by 
“I knew – had long known – how poetry can break open locked chambers of possibility, restore numbed zones to feeling, recharge desire. And, in spite of conditions at large, it seemed to me that poetry in the United States had never been more various and rich in its promise and its realized offerings. But I had, more than I wanted to acknowledge, internalized the idea, so common in this country, so strange in most other places, that poetry is powerless, or that it can have nothing to do with the kinds of power that organize us as a society, as relationships within communities. If asked, I would have said that I did not accept this idea. Yet it haunted me.” Adrienne Rich in preface to her book What Is Found There, Notebooks on Poetry and Politics (W.W.Norton and Company, 1993)
You bare witness to the spirit of the times,
recording the minutes, building monuments
with your soft technology of healing, elevating
consciousness, What joy you feel in rising up!
Rising up, you Poets, from silence and solitude,
from ear to the ground, observation is your
spiritual practice, you’ve all been oppressors and
oppressed, now use words to change the world
© 2019, Jamie Dedes
WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT
Seamus Heaney once famously said that a poem never stopped a tank. It would appear that certain governments around the world and throughout time would disagree. Why else have poets been censored, imprisoned, under house arrest, exiled, and even murdered? What’s your thought? Does poetry make a difference? Does it expand the imagination of the moment, elevate the spirit of the times? How? If not, why? Tell us in your poem/s and
- 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Poems submitted through email or Facebook will not be published.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, August 26 by 8 pm Pacific 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.
ABOUT
Jamie Dedes. I’m a Lebanese-American freelance writer, poet, content editor, blogger and the mother of a world-class actor and mother-in-law of a stellar writer/photographer. No grandchildren, but my grandkitty, Dahlia, rocks big time. I am hopelessly in love with nature and all her creatures. In another lifetime, I was a columnist, a publicist, and an associate editor to a regional employment publication. I’ve had to reinvent myself to accommodate scarred lungs, pulmonary hypertension, right-sided heart failure, connective tissue disease, and a rare managed but incurable blood cancer. The gift in this is time for my primary love: literature. I study/read/write from a comfy bed where I’ve carved out a busy life writing feature articles, short stories, and poetry and managing The BeZine and its associated activities and The Poet by Day jamiededes.com, an info hub for writers meant to encourage good but lesser-known poets, women and minority poets, outsider artists, and artists just finding their voices in maturity. The Poet by Day is dedicated to supporting freedom of artistic expression and human rights. Email thepoetbyday@gmail.com for permissions, commissions, or assignments.
Testimonials / Disclosure / Facebook
Recent and Upcoming in Digital Publications * The Damask Garden, In a Woman’s Voice, August 11, 2019 / This short story is dedicated to all refugees. That would be one in every 113 people. * Five poems, 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 * Three poems, Our Poetry Archive, September 2019
“Every pair of eyes facing you has probably experienced something you could not endure.” Lucille Clifton
Jamie Dedes' THE POET BY DAY Webzine 
Jamie, please please change the tenth line of the second verse to ‘that trap your feet and your path’ (and not ‘that traps your feet and your path’). Thanks, loads.
Urmila
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Here’s my response, Jamie.
Poetry
Poetry is what you hear when
you open yourself up to the
vibration of the universe
what you feel when patterns
twine and intertwine until
your pulse harmonises
it abounds in the patient
slump of a grey heron’s back
master fisherman who mas-
tered the zen of waiting, the
arch of a dancer’s sole aching
on a hardwood floor, rocks
that funnel a singer’s voice
into the clouds and blot out
city lights, profuse purple heart
that traps your feet and your
path, the curve of creation
if you can reflect a strand of
the world as it is, with the frag-
ment of glass you’re given,
slant its lustre into minds that
receive, a poet’s work is done
August 2019
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Respected Jamie Ji
Sorry it would be more work for you but these lines all came during the night.Sharing with you for You Inspired me profoundly.I had to put the thoughts on paper. It is up to you now, perhaps they may be placed in a better or more suitable column or just left aside for a better time
Ode to The Power of Poetry
O Thou, Heavenly Hellenic Linguist
What tales did unfold inside caves
what stories uncloaked, in waves
Of signs symbols and patterns, sets
of lines dashes, seen in lit lanterns, all
in a balance, all in rhythmic meters net,
deciphering letters, forming words, shaped
into a ‘made up thing’ named poietes’
You stepped in tracing transforming
making joys into journeys, voices into
voyages on high seas, revealed monsters
demons, deities wise and goddesses naïve,
unraveled kingdoms, inspired feats of
Herculean strength touching the grandeur
of Rome, magnificence of emperors, racing
gilded chariots, defeating Troy, killing Achilles.
