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“Phantom Limbs” . . . and other poems in responses to your last Wednesday Writing Prompt

“Do not ask your children
to strive for extraordinary lives.
Such striving may seem admirable,
but it is the way of foolishness.
Help them instead to find the wonder
and the marvel of an ordinary life.
Show them the joy of tasting
tomatoes, apples and pears.
Show them how to cry
when pets and people die.
Show them the infinite pleasure
in the touch of a hand.
And make the ordinary come alive for them.
The extraordinary will take care of itself.”

William Martin, The Parent’s Tao Te Ching: Ancient Advice for Modern Parents [recommended – read it too late and wish I’d read it sooner. Would be a great holiday gift for young and/or about to be parents]

These are responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Zero At Bone and Marrow, November 28, in which I asked folks to write about their children. These poems bare in common the light of love and joy and underpinnings of wisdom, but some are marked by extraordinary pain and courage. It brings to mind one of my preferred reminder quotations from Lucille Clifton “Every pair of eyes facing you has probably experienced something you could not endure.”

Kudos and thanks to Billy Antonio, Paul Brookes, Irma Do, Deb y Felio (Debbie Felio), Sheila Jacob, Mike Stone, Sonja Benskin Mesher, and Anjum Wasim Dar.

In addition to their words, 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.

3 Haiku and a Tanka

ordinary day
the slow unfolding
of butterfly wings
—
the nest
louder than usual
youngest child
—
11th birthday
the tenderness
of a sapling
—
unwrapping
the day
with laughter
my child
turns two

Billy Antonio
Laoac, Philippines

Why So So Hard

Mam?

– I were brung up with pillows
– Pillows are soft Mam.
– Not held over your mouth, love.

– I were given cake.
– Cake’s sweet, Mam.
– Not made of seasalt and road grit, love.

– I were cuddled.
– That’s what I like, Mam
– Till I couldn’t breathe, love.

– I were bring up reight.
– You’re bleeding me, Mam.
– How it should be, love.

© 2018, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration. History. Imagination)

Bairns Are Old Codgers

Before I get taken to play at my soft playcentre,
my one year granddaughter toddles with her zimmer frame.
Later we will take her to the memory cafe
where she’ll remember her past lives.
“Hard”, of before dawn and midnight hours:
A welder in the Clyde shipyard, 1942.
“Stinks that,” she says of the steel shavings, and Swarfega.
“Heavy”, of the hammer…
A kitchen servant in a big house.
“Hurts”, of calloused pestle and mortared deferment…
I’m all giddy at tumble down
slides, scramble nets and ballpools.

From my “A World Where” (Nixes Mate, 2017

© 2018, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration. History. Imagination)

Paul’s Amazon Page U.S. HERE

Paul’s Amazon Page U.K. HERE

More poems by Paul at Michael Dickel’s Meta/ Phore(e) /Play

Prolific Yorkshire Poet, Paul Brookes

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 Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: Jamie Dedes

Twilight Sonata

In the brief twilight of your life

The melody of anger and disbelief

Left my fingers

Caressed your small form

Saturated the ground

Flowed like sorrow

Off the expectant page

This Quadrille is in response to Hélène gorgeous “What do you see?” picture prompt. There are so many lovely details here! Gina’s response to this same prompt, The Music Tree (an absolutely heart wrenching poem), drew my attention to the little figure by the tree. Coupled with Jamie’s Wednesday Writing Prompt, to “write about a child in my life”, and this poem and the next one were born!

I have mentioned in the past about losing my twins, Larissa and Lucas, who were born too early at twenty-three weeks. This Quadrille and the next poem are dedicated to them. They are still and will always be children in my life – their song lives in my heart forever.

Moonlight Sonata: Quasi Una Fantasia

Sitting at the instrument

Of lament and longing

Listening to the moonlight

Touch my eyelids

Willing for this to be fantasy

For you to hear the harmony

Of safety and love

Bookmarking this time and place

So our stardust can, one night, embrace again

This poem is a companion to the Quadrille written for Hélène Vaillant’s and Jamie Dedes’prompts for this past week. It’s a beautiful gift when inspiration strikes twice.

This secondary title of this poem, Quasi Una Fantasia, means “almost a fantasy” and comes from this essay on Beethoven’s famous Moonlight Sonata. I do not listen to a lot of classical music, however this piece I am familiar with since I shed many tears listening to the First Movement after my twins died. That phrase, “almost a fantasy” describes the surreal feelings and thoughts I experienced after I got home from the hospital without my babies in my arms. It also describes the “what if’s”, “if only’s”, and “I should have’s” of the grief experience, as well as the hope that eventually leads to healing.

