Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading knowledge,
skill – more of each
than you have – inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity . . .
Excerpt from How to Be a Poet by Wendell Berry, Given: Poems

The poem stands somewhere
between your heart and mind,
Waiting to capture, to study
Nature in all its complexity,
The shock of the corpse that
Once was your mother
The sea that embraces you
The pain that drowns you
Floating on silence, words white
And black, pure and tarnished
Like Iustitia, you are moral force,
Not blind but tongueless, let the
Keyboard be your mouth, let fingers
Dance in sacred space, the words
That arise are your sword, your
mirror and your snake . . .

……….rest in this
this place, this quiet, this haven,
this heaven of cup runneth over,
nurturing your own true voice

© 2019, Jamie Dedes


Your turn now: tell us how to be a poet.

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 first Tuesday following the current Wednesday Writing Prompt. (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 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, June 10 by 8 pm Pacific Daylight Time. If you are unsure when that would be in your time zone, check ​The Time Zone Converter.

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.


Recent in digital publications: 
* Four poemsI Am Not a Silent Poet
* Remembering Mom, HerStry
* Three poems, Levure littéraire
Upcoming in digital publications:
“Over His Morning Coffee,” Front Porch Review

A homebound writer, poet, and former columnist and associate editor of a regional employment newspaper, my work has been featured widely in print and digital publications including: Ramingo’s Porch, Vita Brevis Literature, Connotation Press, The Bar None Group, Salamander Cove, I Am Not a Silent Poet, The Compass Rose and California Woman. I run The Poet by Day, an info hub for poets and writers and am the founding/managing editor of The BeZine.

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


  1. To be a poet

    is to leave behind the thronging
    crowds and head towards the empty
    shore; sleep beneath the stars, catch
    your breath as the sky fills with light,
    walk slow below the cry of birds,
    turn your face to the stinging rain,
    inhale the scent of kelp and salt;
    imagine your past as dreck, pebbles,
    flotsam, jewels, petals, all
    spread out for you to comb
    before you plunge wordsticks in the sand,
    watch what the tides take away
    and what they leave; fashion
    from what you find a song
    to take back to the thronging crowds.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I’ve come at this prompt rather slantwise, hope that’s okay.

    My First Poem

    How could I not be moved
    and try to make sense
    of the war in Vietnam?
    My best friend felt the same
    but when I showed her my poem
    she raged. I’d gone too far,
    I’d dared to write as though
    I was a teenage Laos.
    What did I know?
    What had I ever suffered
    compared with the stench
    of a battlefield?

    Our friendship faltered.
    We stopped connecting
    even as I remembered
    I’d inhabited that world,
    lay flat on my belly
    and wormed through
    damp undergrowth,
    rifle on my shoulder.
    Fear clung to me like sweat.
    I waited to obey orders
    and wondered why I was there.

    It became my history,
    my tragedy, my time.

    There’s always a life
    that runs alongside mine
    and a place
    where the two paths meet.

    I write this path:
    step into army boots
    or the skin and bone
    of bare feet on broken glass.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. On— How To Be A Poet
    See first in vision the falcon’s high view
    invoke Calliope Erato Polyhymnia Thalia
    acquaint thyself with the epic classics
    sacrifice a black goat’s head to Writing God Thoth
    grab a writing palette and an ink jar,like his
    a copy of his book ‘Book of the Dead
    arm thyself with powerful weapons,pens
    pencils, quills ball pens tablets modern-
    dig into a dungeon invisible,
    in utter dark solitude,brood,for immeasurable
    moments,be oblivious of waste and wild,think not
    of companions beloveds partners-
    be far removed,in fact farthest is best-begin
    commence the quest- idea must be supreme
    like the Idea of Order of Key West
    remember,know,that you have a song to sing
    first sing to self if by the sea then a water melody
    It must be on chords of ‘dashing water’ and moaning wind’
    you are now on the spiritual plain,
    in the happy realm of the creative domain,leave aside
    the sense of injured merit, maintain with steadfast love
    outward lustre,transform the alphabet into shapes beautiful
    match it with the idea and there -you have what is called – a poem
    and you will be -who is known as – a poet

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Hi Jamie. Something lighter than my last.