You made the Great Islands overflow with
linguistic jewels, Regained Lost Paradise, restored
the monarchy, transitioning to the wonders of
Renaissance. Your revelation of Epics of Art and Word
led to the great Enlightenment, as civilized Empires
spread across the Sahara Deserts. You related lines
and lines of mighty battles, shining armor and victories
These tales inspired millions to adopt your style and diction.
You laid the foundations of recording fact and fiction,
‘the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings’ that all
humans are kin to, you gave the theory of ‘ to see the thing
in itself as it truly is’ ‘the velvet footsteps of Spring’ that
softly touched the senses and brought forth Romanticism.
Encompassing other branches of the lingual system your
great adventure gave birth to Persian and Urdu in the South
Asian region. You caused the chain of change’with all charm.
You were present in the Courts of Kings and Emperors and
emerged as the Ghazal form representing love romance and
social reflection. People enjoyed the expression recitation and
expression as new phrases devices and techniques converged.
With your power nations experienced the change of fate and
blessing of freedom when Dr Allama Iqbal Poet of East’ instilled
the spirit of ‘Self’ Discovery, awakening the Muslim nation
to the true realization and strength of faith and the Right Path.
He wrote
Koi andaza kr sakta hai uss ke zor e bazoo ka
Nigah e mard e momin se badal jati hain taqdeerein
can anyone even guess at the strength of his arm?
by the glance of a true believer even destiny is changed
You changed the state of the human world every time it
was in pain grief and segregation, you gave hope, uplifting
suffering souls, bringing them together , creating peace –
You are a bridge of sustenance comfort and positivity
your makers are now more, more than a hundred thousand
You have proved the function that is your special feature
To inspire, motivate, provide catharsis, instruct and delight
your need was never ignored nor ever felt urgent as of today-
Come it is almost September the World awaits you –
Your Coming is sacred and holy, the planet is burning
smoke is rising, war threatens innocent generations , they
look up to YOU- Lead Them to The Long Awaited ‘CHANGE’
with Peace and Togetherness, as you did in the past-
Poetry Your Power To achieve The best for this world
will never be in doubt- September is the season of apples
let us raise our hands in prayer thank the Almighty and
with joy happiness and forgiveness , fill all the barrels.
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Dear Gracious Jamie Ji Jazakallah khair ..Thank you
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No worries. xo
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The Long Dark Night
stuff bottled inside
about to shatter
world going crazy
does it matter?
so much violence
so much strife
desensitizing human sensibility
help!!!
turn up the music
let harmonic sound abound
oldies but goodies
sooth harm and hurt
“ride sallie ride”
ride throughout the earth
“unchain my heart set me free”
free the words inside of me
free calming words
free soothing words
free encouraging words
let them ride with mustang sally
speeding in space
emitting messages of tranquility
that reverberate throughout the cosmos
let the balm of Gilead perfume the atmosphere
soothing all fear
ride sally ride
ride through the USA
declaring this a day of harmony and serenity
ride sally ride
ride through Africa and Asia
declaring this a day of a peace to release all animosity
ride sally ride
ride through Europe and Australia
declaring this a day of communication and restoration
ride sally ride
ride through South America, North America, and Antarctica
ride throughout the world
ride on the road of time
eradicating eons
filled with hatred
filled with wars
filled with a power-hungry lust
that never trusts the source of light
that invites mankind into a relationship of love
a love that shines from above encompassing all
who choose to be stars through this long dark night
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Hi Jamie,
Here’s my second response:
A poet is not silent, bowed, complacent.
A poet is not cowed into submissiveness.
A poet must see clearly, highlight abuse,
A poet sees into the corners,
behind closed doors,
through the language mist thrown out
to disguise intention.
