“I almost always urge people to write in the first person. … Writing is an act of ego and you might as well admit it.” William Zinsser, American writer, editor, literary critic, and teacher.  He wrote eighteen books including the well-regarded On Writing Well, which is in its seventh edition

Pen in the hand of the temple
Priestess, sifting and sorting and
Sustaining a concentration of word
Play, like the essence Rose Absolute,
Scenting the farther reaches of
Mind and closer regions of heaven …
Bliss in spirit to paper confab, a phrase
That lingers on the tongue, whispering
“I am” in unabridged collections. I am
the song. I am the Light. I am the poem.

© 2019, Jamie Dedes

Before you respond

PLEASE

READ THE PROMPT BELOW

not just the poem or the title of the poem. Thank you!

WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT:

How do you view your own creative process? Is your writing an act of ego as William Zinssner says, and a strictly intellectual undertaking? Is it a spiritual process involving a kind of meditation and the action of grace.* It is a serendipitous combination of the two? Tell us in your poetry 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

* grace – I understand this in the Christian sense as an unmerited gift of the Divine, “inspiration” in its original sense

PLEASE NOTE:

Poems submitted through email or Facebook will not be published.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, October 14 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.

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.

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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

52 Comments

  1. Pingback: Down a Dark Hall – A Poem | I Do Run

  2. Hello Jamie! Here is my submission for this prompt.

    “Down a Dark Hall”

    I wander down a dark hall
    Peeking in this room
    Throwing wide the doors in another
    This door is locked
    That door I quickly shut
    One door leads me down a corridor that takes me a few hours to get through and back to where I was before
    Now, I have to walk quickly
    The light from my phone
    Illuminating the way
    I find a door and pull it
    But it’s stuck
    I jiggle it
    I lean into it
    I hip check it
    I take a running start and slam into it
    I slide down and sit
    My back against it
    It opens
    And there sits my Muse
    She says, “Hello, Poet!”

    Liked by 1 person

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  3. By Grace
    A sensation invisible awakens in the soul
    stirs the spirit into restlessness , cold
    warmth engulfs the soul, it is love being
    born,

    desire tender like a rosebud, soft like
    the kiss of a butterfly, caressing deep inner
    recesses, yearning to emerge, take shape and
    create a revelation.

    O heart show me the way.
    I will, just touch me when you transform
    in petals soft , layered in magical encasements
    to emanate , manifest, a colorful coronet.

    O Intellect add thy wisdom complete the process
    Bless me with language to mold the thought
    meaningful that aspires to be known , to reach the
    realms of the printed universe!

    The Pen Moves tracing patterns on paper
    word by word line by line, this is it, a poem
    it is by grace, a blessing, an act of The Divine.

    Liked by 3 people

    Reply

  4. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my seventh response:

    A World Where

    I can’t recognise this pattern of words,
    the timetables at work. I can’t make

    a pattern is a world without form,
    without substance, an out of focus

    pictures in which there maybe more
    than one of me. I don’t orientate

    without signposts or landmarks or signatures.
    All is blur. Meaning elusive.

    If I make it could be false. There is grief
    at a loss of shape, of pattern.

    A gallery of random words and pictures
    I can reshuffle so every time a picture

    has different words, words you can apply
    to any other picture. The application of shape

    more meaningful perhaps. As we can’t say
    when someone close will leave this earth.

    Port of Souls is found landlocked sometimes.
    Like marrow locked inside a bone, at other

    Times it is a small island surrounded
    by a repetition of water. Occasionally after

    so many have passed into memory,
    a port of souls occupies our inside.

    (From my and Marcel Herms “A Port Of Souls”, Alien Buddha Press, 2018)

    Liked by 1 person

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  5. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my sixth response:

    The Bestiary

    You sit cross legged cradle its bairn
    as Imagination with its feet on the ground
    talks to the fish who hangs in the air.

    The fish speaks of the tides of the gusts,
    fronds of the trees and breaking crests
    of the crash of clouds.

