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“squeezing a penny” and other mom-poems

squeezing a penny

my mother never knew the names for things
the trees were just trees, the flowers just flowers,
she knew life as a sigh and aspiration as a linchpin,
she could get to work and maneuver in the dark,
she could squeeze a penny too
and force tired feet into worn shoes

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© 2013, poem, Jamie Dedes;  Photo courtesy of morgueFile

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sleeping without walls

the fields that year taught the art of sleeping outside,
sleeping without walls, watching the stars and moon,
our dreams spun from sunsets and morning dew ~
we slept in bedrolls configured from old white sheets and
the khaki wool blankets my uncles took to war, i wondered
about my uncles as i did about many people, many things

and that summer held varied delights, climbing trees,
eating cherries without washing them . . . oh! ~
and there were blueberry bushes and fig trees and
i lined the path to the food hut with odd sunday stones

i said my own prayers while the big girls were at Mass
and marveled at my middle-aged mother’s plump knees
i marked her spirit for wearing bermudas, for joining
children’s games, sitting ’round fires, making ‘smores ~

now I wonder at summer camp morphing into metaphor,
all our lives we did those things: gathering dreams,
mom and me, outsider artists sleeping without walls

© 2013, poem and photograph, Jamie Dedes

houses of silence

they dwelt in houses of silence
chewed through grudging fences
swam in oceans of best intentions
tried to find one another on the
shores of their fears and confusions,
alienation was their warrior shield,
silence, the mom’s default position

their lives were lived in a boxing ring
the fist in the glove was a malignancy
and the mom passed her days sparring,
she thought the winner would be the
woman who was pretty and hushed
even when she got knocked out, she
wearied the charity of her own mother

she became embittered in isolation,
there was no one else she could
beat upon or say her grief to or even
show her bruises and lacerations ~

except for that small child of silence,
useless in matters of this magnitude

© 2012, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved
Illustration ~ color sketch by Jiri Hodan, Public Domain Pictures.net

IMG_2225the echo of her sighs

mom stressed
as she sat
with her 10-key
urgently
conscientiously
feeding it numbers
for a business
in Redhook
a commercial building
in old red brick
her calculations spun
Monday through Friday
dripping white paper
in ribbons
pooling on the floor
with all her adds
all her minuses
she accounted
in gray led
on lined green paper
A/R and A/P
payroll
chart of accounts
bank reconciliations
consolidated financials
transactions
neatly ticked and tied
to ledgers and subledgers
hand formulated
amounting to
zilch
zip
squat
zero
nothing
gone
forgotten
except
for the echo of her sighs

© 2015, poem and photograph, Jamie Dedes

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in time displaced, a poem … and your Wednesday Writing Prompt

No illusions, no illusions, no lies, no softened truths,
no tears, no bargains, though sun shines and birds sing,
Winter is here, I know.

Spring danced like wild flowers in the wind,
held dew and promise and wore the colors of her heart like jewels.
She hadn’t heard the word defeat and didn’t feel hate or anger.
Spring liked to play and romp and sing and
hung her question on a tree to ripen – Why?

Summer took herself seriously,
was wide-eyed with longing, sizzling in the sun.
She wore a red dress and the champagne happiness of husband and child.
She had reckless courage because Summer is young and youth is bold,
a silver bell that rings and rings and never stops.
Too much is not enough and still that tremulous – Why?

Autumn gently smiled, like Da Vinci’s lady, and danced old dances,
reminisced Begin the Beguine, stepping lightly on dry leaves.
Autumn was lined with gold and muted silks, remembered her manners,
nodded wisely, spoke sagaciously, and was a might too profound.
Haughty and just so very sure that she knew – Why?

Winter is a season content to see herself in time displaced,
knows though fleshy bonds and boundaries dissolve, Life –
like heart has its reasons that reason doesn’t know  . . .
Sanguine and serene, it’s just a habit now, that old question – Why?

© 2017, Jamie Dedes (The Poet by Day and Coffee, Tea and Poetry)

To everything there is a season,
a time for every purpose under heaven.
A time to be born and a time to die;
a time to plant and a time to pluck that which is planted . . .

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

Wednesday Writing Prompt

Tell us in prose or poem and in terms of the seasons where you used to be in life and where you are now.   If you are comfortable to do so, leave your work in the comments section below.  If the work is too long, leave a link to it. All work shared will be published here next Tuesday.

© 2017, poem and photograph, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved

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“as you take the road to Paradise” … and other poems by reader poets in response to last Wednesday’s prompt

WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT May 24, 2017: Tell us in poem or prose what it feels like to be you on your best day.

