“If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. If you want to be happy, practice compassion.” Dalai Lama
PEACE IS A DECISION, NOT A PRAYER.
I’m taking a few days off but not before I wish you a joy-filled holy season and a peace-filled 2019.
Warmly,
Jamie
FOUR MOTTOS
Look up and not down;
Look out and not in.
Look forward and not back;
Lend a hand!
Unitarian Minister, Edward Everett Hale (1882-1909)
RECOMMENDED: RETURN OF THE MYSTERIOUS DIALOGUE, Anjum Wasim Dar, The Unsaid Words of Untold Stories, in which Anjum ji gives me too much credit but is a fine example of someone who is working in maturity to find and refine her voice and who practices the presence of God each minute, each hour, every day and who strives continually to be her best poet and best self. Bravo, my stout-hearted friend, and thank you for the inspiration. ♥
Poet and writer, I was once columnist and associate editor of a regional employment publication. I currently run this site, The Poet by Day, an information hub for poets and writers. I am the managing editor of The BeZine published by The Bardo Group Beguines (originally The Bardo Group), a virtual arts collective I founded. I am a weekly contributor to Beguine Again, a site showcasing spiritual writers. My work is featured in a variety of publications and on sites, including: Levure littéraure, Ramingo’s Porch, Vita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation Press, The Bar None Group, Salamander Cove, Second Light, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman. My poetry was recently read byNorthern California actor Richard Lingua for Poetry Woodshed, Belfast Community Radio. I was featured in a lengthy interview on the Creative Nexus Radio Show where I was dubbed “Poetry Champion.”
“What if our religion was each other. If our practice was our life. If prayer, our words. What if the temple was the Earth. If forests were our church. If holy water–the rivers, lakes, and ocean. What if meditation was our relationships. If the teacher was life. If wisdom was self-knowledge. If love was the center of our being.” Ganga White, teacher and exponent of Yoga and founder of White Lotus, a Yoga center and retreat house in Santa Barbara, CA
“Every pair of eyes facing you has probably experienced something you could not endure.” Lucille Clifton
Thank you for sharing your love of words. Comments will appear after moderation.
The last Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt, to write about farms and farming (Conjuring Farmhouses), December 12, is covered quite broadly here with responses from Gary W. Bowers, Paul Brookes, Irma Do, Jen E. Goldie, Shiela Jacob, Frank McMahan, Mike Stone, and Anjum Wasim Dar. These will provoke some thought and much pleasure, spiked as they are with memoir, questions, humor, and insight. Enjoy!
Wednesday Writing Prompt will return on January 16, 2019.
three cow salute
walking to my high school meant walking past three cows
just as 61st avenue came to its
senses and straightened up
south of bethany home road
and what was then
a bobwire fence held back these bored cows
who stood and chewed or didn’t
and slowly turned
their
heads
in
unison
as
you
passed
they were the stolid
they were the stupefied
the stunned
the milkbaggy trio
the watchers of boys and girls
they needed a date with a frisky bull
or maybe they needed nothing
but daily relief from udder strain
grass
and me tweaking their monotony
into near monotony
couldn’t tell you
don’t know why those bored
and boring cows still lease space
in a pasture in my head
just know
the smell of horseshit does nothing for me
but
the smell of cowshit
has more than once filled
my stupid stolid eyes
with nostalgic tears
droplets of blood from the tail
of last October’s sacrificed horse,
ashes of the stillborn calves,
the shells of beans.
We are sprinkled with water,
wash our hands
in spring-water,
drink milk mixed with must.
Towards evening after shepherds
fed their flocks,
laurel-branches
are used as brooms
to clean their stables,
water sprinkled through them,
then stables adorned
with laurel-boughs.
Shepherds burn sulphur,
rosemary, fir-wood, and incense,
usher the smoke through the stables
and the flocks to purify them.
cakes, millet, milk,
and other food
is offered.
Hay and straw bonfires lit
cymbals and flutes play
as sheep and shepherds
are run three times
through the fire.
At an open air feast
we sit or lay
on turf benches
and sup a lot.
who plough
who prepare the earth
who plough with a wide furrow to bring water from the river
who plant seeds
who trace the first ploughing, reploughing as first did not work
who harrow
who dg
who weed
who reap
who carry the grain
who store the grain
who share the grain
who share their good fortune with us, the dead
FYI: Paul Brookes, a stalwart participant in The Poet by Day Wednesday Writing Prompt, is running an ongoing series on poets, Wombwell Rainbow Interviews. Connect with Paul if you’d like to be considered for an interview. Visit him, enjoy the interviews, get introduced to some poets who may be new to you, and learn a few things.