© 2018, Irma Do (I Do Run, And I do a few other things)

Time Frames

I carried him for nine months and strangers said
‘It will be over before you know it’-
the bulge that kept me slightly off
balance for the last trudging month

until labor started with the pangs and contractions –
but nothing short in that process even
as nurses assured
‘it will be over before you know it’.

Wrapped him in blankets of blue and pink stripes
and then the going home outfit of white and blue,
to begin real motherhood
of crying afternoons
and sleepless nights,
well meaning friends who assured
‘this will be over before you know it’.

Wet diapers, wet beds and my wet shirts,
and those who had been here ahead whispering
‘It will be over before you know it’.

Then rocking and hugging and sweet times
and grandmas saying ‘hold on to this,
it will be over before you know it’.

Crawling, climbing, chewing everything
walking, talking, playing,
toddler to young boy
preschool to kindergarten
‘Help me’ turns to ‘I can do it’
‘Pick me up’ to ‘Let me down’
‘Come with me’ to ‘You stay here’
‘Look at me’ to ‘Leave me alone’.
And he walks away with his backpack loaded
so self assured
and boards the bus
Turning to wave and happy to go
to first grade, then middle school, then
high school

Then driving himself off to college and a future.
I watch and wonder why someone
didn’t tell me

it would be over before I knew it?

© 2018, deb y felio (Writer’s Journey)

Clare And The Summer Of ’76

It was a speedy birth that early
August night after the Midwife
checked your heartbeat
and a Doctor rushed to my side.

He delivered you with forceps
and unlooped the cord
coiled tightly around your neck.
You cried in less than a minute,

stopped only when I cwtched you
in the crook of my arm,
kissed your blood-freckled face.
Then I cried too; in a family

of brunettes, you wore a cap
of woven gold as though
the sun-spun summer of ’76
had filtered through my skin

day by day and beamed
at you in your warm-water cradle,
reflected the light you still offer,
Clare, living the name you own.

© 2018, Sheila Jacob

..africa ..

a slight safari,
the front living room.

we sit there when my
daughter stays
over.

we watch the elephants
and bgt.

i have two living rooms.

the other is in india.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

:: gay pyjamas ::

my daughter says

that pyjamas are cool

on every one,

and she wishes

she could wear them

all the days.

as i plod around

this morning,

mine a gay tartan,

i tend to agree.

perhaps that why

they wore them in china

a long time.

awoke arms high,

a little happier,

since the doc

said i was not broken too bad,

and since the taps stopped running.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

A Moonlight Sonata

Raanana, April 24, 2016

The moon slid down through my open window
On a slippery ramp of pale light
Strangely silent for a child
Falling toward his father’s arms
But then the moon was not a child,
The child had grown older,
And I am just an old man
Rocking in the moonlight.
Words when they have no ears waiting for them
When they are not the words that wanted to be heard
Are swallowed by the vast silence
Like drowned sailors
But your words would have had my ears
And the world I’d have given to hear them.
My suitcase is in the trunk of the cab
You hug me hard
I kiss your forehead and tell you to write
But you’re too young to know the value of words,
You only know the value of grace and loveliness.

© 2016, Mike Stone (Uncollected Works)

A Riddle

Raanana, January 17, 2014

Don’t have much history,
I’m only four days old.
To most of you my name’s a mystery.

I’m the promise of the Promised Land,
I’m the crown on top the tree
Whose roots embrace the sea and sand.

I’m the fullness which you’ll never faze,
There’s nothing you can add or yearn,
These are all the things my name conveys
In a tongue I’ve yet to learn.

My face will launch a thousand rhymes
And maybe I’ll write some of them myself.
My future’s bright-eyed, ‘tween the lines.

If my riddle makes you kneel
Don’t lose heart,
My name is Klil.

© 2014, Mike Stone (Uncollected Works)

Phantom Limbs

Raanana, March 28, 2014

He felt ambiguated
Yes, he thought, that might be the word.
His unbounded happiness had saddened him.
After all, it was bounded
By the foreshortening of his life
From his perspective.
His wide unwieldy wings ached
To enfold his young granddaughter
Whose hair smelt of fresh wheat on a summer hillock.
He wanted to take her in his arms,
His heavy wings thrumping the air
Until slowly rising above the treetops
One with the cobalt sky
They’d soar and swoop
Over quilted fields and shadowed valleys,
Then back for tea and hoops
And lessons.
Back at home
Sometime during the night,
Or was it when he woke?
His wings were gone
But the ache remained
Like phantom limbs.

© 2014, Mike Stone (Uncollected Works)

Ori

Raanana, June 22, 2018

You sit on my shoulders
And I hold your chubby legs
In my calloused hands.
“Look, Saba, a flag!”
“Take care, Oriki, the branches are low,”
I say. He ducks his head
And I duck my knees.
“Look, Saba, the moon!”
And I think my light is weightless
On my shoulders
Like walking on the moon.

