“Oh my sweet Saturday,
I have been waiting for you for six long days”
Charmaine J Forde, Over In Away

the night sky
Held me sleepless and spellbound
as Friday passed into Saturday and our
pine drew down an inkling of early sun.
Shyly the clouds begin to peek at me
and the landscape is faint with magnolia,
their blooms like a gathering of teacups.

Farmers are headed here – from countryside
to town – a parking lot reserved and ready
for their industry and table-loads of greens,
strawberries and a riot of cultivated flowers.
The crows dominate the morning gossip and
count on it, they’ll be at farmers’ market too.

For now, somewhere between lauds and prime,
silent starlight gives way to sunlight and bustle
and so begins the execrations and benedictions
of the day, a clamouring of souls unleashed on
this naked city, rubbing the sleep from its eyes,
intoxicated with the sight of magnolia teacups.

© 2020, Jamie Dedes


After a grueling work week, Saturday (or whatever day is your day off) dawns with its own special energy, or so it seems to me. I had the thought of something on the lighter side this week, relief from all the bad news, but depending on your situation or place in the world, your Saturday morning might not be as pleasant as mine. Tell us about your Saturday mornings in your own poem or poems 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 on theme in the comments section here will be published in next Tuesday’s collection. Poems submitted through email or Facebook will not be published. If you are new to The Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt, be sure to include a link to your website, blog, and/or Amazon page to be published along with your poem. Thank you!

Deadline:  Monday, March 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.

Jamie Dedes:

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  1. This Saturday Morning is Silent as a Dark Night
    As the gentle zephyr blows,
    Sweeping the dry leaves fallen on my colony streets,
    The fear of Covid-19 curbing the human activity around,
    This Saturday has begun with a morning, bizarre

    As usual, yet,
    The two street dogs Kanchia and Kalia, as I call them,
    Greeted me with smiles at my gate, with wagging tails,
    Rejoicing the March morning at their freedom best

    A scanty footfall
    Of the early risers, the morning walkers
    Has added to all the doom and gloom, stilling,
    The streets

    The humans have chosen to stay home,
    To stay safe, in a measure of social distancing
    With the declared lock down, my hometown,
    For the first ever dawned to a Saturday, as silent
    As a dark night
    ©Bishnu Charan Parida

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Such Were Some Saturdays

    Saturday mornings
    omelette jam tea breakfast
    rest with peaceful sleep

    Day off, no duty
    visits by kids, family
    smiles hugs fun laughter,

    much awaited day
    to complete pending projects
    watch classic movies.

    Liked by 4 people

  3. Hi Jamie! I am able to join in this week! This was a fun one – a good break from what’s going on out there. It is an acrostic poem so I hope that comes out when I put it in this comment. Thank you for the bit of inspiration. Hope you are staying well! ❤

    Saturday – an Acrostic Poem

    Saturday mornings begin best with
    Awakening while the sun still sleeps, dressing then
    Trotting down the stairs with sneakers in hand, quietly making a PB and J yet
    Ultimately waking the youngest ones with the coffee pot’s final hiss,
    Rushing to get them back to bed then, quickly into the car, fueling and hydrating
    (me not the car)
    Driving to a favorite trail, late, but relieved that my tribe waited for me to
    Arrive before starting on our group run.
    Yes, this is the best way to begin a Saturday.

    Liked by 4 people

  4. Our Empty Shelves

    This Saturday morning in the shop.

    there is a glut of emptiness.

    Labels advertise what is missing
    Like headstones.

    We wait on the delivery.
    It is late today.

    No Sugar, pasta, flour.

    We apologise to customers,

    some in decorator’s facemasks.
    Others wear ordinary gloves, mouth covered
    by handkerchiefs like bandits
    in childhood cowboy and Indian films.

    Once the delivery arrives.
    It is a joy to fill the spaces.

    Often in the same motion,
    Customers take what you have just placed.

