Photograph courtesy of Henryhartley under CC BY 3.0.

“…time can be slowed if you live deliberately. If you stop and watch sunsets. If you spend time sitting on porches listening to the woods. If you give in to the reality of the seasons.” Thomas Christopher Greene, I’ll Never Be Long Gone

I was reminded of that spring
Before the homebound life, when

A dragonfly, irredescent sapphire,
Accidentally pitched itself into the

Jaws of my ancient Pontiac, ragged
Edged and rusty and ready for the

The wrecking yard, but quickly I
Pulled off the road and popped the

Hood, out it flew, that peppered
Pod with compound eyes, unharmed

Still quite able, propelling itself on
crystal wings etched like Art Deco

It fluttered, headed one way and
I another to Año Nuevo State Park

A vast multiplication of blues and
Greens, of sky and ocean, and Oh!
Fin-footed elephant seals sunbathing

© 2020, Jamie Dedes


Share with us this week a singular seasonal (any season) moment that for some reason (any reason) continues to pulse with life in your memory. What makes it so vivid an experience? What were the colors, scents, shape, encounters with nature that made such a deep impression on you? Share this episode in your life in your own poem/s 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 Poems submitted through email or Facebook will not be published.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, June 8 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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Poetry rocks the world!


For Peace, Sustainability, Social Justice

Maintain the movement.

“Democracy is not a spectator sport.” Bernie Sanders

“Every pair of eyes facing you has probably experienced something you could not endure.”  Lucille Clifton


  1. Moon Over Makhadd in Northern Pakistan

    In a flash like on angel’s wings,
    smooth on the road the wheels
    did spin,
    moving on through avenues
    bordered by elegant trees
    we flew,
    to the grandeur of Makhad,
    mountains brown as pegs
    head to head, conical sloping
    supporting valleys
    protecting with stony strength
    bordering fields of mustard
    yellow, making peace in spirit and
    in heart,mellow-
    there is The Quiet The Presence
    in the mountains is the secret essence
    till the Last Day,
    there is no sudd of the Nile
    mountains shield the land
    the lifeblood of Makhad

    and so we stood, protected
    we felt in the valley of the North
    as evening shadows lengthened
    and the moon manifested itself
    in glowing white, never so peaceful
    a place I had seen nor been to,
    when Nature raw and loving
    spread its grace and held the place
    a holy tapestry woven.

    Liked by 3 people

  2. Nature in its outmost form
    The dryness of the sunny days
    Eratic in moments of seasonal outbursts,
    Zealous flares of flowery blossoms
    Honey from the beecomb
    Witheld sounds of colors in yellow whistles; faded fallen dried leaves
    Picturestic of the weather
    Nature has its own turns
    With photosynthesis in play
    The blue green Genesis of unknown hours.
    -Benedicta(Akosua)Boamah, 2020.

    Liked by 2 people

  3. Nature an outmost form
    The dryness of sunny days
    Eratic moments of seasonal outbursts
    Zealous flares of flowery blossoms
    Honey from a beecomb
    Sounds in colors of yellow whistles: faded
    Fallen dried leaves
    Picturestic of the weather
    Nature has its turns
    With photosynthesis in play
    The blue-green Genesis of unknown hours.
    -Benedicta (Akosua) Boamah, 2020.

    Liked by 2 people

  4. .one winter day.

    no snow here as yet
    though we did have that
    flurry late autumn, the day
    we went to the cinema

    it was very localised

    the mountain was rough
    with it, a sliding accident
    at the top of the pass
    that day

    yet elsewhere all came clear
    and the film was raw

    warm here again
    logs stacked yesterday

    pleased to say the manic
    energy returned & much is

    preparing for weather
    which may not occur

    i heard the crows
    a distance away
    as i worked

    dark lonely sounds

    i feel enough has died
    yet it seems that power
    deems that death can
    answer some issues

    these days
    though it
    is wrong

    and not for survival


    as i could now argue
    another way and become

    that which is to be demonstrated

    maybe another way
    to resolve things

    i suggested chocolate money


    Liked by 2 people


    This is where we’ve met,
    where landscape offers space.

    “ Quick, quick, you can’t catch me!”
    Oh yes I can, with cunning.
    I know where the flower beds narrow.
    You’ll never escape me there.
    Unless I pretend.
    I’ll pretend.

    “ Play hide and seek? Count to ten then,
    no fifteen!” They’ll find me by water,
    gazing on pondweed, deadly green like Sunday
    afternoons when clocks dragged their feet,
    ticking the echoes of the morning’s sermon.
    Wildly we emitted raw blasts of turbulence, braced
    to pay the consequential price
    for breaking Sunday’s peace.

    Aspens whisper, braid the breeze
    between their leaves, rumour rain.
    Elderberries beaded with drops
    of late summer’s dew. A squall of rooks
    crashes from the clustered woods.