Notes:
1. “Saba” means “Grampa” in Hebrew.
2. “Ori” is a name meaning “my light” in Hebrew and “Oriki” is a diminutive of “Ori”.

© 2018, Mike Stone (Uncollected Works)

Little Flame

Raanana, March 25, 2018

I cupped my hands around your little flame
Protecting it from susurrating air
So finite against the infinity of night
Until you rise above the eastern mountains
And light the skies with your burnished rays.

© 2018, Mike Stone (Uncollected Works)

Ellah and the Terebinth

Isaiah 6:13
Raanana, March 18, 2018

Just five days old such big hopes
Rest on such tiny shoulders,
Little Ellah, are you a goddess
Or a terebinth tree?
Your name means both these things.
Maybe you’re the goddess of the terebinth,
The holy seed foretold in Isaiah’s prophecy:
No matter what befalls us,
Like a terebinth that has been felled
Above its grounded roots
We shall grow back,
Stronger
Taller
Sweeter.

© 2018, Mike Stone (Uncollected Works)

Mike Stone’s Amazon Page is HERE.

15936366_10154898511575747_357900078419670594_o

I never felt the distance before
Nor sensed the silence in the room,
I never missed the familiar footstep
Nor the clutching click of the door;
Now often I think I hear
The soft burr of your bike
Rolling, whirring in the lane
The lifting flick of the gate way latch
And the ‘tick tick’ on the window pane;
At times I see you on the prayer mat
Or in your writing chair;
Where you would sit for hours on end
To read and write and note and plan,
And from time to time
Would turn around, to exchange
A friendly chat;
And now I know why God made sons
Why faith and peace is strong,
When love is true and distances long,
No absence can ever break the bond;
And now I know
How one so close, can be so far away,
No one can show, no one can wait
To stop and pat and wipe your tears away;
My son my dear, in distant land
You are with me, each day
As when I first held your hand
You first opened your eyes,
And tried to say….”Aye”
Time moved on and time moves on
Time is just fair
My son My dear, in another land,
You are not here ….
You left the footsteps in the sand;
I know… I wake up with a start,
You are forever in my heart;
Your helmet heavy in your hand,
I see you, standing there.

© 2018, English and Urdu translation and photograph,  Anjum Wasim Dar (Poetic Oceans, Poetry for Peace and Reform)

Translation in Urdu

203

اس سے قبل فاصلوں کا مجھے ،احساس نا ہوا تھا کبھی
نہ ھی ستاروں میں بستی خامشی روح میں سماعی تھی

جو تمھارے کمرے میں، چاندنی بن کر ٹہری ھوی تھی
وہ قدموں کی چاپ ، اور دستک دروازے پر ھلکی سی

مگر اب اکثر

موٹر بایک ، ھلکے سے گلی میں ٓاتی سنای دیتی ھے
گیٹ کھلنے کی اھٹ،کھڑکی کے شیشے پر ٹک ٹک
سنای دیتی ھے

مگر اب اکثر

کبھی  کبھی جاے نماز پے یا  پڑھنے والی کرسی پے
جہاں گھنتوں بیتھے سوچتے لکھتے پڑھتے رہتے تھے تم

اور گاھے بگاھے رک رک کے مڑ ٘٘مڑ کے کوی نہ کوی
اچھی باات کرنے کو تیار ، اور اب  یہ بات سمجھ   میں ٓای

اللاہ نے بیٹے  کیوں بنایے اور یہ بھی سمجھ میں ٓای کہ
امن اور ایمان  کی  طاقت کیا   ھے

جب  پیار ھو سچا، فاصلے زیادہ کوی عدم موجود گی
رشتے توڑ نھیں سکتی ،جو دیل کے قریب ھو ، دور نھیں

انتطار کون کرے ،  تسلی دے، انکھون سے موتی چنے
میرے بیٹے پردیس میں  مجھ  سے  دور نھیں ،قریب ھو تم

،جیسے زندگی کی پہلی سانس  ،پہلی بار  ھاتھ  پکڑا، وقت
رکتا نھین چلتا رہتا ھے چلتا رہا ، میرے بیٹے دور دیس میں

پاس نہیں ھو ، پر ریت پے قدموں کے نشاں چھوڑ گعے
مگر مجھے خبر ھے دل میں ھو میرے ھر دم ، ھر لمہا

اپنی  بھاری ھلمٹ  اٹھاے ھر دم دیکھوں تمہیں سامنے

دور نھیں ھو تم

© 2018,Anjum Wasim Dar (Poetic Oceans, Poetry for Peace & Reform)

“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.

ABOUT

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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.”