    Liked by 3 people

    I have lived, I have been bereaved,
    I have known joy leaping in bubbly bounces, and,
    I have bowed completely defeated and defenseless,
    But this one Saturday, is uniquely born,
    A day of anxious waiting,
    A day of tedious praying,
    Marooned inside my mind and space,
    Common nature sounds refuse to led the old tongue,
    For my attenae is pulled long and hard into my chests behavior,
    Listening to the engine humming,
    Keenly hearing the erratic thrum,
    Is it so is it not so?
    Am I “goosed” am I not ” goosed”
    I remember leaving my appetite at the doctor’s place,
    I forget where I misplaced my seen of peace,
    Photographs seem to mock my staring eyes,
    My moves are jerky and my nerves frayed,
    I want to pray but my tongue plays roof top stuck,
    This Saturday morning is quite a mouth full,
    It exposes the cowardly self of my self,
    Preaching loneliness in a severe tongue and jeering at my speeding heart.
    Across the fence a child cries and a mother sings,
    In the distance, the train whistles,
    Further still, thunder rolls,
    The smell of moisture in the air fills my lungs,
    I take a shower and a hot cup of coffee,
    I have a load of mail to answer to and,
    And a poem for this day,
    Was advised to socially distance till this cough runs out,
    Am alone but not so lonely,
    And this Saturday is a day of and for lessons,
    Sometimes, we take for granted the beauty of togetherness,
    A fact if I survive, I do promise on this Saturday morning,
    Never take for granted the simple joys of interactions.

    Liked by 3 people

  6. wishing everyone love and health🧡

    “sábado de manhã”

    dew drops shape
    coffee slowly drips
    from the hallway foot steps fall
    Cortana plays old time country tunes
    the gray cat her ocean green eyes watch me write words that will remain unspoken

    Liked by 2 people

  7. At Liberty to Loaf

    Nestled naked in a king-size bed,
    I banish the brashness of Saturday morning sunrays
    with blackout curtains
    and quench a parched mouth with
    starfruit sparkling water –
    an upgrade from the Lucky Charms-infused moo juice
    of my youth,
    neutralizing the gorgonzola and mushroom pie
    acquired from that quirky pizzeria run by hipsters
    and the sucrose-laden liquid thought to be coffee
    quaffed during the frenzy of fringe freak shows
    known as Friday night trash TV,
    trailed by an extended dose of calming darkness
    with pressures popped like a succession of cracked knuckles
    and a heart rate relaxed by
    a fresh paycheck in the belly of my bank account
    and a satin-bound blanket that doubles as a hug
    when you’re single.

    Liked by 3 people

  8. Respected Jamie Ji
    Trying to keep a positive approach though the streaks of tension and apprehension are unavoidable but keeping in view your bright inspiring affectionate poetic expressions I have managed the following lines , the title is just
    After Jamie Dedes – and while writing I intensely missed the trees and flowers of our last home in another city and remembered the pansies and lotus of my birthplace Srinagar occupied Kashmir- Bani Gala is green but lacks color and flowers-

    After Jamie Dedes

    It was Friday night quite late, a silent voice told
    me, ‘ pull the curtains and look’, right in front
    suspended, illuminating the sky, smilingly
    appeared the crescent, another bright star in its
    company, ‘we are here, and you are not alone’

    Lucky me to have seen them, I returned to my
    desk and thought, ‘would I be able to finish my
    pending work, the story that my son wishes me
    to write? The poems, that are in the files needing
    printing? The half knitted baby sweaters, and afghan

    squares? the clock’s needle kept moving smoothly
    not ticking, soon it will be predawn prayer time,
    time to pull aside the curtains and see the first light
    reveal the hillside, alas here there are no magnolias
    nor roses nor tulips, but fields and a few farmers-

    Birds will appear, to feast on the crumbs put on the
    wall, crows fly over from time to time, strangely they
    are silent, Saturday mornings are silent as schools are
    closed, children are silent too sleeping late, peaceful
    is the atmosphere- Saturdays are ‘get together days’

    The village farmer will bring fresh vegetables, lay
    them on the ‘charpoy’ on the roadside close to his field
    and the day’s sale will soon begin-the city nearby will
    gradually rise from its drowsy numbness, half opened
    eyes watching vehicles begin to race as work begins

    on a much slower pace, asking for and giving space
    just a selfish concern and soon busy in the worldly

    Liked by 2 people

  9. .thanks Jamie.