A poet always does the difficult thing,
climbs the impossible, holds the hand of the lost.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Hi Jamie,
Here’s my first response:
Cause Offence
It challenges the norm.
Gets folk off of their laurels.
Is a shot in the arm.
Keeps folk in the ballet,
on their toes.
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Dear Jamie Ji
Plato
banished poets
would not be happy
seeing so many
writers thinking
and writing poetry
Poets,
writing
are not fighting
nor are they blasting
nor putting innocents
to eternal sleep
Poets
Tempted
by inspiring prompts
may repair wrongs
in lives and lines
making people strong
poets….
change lives
for the better
LikeLiked by 1 person
Dear Jamie Ji
Sharing an old poem written for a prompt by Poets United
A Fool For Poetry ?
O How cool
it feels to be walking in the rain
than to hide in the cellar
for fear
It is hot the ball of fire
does no harm to the
gallinule
I love to be the fool
to stay away from the pool
I am not Icarus
in my ring I have a boule
I proudly say, ‘I am from Goole’
its no secret going to the shul’
O I love to be a fool for words’
words are but words’
a fool is wise of the wisest
for truth he speaks in jest
for nothing comes of nothing
its sweet but more sweet
makes the papule
and I love the fool in me
for I have sweet words
someone said ‘poetry writers
are they nerds?
No Dear Ones they are
The True Shepherds
Plato banished them
But I am a fool for all such herds’
I am a fool for clouds
I love to play hide and seek
I love the sun as it takes a peek
and allows the vapors to roar
rumble grumble and then pour
then I am not a fool for I see wisdom,
shine and the sun becomes mine
for I am the fool of a star
that waits all night
for I know the sun will light
my way after the dark night
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Dear Jamie Ji
some more lines
Plato and Banished Poets
Poets,
writing
are not fighting
nor are they blasting
nor putting innocents
to eternal sleep
Poets
Tempted
by inspiring prompts
may repair wrongs
in lives and lines
making people strong
poets….
change lives
for the better
But perhaps Plato
would not be too happy sighting
so many poets, not now banished
thinking and writing Poetry
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Respected Jamie Ji
Some Lines for you
Poetry is Faithful
Oceans are faithful and so is poetry
when emotions awake,waves arise
stilling exciting the mind and eyes
stirring the soul when beauty manifests
sinking into the spirits fathoms within
creating storms or filling joy,then
search for truly real words,begins
surging surfing receding waves on crest
settle as thoughts so formed, come to rest
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Hello Jamie! A Pantoum for your prompt this week;
“The Caged Bird Caterwauls”
I know why the caged bird sings
Sour sweet melodies of human maladies
Vibrating out into the fractured world
There is no accompanying harmony
Sour sweet melodies of human maladies
Poetic squawks implored yet ignored by broken ears
There is no accompanying harmony
When the free birds don’t want change
Poetic squawks implored yet ignored by broken ears
She caterwauls until the cage shatters
When the free birds don’t want change
Her powerful voice portends the power of action
She caterwauls until the cage shatters
Vibrating out into the fractured world
Her powerful voice portends the power of action
I know why the caged bird sings
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Jamie – apologies – the last line of the poem should read:
This is why the caged bird sings.
I went back and forth between keeping true to the Pantoum form versus making a statement about why poets/poetry is important. In the end, I went with the latter. Hope my poetic instinct is correct! Thanks for noting this change.
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Arousal
………………………
The day dawns in my courtyard ,
As the silent sunrays play on the green grasses ,
The shy squirrels run squeaking on the tree branches nearby ,
Slowly I open my window to see the world beyond…
Activity resumes in my neighbouring avenues ,
As the street dogs play among themselves
The morning walkers gather at the tea stall, gossiping
Speeding crowds upsurge along the city roads,
As monsoon clouds cluster and collide thundering across a serene sky,
A soft tender morning opens out to full bloomed day
I am too , part of these busied goings ,
Rushing through a road jampacked with whistling cabbies and colourful crowds,
The hills, the horizons and the vibrant earth
Resonate in my heart and in my poetry ,
Poetry that rouses me
Rising in me,
To the living moments
©®Bishnu Charan Parida
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Give Sorrow Words
Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart
and bids it break. Macbeth Act 4 Scene 3 William Shakespeare
And if your throat turns dry
let ink flow from pen to paper.