 The BeZine: Waging the Peace, An Interfaith Exploration featuring Fr. Daniel Sormani, Rev. Benjamin Meyers, and the Venerable Bhikkhu Bodhi among others

“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

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“.end games.” . . . and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

“So I don’t think I’ll make Poet Laureate,
but I swear I’m not twisted and bitter,
If finely-wrought talents
don’t weigh in the balance,
I can always write haiku on Twitter.”

Rosy Cole, The Twain: Poems of Earth and Ether

A bit behind here due to recuperating from an unexpected and rather protracted hospital stay (thanks in part to California wild fires), but here we are at last: These moving and deeply felt poems are in response to the last Wednesday Writing prompt, the flautist wears a shaman’s headress (on the chaos in the world, the configurations of cruelty), November 14. Thank you to Kakali Das Ghosh, Jen E. Goldie, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Marta Pombo Sallés, and Anjum Wasim Dar for sharing their thoughts and talents, including photographs.

In addition to their words, 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 later today for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are welcome including beginning and emerging poets. Poems in languages other than English are welcome as long as they are accompanied by a translation into English.

My Obsess

Your blue eyes
So deep but surged
I wished to swim
and be merged

I longed to play with you
But they called me shameless
Withered all my flowers were
Their clutches -my obsess

I longed for wings
I desired for a blue sky
They tied my dreams
and bade goodbye

Why I’m so confined
Should I now be blind
Why do they blame me
I just tried a Freedom to find

© 2018, Kakali Das Ghosh

“The price of order is dictatorship.
The price of democracy is chaos”. Jamie Dedes

To this I have to say:

There is a shadow
in my light,
That wants to
take away the joy,
the naivete,
and sense of security,
That I have had
in Mankind….

© 2018, Jen E. Goldie

I was a 50’s child. We were fairly sheltered no doubt,
because of the hardships our elders went through before us.
I was lucky, pampered and did not do without. But as I grew up
and the 60’s and 70’s crept in, I heard Chants like “MAKE LOVE
NOT WAR”. Although I was not perceivably effected by this, or
knowingly effected, I must have been. I wrote prolifically as I
grew to be aware of the world around me.

-DID I SAY IT WAS SWEET-
In all reality the fight is never the reward,
If reward there be.
They take the good times when they find them,
They step on those who could intentionally
Destroy them.
They never enjoy the good times but for themselves.
They would take the bread from your plate;
They would see you starved and boiled for oil
when they needed light. They never want to give.
The loss they suffer is their humanity
And sense of joy.
They are Dark People with shining faces.
They would challenge your integrity to win a fight.
Fortunately, they do not live around every corner.
If they did, God help us all.
The war would have begun and ended Mankind,
Long ago….

© 2018, Jen E. Goldie

.end games.

women of everywhere help each other talk clearly and predict the state of the sea

women of dolgellau are strong define them selves

the problems

x

a wonder you are not worried sitting there quite nicely watching politics again you are not shaking you were last week

x

one hundred years

x

some of us have changed our thinking to suit our life

end games

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

it is raining today
quite hard .
sounds constant.

we are dry, safe ,
lucky in our lot, to be born
here.

i have heard the news today.

it is so bad.

there will be gusts of 35 miles
an hour moving north.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

some days my world is small here, so….

.. today across the lane..

he is splitting logs & sawing

in the sun

they will go at the back where the wind

blows round

kenny says they take years to dry

he knows his stuff

i broke the mower & have two

strimmers that work

cut the paths

tenderly leaving the flowers to grow

we try not to go out here bank holiday

week ends

so a rest indoors now

with

ARTURO MARQUEZ – DANZÓN Nº 2; GUSTAVO DUDAMEL
in blue writing

as if

it is important

you see

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

violet white flower

A Raindrop In Your Desert

I am a dew drop in your desert
You are a pearl in my ocean
In this groaning world
It’s either dust or turbulent waters.

You’d die of thirst
I’d wish to die in a raging flood
But long ago the flood found me
By deceit I was swept away
By this neoliberal world.

Unveiling its darkness
Three bullets besiege our souls:
Overwork
Stole our precious time
“Bang”
Reload, two more rounds

I miss that I don’t read anymore
I’m subserviant to those who make the time
For personal growth, artistic reflection on self

Still as rocks we cannot be
Chipped away or burned to ashes
Awaiting Einaudi’s Divenire?
What will we become?

As Queen Bohemian’s Rapsody
Carries me by the headphones away
Part of me sees hope in surrender to the mundane
The other part of me only defeat
Amid the storm and its crashing waves

Hardened
Multilayered skins?

Each layer is a bullet fired
Against their system.

Layers of art and poetry lines
Our little raindrops in the desert.

I am a raindrop in your desert.
But unfortunately I cannot provide
All the rain a friend like you would need.
No rainy day friend.

