Those Washday Mondays . . . and other responses to your last Wednesday Writing Prompt

“A good poem is a contribution to reality. The world is never the same once a good poem has been added to it. A good poem helps to change the shape of the universe, helps to extend everyone’s knowledge of himself and the world around him.”  Dylan Thomas



Here we are at Tuesday again, the wonderful day when we share poems submitted by diverse writers in response the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, January is on the Wane, September 25, which asked our poets to write a poem inspired by one written by another poet. I think you’ll agree they’ve done beautifully and created a smart little collection here.

This worthy collection is courtesy of Paul Brookes, Anjum Wasim Dar, Irma Do, Sheila Jacob, and Sonja Benskin Mesher.

Enjoy! and do join us for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt, which will post tomorrow morning. All are welcome to come out and play, no matter the stage of our career: beginning, emerging, or pro.


Bartholomew Street

after Ian McMillian’s Tempest Avenue

Harry half way down collects wood
for his fire, leave it out front
Leave out anything metal Gypsies at top have sharp eyes,

Stan, two doors down
wants his radiator gone.

Dave next door holds ladder
while I look at roof tiles
and shares homemade ale after.

Our roofers knew man who murdered
a man
at bottom.

I thought someone murdered
at top but our lass swears
he was only badly beaten.

Old microwave I put in our entryway has gone.
Gypsies know a good thing.

Old gent Tommy three doors down
quiet when his wife died last Summer.

Put thumbs up when I cleared
his path of Snow last Winter.

Pear tree in back garden bagged
up by them all when ripe
as too much for our lass and me.

From Paul’s new eBook As Folk Over Yonder (Afterworld Books, 2019)

© 2019, Paul Brookes

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.

Prolific Yorkshire Poet, Paul Brookes

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


O’ Beautiful Rose

after Jamie Dedes’ January Is On the Wane

O’ Beautiful Rose
O’ Dear Flower,
folded in invisible scents
tender covers softly protecting
the unknown,wrapped in curves
like hands,a praying pair
patiently serving in quietude.

O Dear Flower, resting
in a book, placed by love
making the page sacred to the touch,
words that rest,forever silent, till they meet
the eyes,of an unknown, bear the flaps and
caresses, of moving finger tips, as the covers flip,

O Dear Flower, you are a rose of many colors
budding, blooming, on bush and bowers
in sunshine rain or cool summer showers
spread on shrouds, taken to high towers

O’ Dear Flower’ how long can you stay
the fragrance radiate, the presence, comfort
the love share, If only you could, for ever be
and like the words on the page lay for me to see

Life is but a short sweet fragrant dream, the page
is turned, new words appear , new buds yearning to bloom

The Besieged People of Occupied Kashmir.
Chinar Leaves Have Withered

© 2019, Anjum Wasim Dar

Chinar leaves have withered

after Jamie Dedes’ The Doves Have Flown

chinar leaves have withered,
willows weeping, bend low with grief, still are the ripples in the Dal Lake, silent deserted citadels, not a tiptoe on the wooden floors- how many are alive inside, maybe none-

chinar leaves have withered

rustic orange clusters merging with green foliage, quivering with joy,sensing the cool caresses of approaching fall, but not this year,they descend one by one, remain soaked in blood of young and old,

chinar leaves have withered

who is blinded today? whose body draped in green and white, dumped in the ugly pit, ‘what is the cry ‘freedom ‘ for, freedom from death, to death’ ?locked in a living grave

chinar leaves have withered

silence of terror, on snow peaks frozen, empty streets filled with fear armed, prisoners
in perils of forced captivity, what horror humans can do with humans.

chinar leaves have withered

helpless am I in fetters, in action enchained , in emotions pained, I weep like the willows
in spiritual agony grieve , for mercy I pray , I die with each passing day…

as hope with each falling leaf, glissers.

© 2019, Anjum Wasim Dar

Anjum’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


The Best Foreplay for Husbands

after the poem on pg. 71 of Milk and Honey by Rupi Kaur

you wrap your fingers
around the sponge
scrubbing
until the sink is empty
this
is how you make
me change into my lace thong

you brush his teeth
and read his favorite bedtime story
twice
while making the voices of the characters
this
is how you make
me light the scented candles

you quiz her in spelling
and listen to how another girl stole her idea for her science project
you come up with a better science project idea
and promise to help her with it on the weekend
this
is how you make
me lie in bed
skin puckered
in love
in anticipation
thinking i am the luckiest woman in the world

© 2019, Irma Do

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


Those Washday Mondays

after Robert Hayden’s Those Winter Sundays

By the time I came downstairs
Dad’s shirts were washed
and pegged on the garden line.
Mum lifted the boiler lid.
Steam rose from a hissing cauldron
and she grabbed scalding sheets
with a pair of wooden tongs.

Her hands were red and damp
and sweat darkened her armpits
as she passed me my breakfast.
I closed the kitchen door and ate
in the front room but still heard
the mangle’s cranky wheel
and squeak of its rubber rollers.

Mum wouldn’t buy a spin dryer
even on monthly instalments.
I turned up the music on my radio
and finished my bacon sandwiches.
What did I know about scrimping
and denying; about the sacrifices
she’d made in love’s unsung name?

© 2019, Sheila Jacob

To purchase Sheila’s 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


..neutered..

after Thomas Hardy’s Neutral Tones

oil pond mirrors the darkness the november

day. sun draws white against the grey

this leaf lays on earth

there is no god

not hungry nor otherwise

you look at me straight and ask the past

and briefly I say & say there is no god

you did not smile nor shout you are the deadest thing

dead down . no smiling despite birds gone by

on greasy wings .i remember your look

your face

drawn grey as the mourning dove

that remind

for me there is no god

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Sonja’s sites are:


Jamie Dedes. I’m a freelance writer, poet, content editor, and blogger. I also manage 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.

About / Testimonials / Disclosure / Facebook

Recent and Upcoming in Digital Publications Poets Advocate for Peace, Justice, and Sustainability, How 100,000 Poets Are Fostering Peace, Justice, and Sustainability, YOPP! * 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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