photograph of some mothers’ children, victims of the Ghouta chemical attack in the Syrian Civil War, The Ghouta Massacre by Bkwillwm under CC BY 3.0 license (I believe it may be a screen shot from a news video)
“I dream of giving birth to a child who will ask, ‘Mother, what was war?’” American poet, Eve Merriam
Some mothers’ children stare unseeing
No sweet, wet baby kisses from blistered lips
. . . . songs unsung
No wedding portraits to dust and treasure
No graduations or trips to the sea
. . . .just their bodies to bury
crushed
beaten
stilled
by the engine of nihilism
Limbs cracked and broken, bellies torn
Faces purpled, hearts stopped
Hearts stopped . . . . . . . hearts stopped
Some mothers’ hearts have stopped
Published in Poets Against the War and I Am Not a Silent Poet
THEME: Tell us in your poems about families and war, heartbreak and perhaps hope …
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
PLEASE NOTE:
only those poems on theme and shared in the comments section under this post will be published.
Poems submitted through email or Facebook will not be published.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, September 23 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 BeZineand its associated activities and The Poet by Dayjamiededes.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.
Recent and Upcoming in Digital PublicationsPoets Advocate for Peace, Justice, and Sustainability, YOPP! , September * 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
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She said she wasn’t afraid.
Just got on with things,
everyone did, they had no choice.
Yet there were nights when Heinkels
droned across the sky.
Bombs fell like leaden birds
and roofs collapsed
in clouds of rubble.
Wasn’t she afraid her house
might be hit?
Didn’t she have nightmares
of Nazi troops landing on the coast:
of tanks rumbling through local streets
and grinding past the sweet shop,
grocers and Parkfield Café?
She turned eighteen
the month war was declared
and knew it wasn’t a game;
worked in a factory during the week
and discussed with other girls
whether or not to join the ATS.
She went to the pictures
on Saturday afternoons
and spent Sunday mornings at church;
prayed for the King and Queen,
her Dad, sister, elder brothers
stationed “somewhere in England”
and whispered an extra Our Father
for her Mom who held down
two jobs, queued for rationed meat
and conjured tasty meals from scraps.
She insisted she didn’t dwell on death
and perhaps she didn’t.
Perhaps fear was the shadow
at her heels some evenings
as she waved her Mom off to work,
heard sirens wail in the distance
and closed the blackout curtains.
Perhaps she hurried
to the kitchen’s warmth,
sat with hands clenched
and white-knuckled
around a mug of strong tea.
She said she wasn’t afraid.
Just got on with things,
everyone did, they had no choice.
Yet there were nights when Heinkels
droned across the sky.
Bombs fell like leaden birds
and roofs collapsed
in clouds of rubble.
Wasn’t she afraid her house
might be hit?
Didn’t she have nightmares
of Nazi troops landing on the coast:
of tanks rumbling through local streets
and grinding past the sweet shop,
grocers and Parkfield Café?
She turned eighteen
the month war was declared
and knew it wasn’t a game;
worked in a factory during the week
and discussed with other girls
whether or not to join the ATS.
She went to the pictures
on Saturday afternoons
and spent Sunday morning at church;
prayed for the King and Queen,
her Dad, sister, elder brothers
stationed “somewhere in England”
and offered an extra Our Father
for her Mom who held down
two jobs, queued for rationed meat
and conjured tasty meals from scraps.
She insisted she didn’t dwell on death
and perhaps she didn’t.
Perhaps fear was the shadow
at her heels some evenings
as she waved her Mom off to work,
heard sirens wail in the distance
and closed the blackout curtains.
Perhaps she hurried
to the kitchen’s warmth,
sat with hands clenched
and white-knuckled
around a mug of strong tea.
Your poem is beautiful and deeply moving,Jamie,and the photograph is devastating. I had various ideas for this prompt but eventually plumped for something close to home. I’ll post it up in a moment.
Let’s talk about war
humanity sunk to
new levels of the old
salivating avaricious
degrading everything
precious
hovering over a fate
that ordains one must
watch others die
before succumbing
let’s not talk about clouds
of chickens in a poultry pen
like a company of pigs
awaiting the sticking knife
icing a throat to end appeals
in a universal language
we’ve reserved the fanfare
of war for ourselves
life’s a fistful of rupees at
the local bazaar
awash with the lilies of
heated haggling to hide
the smells of fear and pain
carnage unleashes in
daily forms on warm
families of bodies huddled
under less privileged names
knife wielding peace
makes little sense
to the other side
hovering over a fate
that ordains one must
watch others die
before succumbing
double edged slaughter
stains severing hands
beasts of war will be nourished
until life is viewed in entirety
and impresses both
sides of the coin
A wife keeps the phone by her side
with the volume up
Some mothers’ hearts have stopped, a poem make a call
What the future looks like
at the end of the war
A sister can’t tell and brother
He is very young
Just counting down by the time
They are going and some eyes are already longing ….!!