If I could just make it rain
As it did yesterday in my town
After so many months of silence
I felt its sound and cadence
The humid touch on my skin.

This would be the rain
For a no rainy day friend.
Yet I am still a raindrop in your desert.

Dyed my hair red passion today
As I would just dye the wide ocean
And red would be the love we all need
Where three things must always be:

Your willpower, your talent and
The third, the most difficult
Of all the things to achieve, is
The opportunity,
Someone’s willingness, as you say
A world that mentors that love.

Marta wrote this poem in collaboration with Donald Standeford.  She recommends his blog.

© 2018 Marta Pombo Sallés (Moments)

Cruelty, Thy Name Is Blood

gaza
O for whom the blood flowed first
when we were the young children
we knew by which enemy for what
cause reason or  division of landwe lost hundreds and hundreds then
we got the land for faith and peace
we knew the flag and leadership
but down the line,lost was the grip
somewhere entered the evil mind
slashing loyalty leaving faith behind
everything further divided destroyed
killers shooters n enemies employedlife became money and money life
race to be rich in struggle and strife
a freedom attained became enchained
freedom protests in free country life-strangest demand with song n dance

putting the children young in a trance                                  IMAG0266
once again we know the enemy for sure
but a nation dead, not alive anymore–when beauty salons and fashion grow
destructive decline of civilizations show
O people where did you lose the way?
is faith weak, have we gone astray?For whom the warm blood flows now?
gold of hemlock  have we drunk
growing greed  broken kin ships
how deep have we, in Lethe sunk?

what does it mean in a world, free?
are we free, then still ask, to be free ?
why palestinian people every day die,

 blinded with  pellets are the kashmiris ?

but death is rampant brutal and rude
we have forgotten  Aad and Samood
death will visit again,who knows
to separate lives, leave bodies in pain

smiling young innocent laughter
quietened for ever in every country
grieved, shocked at butchering blows

IMG_2286

O For Whom,the blood so young flows ?

helpless I feel but write I must
wake up faith, let us be just
rise repent, follow the true path
before as dust, we all return,to dust.

پہلے کس کے لیے خون کے دریا بہے ،
جب ہم بچے تھے ،
ہم جانتے تھے دشمن کو پہچانتے تھے
کس نے زخم لگاءے وار کیے وطن کو کاٹ دیا بانٹ دیا ،
سینکڑوں بچحڑ گےء قرباں ہوءے
امن و ایمان کی خاطر ، ہم اپنے جھنڈے کو سمجھتے تھے ،
اپنے قاعد کی دل سے عزت کرتے تھے
مگر افسوس ، کیا ہوا ؟ وقت کا دریا طوفانی رہا ،
پانی اس کا خونی رہا ،
کشتی بھنور میں پھنستی رہی ڈو لتی رہی
کہیں شیطانی زہن جاگا وفاداری دفناتے ہوے ء
لوٹنے کا جال بچھایا ،
ایمان کو روندا ،تباہی پھیلاءی
قاتل دشمن لٹیرے فریبی جھوٹے لالچی لاتا رہا بناتا رہا
جب فیشن اور اراءش و جمال کے ادارے بڑھیں
تو قوموں کا زوال ہوتا ہے ۔۔کہاں راستہ بھولتے گےء
اب کس کے لیے گرم خون بہایا ؟
کیا سونے کا زہر پی لیا ہم نے ؟
بھول گءے قوم آد و سمود ،
کیا دنیا آزاد ہے اور پھر بھی آزادی کی طلب گار ہے ؟
کیوں کشمیر جل رہا ہے ؟
فلستیں کا خون بہ رہا ہے؟
موت ہر طرف پھیل رہی ہے ؟
کیوں ظلم ہو رہا ہے ؟ اور رک نہیں رہا ہے .؟
کیا انساں کا کھیل بن چحکا ہے ؟
ظلم و ستم چوری اور لوٹ مار بس
بے قصور مسکراہٹ سرد ہو رہی ہے
ہر قوم ملبے تلے دب رہی ہے
اب کس کے لیے خون بہ رہا ہے ؟
بے بس ہوں مگر بے حس نہیں ہوں میں ،
آواز اپنی اٹھاوں گی ، لوگوں کا ایماں جگأو نگی
جاگو جاگو ایماں والو سمجھ بوجھ اور عقل والو
اٹھو استغفار پڑھو سیدھی راہ پے چل نکلو
اس سے پہلے کہ خاک سے بنے
خاک میں ملے پھر واپس خاک ہو جاوء تم
مالک نے بنایا انساں کو اشرفلمخلوقات نرم حلیم ابتر
کیوں انساں بنا اک خون پیتا قتل کرتا ظالم خونخوار جانور
دنیا کی تباہی جنگ و جدل چور بزاری کا حسین پیکر
کیا مالک نے ایسا ہی سوچا اس پیاری دنیا کا منظر ؟
نہیں نہیں نہیں نہیں

