“October extinguished itself in a rush of howling winds and driving rain and November arrived, cold as frozen iron, with hard frosts every morning and icy drafts that bit at exposed hands and faces.”  J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

The gods of winter arrive windy, whooshing
and cackling to chastise autumn’s ripe reds,
casting cold nights darker than indigo, spinning
a whorl of days, steel-blue and hoary
. . . . . . Like life sometimes
Rest is welcome after the frenzy of canning,
freezing fruit for deep-dish pies and the days
pass like the color of joy with shocks of silver
……….Not unlike my hair
One blink, gone the winter gods for those of spring
and my sixty-nineth year
…………I’ll be here

© 2018, Jamie Dedes


An easy prompt, I think, this time around: write a poem or poems about a season or the seasons and you.

  • please submit your poem/s by pasting them into the comments section and not by sharing a link
  • please submit poems only, no photos, illustrations, essays, stories, or other prose

Poems submitted through email or Facebook will not be published.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, July 22 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.

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
* From the Small Beginning, Entropy Magazine (Enclave, #Final Poems)(July 2019)
* Over His Morning Coffee, Front Porch Review (July 2019)
Upcoming in digital publications:
* The Damask Garden, In a Woman’s Voice (August 2019)

A busy though bed-bound poet, writer, former columnist and the former associate editor of a regional employment newspaper, my work has been featured widely in print and digital publications including: Levure littéraireRamingo’s Porch, Vita Brevis Literature, HerStry, Connotation Press, The Bar None Group, Salamander CoveI Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta/ Phor(e) /Play, Woven Tale PressThe Compass Rose and California Woman. I run The Poet by Day, a curated info hub for poets and writers. I founded The Bardo Group/Beguines, a virtual literary community and publisher of The BeZine of which I am the founding and managing editor. Among others, I’ve been featured on The MethoBlog, on the Plumb Tree’s Wednesday Poet’s Corner, and several times as Second Light Live featured poet.

Email me at thepoetbyday@gmail.com for permissions, reprint rights, or comissions.

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


  1. Our Home

    where the linnet calls
    it breaks big white back
    of winter; craggs out
    grey veins dry stone walls
    of territory.

    Male Ring Ouzel calls,
    cock Lapwings tumble,
    Short Eared Owls hunt
    wasteland: incomers.
    birds swoop upstream bones
    moved by these false springs.

    Then the Curlew calls.
    Spring staggers from brok
    en white shells, tubers
    unsteady or sharp
    suck out hill’s feathered

    There the Golden Plover
    takes fledglings across
    warming ice: snow broth
    whispers down to crack
    the river’s quiet
    hibernating voice.

    Copyright Paul Brookes, Published in South West broadsheet 1993, featured in my as yet unpublished chapbook about birds “Feather”

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my sixth response:

    A Winter

    my oak skin believes
    it is spring, electric rhythm
    pushes out long
    yellow catkins
    and small female flowers,
    purple hairstreak
    butterfly caterpillar food
    A false spring in dendrites
    in my wintered head.

    My leaf-burst happens
    next mid-May
    not this end of December.

    Watch my hawthorn buds blink,
    new fresh green leaves cum creamy white flowers, Queen bumblebees pierce
    nectar and pollen from my Spring flowers,
    frogspawn wobble in my ponds, ditches.
    Bluebells confetti my woodland
    hear Chiffchaffs arrival ‘chiff chaff’
    tops of my trees and Cuckoos, swallows,
    house martins and swifts feathered return.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my fifth response:

    Sweetness So

    late in the season,

    I ask the tree,
    “Please can I take some

    of your fruit?”,
    the easy pleasure

    my hand reaches out,
    amongst the almost naked,

    gnarled limbs,
    my fingers round

    the full luscious belly
    of a hard green pear,

    and gently twist to snap
    the umbilical cord,

    and place it in the basket.
    And say “Thankyou.”

    On the ground gnawed
    and sucked broken skins

    rest on mown grass,
    sweetness oozes into cold air.

    Soon the aroma of apple
    and pear crumble inhabits

    the fresh rooms of our house,
    the heat in the pastry,

    the knife’s blade cuts
    a portion.