(A wife keeps the phone by her side
with the volume up
Some mothers’ hearts have stopped)
Flaws
An indelible wound
Shaded in taking sides
Stabbing ruins of fierce restraints
Obvious bruises that shadows pains of the past
In the middle of questioned thoughts
A gaze and a stare
With events of civil unrest
The peculiar cry of the heart
Fights with unending demands
Voices of grief
Engraved in words
Penetrating struggles for peace and freedom
A protest in waiting
-Benedicta Boamah 2019
Dear Respected Jamie Ji
Some lines for this week’s prompt
A Tragedy
For The Mother Alone
Innocent child smiling laughing
with the front teeth missing
running wild with open arms
happiness flooding with a toy
oblivious of time trial or suffering
death or exhaustion-
just a colorful world of fun and joy
of toffees chocolates and ice creams
of sound sleep and sweet dreams
But hark! Stillness creeps, Look Out!
speeding trucks, shells and bomb blasts
cruel and wild, dashing falling fast-
bubbling laughter turned to screams
twisted iron and ripped seams-
A light extinguished
A silenced home
A love lost
A shattered dream’
Many more put to sleep
in the vicious scheme-
people stood and looked
stared and stared,no one shared
no one could share
the shock the grief the pain-
the invisible cutting chain
can a child be called, ‘my own?’
how the soft warm heart turns
into a hard feeling less, stone-
the silent perpetual moan is
For The Mother Alone-
For The Mother Alone
Flaws
An indelible wound
Shaded in taking sides
Stabbing ruins of fierce restraints
Obvious bruises that shadows pains of the past
In the middle of questioned thoughts
A gaze and a stare;
With events of civil unrest
The peculiar cry of the heart
Fights with unending demands
Voices of grief
Engraved in words
Penetrating struggles for peace and freedom.
-Benedicta Boamah 2019.
Okay, Benedicta. Now, you’ll not in the instruction that since this is your first time you need to send a brief bio and photo to thepoetbyday@gmail.com for your intro next week.
Here in the comments section. Please first CAREFULLY read the directions in the post. All the information you need is there so that you do it correctly. Thank you.
by 
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.
Jamie Dedes' THE POET BY DAY Webzine 
Dear Jamie Ji
Life to end some day
no win war,kill or be killed
in hatred no hope
war blue pale cold still
frozen children innocent
dust,no breath no shroud
flung in rubble lost
mothers heart stopped bombed shot dead
hush,no breath no shroud
LikeLiked by 2 people
When I Asked My Mother About The War
She said she wasn’t afraid.
Just got on with things,
everyone did, they had no choice.
Yet there were nights when Heinkels
droned across the sky.
Bombs fell like leaden birds
and roofs collapsed
in clouds of rubble.
Wasn’t she afraid her house
might be hit?
Didn’t she have nightmares
of Nazi troops landing on the coast:
of tanks rumbling through local streets
and grinding past the sweet shop,
grocers and Parkfield Café?
She turned eighteen
the month war was declared
and knew it wasn’t a game;
worked in a factory during the week
and discussed with other girls
whether or not to join the ATS.
She went to the pictures
on Saturday afternoons
and spent Sunday mornings at church;
prayed for the King and Queen,
her Dad, sister, elder brothers
stationed “somewhere in England”
and whispered an extra Our Father
for her Mom who held down
two jobs, queued for rationed meat
and conjured tasty meals from scraps.
She insisted she didn’t dwell on death
and perhaps she didn’t.
Perhaps fear was the shadow
at her heels some evenings
as she waved her Mom off to work,
heard sirens wail in the distance
and closed the blackout curtains.
Perhaps she hurried
to the kitchen’s warmth,
sat with hands clenched
and white-knuckled
around a mug of strong tea.
LikeLiked by 1 person
When I Asked My Mother About The War
She said she wasn’t afraid.
Just got on with things,
everyone did, they had no choice.
Yet there were nights when Heinkels
droned across the sky.
Bombs fell like leaden birds
and roofs collapsed
in clouds of rubble.
Wasn’t she afraid her house
might be hit?
Didn’t she have nightmares
of Nazi troops landing on the coast:
of tanks rumbling through local streets
and grinding past the sweet shop,
grocers and Parkfield Café?
She turned eighteen
the month war was declared
and knew it wasn’t a game;
worked in a factory during the week
and discussed with other girls
whether or not to join the ATS.
She went to the pictures
on Saturday afternoons
and spent Sunday morning at church;
prayed for the King and Queen,
her Dad, sister, elder brothers
stationed “somewhere in England”
and offered an extra Our Father
for her Mom who held down
two jobs, queued for rationed meat
and conjured tasty meals from scraps.
She insisted she didn’t dwell on death
and perhaps she didn’t.
Perhaps fear was the shadow
at her heels some evenings
as she waved her Mom off to work,
heard sirens wail in the distance
and closed the blackout curtains.
Perhaps she hurried
to the kitchen’s warmth,
sat with hands clenched
and white-knuckled
around a mug of strong tea.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Your poem is beautiful and deeply moving,Jamie,and the photograph is devastating. I had various ideas for this prompt but eventually plumped for something close to home. I’ll post it up in a moment.