© 2018, Anjum Wasim Dar (Poetic Oceans)

 

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“Licking Wounds Ain’t Penicillin” . . . and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Promp

“Austerity is theft, the greatest transfer of wealth from poor to the rich since the enclosures.” Fuad Alakbarov, Exodus

“Remember when nurses, carers, teachers and students crashed the stock market, wiped out banks, took billions in bonuses and paid no tax? No, me neither.”  Fuad Alakbarov, Exodus

A stellar response to the last Wednesday Writing prompt, Some Kind of Hell to Pay, November 7. Thank you to Gary W. Bowers, Irma Do, Jen E. Goldie, Sonja Benskin Mesher, and Anjum Wasim Dar for sharing their thoughts and talents. Special thanks to Irma and Anjum for including illustrations and to Irma for sharing further thoughts. Well done eveyone and welcome to Ursula Jacob with her aware and deeply felt poem.

In addition to their words, 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.

Licking wounds ain’t penicillin, No
It ain’t dinner cause you feed me a line.
Don’t lower the bar, gift me keys to a car
I swear ya’ll tryin to keep a girl blind!

I have seen poverty
Handed down
Heirlooms

Abuse and affliction
But I tell you, little sister,
We must start a fire

Burn it down
Oppression
In the guise of assistance

Oh, I am talking revolution

Handed down
Inner fire, explosive impact
Knowledge of your worth

© 2018, Ursula Jacobs 

URSULA JACOBS has taught journaling for healing in shelters and jails.  When not busking as a cellist and providing resources to the indigent, Ursula, her husband, and cat Tilly, call the Piney Woods of Texas their home. She is an emerging poet that has been published by The BeZine and is working on a chapbook of poetry.

 

 

in order

in order for us to afford you
a chunk of you must go to war
a chunk will return
with some chunks gone and yearn
for the nonhellish sweettimes of yore

thus we make and deploy stocks of ordnance
and our colonels and sergeants show spine
for their new marching orders
defending the borders
and plumping that fine bottom line.

© 2018, Gary W. Bowers (One With Clay, Image and Text)

Once Slice of Bread

Uncle, why only one slice of white bread?

Something is happening, what is it I dread?

Oh dear, don’t worry, it will all be just fine.

Just do as you’re told and toe the line.

But Uncle I see others have food on their plate.

And yours, above all, looks deliciously great.

Look, I need more sustenance than you.

Do you realize all the work that I do?

Now go to bed and do as you’re told.

Nothing will come from you being bold.

Uncle, what do those letters say?

I need to read if I am to stay.

Who says you’re staying, impertinent imp!

School is expensive, we just have to scrimp.

But Uncle I am working hard, too.

I pay for my clothes and give my extra to you.

Of course you do, that’s the only way.

How else can we live if you don’t slave away?

Now go to bed. That is not a choice.

I’m starting to get really annoyed at your voice.

Uncle, it just doesn’t seem fair.

I put in my time. You know that I care.

But it seems that I am the only one

These austerity measures will make me undone

Well, if that happens, it’s your own fault!

You’re not strong enough, clearly not worth your salt.

It’s because of you that we need these measures today

Always wanting to help others who have lost their way.

But Uncle, that was the right thing to do!

Shouldn’t we share with those who have few?

We have so much, but you’re saying we don’t.

Yet you still seem to be able to buy all you want.

Those are things that are my due.

I deserve more things than you.

Look at me! Why can’t you agree?

All you want are things for free.

And that’s why these cuts are your burden to bear.

Being in the middle, you should be aware.

Now go to bed, let these issues unfold.

Just be glad only a few things need sold.

Oh Uncle, why did you sell your soul?

For personal wealth, was that your goal?

I came to you with stars in my eyes.

I thought you were strong and honest and wise.

Together, we could have done so well!

But now I fear we will both go to hell.

Uncle Sam you ask so much of me.

I have so much less, yet you ask for more austerity.

What about healthcare, a decent wage and fair representation?

Or respect for my genders or religious affiliation?

On my back, you’ve created this fantasy,

And now you still just want to grab my pussy?

I’ve had enough. I won’t go to bed.

I deserve much more than one slice of bread.

This was a difficult poem to write for Jamie Dedes’ Wednesday prompt of “austerity measures”. She writes “The phrase “austerity measure” isn’t used as much now as it was when I wrote this poem, but that injustice by other name or unnamed is still an injustice and it’s one that is happening all over the world.”