It’s always interesting to see how different are the responses to the same prompt. Bravo, poets!  Enjoy, readers! J.D.

as you take the road to Paradise 

about half-way there
you come to an inn
which even as inns go is admirable

you go into the garden of it
and see the great trees and the wall
of Box Hill* shrouding you all round

it is beautiful enough (in all conscience)
to arrest you without the need of history
or any admixture of pride of place

but as you sit in a seat in the garden
you are sitting where Nelson sat
when he said goodbye to Emma;

if you move a yard or two you will be
where Keats sat biting his pen
thinking out some new line of poem

  • Box Hill is in Surrey, England. It is my ‘soul home.’

© 2017, Colin Blundell (Colin Blundell, All And Everything)

Glistening Bits of Gold

On a day where time stands still she sees
each quintessential increment of time
like the sun hitting tiny seed pods that
have fallen on the street glistening as
tiny bits of gold sparkling as jewels
that offset the black asphalt street
turning the harsh landscape of tar into
that of a black silken cape waiting
to be garnered by nature’s queen as
she strolls the avenue bending only
momentarily to gaze lovingly at all that
she has made from the beauty of flowers
orange as the poppy to that of the shrubs
close to the ground shading tiny insects
to the majesty of towering evergreens
she becomes entwined in the moment and
she is ensconced and feels content

©2017, Renee Espriu (Renee Just Turtle Flight)

::these days ::

are longer now, i feel younger now,

i am older. we do so many things.

we are no longer afraid.

make the best of summer days,

winter follows.

he remarked that it was

good enough for the

chelsea flower show.

© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher (Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA)

♥

27 May ( another day in paradise )

we walked the stone,

he kept the place special, closed a while,

is open now . as the sky clears

through willow arches, white calves

and butterflies.

he cuts the shrubs, hedges, and rakes the path tidy.

it is arthur’s stone.

© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher (Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA)

My Summer Town zoom

Zoom in to gold world,
on green metal celebratory gate
in centre of town between the shops

Look at it’s green metal pictures.
an old pump, miners lamp,
glass bottles, cricket/tennis bats,
canal boat navigates nothing

Rain constellations bus window,
cars backwash tarmac,
droplets break tension ripples natural birdbath.

Squashed plastic blue pen,
empty grey fag packet,
lobbed lottery ticket
middle of road
revelation.

Empty black/red polystyrene
Coke Zero cup circles
street middle black/white fat cat
waddles across road life design.

After nimbus drops
inhale moss
like marine pool kelp
after wave sea breeze fresh glowing Wombwell by the sea.

Pigeons, spuggys
shadow puppetry streets, houses.
Tarmac warm shivers.
Radiant windows flash mirror
passing traffic.

Evening spitting,
growling, flaming,
fluid lads/lasses on heat,
short shirts tempers.
This is the barbecue.

backyard, eye swag silver,
two joy, pica pica purplish-blue
iridescent sheen
wing feather green gloss tail.

On train squeal chatter,
vivid, green, blue, beavers,
cubs, scouts, ventures
anarchy in uniform.

Unshaven bald man,
open green raincoat,
brown leather shoes,
hauls local paper
packed lime green trolley.

Old folk bench gab,
mothers stroll babies
down funeral paths
eye gambolling squirrel,
cemetery a parkland.

Blackbird gob skyward
atop Victorian six pointed
terracotta Crown top
chimney pot
trills red brick streets

bright yellow sharp
edged box hedge sun
cracked pavements
yellow metal skip
blocks alleyway
All sun snogged

Bright cemetery leaves
behind dark,

bakers window 6 loaves,
one burnt,
nurse boards bus,
‘I was miles away’

Sunstruck leaf bunch
drips bright molten
green glass, other leaves
luminescent silver stars
in green matter, shade cut.

Patient silver hubcap
rests under stone cemetery wall
behind blue bus stop halo,
full moon fall: day waits.

Shadows pass over bus
as if it is stop motion animated.
I get on the animation.
Hand held camera
glare work journey.

Town a small canvas tent
unzipped tied back crowcall,
fragrant grass, earth close,
sun blue. Is on holiday

light quality early noon
than morning, 3 patient
full brown potato bags
by grocers,
cloud dispersal pend

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

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the pathway of life and hope, a poem

day comes when your waist disappears,
your glow grows from a tiny zygote to
full-fledged fetus and then, all at once,
you can no longer bend or lay flat in bed,
you go on as you started, exchanging
secret messages with the promised child ~

and now, the miraculous moment, you move
from one into two, the nine-month stretch
along the pathway of life and hope, birthing
a new generation: your handsome boy,
lion maned, his fingers grasping your heart,
launched, from dark into light, washed with
the fiercest love and swaddled in faith

“There should be a song for women to sing at this moment or a prayer to recite. But perhaps there is none because there are no words strong enough to name that moment.” Anita Diamant, The Red Tent

© 2017, poem and photographs, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved

Jamie’s THE WORDPLAY SHOP: books, tools and supplies for poets, writers and readers