“Set wide the window. Let me drink the day.”
The Sun Is In Love With Me
what a morning, good morning
burst of apricot, showering light
drizzling glee, a child’s laughter
if I had to live for just one day
it would be this one, morning-glory
nodding her bright-eyed blue head
and i know, there’s no such thing
no such thing as a death star
there’s only life, over hill and field
shining into windows, on warm grass
Look! the daisies are smiling
and the California poppies are
popping yellow like corn in a pot
the moon was muse last night
today the sun is in love with me
© Jamie Dedes
And here we are still poeming away in the time of COVID-19. It’s not surprising that many of these poems reflect the global strategies for containing the virus so relentlessly dominating our thoughts. The poems collected here today are in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Magnolia Teacups, March 18, which encouraged poets to write about life on their day off. In one of his poems, Our Empty Shelves, Paul reveals what a shock it is to come back to work at his grocery after his days off and see the changes wrought by the pandemic.
Isn’t it wonderful that we can sooth our spirits and connect with others through poetry without passing anything more dangerously contagious than perspectives and experience? Much thanks this week to mm brazfield, Paul Brookes, Anjum Wasim Dar, Irma Do, Sonia Benskin Mesher, Nancy Ndeke, Miroslava Panayotova, Bishnu Charan Parida, and Adrian Slonaker for coming out to play and so gracefully responding to the challenge.
Enjoy! Be inspired, comforted, stirred, … and do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are welcome: beginning, emerging, and pro poets.
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
© 2020, mm brazefield
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,
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)
© 2019, Paul Brookes
Our Empty Shelves
This Saturday morning in the shop.
there is a glut of emptiness.
Labels advertise what is missing
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.
© 2020, Paul Brookes
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.
© 2020, Paul Brookes
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)
© 2019, Paul Brookes
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 year’s poetry month
© 2020, Paul Brookes
More poems by Paul at Michael Dickel’s Meta/ Phore(e) /Play
Such Were Some Saturdays
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.
© 2020, Anjum Wasim Dar
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
© 2020, Anjum Wasim Dar
Anjum-ji’s sites are:
- Behance … artwork
- CER Professional Development
- Poetic Oceans poetry on WordPress
- Poetic Oceans poetry on Blogspot
- Anjum on Facebook
- Unsaid Words of Untold Stories…Prose writing
- ELT Work experience/educational service for the country
“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
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.
© 2020, Irma Do
Irma’s site is I Do Run, And I do a few other things too …
.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……
© 2020, Sonja Benskin Mesher
Sonja’s sites are:
- Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA paintings (This is her Facebook page, so you can connect with her there as well as view photographs of her colorful paintings.)
- Sonja on Twitter
- Sonja’s daily blog (WordPress) is HERE.
My Saturday Morning
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.
© 2020, Nancy Ndeke
Nancy’s Amazon Page is HERE.
not like all others
It’s like we’re in a movie
I wanted to become an actress
We are all actors now
Our way is a theater
© 2020, Miroslava Panayotova
Miroslava’s site is OKMSP
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 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
© 2020, Bishnu Charan Parida
Bishnu’s site is: Bishnu’s Universe
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.
© 2020, Adrian Slonaker
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- 2020 Poet Laureate of Womawords Literary Press
- The Wombwell Rainbow interviews Jamie Dedes
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