I had never heard that term before reading Jamie’s poem. I had always associated austerity with something that saints did, something positive, like sacrificing or doing without for the greater good. The term “austerity measures” is actually a financial term to denote an action by government to decrease its debt by increasing taxes while cutting spending on wages and programs (usually for the poor). So it’s something government imposes on its populace with those who are most in need, shouldering the burden of these measures. I will add that the financial definition does note that the tax cuts should be for the wealthy, however, I have a “feeling” that those cuts would depend on who is in government.

Families also implement austerity measures. I know my family did – growing up and being immigrants here, however, I know my parents took the brunt of those measures and did without, so that us children would not need to know that we were financially struggling. Of course, as kids, we still knew that other people had more than we did, but it wasn’t a hardship, just what our family did to live within our means.

Money has so many different meanings for different people. Our attitudes towards money, saving/spending are shaped by our upbringing and experiences. I wonder if austerity measures would be less of an injustice if it wasn’t imposed, if we all agreed to tighten our belts a little for the good of all. Whether a family, a company or a country – could there be compassion in financial matters?

©️ 2018, Irma Do (I Do Run, And I Do a Few Other Things Too)

The Bottomless Well

The rush of racing society,
The red, bloody riots,
The protesting children,
And teetering wars,
On an eternal
Merry-Go-Round.

On the stretching streets,
Lonely, curious, needy,
Men, Women and Babies,
The need for survival.
See the inquiring eyes
Plucked out.

Oh Run! Grasping
the veil of ignorance,
The hurt is stinging,
and
Stomachs are Pits of Hell!
Hide Society’s shame,
In Histories
bottomless well…

© 2018, Jen E. Goldie

Time Will Tell

You say you don’t
want war,
Yet happenstance
could take you there,
Like a whispered phrase
passed from one to another,
becomes a monster in the end.
Time will tell if perchance
we fall again
into another hell……..
With fear to guide them
instead of Peace….

© 2018, Jen E. Goldie

The Answer I Fear

Who are you
that seeks supremacy
by discarding your soul,
and condemning
men, women and children
in aid of your success.
Is it your fear?
Your fear of threat,
That leads you to chance?
And your sons and daughters
to starvation and death?
The Answer I fear is YES………..

© 2018, Jen E. Goldie

. no comfort .

squirm with fear and emotion, at what is written.

freeze at the next sentence, it has nothing to

do with you.

laugh yet is it with nervousness?

these are new remarks, a new way to learn.

a group of friends here, it is the new laws

that cause discomfort.

the type of coffee is reduced,

all in lower case.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

..irony..

oddly rhymes with posterity

austerity

the irony

how can they make such rigid stuff
from soft wools

take the thing then
harden it.

they say it will last a lifetime

hold its own

tradition

in the cold frozen

the code will not work,

nor will the counting with interruptions

austerity rhymes

with irony

not posterity

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Alas! Lost Is the Identity

Urdu and English

 

 افسوس  کسے  رہی  پہچان‪barmecide supper‬‏ کیلئے تصویری نتیجہ

جہاں سے بے خطر  آتش نمرود  میں کود پڑے عشق 
افسوس کیسے  رہی  پہچان  اس  عقل ے لبے  بام  کی

نقش  کییے چھوٹے سے پردے  پر سبھی ،دل سے
نہیں ،کیمرے  سے کی عزت اس عزت افزا  مقام کی

جب رشوت  سے ہی  ہر کام پورا  ہو جانے  لگے تو
آرام ہی کر لو  کیا ضرورت  ہے  سچے  کام  کی

الله کا وعدہ رزق  و روزی  زندگی و موت  سبھی
پھر بے حساب  خواہش  کیوں کی  رزق  حرام  کی

بے مقصد  تعلیم سے  کہیں  بہتر  خدمت  خلق کرنا ہے
خوش رہو  سادگی  اپناؤ  بد نامی نہ کرو نیک گمنام   کی

بےحسی  ظلم  و تکبر  لالچ و فریب  کا  راج  ہے
غربت میں اموات  طفلے کثیر امیری میں فکربس طعام کی 

امن  امن اور بس امن چاہے  دنیا  میں جنگ و جدل نہین
کیوں  انسانیت کے دلوں  کو  دکھی کرے خبر قتل عام کیی

سنجیدگی  سادگی خود انکاری  کا راستہ اپناؤ اور چلے  چلو 
کسی سے نہ انصافی  نہ ہو ،کرتے رہو  فکر اپنے انجام کی 

  مسلو نہ کوئی گلاب  نہ روندو پیروں تلے اک کیڑا بھی
یہ  نازک سی  جانیں  تمہارے لیے جہنم نہ بن جایں کہیں 

اک حسین  دھوکہ  ہے  یہ ساری  کائنات  انجم جاگتے رہو
پنجرہ  ے  خاکی  میں  دعا  ے خیر  ہوتی رهے،گردشے ایام کی 

unflinchingly  faith plunged in Nimrod’s fire, alas
no one remembers the fringe of discerning wisdom

all  sacred images captured on the mini screen,not
from the heart, but from the camera clicked  respect

when bribery gets all work done , why not rest
and relax , is there a need for  truthful honest work ?