    “ Sorry, I was.” Somewhere between,
    somewhere between.“ Here, let me show
    you this sunflower, yellow-headed diva,
    admitting with grace the butterflies
    to hover and partake.”

    Tree house is clattering with chatter,
    explosive ululations. Who is really listening
    and does it really matter as
    long as they can have these moments
    of unguarded light?

    Wren’s ostinato fades to quiet
    in the stillness of the birch.
    Scrolls of pure white bark, nicks, music-
    -box notes, ships plotted on radar,
    heading where?

    mid-life, pondered in currents
    of easy conversation. And ours?
    as we drift our hands through
    lavender and rosemary.
    Passion and remembrance jostle,
    loss and history, the past imperfect. Old
    questions niggle still, leading where?
    Simpler to pick apart a teasel
    piece by piece.

    Hungry calls distract. “Wait, look how
    they sway and bow, these reeds, courtiers
    before the kingcups. Yellow is
    the colour of homage today, do you wear
    yellow? No but you are pardoned. Eat!”

    Follow the shafts of light: scarlet
    rosehips, crimson plums , dusted blue
    by night moths’ wings, first blush on apples
    skimped by drought.

    House wall, solid but evidence
    of slip and restitution,
    infill and making do.

    Present and future,
    intertwined, pulsing together.
    Let them run on and on,
    this day, these days.

    This poem was published by Palewell Press, London in 2020 in my collection “At the Storm’s Edge.”

    Liked by 2 people

  6. 253.

    liking all seasons.

    yet i like the summer fabrics,
    crisp cotton with flower
    spots, reminiscent of other
    days. when all clean, pressed,
    we wore the best dress
    to town, the museum, aviary,
    then down to the beach

    to bathe.


    Liked by 1 person


    Nature’s fan turns
    Fingers sing
    Where winter has dramatised the trees.
    Beside the drive
    Dropped leaves are cupped with frost.

    In six o’clock light
    Dawn comes.
    Thin songs are jerky, interrupted
    By chattering
    Of birds’ beaks amid ruffled sleepy feathers.

    The milkman’s step.
    Gravel crunches up the drive.
    The house
    Suspended above is quiet.
    The holly is still as the wind drops.

    The bang of glass bottles
    Against the step.
    The faint sigh as the float slips into life.
    And disappears …

    Liked by 1 person

  8. “Snapshot of an Autumn Afternoon”

    As the tenth month instead of the eighth-
    despite its moniker-
    October is pregnant with pranks,
    so vivacious shades of leaves
    merely mask their imminent demise,
    some already crackling to arid dust under the
    sneakers of backpack-burdened kids
    finishing their first quarter before sniffles and flus
    and Remembrance Day poppies
    start to pop up.
    The supermarket down the street
    hawks the honeyed nuances of candy corn,
    as polarizing as the pleas of political candidates-
    the consummate jokers-
    just weeks before
    the polls open.
    Mass-produced slick plastic costumes
    rival the versions crafted by parents cursing over
    the hum of sewing machines and the snip of
    scissors while glitter scatters in a diaspora, only
    to be spotted in dust-bunnies around Easter.
    Jack-o’-lanterns get stabbed next door
    not by Jason or Michael, but
    by hands moist with mushy gourd guts
    and seeds reserved for roasting and snacking
    during thriller marathons thrusting screams
    and sinister soundtracks out of rooms as dark
    as the cats and bats plastered on pendulous paper decorations,
    and, through my window, the weather wavers
    between the hangover of
    sweaty torpor and the promise of polar chills
    that will predominate when
    apples for bobbing
    become apples for pies.

    Liked by 1 person

  9. “Primary Colors”
    (Raanana, June 5, 2009)

    Between the palm and weeping willow
    It’s the sudden confrontation with beauty
    That kills you every time.
    The palettes from which the skies are painted
    And the grasses and the seas
    Must once have belonged to children.
    In my country
    Even the primary colors
    Are mixtures of
    Birds flowers and sadness.
    The edges of shadows under the trees
    Are sharp like a knife against your throat.
    The sky is so bright it’s like
    Looking into the face of God.
    And the silence,
    It’s the silence
    That finally betrays you.

    (c) 2009 by Mike Stone (from “The Uncollected Works of Mike Stone”)


  10. “Winter Rains”
    (Raanana, December 6, 2018)

    Winter rains rat-a-tat-tat
    On the cold tin roofs of cars.
    Cats crowd under any car
    With engine warm, watching
    Daisy and me with suspicious eyes.
    Daisy, oblivious to my umbrella
    Or the rain, looks back at them
    With calculations of inbred hatred
    And limits of leash length.
    Back in our apartment,
    Cats forgotten, if not forgiven,
    Dripping Daisy unfurls her wetness
    With a shivering wave.
    I dry the remaining dampness from her fur
    And we appreciate the lightning and thunder
    Approaching our window,
    As rain becomes thought
    Which becomes rain again.