    Those images are so lame Imagination replies,
    So already done. Exercise your fish brain,
    More you train larger it gets.

    You recognise the bairn’s bawl
    so settle it under imaginations udders..
    Gently place its mouth around a teat.

    It sucks contentedly as the fish speaks
    of the lotic waters of the clouds,
    upended deltas of trees and turbid air.

    Imagination smiles as her bairn sups,
    winces at the backward leap of the fish
    Into obscure words to deepen what’s said.

    (From forthcoming “Skyfish”, Alien Buddha Press)

    Liked by 1 person

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  6. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my fifth response:

    Yon Gob Agape

    A neet starstruck,
    rocks kal in dialect.
    Spoutin’ foreign.

    Oyle in rock
    is a wobbly gob.
    Tha spies stars in spate.

    Can’t dip thee hand in
    and grab a mite
    o’ clear blue and sparkle.

    Stars are sparking
    molten steel,
    creation unmaking,
    remaking themsens

    in words wi a different roll
    off of the tongue,
    that touches a new
    combination of truths.

    An almost oxbow and meander
    frames itsen agog
    at leet streamin’ into this cave.
    Spouts another lingo.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

  7. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my fourth response:

    O, Lady Of The Breath (Six Vacanas)

    1. You Rise

    from my forest and leave
    out of the gob and earth falls.

    It shivers renewed,

    welcomes a similar you
    into my gob.

    You excite my spring buds,
    allow the earth to rise, again.

    2. Can’t Let

    you stay long in the dark,
    or the earth will rot.

    I can’t let you out for long,
    or the earth will rot.

    Let’s follow this pattern.
    I’ll briefly allow you into my dark wood,

    But please don’t take woodsmoke, car fumes,
    coal dust, iron filings, water in with you,

    else I’ll hack you out. These companions
    quicken the rot.

    3. Help With The

    tasting snake in my cave
    form the words I need to say.

    Take my words out into air
    loud enough for others to hear.

    Please don’t say you are weak
    and can’t carry such a weight.

    Please don’t say I failed to welcome
    enough of you into the forest.

    4. My Dad Let You

    in with pungent watercolours on his back,
    stink of Clwyd cowpats and fresh mountain air,

    but when he scraped boilers you secretly
    took into his forest asbestosis strands

    that speed his rot and ruin. I can’t understand
    your thought in all of this

    5. My Sister Threw You

    out over her steering wheel,
    her forest crushed by molded plastic.

    She tried to welcome you back
    but the wood was gone,

    so you gust over her grave
    under an overseeing tree.

    O, my lady of the breath.
    I welcome your coming and going.

    6. Your Cheyne Stokes

    delay before my unconscious Nanna
    let you in.

    I waited a minute, a 10-20
    second episode of
    stopped breath

    suddenly her welcome
    let you in

    deeper and again
    deeper in and out.

    then delay

    then delay

    then delay

    her welcome of you
    and delay I watched seven days

    until she refused your entry for good.

    Liked by 1 person

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  8. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my third response:

    This Mop And Bucket

    are poetry to me.
    My pen is a mop

    I stick in a bucket
    of disinfectant floor cleaner

    pull out mop sodden
    with words and splash

    them backwards and forwards
    slop lines one after the other

    until the floor fair shines.
    My mop is dry, needs another dip.

    I squeeze out the gunk
    back into the bucket.

    More the floor shines,
    dirtier the bucketful gets.

    A good poem is a clean floor.
    (From “Please Take Change”, Cyberwit.net, 2018)

    Liked by 2 people

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  9. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my second response:

    Dustpan

    and brush are poetry.
    Brush is my pen

    sweeps all the words
    dust, ripped plastic packaging,

    used sucked lollipop sticks,
    shop receipts, religious pamphlets

    sausage roll pastry, used product
    labels into a neat pile,

    position the dustpan to receive
    the words. Carefully flick

    the words towards a dustpan page.
    Inevitably, some words are swept

    under the page. I have to rescue those.
    Sometimes the page is the floor.