    “Blow on the spoon, love.
    I need to know

    if the pears are soft enough.”
    says my wife as she ushers

    bubbling fruit and crumble
    to my quivering tongue.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my fourth response:

    Wombwell Wintered

    Circular torquoise baby
    traveller leans against wall
    beside blue & green recycling bins
    outgrown its use

    Young man, pink card factory
    bag massive metallic blue
    balloon gets bus in soaking wet
    everyone smiles

    Parkered Cemetery Openers
    toy Yorkshire Terrier tartan
    coated in downpour trots beside her
    only watter

    On wooden garden table/bench,
    nest terracotta/black plastic
    plant pots,
    behind bakers glass bread sheen

    white wooden door atop
    rammed yellow skip,
    blue mattress, wardrobe,
    table, worn tires
    broken world portal

    internal curved mirror
    raindrop stores light
    in a bucket corona
    crown wet siles down
    prompting reflection

    After rain tiny drainbound
    streams bubble broken
    rubbish down causey edge
    urban streamfront property

    Streets wet week, Sodden &
    Gomorrah, entryways shelter,
    windows pebbledashed
    towns grieves for a laugh

    Please Use Other Door
    arrow points up High St.
    large To Be Let, For Sale on pole
    signs of redirection.

    Wet pavements dry world
    mercator maps estuaries
    coastlines islands cloud animals
    imaginations silhouettes

    like morning summer broken
    dries wintered leaf blasts
    blue cloud pummels spring breath
    out autumnal still.

    Atop Green bin green eyed
    ginger cat paws folded under
    On white wash line mid travel
    cable car raindrops.

    High Street man, black frizzy
    wig, pink wrapped flowers,
    pink, white, purple balloons
    adjusts rucksack.

    Rainpools broadcasting
    light unresolved
    mirror restless refraction
    image holds brief seconds
    undecided reflection

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my third response:

    Wombwell Autumned

    cheapskate jewellers inlaid
    caught raindrops set them
    with garnet and ruby placed
    their gleam in window trays

    golden leafed pot pouri lines
    road and path mulches
    in downpour.
    Smell wet forest on the street.

    Woman: ‘Bus is a horse and cart.
    Knocking us to and fro.’ As it made
    way up Packhorse Road down
    which salt was brought.

    A crocodile of Canada geese
    across yellow glow clouds.
    Two parts of broken iron
    bath loaded in a van

    Blown remains of burnt out
    abandoned leaves left
    by summer’s joy riding trees
    eyesore streets.
    Some always stay green

    Town is vivid grey,
    but yellow shines
    out of closed pound shop,
    open butchers, grocers,
    mini market
    early risers.

    Bus stop lad, snapback cap
    red American football shirt,
    ‘Billy’ tattooed neck, says
    ‘xbox3 fixed by hairdryer. Sorted’

    Liked by 1 person

  6. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my second response:

    Wombwell Springed

    Small pair of step ladders
    roped together
    pink bucket
    childs yellow chair
    stood outside terrace
    window await instruction

    washing strung out
    between red brick
    terrace walls
    and wooden fence lats
    signs of spring

    street bottom cold mist
    like over grainy movie
    photographic fault
    greys out background
    like floating

    detached house
    stands to one side
    with a disinterested point of view

    not like our terrace
    where neighbours hear through walls
    or in entryway
    our oven fan
    flaps through boisterous
    kids play football,
    humpbreathed lovers at night
    a gunning motorbike

    follow bitumen
    pavement trails
    pipework underground
    odd bitumen patches
    road potholes filled
    highway maintenance

    beneath billows of surf clouds
    walk against tide
    in dappled sunlight
    over tarmac sea floor
    pass ash maple fronds
    where marine call centre
    talks bubbles

    Liked by 1 person

  7. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my first response:

    Wombwell Summered

    Big animal heat corrugates
    radiates, illuminates
    dirty windows building flaws
    bounds over rooftops
    primal veracity.

    Pigeons, spuggys
    shadow puppetry streets, houses.
    Tarmac warm shivers.
    Radiant windows flash mirror
    passing traffic.

    Evening spitting,
    growling, flaming,
    fluid lads/lasses on heat,
    short shirts tempers.
    This is the barbecue.

    Unshaven bald man,
    open green raincoat,
    brown leather shoes,
    hauls local paper
    packed lime green trolley.

    Old folk bench gab,
    mothers stroll babies
    down funeral paths
    eye gambolling squirrel,
    cemetery a parkland.

    Blackbird gob skyward
    atop Victorian six pointed
    terracotta Crown top
    chimney pot
    trills red brick streets.

    bright yellow sharp
    edged box hedge sun
    cracked pavements
    yellow metal skip
    blocks alleyway
    All sun snogged

    Sunstruck leaf bunch
    drips bright molten
    green glass, other leaves
    luminescent silver stars
    in green matter, shade cut.

    Shadows pass over bus
    as if it is stop motion animated.
    I get on the animation.