The blue sky smelled of manure. Even the allure of coffee and raw milk, homemade bread with rhubarb jam and omelets plucked from their mother just that morning couldn’t overcome the scent that distinctly said, “You’re on a working farm.”
The distinct sound of a tractor pulled up to the farmhouse door. The farmer offered us a hay ride around the farm and explained the difference between hay and straw, silo versus barn. The farmer named each machine and it’s purpose, but not the animals.
That night, I briefly wondered if the chicken that gave her life for our pot pie dinner also sacrificed her progeny for our breakfast. And if the rooster that would wake us in the morning, knew what happened to his family.
Plastic and foam trays
Deception and protection
Farmers eat the truth
Yes, that’s me on a tractor – picture courtesy of one of my sorority sisters who posted some “throwback pictures” of a reunion we had a bed and breakfast in the Pennsylvania countryside a few years after we graduated college. I don’t think the tractor was actually moving for the picture, but it was a first for this city girl!
Coincidentally, Jamie Dedes’ Wednesday Writing prompt requested: This week share poem/s out of your own nostalgia, experience, impressions, gratitude, concerns, or convictions about farms, farming, or farm policy. Despite now living in “farm country”, I still don’t know about farming although I do appreciate the numerous farmers markets in our area.
One thing I do know: I am very appreciative of the men and women who work on farms because I know I don’t have the constitution or inclination to grow things or kill things to eat. Maybe because living in cities, I was never exposed to that reality and thus my aversion to being close to the true source of what I/we eat. Food came in a package and didn’t have faces. Maybe if more people were aware of the reality of farming, there would be less food waste and a better understanding of the need to conserve and protect the environment/nature and animals as finite resources. But what do I know…I’m just a city girl…
When Dad barked
You hopped to it,
Let’s go! In the car!
He loved the country.
One day, he said,
I’m moving to some
Small town,
Somewhere,
Someday.
Got my love of trees,
Wide expanses
And the smell of grass
From him
I guess.
Let’s go pick strawberries.
Get some fresh picked apples,
Some corn, if it’s ready,
Right from the field.
He always took the
Side roads
On our way to
Where he wanted
To be.
I marvel,
Now,
Where he was
Coming from,
Some secret desire,
Some past life,
Taking him home….
A tithed farm had flourished
since Queen Victoria’s reign.
Then the council needed acres
of land, built a housing estate
in the 1930’s for families like
us who couldn’t afford to buy.
Small, airy houses with an inside
toilet and coal shed, no running
hot water but spacious gardens
front and back.We made our home
here in the ’50’s and I walked past
apple trees to my first school.
Elderly neighbours recalled
the redbrick farmhouse, told
how they were sent there
as children and exchanged
a few pence for pats of golden
butter and hay-warmed eggs.
They felt the land’s closeness
despite shops and post office
and bus routes to the city centre.
Road names were echoes.
Farmcote Swancote
Old Farm Glebe Farm
And during the War,they dug
over their long back gardens.
Potatoes and turnips grew again.
Carrots were shaken free of soil,
peeled, grated and added to cake
mix instead of rationed sugar.
Hefting water out of the river to
feed the newly-planted.Long years since I
had to do the same on Uncle’s farm:enamel
white bucket hung from a windlass,sweet
water drawn from deep. I could lift but half
a pailful then. Brothers, neighbour’s girls,
rudimentary washes after endless
play; earth closet in the yard, potatoes,
their skins slowly curling in the cauldron
on the hearth.Somewhere a clock. Bored one day,
I stood beside the well and bawled for help.
Dad came running and rough chastisement
was love’s affirmation.
Brief check before I
swooshed down the hay bales in the barn, guiltless
until the straws in my hair betrayed me.
The years have added muscle, as I bend
and dip and lift from the grateful water,
remembering my boyhood’s guilty smile.
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.)
The dark cloud squats heavily on the horizon
Undecided whether to drift slowly
Over our dusty fields with its fat bladder
Full of drought quenching rains
Or to drift up the coast a ways
To quench the thirst of our enemy’s fields.
O Lord, I know it makes no difference
In the grand scheme of things,
But I can’t help the fact
It would make all the difference in the world
To me.
The dead don’t envy the living
Any more than the living envy the dead.