    Sometimes the pen cleans away
    a chaos of words to leave a poem.

    (From “Please Take Change”, Cyberwit.net, 2018)

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

  10. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my first response:

    Poem as Competent Nineteenth Century Merchant Mariner

    This poem is able
    to Chock a Block,
    make a mat
    or splice a rope.

    This poem is
    a rope block heaved to its full extent.
    Full up, no room for any more.
    When the two blocks
    of this poem’s tackle meet
    it will prevent any more
    purchase being gained
    Keep cargo from a shift
    in the dark hold

    This poem is
    a rope yarn mat used to fasten
    upon outside of exposed parts
    of standing rigging exposed
    to friction of yards, bolt-ropes of sails,
    or other ropes.

    This poem splices rope
    twists words wrapped
    into sentences that strengthen
    when tautened by meaning.

    This poem is
    carefully rigged
    for cargo
    into your imagination.

    Liked by 1 person

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  11. “And”

    It began at an ending
    and at the forefront of
    beginning,
    an attempt to decipher the darkness
    and sift through the tensions of
    relationship.
    As dilemmas grew, the need was to
    reconcile the tension and
    provide catharsis to emotion.

    At times the natural world brought beauty
    and balm and later
    there was more of trying to
    grasp that reality.

    Much of what is now present seems
    inconsequential, and
    the belief this endeavor brings to the table
    something less than a glass full, to most
    it is possibly nearly
    empty,
    perhaps the result of
    neglect, time and weariness of
    quandaries
    left unsolved.

    Liked by 1 person

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  12. CRAFTWORK

    We shuttle, like spiders,
    between the fractured, anguished days
    and the leap of the heart
    in a 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.

    Liked by 2 people

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  13. .. my writing..

    have spent three days

    handwriting, neatly. it gets

    on my nerves that it is so

    tidy, repetetive, that i never

    did achieve the badge at school

    for such a skill.

    words a bother too,

    always gentle, no grit

    really, no filth, or dastardly

    deeds.

    i spent three days writing,

    one eye closed, storm building.

    you never know what goes on

    behind the scenes.

    sbm.

    Liked by 2 people

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  14. blessings and positivity from LA thanks for the opportunity

    shroud

    window at dusk
    clove cigarette
    clings between wet lips
    diet coke
    dangerously close to keyboard
    sad tired eyes
    the color of gypsy moss
    blood trickles
    from her nose
    at times
    thoughts bounce
    like dandelion pappi
    blown from the tiny lips of babes
    and at times
    an invisible pang
    slightly electrically melancholic
    in the middle of the chest
    looking down to see
    how people such as we
    just all wander
    on Spring street
    she thinks with slightly damaged brain
    do they see as i see
    she feels the wounds of the mistaken
    and soothes the misguided vigor of the innocent
    the sweet sweat of gardenias
    distract the ghost
    locked in her heart
    life becomes less ordinary
    and so she sits to write
    out the fabric of her soul

    Liked by 2 people

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  15. (To be a poet)
    To be a poet
    is to sit behind the throne,but put
    pen on paper and rule the kingdom.
    To be a poet
    is to cry and be broken,but put
    pen on paper and create a smile for somebody else.
    To be a poet
    is to fail and lose your faith,but put
    pen on paper and give hope to the world.
    To be a poet
    is to look into his eyes and stammer,but put
    pen on paper and win a handful of hearts.
    To be a poet,
    is to be only human,but put
    pen on paper and build a castle on the moon.