    Town a small canvas tent
    unzipped tied back crowcall,
    fragrant grass, earth close,
    sun blue. Is on holiday.

    Liked by 1 person

  8. Hello Jamie! There is something to love about every season- here is my response to the prompt this week!

    “Thoughts on January 6 – A Quadrille”

    My summer island beckons me
    When the sun hides behind
    Winter clouds. Her waves, trapped
    In whispering shallows, softly request
    My return. Her rocky shoreline
    Curved in a waiting embrace.
    Her salty scent of carefree
    Days warming the frigid air.
    Only 6 more months.


  9. Remember Remember The Fifth Of November

    We gathered branches
    from overgrown trees,
    wove them into a wigwam
    and lit plugs of paper.

    The woodpile blazed,
    filled the night air
    with a tangy crackle
    of bark and rose-thorns.

    Rockets flew
    towards the moon.
    Roman candles flared,
    hissed into gold cascades.

    Catherine wheels
    sizzled and shone,
    spun out their lives
    on our garden fence.

    We waved sparklers
    like magic wands
    and watched
    the old year burn.

    Liked by 1 person

  10. Too Kind Seasons

    Oh seasons warm and cool
    you are good as a rule
    sometimes harsh in hail
    and heat when humans fail

    to defeat pearly drops on the
    brow, when comes the fall
    trees become bare, silence
    covers all, like friends far away

    unseen unknown like seasons,
    change with time, making sadness
    in cold,and joy in the Spring
    life is made of tender things

    Liked by 2 people

  11. Love your poem, Jamie.


    La Croix-Valmer, Côte d’Azur.

    By day we burn into our own
    shadows. Crash-landed
    on white sand, scoured

    by salt, we rust and wither,
    Once we were flesh,
    now we are part terra cotta,

    part dead leaves, all oven
    dust. That birthright
    certainty, cool water

    falling, belongs to legend
    lodged in rumour. Rising,
    rising, the sun yells

    in a blue room and
    we drown inside
    each other’s steam.

    By night we slip
    between cool covers
    and we dream in green.


    Fernworthy Reservoir, Dartmoor.

    Inside the gold-green heart
    of rain we move like figures
    in each other’s memory.

    Directionless, we’ve lost
    the certainty of standing water,
    under a moiling sky, splayed

    face down across the moor.
    Now mighty blades of rain
    have chopped the logic

    of the hills into broken
    language and we can’t read
    the meaning of this world

    without horizons. Taproot boots
    are sucked between tussocks
    and we stand, motionless,

    mouths open, doomed beneath
    our packs, bog men dissolving
    back to salt and sinew.

    Liked by 2 people

  12. Respected Jamie Ji
    Some More Lines from The Cold Season

    Hark Listen Think Celebrate

    in cold, grief snow bound encapsulated
    crushed fallen swept foliage separated
    branches heaving moaning sighing
    I , like the brave trunk stiff,contemplated

    December’s last days,ending or drifting
    to new beginnings, dreary evenings
    what is to be celebrated, one is thinking
    it is a time of gathering and blessing…

    bloodshed blasts ,death blows through
    North East North West North South North
    does not stop- by benumbing weather
    death knows not barbed wire or border

    why celebrate the coming of Peace when
    peace is not belief,when strafe and strife
    is here there and everywhere, then, do
    do we really love or care for human life “?

    Celebrate with joy in white and red
    white is a shroud and blood is red
    spirits rise, bodies lie, darkened sky
    players play with arms’ held high-

    I seek Peace and Holy Peace will come!
    we pray and decorate honor and wait’
    ‘O People do not stop to Celebrate’ the
    Gift of Life, let the Bells Ring, anticipate

    bury the hate for black or white
    world is a rainbow ‘ day or night
    think stop think no one is winning’
    Hark, I feel, Someone Blessed is Coming’

    Know now the reason the time, not, is late’
    Time to Be Happy Time to Celebrate , Celebrate

    Liked by 2 people

  13. Respected Jamie Ji
    Some Lines from the Winter Season

    An Icy Embrace

    the moment we stepped
    outside the glass door
    Lo we met , face to face

    an icy embrace

    sending shivers deep inside
    coat collar rolled up,tight
    pushed back against the tide

    an icy embrace

    we kept walking slowly
    unseen force engulfed
    pulled controlled coldly

    an icy embrace

    someone cried ‘O Jesus’
    and I knew how cold he
    felt, as he bowed and knelt

    to the icy embrace

    O Aeolus thou wast kind
    but sleep conquered mind
    Greed left All Good behind

    an icy embrace

    man must know this
    is the best unseen gift
    Nature’s Power to uplift

    Life in an icy embrace

    cold or warm it is good
    wind it is, as understood
    fly sail breathe,no falsehood

    though it may be

    an icy embrace

    Liked by 2 people


    The colours were returning: pathfinder celandine,
    yellow as rich as butter freshly-churned,
    pale infantry of hellebore and crocus,
    racy flights of blackthorn, early bees.