Who’s to say what’s the best state
For matter to be in
In the long run?
I would think the best,
For one above ground,
Is to make the most of what you are
And, for those below,
To make the least.
Farm and village
soul and spirit
a nation’s harvest giver,
agri-armor of defense ,
lived in one,never,
but loved one where
Grand Dad lived
near the Jhelum River
A place, Sarai Alamgir
with tilled fields
lush green yields,
lands fulfilling needs
wells run by cattle
in circles, bound
pulling out water
round and round
and we so freely….
running in the fields
touching the trees
shouting and singing
with the breeze
But
When land is threatened by famine ,when food is scarce
by waywardness and sins,
when fuel is short
and dry are the streams
the farmer with his horse
and plough
is back in the fields-
the backbone of the people
he is following his dreams
or so it seems-
going back in time
working coping hoping
amidst blasts and screams’
Farmer Farmer get some coal
if you want your crop
and reach your goal
Farmer farmer get your horse
for salvation of the loss
Farmer Farmer get your plough
Let us work and fulfill our vow’
کسان اور گاوؑں
روح رواں زندگی
زرہ بکتر زراع و دفاع
رہنا فارم پہ کبھی نا ھوا
دادا کے گھر سے پیار ھوا
سراےؑ عالم گیر جھلم دریا
گاوؑں تھا پیارا سا
لھلھاتے کھیت و باغ
ھر سو سبزا سبزا ھوا
کوؑیں سے جوتے بیل
کھیت میں پانی ڈالے
ڈبے پے ڈبا ٓاتا جاؑے
اور ھم کھلے میدان میں
بھاگتے دوڑتے ھنستے
درختوں کہ چھوتے رہتے
مگر جب
زمین خطرے میں پڑھنے لگے
قحت و قلت ھو جاےؑ زیادہ
ایندھن کم اور ندیاں خشک
پھر کساں اپنا سامان لیکر
کھیت میں واپس جاتا ھے
گھوڑا جوت کہ ہل چلاتا ھے
اپنی قوم کی فکر ھے لاحک
اپنے خواب ادھورے پا کر
محنت کرنے لگتا ھے
بم دھماکے اور چیخوں میں
بھایو ٓاو آوؑ کوؑلہ نیکالو
اپنا اپنا کھیت اپنا ہل بچاوؑ
صلیب کو دیکھو مسجد جاوؑ
اپنا وعدہ پورا، خوب نبھاوؑ
شاید نجات مل جاےؑ شاید بخشے جاوؑ
“Let us all strive for peace on Earth for all. Let us make a better world. Write to make peace prevail.” Anjum Wasim Dar, Pakistani poet, writer, artist, educator, and parent.
Thank you for sharing your love of words. Comments will appear after moderation.
Nobel Peace Prize winner Malala Yousafzai condemned the attack, saying in a statement: “I am heartbroken by this senseless and cold-blooded act of terror in Peshawar that is unfolding before us”. Her father, Ziauddin Yousafzai said his “heart is bleeding” and his family is “traumatized” over the Peshawar Army Public School massacre.
Sunday Announcements are in the works and will post later today, but our Pakistani friends remind us of the December 16, 2014 terrorist attack on Peshawar Army School where 149 people including 132 schoolchildren ranging between eight and eighteen years of age were murdered. This attack is the world’s fourth deadliest school massacre. It is called by many “The Pakistani 9/11.” The massacre birthed more violence and death and Pakistan lifted its moratorium on capital punishment. Anjum ji has written an impassioned poem to commemorate the day and its trauma. / J.D.
Wake Up Faith Wake Up,
Its time for prayer
Oh let me sleep a little more
I’m exhausted and a little sore
I played till late
to get a high score
Wake Up Life Wake Up
you have a purpose
work and serve work and pray
honest n faithful you must stay
O let me enjoy
Do not annoy’
Wake Up Rich Wake Up
Its time to pay
Spend Spend for The Giver
riches will become a river
O why why should I?
I have much, yet to buy..
Wake Up Books Wake Up
Its time to study
Read read read all the best
read n write,never let it rest
This is the Good
This is The best
Wake Up Human Wake Up
Its time to go
you have been lazy n slow
enemy is winning on the go
killing is not the way
give love, tolerance show.
Wake Up Child Wake Up
Its time for school
Wake Up, rise and shine
But what a waste and wild
Child killed for a killed child.
