Union Cemetery, Redwood City, CA

This morning
The first drops of winter …
excerpt Call of the Whipporwill, Mike Stone

And it being Tuesday, here are the responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Gone the Winter Gods for Those of Spring, July 17, which asked poets to write about a season or the seasons and so they do.  From spring in Bulgaria to spring in India, from a pensive visit to a cafe in Los Angeles during a humid July to feast of seasons in South Yorkshire, from the sun in Côte d’Azur to rain in Dartmoor, from the promise of spring in San Jose (CA) to the seasons as metaphor and memory in Pakistan, the yearly devisions are weighted with sensual pleasures, rituals, reminders, and symbols.

This week’s collection is courtesy of bogpan, mm brazfield, Paul Brookes, Anjum Wasim Dar, Irma Do, Sheila Jacob, Dick Jones, Frank McMahon, Sonja Benskin Mesher, and Pali Raj.

Enjoy! And do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are welcome. To those who’ve written to ask how to be published on The Poet by Day, participation in Wednesday Writing Prompt is the best way to introduce yourselves.  

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

© 2019, bogpan (Bozhidar Pangelov)

bogpan’s site is:  (bogpan – блог за авторска поезия  блог за авторска поезия )

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

© 2019, mm brazfield

mm’s site is: Words Less Spoken

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.

Published in South West broadsheet 1993, featured in Paul’s as yet unpublished chapbook about birds “Feather”

© 1993, Paul Brookes

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.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

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.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

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.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

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’

© 2019, Paul Brookes

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

© 2019, Paul Brookes

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

© 2019, Paul Brookes

Paul Brookes, prolific Yorkshire poet

FYI: Paul Brookes, a stalwart participant in The Poet by Day Wednesday Writing Prompt, is running an ongoing series on poets, Wombwell Rainbow Interviews. Connect with Paul if you’d like to be considered for an interview. Visit him, enjoy the interviews, get introduced to some poets who may be new to you, and learn a few things.

The Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: Jamie Dedes

  • Paul’s Amazon Page U.S. HERE
  • Paul’s Amazon Page U.K. HERE

More poems by Paul at Michael Dickel’s Meta/ Phore(e) /Play

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

© 2019, Anjum Wasim Dar

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

© 2019, Anjum Wasim Dar

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

© 2019, Anjum Wasim Dar

Anjum Ji’s sites are:

“POETRY PEACE and REFORM Go Together -Let Us All Strive for PEACE on EARTH for ALL -Let Us Make a Better World -WRITE To Make PEACE PREVAIL.” Anjum Wasim Dar

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.

© 2019, Irma Do

Irma’s site is: I Do Run, And I do a few other things too ….

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.

© 2019, Sheila Jacob

To purchase this little gem of a volume, Through My Father’s Eyes (review, interview, and a sampling of poems HERE), contact Sheila directly at she1jac@yahoo.com


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.

© 2019, Dick Jones

Dick’s collection Ancient Lights is available through Amazon HERE.


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.

© 2019, Frank McMahon

.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


© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

..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.

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Sonja’s sites are:

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 ….

© 2019, Pali Raj


Recent in digital publications: 
* Four poemsI Am Not a Silent Poet
* Five by Jamie Dedes, Spirit of Nature, Opa Anthology of Poetry, 2019
* 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. My phone unfortunately finds nothing “above this line.” I am reminded of SILENT SPRING by Rachel Carson, which the library has ordered for me.

    Sent from my iPhone

    Liked by 1 person

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