    Liked by 4 people

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  16. PANDORA’S MORE FORTUNATE DAUGHTER

    Working
    Mothering
    All the usuals
    Happiness
    Sadness
    All the emotions
    The real me
    Kept boxed up
    Until one day
    Retirement

    What to do?
    Collection of boxes
    Containing nothing but
    Sparkly dust
    Poured a bit into my palm
    A sonnet appeared
    Oh, sure, not Shakespeare-worthy
    But each day it grew
    Until there were twenty-two
    One for each symbol
    Of the Major Arcana
    Then there were twelve
    Terza Rima
    For each Zodiac sign

    And each box
    Had its own lines
    Until there was a
    Rima Royale of birds
    And a tiny box of Haiku
    Slightly larger box of Tanka

    But in a special box
    Of the loveliest cloisonne
    Shone silver Moon dust
    Mixed with golden Sunlight
    And Stars of blue and every hue
    They whirled above me
    Then gently drizzled down
    Covering my head, lips, shoulders

    And as I grew older
    I became bolder
    Free
    Free at last
    Poetry that had no use for rhyme
    Stream-of-consciousness
    Confessional
    Memoirs
    Gutter talk
    A touch of erotica
    Words made up
    Words spilling from a box
    Filling ten books
    Of words hidden inside
    For decades
    The real me

    Then one day
    Those magical boxes
    Were empty
    I’d open the lids
    In the three a.m. shadows
    Whispering, “Where’d you go?”

    So, I bought more boxes
    My collection growing
    And one cloudy morning
    Something sang out
    From a new box
    And there
    As I hastily opened the lock
    Was a different dust
    Sparkling? Not quite
    Sparking!
    Like electricity
    And poetry melded
    With musical chords
    And songs were born
    Euterpe with her magic flute
    Pushed open the lids
    Danced with her sister
    Terpsichore

    And I wrote
    And strummed
    And sang
    And hummed

    But I see
    The magical dust
    In my box collection
    Is once again disappearing
    And so I say
    Today is the day
    I shop for a new box
    And begin an unknown
    Collection…

    Clarissa Simmens 1-8-2018

    Liked by 3 people

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  17. A Brief Comparison First

    poetry comes in all shapes and sizes
    so does knitting in moods ‘ere one realizes
    poetry instructs as well as delights
    knitting covers the shivers, fevers and ‘frights’
    poetry supports all living things
    felines frogs to human beings
    if not poetry its knitting mittens
    no wonder the first poem was, “three little kittens”
    for long paper or words may stare
    hunt for rhymes or synonyms spare
    blog page if you dare, only one ounce ?
    watch out, needle, ready is poem, to bounce, er.. pounce…
    poetry is beauty if you may think
    write, whatever you see in a blink
    rhyme or not, blank open or run-on
    which is easy, to knit? or ‘ poetry’ with skill n wit’

    Liked by 5 people

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  18. LOVE OF MY LIFE

    She watches the idiot boy tinkering.
    Muttering, mumbling, worrying at the cud,
    stuttering through the fog, clutching at limp scraps,
    floundering in discarded redundancies.

    She recalls that piece of paper on which he
    scrawled “Words are the pegs on which experience
    is hung out to dry.” Inconsistent or what?
    The image bristles with frustration, contempt.

    Is he completely disenchanted by words?
    Yet it was words neatly condemning themselves
    satisfied him so deeply as he wrote them.
    He loves paradox, adores ambivalence.

    They’re like two long wedded lovers, him and words.
    A profound affection for one another,
    but also resenting the chains of habit
    and codependence that tie them together.

    She is happy to be his occult bedmate;
    mistress also of that realm where sounds are born,
    she knows how to set them coursing through his veins:
    a great deluge; a mighty niagara.

    Essence of being and experiencing
    thunders through the flume, sparks flecks of vocal spume.
    Words once again stand agape, untongued, dumbstruck.
    For this is the mistress of his heart, true

    love of his life.

    ——————————————————————

    The relationships between the poet, his wife (words) and his mistress (the Muse – gateway to the Essence).