    Ode to a Poet

    we seek a synonym
    to sanctify a noun
    to agitate an adverb
    to verbiage a mime
    All equally compelling
    Just short of being crime.
    Then we sensually sanctify
    The confessions of the mind
    A poet you say?
    Oh, the menacing muse
    leading to confuse.
    I would give half thrice and twenty
    Even more if you please
    To subjugate a wiser muse
    who added to my purse
    to reimburse my verse.

    Liked by 2 people

  5. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my seventh response:

    Sound Sculpture.

    Look at the noise.
    Listen to the squiggle.

    Kaleidoscope a still symphony.
    Music is stillness.

    When your eyes move over
    Its surface there are bass notes,
    treble, wooden mallets on metal.

    When your eyes focus on one part,
    orchestration deepens, zooms

    into the chord runs. When are you

    Between the notes.


  6. Hi Jamie,

    My sixth response:

    This Poem

    touches the photo
    hears the photo
    sees the photo
    tastes the photo
    smells the photo

    This photo is invaded
    This photo is annexed
    This photo is a refugee
    This photo has no home

    This photo knows
    It’s photographer is dead
    This photo feels
    the photographers fingerprint

    This photo does not
    know what colour it is


  7. Hi Jamie, my fifth response:

    Poem as Competent Nineteenth Century Merchant Mariner

    This poem is able
    to Chock a Block,
    make a mat
    or splice a rope.

    This poem is
    a rope block heaved to its full extent.
    Full up, no room for any more.
    When the two blocks
    of this poem’s tackle meet
    it will prevent any more
    purchase being gained
    Keep cargo from a shift
    in the dark hold

    This poem is
    a rope yarn mat used to fasten
    upon outside of exposed parts
    of standing rigging exposed
    to friction of yards, bolt-ropes of sails,
    or other ropes.

    This poem splices rope
    twists words wrapped
    into sentences that strengthen
    when tautened by meaning.

    This poem is
    carefully rigged
    for cargo
    into your imagination.


  8. Hi Jamie,
    Heres my fifth response:

    Poem as Competent Nineteenth Century Merchant Mariner

    This poem is able
    to Chock a Block,
    make a mat
    or splice a rope.

    This poem is
    a rope block heaved to its full extent.
    Full up, no room for any more.
    When the two blocks
    of this poem’s tackle meet
    it will prevent any more
    purchase being gained
    Keep cargo from a shift
    in the dark hold

    This poem is
    a rope yarn mat used to fasten
    upon outside of exposed parts
    of standing rigging exposed
    to friction of yards, bolt-ropes of sails,
    or other ropes.

    This poem splices rope
    twists words wrapped
    into sentences that strengthen
    when tautened by meaning.

    This poem is
    carefully rigged
    for cargo
    into your imagination.


  9. Respected Jamie Ji Please know that I have removed the poem from my blog for this week It will not show if the link is followed. Best regards

    Liked by 1 person

  10. That’s all, Jamie. I promise. I know I’ve written far too many poems about poets and poetry. They say it’s a sin for poets to write about poetry. Poets should write about everything else in the world besides the subject of poetry. What they really think about writing poetry will be reflected in the poems they write. I loved the Wendell Berry poem you quoted above (as I love all his poems).


  11. “Hey Mister Poetry Man”
    (Raanana, December 20, 2018)

    Hey Mister Poetry Man
    Make me a poem if you can,
    Don’t put it on a shelf so high
    That I can’t reach it
    And don’t put it down too low,
    My back’s not what it used to be.

    Hey Mister Poetry Man
    Tell it simple in plain words
    That people use for every day.
    It shouldn’t be too smooth or slick,
    I trust a man who struggles with his words
    More than one who doesn’t.

    Hey Mister Poetry Man
    Show me something I haven’t seen before,
    I know you’ve been around places
    I’d never get to.
    It should lift me off my feet,
    Throw me down,
    And lift me up again.

    Hey Mister Poetry Man
    Let me try it on for size,
    What’s good for you
    May not be for me.
    It doesn’t matter how long it is
    As long as there’s some magic there
    Before the end.