    .the day off work.

    Dull here this morning. Cooler. The graveyard is quiet; traffic moves distant.

    Your saddle was a try out, now you will not be hankering after that design and may settle on what you have?

    Things disappoint often. I try not to have expectations much. Is not easy after years.

    Your place is your home with all that entails. Enjoy it.

    The flowers never fail to delight and now I know the colour patterns. Yesterday learned the seed germination times.

    Ate a few strawberries from the garden and watched the hay being bailed down the lower field.

    I too gather and build from the wild
    as you may know.

    it is a focus on those things some overlook
    a focus on time passing
    while i like your verse
    this cannot compare

    I have a day off from the mill as I worked extra in the week. I have croissants bought ready for later. At work I mainly have a yogurt and liquorice allsorts.

    Poetry man is sweet, he asks questions i never answer, We have googling.

    I had hoped to sleep late, yet that never works. Have a good day. Tell me more adventures……

    Liked by 3 people

  10. Her Fur Elise

    I awake to Beethoven as Mam taps the upright
    Piano downstairs in the through lounge

    where morning light highlights dark brown dining table
    And varnished coffee table both polished

    with Pledge until you see yourself. Later
    chemo will make her petite fingers fat,

    Fur Elise break into fragments as disease progresses
    and piano sold as her hands come to rest.

    Liked by 1 person

  11. I Fry Me Chips

    in proper fresh Beef fat for better flavour, in a proper chip pan. Don’t let
    old fat lie. Keep it new, not like neighbours, nowt against them,
    not meaning to be offensive but veg don’t put hairs on your chest,
    or give a bloke owt to hold onto on a night. There’s yon young un out
    on a morning in her slippers and pyjamas hangs out her undies,
    as if no ones looking. Him next door in his loose dressing gown lumps white
    bags in grey bin, pussy cardboard boxes in blue. Like I said don’t let old fat lie.
    Tha allus sees summat proper fresh
    out thee windows.

    From “As Folk Over Yonder”, Afterworld Books, 2019

    Liked by 2 people

  12. A Rubato

    A book begins and ends in a garden.
    A book begins and ends in delight.
    See the coloured pages
    Scattered like pixels.

    Each bird note is a colour.
    Each rustle is a colour.
    Sometimes a rubato
    out of the usual rhythm
    of this morning and evening

    The garden of memory.
    His rock garden reminded my late dad
    of Lake District mountains.
    Each page is a leaf,
    each leaf an instrument
    played by the gust.
    Every chorus of leaves
    A fresh painting of the garden.

    An as yet, unpublished poem, part of last years poetry month

    Liked by 2 people

  13. Morning Turn

    three keys to half raise a defensive eyelid.
    Enter storm of the eye.

    Listen to hum of preservers.
    Two must be cleansed.

    Tears sucked out,
    waste removed.

    Reloaded with boxes of insight.
    Our fingers crinkle with their cold

    as each box is placed so all can read
    the new delight, the fresh view.

    A new order of the day.

    From “Please Take Change”, Cyberwit.net, 2019)

    Liked by 2 people

      1. As a shop assistant I feel as if I am at the front in a war. Returning after a few days off I was shocked at the empty pasta, toilet roll and flour shelves, eve after seeing pictures of other stores online and on tv. Somehow it happening in your own shop hits you harder.

        Liked by 2 people

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