    Liked by 4 people

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  19. “Ode to a Poem”
    (Raanana, July 17, 2015)

    The first time I saw her,
    Her flowered dress hanging loosely
    From her slender body,
    Her boyish haircut belying her doll-like face,
    Her dactyl fingers holding
    The frail unfolded page she recited from
    Trembling but heroic in her hexameter,
    Lips touching the microphone in a whisper,
    I knew she was a poem
    And not a real person like me.
    I saw her once again in a city park
    With her small daughter
    Who is also a poem,
    A haiku full of frogs and butterflies,
    Ponds with bridges and lanterns,
    And crayon buddhas
    Dancing in her dreams of childhood,
    Tucked in by her mother’s watchful love
    But not a real person like my child.
    My mother was a poem
    A southern antebellum belle,
    Sitting on the floor,
    Her generous skirts flowing out from her,
    Her freeform youth and beckoning beauty
    To all who admired her poetry,
    The only language she could speak and sigh,
    She knew to be a poem you had to die,
    Not a real person like me.
    Me, I don’t rhyme, I scarcely scan,
    My iambs died from anapestilence,
    I go to work and come back home,
    I watch the news and worry some,
    My wife and I go to movies when there’s a good one,
    I walk my dog and deal with encroaching silence,
    And this man in mirrored parody
    Becomes increasingly estranged to me,
    But it’s a life I’d feign give up.
    Still and yet at times I wish
    I were a poem too.

    (c) Mike Stone

    Liked by 4 people

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  20. “On Poetry”
    (Raanana, July 3, 2015)

    It’s been said by poets who should know
    That it’s a sin to write a poem about a po-
    Em, probably because it’s hard
    To find a word that rhymes with poem
    But, if I could, that sure would show ’em.
    All of my life I’ve been thinking of poems,
    From day break to night fall, from five until three,
    Why can’t they just once be thinking of me?
    I may not be in possession of beauty but
    I can rhyme truly in dactyl tetrameter,
    Though most of my rhythm is sprung into free verse,
    That’s no excuse, n’est-ce pas, for not thinking
    Of me.

    (c) Mike Stone

    Liked by 4 people

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  21. “Bitter Sweet”
    (Raanana, March 2, 2013)

    They’re in that room behind the curtain
    Reading their poems and playing their guitars.
    The young girls are so pretty they make my heart ache,
    The young men, it looks so easy for them.
    I could go in, order a beer, sit down,
    And listen to a poem or two,
    But for what?
    I don’t understand what they’re saying.

    Walking out into the cold night air,
    Looking in the glass windows,
    My hands in my pockets.
    What would I write about?
    The garbage cans overfilled and tipped over?
    The “fuck yous” on the urinated walls?
    The drunken men curled up on their cardboards
    Wrapped in the warmth of newspaper?
    The sirens from the next street over?
    What would I write about?
    I used to have a job,
    Usta have a friend,
    Usta have a wife and kid,
    Usta have some books and things.
    Usta, usta, usta.
    Life is silenter without a job,
    Life is cleaner without friends,
    Life is freer without a family,
    Life is less encumbered without things,
    Isn’t it?

    (c) Mike Stone

    Liked by 3 people

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  22. “A Poem Unwritten”
    (Raanana, March 9, 2012)

    No one has ever written a poem about a poem unwritten
    Of the many virtues of such a poem
    The perfect meter of noambic nometer
    The clarity and minimalism leave
    Even haiku silent with envy.
    The language of silence is universal
    Requiring no translation.
    It will be unread by billions!
    It’s amazing that no one has thought of it,
    No one and I.

    (c) Mike Stone

    Liked by 4 people

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  23. “Want Ad”
    (Raanana, June 5, 2009)

    Wanted muse to pose for poet
    Work challenging but not too strenuous
    (Just need to exist)
    References desirable previous poets
    Preferably Romantic though
    Classic also accepted
    Exquisite beauty and grace not required
    Please reply in fourteen lines or less
    Iambically
    M.

    (c) Mike Stone

    Liked by 3 people

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  24. “Like Ghosts”
    (Raanana, August 25, 2006)

    Poems are like ghosts,
    Not everyone can see them,
    Floating behind the rocks and distant pines.
    But when you finally do see one
    Your eyes open wide
    In wonder full of surprise
    Like someone I knew once
    Who is herself a ghost now.