  12. “Hearty Low-Carb Poetry”
    (Raanana, December 14, 2018)

    First, gather the ingredients:
    Two or three fresh ideas from your backyard
    A sprig of dappled sun and shadow
    A touch of time
    A pinch of rhyme (not too much!)
    Don’t forget the meter
    A bissel of iambs will definitely do.

    Preheat the drawer to a comfortably musty degree
    Add in the ideas, one at a time,
    Into an old but well-loved pot
    Stirring slowly all the while,
    Finely chop the sprig of sun and shadow
    Sprinkle time over the chopped up sprig
    Pour the rhyme and iambs sparingly.

    Put it in the drawer, no need to heat or rush,
    Take it out when the poem’s done
    And it will serve at least
    One starving poet.


  13. “What Can a Poem Do?”
    (Inspired by the poems of Linda Chown
    Raanana, December 9, 2018)

    What can a poem do? They ask
    With their sideways snickersnacks.
    Well, a poem can swoop down
    From high above the clouds
    With talons bared and ready
    Almost touching ground, but not quite,
    The image of prey in its dilatated pupils,
    But a reader will say,
    Take me whole,
    Take me now.
    This is what a poem can do, it says,
    So put away your snickersnacks,
    It’s not for you, my talons bare
    But if, by chance, my talons pierce your heart,
    To the ends of space and time
    Your heart is carried,
    But your heart must find its own way home.


  14. “Somewhere, Sometime, to Someone”
    (Raanana, September 6, 2018)

    One preacher opens church doors wide at night
    To succor the homeless and the helpless
    While another locks the doors against the thieves.
    One imam speaks of love and peace
    To anyone with an open heart
    While another preaches death to infidels.
    One soldier gives his food ration
    To a hungry child
    While another aims a joystick in the clouds.
    One king honors poetry
    And another hangs the poets.
    Don’t look for truth in poetry
    Though truth hides there
    As certainly as souls hide in all things,
    For everything a poet writes
    Is true
    to someone.


  15. “Looking for a Poem”
    (Raanana, March 9, 2018)

    I woke up this morning
    Got out of bed
    With an unexplained hankering
    To write a poem today
    So I slipped on my jeans
    And looked for a poem to write
    That hadn’t been written yet.
    I looked in the cupboard and then in the fridge
    But seemed we were fresh out.
    I looked through the paper,
    The stories and pictures,
    Even the ads,
    Page after page
    For something between the lines
    Or the silence before and after,
    But nothing was found.
    Don’t know why people read newspapers.
    Daisy and I walked out
    For her necessities
    While I looked in the bushes and tree branches.
    Sometimes I see something
    Flashing the sunlight
    Or reflecting the quick shadows of clouds
    That let go a flood of memories
    And old loves.
    I used to go out looking for girls to love
    But now I go out looking for poems.
    I suppose that’s a kind of love too,
    Sometimes a dalliance
    But mostly unrequited.
    Later I went to the gym
    Where we torture our bodies
    In hopes we’ll trim fat or grow muscles
    And looked for a poem
    Between the weights and the treadmills
    But truth was the beautiful came beautiful
    And left beautiful,
    The strong came and left strong,
    The rest of us stayed tired and tortured
    With nary a poem to show for it.
    After that,
    I stopped at a coffee shop
    My hand trembling a cup
    I looked around at the other tables
    But nobody was reading a dogeared book
    Or writing a poem
    Or looked up at me
    As I looked away,
    Though the tables were busy
    With people reciting their well-rehearsed plaints.
    No poems on the menu
    For lovers of Buddha
    So I went back home thinking
    Maybe this is a poem.


  16. “Poems Like Ghosts”
    (Raanana, September 18, 2017)

    Poems, like ghosts, won’t just come to you
    Whenever you want.
    They decide the time and place,
    Whether to come at all.
    They size you up and down
    And sideways
    Whether you’re worthy or not.
    Oh, I’ve known people who’ve gone
    Their whole lives without ever knowing one.
    You can be pretty
    You can be smart
    You can pray to God almighty
    But that doesn’t mean a poem
    Will come to your house
    And knock on your door.
    When they do come though,
    They come naked as the day
    They were born
    And they expect you to be that way too,
    Stripped down to your very soul.