Nothing is mine, Nothing thine
Wake Up, Repent, Wake Up Peace’
Sleep Hatred Sleep!
“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.”
c Anjum Wasim Dar from her Pencil Perceptions collection (originally published in The BeZine, December 2018 issue)
Poet and writer, I was once columnist and associate editor of a regional employment publication. I currently run this site, The Poet by Day, an information hub for poets and writers. I am the managing editor of The BeZine published by The Bardo Group Beguines (originally The Bardo Group), a virtual arts collective I founded. I am a weekly contributor to Beguine Again, a site showcasing spiritual writers. My work is featured in a variety of publications and on sites, including: Levure littéraure, Ramingo’s Porch, Vita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation Press, The Bar None Group, Salamander Cove, Second Light, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman. My poetry was recently read byNorthern California actor Richard Lingua for Poetry Woodshed, Belfast Community Radio. I was featured in a lengthy interview on the Creative Nexus Radio Show where I was dubbed “Poetry Champion.”
“What if our religion was each other. If our practice was our life. If prayer, our words. What if the temple was the Earth. If forests were our church. If holy water–the rivers, lakes, and ocean. What if meditation was our relationships. If the teacher was life. If wisdom was self-knowledge. If love was the center of our being.” Ganga White, teacher and exponent of Yoga and founder of White Lotus, a Yoga center and retreat house in Santa Barbara, CA
“Every pair of eyes facing you has probably experienced something you could not endure.” Lucille Clifton
Thank you for sharing your love of words. Comments will appear after moderation.
In addition to their words and illustrations, I’ve included links to blogs or websites where available. I hope you’ll visit these poets and get to know their work better. It is likely you can catch up with others via Facebook.
Enjoy! … and do come out to play tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are encouraged to participate: beginning, emerging and pro. You are also invited to submit poems in languages other than English if they include a translation into English. See you tomorrow! 🙂
up up and awry
when a man is hacked to pieces
while still alive and
the murder was suborned
by a royal
killer
and small fry are arrested
and the big shot walks
and another big shot says
in effect
attaboy
and the world takes five minutes’
notice
and shrugs–
decency has taken a powder
ethics is in A locked chest in the attic
and kindly is an uncomfortable party guest
who gets hints to leave
from the big boy host
My eyes were parched, yet I kept them open, watching you as I did when you walked to the school bus. It seemed like such a long way for you to walk with your little legs. I told you not to look back, that looking back would make it harder, and I wanted us to have a “peaceful goodbye”. Peace was the September “virtue of the month” and it helped those first days when being apart wasn’t normal.
My throat closed up, as if I could cry, choking the words I wanted to call out – I love you! I’m proud of you! But you didn’t need to hear that – your humility and compassion allowed you to understand more than your 4 year old self should.
My heart slowed, a molasses drip, wondering what you were thinking as your tiny feet plodded on. Perseverance and courage might as well be etched on your retreating back. But the little wrinkles on your forehead would spell curiosity – we had that common. I wanted to help you, but you respectfully said you would go alone and that I should stay. I would have held you back, you honestly said. You knew I wouldn’t want that. Oh, how wise you had become!
My breath hitched and I was afraid – afraid you wouldn’t find the joy that I knew you deserved. But you didn’t look back and when you started to run – that’s when I knew:
You were going to where you truly belonged.
This short story is in response to Hélène Viallant’s “What do you see?” Picture prompt. There were so many ways to respond to this picture that Hélène posted – it could be scary or exciting or sad. It could have elements of science fiction or fantasy. Or a metaphor. My story is a little bit of all that. The back story could be that the world is coming to an end, the mother left behind to perish watching the sole survivor, her child, walking towards the unknown. Is it hopeful? Or ominous?
While I’m not sure my story is one of values gone wrong, it does remind me of the saying “good guys finish last”. But do they really? If they believe their behavior, their sacrifice is for a noble cause, are they finishing last or being the first hero?
Please spell AWRY.
definition?
: not straight or neat
: not working correctly
: not happening in the expected way
: off the correct or expected course
: in a turned or twisted position or direction
AWRY:a sentence?
“If one or another part of this progression goes awry,
there are sufficient compensating processes
in the average social environment”.
“Because each assumption requires extra tests,
fewer assumptions mean a smaller probability
that the assumptions go awry.”
AWRY: A- W- R- I
WRONG! be seated.
Askew,
aslant,
atilt,
cockeyed,
oblique,
Off-kilter,
uneven.