LikeLiked by 3 people
Looking forward to it, Sheila. You never disappoint.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Aw,lovely of you to say so.
LikeLiked by 2 people
By the way, no rush. I think it’s evening by you, but it’s still Sunday morning here. You have time.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thanks Jamie, I do get in a muddle about the time difference!
LikeLiked by 2 people
I posted my poem yesterday but still can’t see it.Perhaps I should post it again.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Here it is …
War and Peace
Let’s talk about war
humanity sunk to
new levels of the old
salivating avaricious
degrading everything
precious
hovering over a fate
that ordains one must
watch others die
before succumbing
let’s not talk about clouds
of chickens in a poultry pen
like a company of pigs
awaiting the sticking knife
icing a throat to end appeals
in a universal language
we’ve reserved the fanfare
of war for ourselves
life’s a fistful of rupees at
the local bazaar
awash with the lilies of
heated haggling to hide
the smells of fear and pain
carnage unleashes in
daily forms on warm
families of bodies huddled
under less privileged names
knife wielding peace
makes little sense
to the other side
hovering over a fate
that ordains one must
watch others die
before succumbing
double edged slaughter
stains severing hands
beasts of war will be nourished
until life is viewed in entirety
and impresses both
sides of the coin
LikeLiked by 3 people
..the civil war..
i posted it, titled it. civil war.
stopped and wondered how any war, any fight,
any death, anger and destruction. any child hurt.
can be termed, ‘civil’.
even with punctuation.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Amen!
LikeLiked by 1 person
:: other peoples’ children ::
i guess yours sleep in bed,
clean and cosy, safe, loved and cherished.
others love and cherish , yet their families
sleep in mud, on streets, wherever they can find.
they have left the place where bombs drop on children.
yes. a person simply decides to drop barrel bombs on children.
on everything.
now be angry.
LikeLiked by 3 people
A wife keeps the phone by her side
with the volume up
Some mothers’ hearts have stopped, a poem make a call
What the future looks like
at the end of the war
A sister can’t tell and brother
He is very young
Just counting down by the time
They are going and some eyes are already longing ….!!
(A wife keeps the phone by her side
with the volume up
Some mothers’ hearts have stopped)
LikeLiked by 2 people
Flaws
An indelible wound
Shaded in taking sides
Stabbing ruins of fierce restraints
Obvious bruises that shadows pains of the past
In the middle of questioned thoughts
A gaze and a stare
With events of civil unrest
The peculiar cry of the heart
Fights with unending demands
Voices of grief
Engraved in words
Penetrating struggles for peace and freedom
A protest in waiting
-Benedicta Boamah 2019
LikeLiked by 3 people
Dear Respected Jamie Ji
Some lines for this week’s prompt
A Tragedy
For The Mother Alone
Innocent child smiling laughing
with the front teeth missing
running wild with open arms
happiness flooding with a toy
oblivious of time trial or suffering
death or exhaustion-
just a colorful world of fun and joy
of toffees chocolates and ice creams
of sound sleep and sweet dreams
But hark! Stillness creeps, Look Out!
speeding trucks, shells and bomb blasts
cruel and wild, dashing falling fast-
bubbling laughter turned to screams
twisted iron and ripped seams-
A light extinguished
A silenced home
A love lost
A shattered dream’
Many more put to sleep
in the vicious scheme-
people stood and looked
stared and stared,no one shared
no one could share
the shock the grief the pain-
the invisible cutting chain
can a child be called, ‘my own?’
how the soft warm heart turns
into a hard feeling less, stone-
the silent perpetual moan is
For The Mother Alone-
For The Mother Alone
LikeLiked by 3 people
LikeLiked by 1 person
Flaws
An indelible wound
Shaded in taking sides
Stabbing ruins of fierce restraints
Obvious bruises that shadows pains of the past
In the middle of questioned thoughts
A gaze and a stare;
With events of civil unrest
The peculiar cry of the heart
Fights with unending demands
Voices of grief
Engraved in words
Penetrating struggles for peace and freedom.
-Benedicta Boamah 2019.
LikeLiked by 3 people
Okay, Benedicta. Now, you’ll not in the instruction that since this is your first time you need to send a brief bio and photo to thepoetbyday@gmail.com for your intro next week.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Sure, I’ll do that. Thanks!
LikeLiked by 1 person
As in right here
LikeLiked by 1 person
Yes!
LikeLike
Thanks, I’ve done that. I wanted to be certain about it before posting.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Please can I also take part in the poet’s by day Wednesday writing prompt.
LikeLiked by 2 people
It’s open to all. Of course you can as long as you share a poem that is on theme. Thank you!
LikeLike
Where can i share it please?
LikeLiked by 1 person
Here in the comments section. Please first CAREFULLY read the directions in the post. All the information you need is there so that you do it correctly. Thank you.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you
LikeLiked by 1 person
It’s an awesome poem. I like it
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thank you!
LikeLike
devastating
LikeLiked by 2 people
It is, isn’t it? And it happens every day.
LikeLike