  17. “When a Poet”
    (Raanana, June 30, 2017)

    When a poet wakes up in the morn
    He puts his pants on
    One leg then another,
    And when he buys his milk and wants to pay
    He stands in line between
    The woman with her screaming kids
    And the foreign workers,
    But when the poet looks up at clouds
    Or the night-time constellations,
    Orion’s scabbard or Cassiopeia’s tilted throne,
    He sees encyclopedias never writ nor read
    By the likes of you or me,
    And when he loves,
    It’s Trojan Paris
    Who’s faced ten thousand ships
    And went to war for naught but one.


  18. “Seducing the Muse”
    (Raanana, September 25, 2015)

    The room was dark except for one dim bulb
    Trembling its cone of light above her head
    Balanced delicately upon her swanlike neck
    While the poet sat in shadow scarcely visible
    Scratching his quill inside a notebook.

    What care I for your poems poet?
    I must have launched a thousand of them
    But never read a single one.
    Who has time or inclination for such pinings
    When one is busy with life’s sordidness?
    What’s that you ask for? Do speak up!
    Oh, you want me to remove my blouse?
    You’re all alike. My skirts, my shoes, my undergarments?
    Shall I go on? My soft white flesh,
    My muscles and my skeleton, you’re all the same,
    Pornographers of the soul you are.

    When all that remained was silence
    And his empty head
    He closed the notebook and wondered
    What had just passed through him
    And when it’d come again.


  19. “Ode to a Poem”
    (Raanana, July 17, 2015)

    The first time I saw her,
    Her flowered dress hanging loosely
    From her slender body,
    Her boyish haircut belying her doll-like face,
    Her dactyl fingers holding
    The frail unfolded page she recited from
    Trembling but heroic in her hexameter,
    Lips touching the microphone in a whisper,
    I knew she was a poem
    And not a real person like me.
    I saw her once again in a city park
    With her small daughter
    Who is also a poem,
    A haiku full of frogs and butterflies,
    Ponds with bridges and lanterns,
    And crayon buddhas
    Dancing in her dreams of childhood,
    Tucked in by her mother’s watchful love
    But not a real person like my child.
    My mother was a poem
    A southern antebellum belle,
    Sitting on the floor,
    Her generous skirts flowing out from her,
    Her freeform youth and beckoning beauty
    To all who admired her poetry,
    The only language she could speak and sigh,
    She knew to be a poem you had to die,
    Not a real person like me.
    Me, I don’t rhyme, I scarcely scan,
    My iambs died from anapestilence,
    I go to work and come back home,
    I watch the news and worry some,
    My wife and I go to movies when there’s a good one,
    I walk my dog and deal with encroaching silence,
    And this man in mirrored parody
    Becomes increasingly estranged to me,
    But it’s a life I’d feign give up.
    Still and yet at times I wish
    I were a poem too.


  20. “On Poetry”
    (Raanana, July 3, 2015)

    It’s been said by poets who should know
    That it’s a sin to write a poem about a po-
    Em, probably because it’s hard
    To find a word that rhymes with poem
    But, if I could, that sure would show ’em.
    All of my life I’ve been thinking of poems,
    From daybreak to nightfall, from five until three,
    Why can’t they just once be thinking of me?
    I may not be in possession of beauty but
    I can rhyme truly in dactyl tetrameter,
    Though most of my rhythm is sprung into free verse,
    That’s no excuse, n’est-ce pas, for not thinking
    Of me.


  21. “A Poem Unwritten”
    (Raanana, March 9, 2012)

    No one has ever written a poem about a poem unwritten
    Of the many virtues of such a poem
    The perfect meter of noambic nometer
    The clarity and minimalism leave
    Even haiku silent with envy.
    The language of silence is universal
    Requiring no translation.
    It will be unread by billions!
    It’s amazing that no one has thought of it,
    No one and I.