Write grief into the light.
Name it purple or black, fevered
or frosty, pulsatingly loud
or snake-soft and hissing.
Give sorrow its voice.
Let words trace the tangle
of your heart and someone
you’ve never met will read,
exclaim: I, too, walked
alone in the rain and wept.
I too, hid in the nearest shop
to avoid a friend who always
asked how I felt, suggested
we went for a coffee/watched
a movie/met up for lunch.
I, too, preferred the company
of strangers and empty streets.
Lay old hurts to rest.
But when they’re new, bare
them; share them, rawness
to rawness until they’re held,
and understood and verses arc
across the page beating towards
that tiny” thing with feathers”.*
*From Hope by Emily Dickinson
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Many thanks for all your Likes,I really appreciate them.x
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“The Lips of Infinity”
(Raanana, May 16, 2019)
And he welcomed them,
The children, the old ones, the infirm,
The youth, the busy young men and women,
The forsaken and excommunicated,
The doubters and disbelievers,
Agnostics and atheists,
The doctors, the scientists, and technicians,
And, yes, philosophers and poets,
From all over the world,
And he spoke to them in the one language
They all understood, the language of silence and action,
And this is what he said:
I am not descended from David
Or the son of anyone but my father.
My only credentials are the truth of my words,
Which are your words,
If you would only be silent long enough
To hear them inside you.
I have not come to tell you
What to believe,
Whom to love or not to love,
Or what to do.
I say only these things:
For your own sakes, believe in someone or something
Because belief gives you strength to go on
In an uncertain world,
For your own sakes, love someone or something
With abandon and utterly,
And don’t mete love out parsimoniously
As though you might use it all,
Because love lifts you up to the lips of infinity,
For your own sakes, do what you must
To follow your belief and protect your love
Like a wavering flame in cupped hands,
And the rest do with empathy and concern
To cause the least evil possible.
They left as they came,
Saying among themselves,
Not much of a message,
And each went his separate way
But when each arrived home
And was alone and silent,
He heard the words inside himself
And knew they were true.
(c) Mike Stone 2019
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“What If All the Nations of the World”
(Raanana, March 29, 2019)
What if all the nations of the world were
Imagine-nations?
We’d be kings or queens of our imagine-nations
With big armies that always won
With more money than we could spend
And all the people would love to serve us.
Me, I’d imagine my nation
Without kings or queens
Or rulers of any sort
Without an army big or small
Or money since all’d be free
And all the people would also be free.
We’d call our world the world
And the only borders would be
The borders between the land and sea
And we’d call the land a wander-land
That we’d wander through wondering
What would come next to please our eyes.
Where we’d stop to rest,
We could build a shelter along the way
As long as it didn’t sadden
The rivers and forests
And when we were done
We’d return what we’d borrowed
Including the flesh covering our souls
To our mother, our starship,
Our world.
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“Don’t Hang the Poets ”
(Raanana, January 23, 2018)
By the time you read this
I’ll be long gone,
Not in a sad sense
But in a hit the road sense.
Did you think I’d stick around forever?
I’ve got universes to create
And people to make.
Besides, I’m infinite and you are finite.
Do the math.
You can’t count up to me
And I can’t subtract myself to get to you.
Everything you do or say is finite.
I do nothing, yet it is done.
I can’t know or care about every hair on your heads,
Nor every cell or atom in your bodies.
There are so many worlds and galaxies,
Yet they are finite.
Yes, my prototypes,
I knew them well enough.
No, I wasn’t angry when she bit the fruit of knowledge
And offered him a bite.
What parent would?
And I didn’t kick them out of Eden.
They just took up responsibilities
And fended for themselves.
Eden was their childhood
But then they were adults.
These books you so revere,
The Bible, Quran, and others like them,
You should know I had no part,
Men forged My name and that is all.
They quoted what they wrote for
Ungodly purposes I assure you.
Don’t let them lead you
For they know not more than what you know.
There have been wise men
But you seldom had the wisdom to follow.
I didn’t make you master over My creation,
You are just a part of a wondrous whole
Where every part is necessary
Or the whole is diminished.