    They are so powerless,
    They can’t even open a door by themselves
    But must wait for someone real to walk through.

    Poems can’t be forced,
    They’re like a talking horse
    That only speaks when
    Others are not about.

    Poems can’t be heard by everyone.
    They are much like silence
    And there’s no knob to turn the volume up
    There’s just
    Silence.

    Poems have a sense in which they’re right
    That can’t be understood by everyone
    Within the bounds of normalcy
    Like dreams and madness.

    Yet I believe in them
    Having heard one once myself,
    But never more.

    (c) Mike Stone

    Liked by 2 people

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  25. “No Words”
    (Raanana, June 25, 2005)

    Can a white man dream
    a black man’s dreams?
    Can a man think
    a woman’s thoughts?

    If I use words to tell you how I feel,
    You won’t understand me,
    Nor I you.
    What use are words?

    They’re only good for lies and prayers
    and stirring winds of war,
    not for poems
    or for poets sick of them.

    Find another occupation:
    Syncopation,
    Obfuscation,
    Salivation.

    (c) Mike Stone

    Liked by 2 people

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  26. “I Ink Therefore Iamb”
    (Raanana, December 22, 2004)

    A few things I’ve learned about poetry:
    Never write a poem about poetry,
    And the more emotion you put into a poem
    The less you get out of it,
    And rhyme is less important than reason,
    And a poem not read is as sad
    As a poem not written.

    (c) Mike Stone

    Liked by 4 people

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  28. Hi Jamie — Not being a Christian or a true believer, I wouldn’t think grace had anything to do with my poetry, such as it is. Neither do I write about myself, as Zinsser suggests, at least not directly. I write about everyone and everything else around me with whom I can empathize or intuit, who seems to me on the cusp of an authentic drama of sorts. Sometimes I write from my point of view and sometimes I write from the point of view of others. I write what I would like to read (but can’t find anywhere). I am definitely not a wordsmith; I can’t just crank it out hour after hour, day after day. I depend on and wait for inspiration. I write novels differently from poetry. With the novels I’ve written, after the initial inspiration, I pretty much know what I’m going to write from the beginning until the end. With poetry, I have no idea what I’m going to write next until it comes to me. I have a few poems about the writing process but they are mostly ironical or wishful, rather than indicative of the way I really write. Is this on theme or did I miss the boat entirely? — Mike

    Liked by 2 people

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  29. Blank Page

    Virgin white page, finger poised,
    words falter,
    ink dries.

    Great plops of rain, purple-blue splatters on
    colourless glass,
    forms patterns.

    My mind engages the diary of the soul
    silver memories,
    the rhythm opens.

    Begin the beginning.

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  30. I am not a poem
    written from the other side

    a hundred poems remained unwritten
    when you were alive
    and now
    the letters blur and drop
    out of sight
    in a fugitive dance of black
    and white

    this unwritten poem hears your whispers
    from the other side
    and wishes to
    lie alongside the annotations you made in pencil
    when it could
    be fixed if only your annotations
    were collected up
    and rearranged in dark lines
    along side
    a rejected passage
    about
    missing
    filial fellowship

    but this
    unwritten poem cannot
    set in ink the past’s lack.

    Eric Nicholson

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  31. you are in there somewhere

    michelangelo moved on
    but left behind the notion
    that what sculptors did was free
    imprisoned beauty
    or trapped wiadom
    from an embedded limbo

    every slab of marble is a jail cell
    and the sculptor has
    the chiselmallet keys

    and so you o secret net of words
    o conveyance of transcendance
    you are tangled
    you are caught
    but my chisel is discernment
    my mallet insistence
    and in three more words
    you are free

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      2. Treasure

        My past wrapped in a soft velvet bag
        lullabies, songs, sharp mangoes
        idyllic childhood, happy schooldays
        the sun on my face, the blue of the sea
        twenty years of rich heritage and culture
        parcelled like a clutch of jewels to hand
        the precious treasure to my child.

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Thank you!