    Liked by 1 person

  22. “Want Ad”
    (Raanana, June 5, 2009)

    Wanted muse to pose for poet
    Work challenging but not too strenuous
    (Just need to exist)
    References desirable previous poets
    Preferably Romantic though
    Classic also accepted
    Exquisite beauty and grace not required
    Please reply in fourteen lines or less

    Liked by 1 person

  23. “Like Ghosts”
    (Raanana, August 25, 2006)

    Poems are like ghosts,
    Not everyone can see them,
    Floating behind the rocks and distant pines.
    But when you finally do see one
    Your eyes open wide
    In wonder full of surprise
    Like someone I knew once
    Who is herself a ghost now.

    They are so powerless,
    They can’t even open a door by themselves
    But must wait for someone real to walk through.

    Poems can’t be forced,
    They’re like a talking horse
    That only speaks when
    Others are not about.

    Poems can’t be heard by everyone.
    They are much like silence
    And there’s no knob to turn the volume up
    There’s just

    Poems have a sense in which they’re right
    That can’t be understood by everyone
    Within the bounds of normalcy
    Like dreams and madness.

    Yet I believe in them
    Having heard one once myself,
    But never more.


  24. “I Ink Therefore Iamb”
    (Raanana, December 22, 2004)

    A few things I’ve learned about poetry:
    Never write a poem about poetry,
    And the more emotion you put into a poem
    The less you get out of it,
    And rhyme is less important than reason,
    And a poem not read is as sad
    As a poem not written.

    Liked by 2 people

  25. “6000 Miles and 30 Years Away”

    Old world spirits must be overrunning this country;
    How else to explain this poetry coming into my hand
    After all these years.
    Must be the autumn lights,
    Same as childhood’s.

    My mother was a poetess.
    Father was a writer and a storyteller.
    She wore a scarf.
    Emily was the name she would have chosen for herself.
    Her long autumnal hair, lifted by iambic breezes.
    She wrote a book of poetry.
    I never saw it.

    Father had all the instincts.
    She didn’t wear her motherhood so easily.
    Father left school to be a father and a husband.

    One day, Mother left home to be a poet.
    One day, she left the country.
    One day, she left the world.

    Liked by 1 person

  26. .the rewrite.
    rewrite it, add the dots, delete the rhyme.

    erase the last draft, start again,constantly.

    wrap arte facts in paper. box for transportation.

    lose the plot,scrap the lot, fear the repercussions

    now there is a good word, if the space bar works.

    do you wish you wrote longer stuff, important tomes,
    well i do,

    it is all ready now, i just need your instructions,
    and i know you have asked.


    Liked by 3 people

  27. .the writers.

    not thinking it comes good,

    just write, share and eventually

    correct, edit,delete

    you like, comment.

    on reading others ( pause ) regret these

    simple ways

    i am not clever, everyone is a writer.

    she said so.


    Liked by 3 people

  28. .anonymous writer.

    Having trouble getting back.

    Difficulty finding words, of the
    simple type, to type.

    Spell out the consequences,
    of an easy life.

    Is it criticism, or a general sensitivity,
    which abounds, confounds the
    smallest heart.

    She says we should not handle bats.

    They write better stuff than me

    words i never have

    or think in

    They have been to a university

    I have been there twice visiting

    while two have died


    They write in patterns

    I watch with difficulty



    Yet glad i feel better today

    Liked by 3 people

  29. A divine gift, a blessing in the discerning eye
    in the receptive mind, an ability in the grey
    matter , opening the unseen box , a theory
    of participation, of creation, a revolution, an
    evolution, a single color to a rainbow, opening
    trapped emotions, releasing enslaved feelings
    letting a catharsis emerge, a torrent of tears, a
    burst of energy, a sudden sprouting of a seed,
    an awaited blossoming of a bud, the fall of the
    last leaf , an Oracle of Delphi, a prophecy, a
    spell in the forest, an untreaded path, a road
    not taken, a lashing wave, a light in a cave,
    waning or waxing the moon, a constellation
    in the Milky Way, a new world order, a new
    planet in boundless blackness floating, A
    destiny all known yet created in expressions
    rhymed or un rhymed in lines and symbols
    expressed manifesting new meanings, new
    vistas opening to form overtures, notes musical
    by a musician, painting by an artist , a poem
    by a poet.