Disordered,
distorted,
Contorted.
WRONG!
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.)
He asked, ‘What kind of man?
why of Mankind ‘ he said,
‘of patience bereft, of agitation disposed,
not so eloquent nor with knowledge
or apprehensive of consequences
No, he fears none but mosquitoes
No, he fears none, no one
what language, or words of wisdom ?
‘none,sire but a stare baleful, of rage
a chaos in cape carries he, chosen
but outcast, a clever archimage,
No, he fears none, no one
manufactured, of lustful desire,
embroidered with adventure
en-robed with possession
of dark deceit, half concealed
No he fears none, no one
mankind today, lost astray,
oblivious of truth, a symbol
of hate, a killer without motive,
a killer for cash and pay-
No he fears no one-
mankind today, siding with evil,
a terrorist, beguiler kidnapper
Oh, where is the mystagogue?
fettered in a dungeon, I may
I may write an apologue !
O mankind your spirit is good, turn,
a repentant forgiver grateful person,be
turn, turn, towards the right travelogue’
so that the Light of Truth ye may see
ٓاج کا انسان کچھ بھی در گزر کرتا نہین ھے
ٓاج کا انسان اللاہ سے نہین مچھروں سے ڈرتا ھے
استاد کی زباں پے وہ اقوال زرین نہین ھین
ٓاج کا استاد کیا لکھتا ھے کیا پرکھتا ھے
ٓاج کا انسان پیار کا بھوکا ھے
ھر نظر پر نظر ھر ھاتھ پر ھاتھ رکھتا ھے
ھر غریب بے کار ھر امیر دوست لگتا ھے
اج کا انسان کیا اپناتا ھے کیا پرکھتا ھے
دوستی نرمی صبر و برداشت کہاں
سب کو گرم غصے کا بخار چڑھتا ھے
ٓاج کا انسان طیش کا سامان
ٓٓاج کا انساں شیطان کی ھمدردی کرتا ھے
ٓاج کا انسان دھشت گرد
ٓاج کا انسان پیسے کے لیے مرتا ھے
اے لوگو دل و روح کے اچھے ھو زرا
سوچو سیدھی راہ تلاش کرو سیدھی راہ چلو
“Let us all strive for peace on Earth for all. Let us make a better world. Write to make peace prevail.” Anjum Wasim Dar, Pakistani poet, writer, artist, educator, and parent.
Poet and writer, I was once columnist and associate editor of a regional employment publication. I currently run this site, The Poet by Day, an information hub for poets and writers. I am the managing editor of The BeZine published by The Bardo Group Beguines (originally The Bardo Group), a virtual arts collective I founded. I am a weekly contributor to Beguine Again, a site showcasing spiritual writers. My work is featured in a variety of publications and on sites, including: Levure littéraure, Ramingo’s Porch, Vita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation Press, The Bar None Group, Salamander Cove, Second Light, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman. My poetry was recently read byNorthern California actor Richard Lingua for Poetry Woodshed, Belfast Community Radio. I was featured in a lengthy interview on the Creative Nexus Radio Show where I was dubbed “Poetry Champion.”
“What if our religion was each other. If our practice was our life. If prayer, our words. What if the temple was the Earth. If forests were our church. If holy water–the rivers, lakes, and ocean. What if meditation was our relationships. If the teacher was life. If wisdom was self-knowledge. If love was the center of our being.” Ganga White, teacher and exponent of Yoga and founder of White Lotus, a Yoga center and retreat house in Santa Barbara, CA
“Every pair of eyes facing you has probably experienced something you could not endure.” Lucille Clifton
Thank you for sharing your love of words. Comments will appear after moderation.
Poet and writer, I was once columnist and associate editor of a regional employment publication. I currently run this site, The Poet by Day, an information hub for poets and writers. I am the managing editor of The BeZine published by The Bardo Group Beguines (originally The Bardo Group), a virtual arts collective I founded. I am a weekly contributor to Beguine Again, a site showcasing spiritual writers. My work is featured in a variety of publications and on sites, including: Levure littéraure, Ramingo’s Porch, Vita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation Press, The Bar None Group, Salamander Cove, Second Light, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman. My poetry was recently read by Northern California actor Richard Lingua for Poetry Woodshed, Belfast Community Radio. I was featured in a lengthy interview on the Creative Nexus Radio Show where I was dubbed “Poetry Champion.”
Jamie Dedes' THE POET BY DAY Webzine 