One more thing before I close:
The poets, please don’t hang the poets
For I was one once, my words were worlds,
From them will come your soul’s salvation.
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“Hiding behind the Truth”
(Raanana, October 3, 2016)
A poem is a wild thing
Untamable, it never tasted bit or reign,
A naked thing
You’d never take to church
Or have to Sunday dinner.
It uses an outlandish language
And it’s always true although
You’d be hard-pressed to say just how.
It’s true because
The poet with nowhere else to hide
Hides behind the truth,
But it’s the poet who is the wild thing
Untamable
The naked thing
Who cannot help but tell the truth
Hoping you won’t understand
But love him for outlandishness.
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“The Emperor’s New Changes”
(Raanana, September 11, 2016)
A hundred thousand poets for change
That’s us.
That’s what we called ourselves last year
And the year before.
So they’ve stopped lynching the poets in Arabia?
They’ve stopped stoning the raped women in Kabul?
What about the mutilation of genitals of young girls?
So they’ve stopped burning down Black churches in Bama?
Stopped desecrating the lands of our Sioux brothers?
How about the carbon they’ve dumped in the atmosphere?
Did they stop that?
Do they believe now the earth is too warm to live on?
Are philosophers kings yet?
Are kings philosophers?
I don’t mean to be cynical
But it doesn’t seem like much has changed since last year.
We’ve read a few poems,
That’s all.
Come to think of it,
Have we really changed,
Except for getting a year older?
If that’s change
Then we better change change
So that it’s palpable
So that we can feed people with it
So that people can walk tall from it
So that people can protect themselves with it
So that people can make love to it
Until change is done changing
And the world is all the Republic we need.
(c) Mike Stone 2016
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Roads and leisure
Blood rising ……huh,
Shops and marketing in: when
I give a shout ‘I have no coin’
in a slither of sweat ‘legs join’:
My cheek gets cut. Her rights bleed
Holding on tight I urge
Rising up, you poets – a poem will be fine.
I give a shout ‘I have no coin’
PLEASE HELP _/\_
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peace and blessing from LA thanks for the opportunity
oracle
it’s not that i am being difficult Majesty
my people have no food to eat
not a pond to wash their tired feet
and my sons they squabble in vain
my daughters they struggle in pain
Majesty all i‘m saying is that my words
should not offend you as you have told
me always speak truth
but i have realized that i
do not agree that my tongue should be tied
and my soul deprived of freedom
to be who i am to soar to the heavens
or to delve in the deep
i do not agree that my limbs
should be caged if i have to
wage war against the enemies of my innocent babes
i don’t mean to be ungrateful
and rebellious at times
but when my children are cut down
by your Princes and clowns
i have to attack with my voice and my heart
through words that are poison
to your ego fueled mind
the sergeants of time
will slowly creep by
and carve out a zone
where i might just languish
in your punishing hate
but don’t turn your back
on those who adore you the most
because with every flower and offering
and purse full of coins
that they render to you
will only weigh you down
to a perdition of soul of spirit and crown
you can shut my lips and burn my body down
but it’s just a body a bag made of vanishing flesh
however Majesty you cannot neglect
the truth in their eyes
the strength in their breath
the beauty in their spirit
their righteous battle call
when the war rages out
the wicked will fall
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WHAT USE?
I imagine the opposite, where poets break
their pens, clamp silence on their tongues,
where every line of verse has been erased:
blank pages, empty screens.
I imagine then a desert where remorseless
dunes have buried waterholes and trees,
where no one dares to irrigate or plant,
where the wind no longer carries voices.
What is a land without rain?
What is one voice against the censors
and the engineers of souls?
I sing because I must.
Somewhere a flower may bloom,
induce the implacable
to hesitate
as the words uncoil and move
through eye and ear to the heart,
to reconsider.
Somewhere another voice may sing
and another and another
and another and another.
CRAFTWORK
We shuttle, like spiders,
between the fractured, anguished days
and the leap of the heart
in the transcendental moment,
weaving our threads in the sway
of wind and rain, patient
for the time when the light
will play on the captured dew
and the passer-by will pause
as we wait behind the curling leaf.