    (c) 2018 by Mike Stone (from “Call of the Whippoorwill”)

    Liked by 1 person

  11. “The First Drops of Winter”
    (Raanana, September 8, 2018)

    This morning
    The first drops of winter
    After a long drought,
    A farmer raises eyes heavenward
    Even the sandy soil,
    The nibbled petals,
    And the green-brown leaves
    Raise themselves in silent toast –
    To life, God,
    To life.

    (c) 2018 by Mike Stone (from “Call of the Whippoorwill”)

    Liked by 1 person

  12. “Wintry Sabbath”

    Early morning
    The nonbelievers dreaming still
    Under thick comforters,
    Old men walking to the synagogue
    Against the blustery rain
    Without umbrellas
    And a dog-walker with umbrella
    Taking small slow steps
    In sync with an old dog
    When love is not enough
    To keep her dry and warm.
    I look over at the old men
    Walking their God on an invisible leash
    Or is He walking them?

    December 28, 2019

    (c) 2019 by Mike Stone (from “The Hoopoe’s Call”)

    Liked by 1 person

  13. “The First Rain”

    The first rain of the new year
    The drops are more like soft pinpricks
    Pointillistic with a taste of dust
    When you open your mouth to say something
    To Daisy, but she tastes the dust too
    And sniffs the warm air with wet nose.
    It’s the encroaching desert
    Playing with our emotions,
    Not enough yet to warrant an umbrella
    Or to cool the body with its wetness.

    October 16, 2019

    (c) 2019 by Mike Stone (from “The Hoopoe’s Call”)

    Liked by 1 person


    Africa is summer land, rare for degrees to dip below zero,
    Unless atop the mighty Kirinyaga.
    A child of the Arabica coffee terrain,
    A kilometer from the forest line,
    Many a man and woman from distant land and lingo,
    Would hop atop the villages loaned landrovers,
    Transport to the base of the mountain,
    Tales of Jumbo’s and moor’s large,
    Lakes with dazzling whiteness to blind,
    Tricky terrain and freezing cold,
    Silence to spare energy to climb,
    Tales I carried in my growth,
    As I, enjoyed the spectacle that the mountain was,
    From the ridge where my father’s coffee crop swayed,
    Teenage led a leg to schools far,
    College danced the cities new flavor,
    Marriage and children tending,
    Career swing and switch,
    Till, a visit did a rhyme,
    On a soul at peace with itself,
    And suddenly, my feet ached to do the climb,
    And what a trek!
    First was the forest unpretentious,
    Mahogany and teak,
    Then bamboo in all its clustered glory,
    Amid careful skirting to keep wild owners at peace,
    First night at camp,
    Rolled onto a sleeping bag,
    A fire merrily singing it’s warmth,
    Cold was real, but pleasure too was,
    And before sunrise, with eggs and bacons tucked,
    Second leg began in earnest,
    Sunrise that blinded one to the way,
    Was the mood treck to great,
    Expanse of whites amidst blues and purples,
    God’s own mountain Eden,
    The freshness of nature so real, music formed itself,
    A hunter of something or other we did meet,
    Keep your eyes down, the leader said,
    By mid-day, a quiet did settle,
    As guts got fuelled,
    Then rain like ice fell in sheets,
    Pushing us into a cave,
    Where stones arranged like an old empires dinning room,
    Afternoon merged with night as tales of the mountain rose and fell,
    Sleep and aches came fast,
    And soon morning popped, another wonder of nature’s splendor,
    East on a fire brilliant beyond believe,
    Roast rabit and smoked Salmon waiting,
    Why pretend to be Ninja when muscles spoke in firely tongues,
    A porter led a much needed hand,
    Handing me two spikes to score the climb,
    Air was getting thinner, walk was slower,
    And tales subsided to grunts and the occasional curse from tripping,
    A light lunch and a quick match,
    Lake Nicholson we must make for the night,
    Pitching tents and lighting evening fires,
    Time for catch up with days events,
    But up to this point, I had to reign my wits,
    Yes, I loved the excussion and would love to trudge on,
    But the vagaries of age were telling a different tale,
    From a life of easy and untested car rides,
    To go any further was a noise most unwelcome,
    Watching the dark sky with it’s millions of stars,
    The coward of the village took a bow ,
    And the next morning,
    While every one else hefted their bags up for day three up,
    I, and my paid hand, took to the lower grounds with our rations,
    Heaven is real, heaven is sweet to smell and spectacular to watch,
    And it’s in the very nature that so far we haven’t “Tamed”
    A testimony of a mountain climber who climbed a quarter way.
    Nancy Ndeke

    Liked by 2 people

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