    Liked by 2 people

  30. Hi Jamie. I’ve written three. I could’t decide which one so…….

    Penning Prose

    Music moves my soul to dance
    or heave a sigh
    or weep a tale perchance
    or pedigree a poem,
    or to, like Shakespeare,
    rail and “beweep my outcast fate”
    and “trouble deaf heav’n”
    “wishing me like to one more
    rich in hope.”
    as I cry for lost love, or
    perhaps a Beatle tells me to “Let it Be”
    or McKuen’s part words and phrases,
    I would rather Emily be, with luscious
    integrity laying down the words
    with solemnity, en class
    To contemplate their symmetry
    and pen the prose my soul can see.

    Liked by 2 people

  31. Poetic Idea

    A thin screen
    finer than the spider’s web
    an unseen transparency
    a void, yet a space, appears
    between thoughts and the spirit,
    a vision seeking words, to take
    shape and form,to manifest the
    idea, a thought normal transformed
    from nothing to something, from
    the mind’s eye to world view, to
    see the hidden, expose it with beauty
    more than inherent in nature and by
    doing so initiate a movement, bring
    into the seventh moment, language that
    lay latent, to form the symphony from chaos
    that would fill the sails of the harbored ship
    and set it off on a journey through undiscovered
    oceans and uncharted seas- this would be
    the force called poetry and one who arrives
    at the still point would be called a poet’

    Liked by 2 people

  32. My first response dear Jamie
    A bloody poetry
    When a dawn gives a blue bird its ears
    I walk along the far away beach
    The vast sea lullabying giant waves speaks with me in whisper
    I listen all his untold stories
    And a poetry evolves in my heart.

    When a dusk gives a fallen leaf its heart
    I walk towards those broken shanties
    tingled by dull last sun rays
    I listen there stories of hardship
    And a bloody poetry awakes in my heart.
    Kakali Das Ghosh

    Liked by 2 people

      1. Thank you, Jamie for the sweet invitation. I’m not sure about my poem if it’s on the subject, because it’s a little specific.

        Creative Writing

        at the corner are walking
        has nothing to do
        with the creative writing
        with your manner
        to transfer (slowly)
        the cigarettes into a cigarette case
        to understand
        I’m one of the others?
        like a white mountain is
        the woman by me
        is falling asleep

        Liked by 5 people

  33. Hi Jamie,

    My fourth response:


    and brush are poetry.
    Brush is my pen

    sweeps all the words
    dust, ripped plastic packaging,

    used sucked lollipop sticks,
    shop receipts, religious pamphlets

    sausage roll pastry, used product
    labels into a neat pile,

    position the dustpan to receive
    the words. Carefully flick

    the words towards a dustpan page.
    Inevitably, some words are swept

    under the page. I have to rescue those.
    Sometimes the page is the floor.

    Sometimes the pen cleans away
    a chaos of words to leave a poem.

    (From my 2018 collection, “Please Take Change,

    Liked by 2 people

  34. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my third response:

    This Mop And Bucket

    are poetry to me.
    My pen is a mop

    I stick in a bucket
    of disinfectant floor cleaner

    pull out mop sodden
    with words and splash

    them backwards and forwards
    slop lines one after the other

    Until the floor fair shines,
    My mop is dry, needs another dip.

    I squeeze out the gunk
    back into the bucket.

    More the floor shines,
    dirtier the bucketful gets.

    A good poem is a clean floor.

    (From my 2018 collection “Please Take Change,”

    Liked by 3 people

  35. H Jamie,

    Here’s my second response:

    If Poet Cries

    the world cries

    If poet laughs
    the world laughs

    Poet is world.

    Poet tells life as poet finds it.
    So this is the world.

    The world is not beyond the poet.
    Poet is not beyond the world.

    Poet is history. Relate to the words
    of the poet. The poet has you

    compare your life to the words.
    Poet is reader is poet.

    Liked by 2 people

  36. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my first response:

    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

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