
    put on us barkskin o’ gold an silver.

    so nar tha knows, how sorra warped
    me flesh, how malice worked with spintering iron. Now it’s time for earth foak and whole marvel on creation to cow eye this sign.
    God-son were racked on us, so now ma glimmerin’ haunts heavens, can heal
    all who afeard for us. Am honoured
    by Christ above all forest trees as God favoured Mary above all women folk.’

    Then by mesen, thrilled, me spirit high, let mesen rave that I can seek what a av seen,
    saviour-cross: a peace with mesen that yearns a help on earth. Few mates still livin’ nar : most are int manor on heaven, av fetched upards. Now, daily, I listen art
    fort cross-tree in my earthly nappin’,
    to lead us from this flitting life
    into great manor of heaven
    where God has set a right feast.

    May God-Son and Ghost be mates,
    who were nailed to death for folk ages since :
    a saviour as gin us life,
    that we may put wood int oyle in heaven.

    (A Yorkshire dialect version of the Anglo Saxon poem “The Dream Of The Rood”, that appears in my collection “The Headpoke And Firewedding”, Alien Buddha Press, 2017)

    Liked by 1 person

  9. The Hyperbolic Poet Awakes

    My eyelids open
    are two worlds unfettered by cloud.

    I splash the seven oceans
    On the continents of my skin.

    Rake the tombstones inside my mouth.
    Tumble downstairs is scree down a mountain.

    Open the wooden doors of delight,
    Recover the pottery of ages,

    Pour an avalanche of muesli
    Farmed on sunny hillsides,

    Crushed by the quern.
    Grab the milk hosed out

    By gargantuan herbivores,
    Refined in their udders of heaven.

    Wash and restacked pottery,
    I stride over the open threshold
    A veritable colossus.

    Liked by 2 people

  10. Fish Strawberries

    A fish eye is my belly button.
    Inside my stomach flaps, flops,

    flips when I see her. My tongue
    tastes her rich perfume.

    Spice entices a sky full of Cod,
    Haddock, Halibut, Salmon and Pike.

    Sky is her aquarium. Fish
    and chips and two forks

    are the heat of heaven.
    Warm ourselves huddled on a kerbside.

    I can taste the salt she threw on her portion,
    the wash of vinegar and strawberry lipstick nibbles

    on her lips, inside her mouth where our tongues
    talk in tastes as we stand at her front door.

    Wings out I am a fish in flight.
    Splash between bright pools home.

    (Title poem from a forthcoming ekphrastic collaboration between Iranian artist Hiva Moazed and myself to be published by Alien Buddha Press, 2019)

    Liked by 2 people

  11. The Divorce of Heaven And Hell

    The excess of roads leads to the wisdom of palaces.
    The wrath of tigers are wiser than the instruction of horses.

    Multi gendered I hang wet washing
    on the horse nebula. Iron 3d to 2d.

    I have domestics with myself.
    Air turns blue and galaxy neighbours
    hear my gusty rant and rain rave

    Bang on thin wall between
    dimensions. Our star children

    weep beneath my screams. Remind
    myself never to drink and argue again.

    Tell my other half it needs to pull
    its weight. I can’t be aware of all

    that happens or needs doing.
    Neighbours are different sides to me.

    Our star children turn from
    wild blue things to yellow average kids
    to red in the face before their fire dies.

    I must stop falling out with myself,
    as it is always me deals with the fallout.

    I multi task a weather of constellations. I cope.
    I’m multi versed. Too many different sides.

    Liked by 1 person

  12. the lime kilns are empty now,

    yet the mass remains, the wonder

    at the shape. spring came.

    each road a picture, slowly staring,

    came painting, visual

    overload resulting.

    then to explain birds, that need none,

    drawing lines, weaving dreams

    for peace of mind.

    we walked together,

    she told me stories.

    Liked by 3 people

  13. .Jiang Yizi.

    so naturally we think of heaven.

    realise it is the pattern that makes us,

    the familiar and ordinary. other prophets

    come false.

    in agreement we lose to the music, hell as

    entity retreats.

    there is a book at the university. i have

    read it twice.

    Liked by 3 people

  14. moon and eye

    “Well, I must go–pardon–I cannot stay:
    My moonbeam comes to carry me away…”

    (The dying Cyrano in Edmond Rostand’s CYRANO DE BERGERAC, translated by Brian Hooker)

    moon
    and eye
    interact
    in an act
    didactic:
    sight.

    swoon
    and sigh,
    artifact.
    re-enact
    galactic
    light.

    Liked by 4 people

  15. Respected Jamie Ji
    At a time when the world is in shock and grief, mourning in black and burying in white, your prompt turns the heart and mind towards the profound joy prevalent in nature.Sympathy comfort and support leads to a state of serenity, and acceptance of the harsh realities. Just as the endless sky meets the ocean line, grief slowly drowns deep, and wave after wave touches the shore to confirm eternal love and hope of more coming joy.
    As the striking poem moves on the reader finds it replete with vivid imagery from the contours of the berries to the universal curves of celestial creation and can surely visualize the countless constellations beyond the moon and the solar system. The imaginative mind will leave the mundane, perhaps may not rest, but taking joy along will fly high to seek the ultimate bliss. Sharing some lines

    O Joy’ I find thee rising from the merging colors of the horizon
    In holy silence, encircled by the Kunlun Mountains of mystical Shangri-la
    where beauty holds the breath, and poetry fills the spirit with ecstasy.

    Liked by 3 people

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