    A pelt of snow has caped the distant hills;
    milk-white ice conceals. Now wind shrives skin,
    uncorks a furl of rooks to larrick
    in the heady draughts while buzzards
    rise, their plangent calls ringing through the air
    above the trees, at ease in their hunting spirals
    or jousting, perhaps, in early season foreplay.

    How will they fare tomorrow
    when gales will drum and thump
    and a waterfall sweeps downwards from the sky?
    I will sow seeds, drink tea, wait until the storms
    have clawed their way beyond,
    judge the wisest moment to emerge,
    to steep my hands in earth’s true wealth,
    when sun and water have balanced
    what the winds have weathered,
    to sample,grit under finger nails, palms
    dark-stained or smeared blue with clay,
    to fondle the webbèd texture,
    test, grain by grain, its tilth, sniff aromas
    of leaf and loam, praise the work of worm
    and microbe, frost and air, declare,
    to no one in particular, that the land is ready.

    Liked by 2 people

  15. Blossoms and promise
    Spring begins
    Hopeful heart, who would now spoil a day
    Winter is dead.
    Sure, you can snuggle up *with*
    a cup of tea and read
    *I ain’t a bad guy*
    What is it like?
    Gone the Winter Gods for Those of Spring, a poem make an escape….yeah
    I ain’t this year and I ain’t your fault.
    Blossoms and promise
    Spring begins ….

    Liked by 2 people

  16. positivity and gratitude from LA ❤

    moment of clarity

    july evening warm humidly noisy
    in the city i sit between Spring and Broadway streets
    at a mall downtown where i’d like to fantasize Bradbury
    could be found drinking coffee
    looking to my left there are the kids joshing and cussing
    rolling on skateboards zephyrs with iphones
    to my right hipsters with credit cards today green means something else
    micro chips smart chips designer chips vegan chips
    i smile Mona L style and sip my Vietnamese coffee straight up
    pigeons coo me out seductively with the waffle sound
    of their aged wings dusty with the history of my time
    here in this old new modern city
    a tiny crack on the wall
    by the fire department’s emergency pipe
    holds my attention but i knit by brows
    dainty lilac flowers
    offered up to the most attentive student
    the teacher dark green weed shows the little creatures
    exquisite tiny intricate jewels luring in the bees
    another universe within my urban home
    i don’t like hot weather
    sweat panting and stickiness
    should only be for sex
    but if the retiring sun hadn’t drawn me out
    for the night i would have missed the buzzing of life
    and random thoughts of HST soul madness and did JD really
    shoot his ashes out of a canon
    crazy kids at times trapped by the freedom of the mind
    i’m working on an espresso now looking around
    twirling my ankle like a cat’s tail
    am i happy today i must be
    today i’m not running
    as much

    Liked by 4 people

  17. green green

    ah, you won’t remember the sweet October when amber juice drips from the vines
    and where does the little grape picker go on that greenest afternoon

    ah, the sea got stormy today

    little girl, shrink midst the swollen grapes quickly
    because the goats’ hooves sing, ah, a joyful god and his dusty entourage,
    and a green coluber in the sea of green

    ah, you won’t remember the sweet October when you take a sip of juice

    Liked by 4 people

  18. .fail in the cold.

    the days of heaven gold

    are coming to its end.

    are we the children

    of the fall, those of us

    who dance in the leaves,

    who fail in the cold or the

    brashness of summer


    read about the courage of others,

    about the closing of doors,

    against the rain and the wind


    read about the loss of brothers,

    about the moving of house

    escaping pain,and remember

    these golden days of autumn.



    read about the perfection

    that never is, the quality that fades

    in time, with crosses,

    people’s minds.

    read about the rain in the cwm,

    that blinds and blinds,

    and loses paths and footings


    read about the days

    in the old house

    the days that are, and were,

    and may come with dreams,

    and fortitude.

    read about it all, and i ask,

    why do you read


    Liked by 4 people

  19. ..winter song..

    winter bare her soul.

    medieval trees reach up

    for solstice and better days.

    sing in silence and simplicity.

    sing for those in remembrance .

    dark winter bares the soul, those

    that believe. sing in silence.

    one voice breaks.

    dark winter.


    Liked by 3 people

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