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“I sing because I must” such powerful and truthful words…
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Log out of Bullying School
We all disapprove of bullying in schools
that seems to be clear to everyone
at least on a theoretical level.
Yet we never fully log out.
And you ask me why?
Why do we consent shouting
at a school sports competition?
What about a neighbors meeting
where we yell at each other?
Introduction to Fast and Furious,
driving carelessly, unaware of the shouts,
our children sitting at the back of our cars.
What about whatsapp messages
sending all kinds of insults because
we didn’t like another person’s opinion?
Why are we reproducing and creating
all kinds of male chauvinist jokes,
racist jokes, homophobic jokes?
What about the pranks still played
on first course university students?
No, computer games are not made
by our children but they trivialize violence
like those violent movies and series
our children watch. Therefore,
it is unacceptable that who governs
and dictates justice allows all this
to happen without impunity.
We may have wonderful antibullying programs
in our schoools but meanwhile
society tells our children:
“Be aggressive and you will succeed in life!”
So, please, here I tell you:
“Log out of bullying school,
for coherence because
we need to live together
respecting each other and
we need to fight harassment.”
© 2015-2019 Marta Pombo Sallés
(inspired by a newspaper’s article written by educational advisor Juanjo Fernández)
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.regards.
maybe connections are missed the link dismissed. metaphors faint as my flimsy whispers symbols do you deny me peace? perhaps you utter the words constantly? look closely
or brush it regularly. talk about birth. stand during the rain fall. regard the chimney. take it off to return it. sometimes we need to commit a while, until we don’t no more
this is not a word i have used much recently, if i did it will be related to plants i expect. adjective. i may use plush in regard to velvet clothing, cloth, clothed. another adjective.
it could have been simple, days of sewing crosses. red. eight thiry till five. it could have been easy, yet there were issues of the electronic kind meaning wasting time with wires and connections
she suggested that i write a novel, when i noted that she walked briskly to the post box, dressed suitably. i do not copy plagiarise or write about my friends
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.reading asher lev.
mostly read on the internet,
news, politics, all the rhetoric, yet
i have my favourites.
days that lack
deep concentration.
i mentioned earth &heaven.
not asher lev.
it remains the same.
sbm.
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.bone house.
no words to describe the mass, the danger of it all, the hate that rises. the parallel, the home, the black chair. power house. bone house.
5
the power house looms ahead. they pray for peace and family, their lovely homes and salary. pigs. work for the people supposedly.
6
power house
has no hold over me now
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tankstoppers
a walking poem
stood his ground in tiananmen square
and a tank ground to a halt.
a russian poet
used a poetic silence,
having been ordered to fire
in his submarine,
to prevent nuclear conflict
in 1962.
on another submarine,
years before,
the sub commander,
the last man topside,
ordered the man at the hatch
to “TAKE HER DOWN!”
that three-word poem
killed the skipper
and saved his crew.
a poem
is often not
words on a page.
a poet
may compose with sacrifice
or with a timed caress
or with a knee on the ground.
if that is not poetry
what would there be to codify?
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Love this! Poetry takes many forms…
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This poem was written as a tribute to the booksellers at AL Muttanabbi Street in Iraq, a street where a lot of booksellers lost their lives by a car bomb in 2007. Poets world wide have responded and here is my contribution which I read at an event entitled ‘Al Mutatanabbi Streets Start Here’ in Glasgow Scotland.
Phoenix
Mangled , strangled, blood, ink
blood red, ink black colours dripping on
asphalt tracing strange patterns
blood red, ink black fuse -indigo-
ripped pages curl up in the smoke,
book bindings melt, leather tomes
the gilt spines blackened, words lost
or are they?
like a phoenix rising, the blue-black
red-tinged words fly high up in the sky
the world over. Al Muttanabbi Streets
forge ahead in shiny new pages of white
brown, hues, the palette of colours
rich as the artists and writers of the world
as they birth verses, sketch a new world
to replace pain, loss. The shock and awe of love
reinvigorates, unites and creates.
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Thank you, Leela. I believe this is your first time responding to Wednesday Writing Prompt, so don’t forget to send your bio and a photo to me thepoetbyday@gmail.com so that you may be introduced to everyone in next Tuesday’s post. Thank you!
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