God has promised food and  sustenance, life and death
then why do human beings desire  forbidden wealth ?

serving humanity is better than  aimless education
be joyful in simplicity  disrepute not unknown ones

apathy  cruelty pride greed deception reign supreme
in poverty children perish, in richness nothing but food

peace peace and peace should prevail,not war and strife
why the hearts of humanity be hurt by mass killing of life

follow the path of solemnity self denial and simplicity
no injustice for any soul,  just beware the consequences

do not crush an insect nor pluck a beautiful scented rose
in beauty and minuteness hell may visit unseen, asking for pay’

enlightened be anjum, counter delusive Barmecide’s feasts
with constant spiritual prayers for safety from the unforeseen

© 2018, Anjum Wasim Dar (Poetic Oceans)

ABOUT

Testimonials
Disclosure
Facebook
Twitter

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.”

* The BeZine: Waging the Peace, An Interfaith Exploration featuring Fr. Daniel Sormani, Rev. Benjamin Meyers, and the Venerable Bhikkhu Bodhi among others

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

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“Veil Required” … and other poems in response to last week’s Wednesday Writing Prompt


“Falling in love is very real, but I used to shake my head when people talked about soul mates, poor deluded individuals grasping at some supernatural ideal not intended for mortals but sounded pretty in a poetry book. Then, we met, and everything changed, the cynic has become the converted, the sceptic, an ardent zealot.” E.A. Bucchianeri, Brushstrokes of a Gadfly

These responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, the bride wore yellow, October 31, 2018 give us a peek into perspectives, ideals, joys, challenges, complexities, and disappointments in weddings, marriage and relationships. Well done and much thanks to Billy Antonio, Gary W. Bowers, Irma Do, Deb y Felio (Debbie Felio), Jen E. Goldie, Sonja Benskin Mesher, and Anjum Wasim Dar.  Special thanks to Irma and Anjum for including artwork.  Bravo!

In addition to their words, 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.

aged wine…
the couple renew
their vows

© 2018, Billy Antonio
Laoac, Pangasinan, Philippines

veil required

the groom-to-be
would just not be
dissuaded:
he had to have
a bride who had
a veil.

and thus and sewn
a veil was grown;
it shaded
his beauty’s face
her Wordless Grace
so pale.

all words were said.
she raised her head
he lifted
the nylon net
revealing
radiant
joy.
their loops arrived,
and, uncontrived
and gifted,
that mellow Kiss–
that This–
was Girl
and
Boy.

© 2018, Gary W. Bowers (One With Clay, Image and Text)

Marriage Bound – A Cascade Poem

We signed this paper

We are legally bound

The hard work begins

We climbed the steps and waited in line

On our lunch hour

We signed this paper

That night we fought

You slept on the couch

We are legally bound

Morning came

You made me coffee

The hard work begins

Another cascade poem about a relationship, this one responding to Jamie Dedes’ Wednesday prompt to write about weddings or marriage. She states, “As with all human institutions and traditions, weddings and marriages can be very mixed things.”

I wholeheartedly agree with this. Weddings are often fraught with family drama – it’s like all major holiday dinners with two entire families who are staying in one small house all rolled into one day.

After the wedding, marriage itself is a mixed bag of highs and lows. Some couples do call it quits when the lows seem too much but for other couples, those marriage vows, that piece of paper, is permanently binding. Barring any type of abuse, these couples put in the hard work to maintain their commitment.

Relationships are mentally, emotionally and physically demanding. Sometimes love is enough to get us through. Sometimes we need a little more – from our partner, family, friends, from ourselves. But in the end, we all still hope to say, “It was worth it.”

©️ 2018, poem, commentary and photograph,  Irma Do (I Do Run)

At Sea

He’d be my anchor
to hold me steady
He’d be my rudder
when I was ready
to be steered
and grasped
for journey’s maps

it sounded safer
to have such care
for when in life
I had been scared
of life, of me
looking past
the shorelines vast

but years stretched
the anchor weighed
life down and rudder
circled / stayed
in place, close in
to that land
of crystal sand

the winds were strong
to fuel the past
I cut the rope
on sail at last
no longer held
by ancient dreams
new horizons gleam

I can never know
what would have been
or even now will be
but let it in
my own accord
a path ahead
explore unled

Night is coming
undenied
and I am crossed
to the other side
through opened door
my skiff and me
unmoored and free.

© 2018, Deb y Felio

TANDEM: A word that only lovers
understand.
MARRIAGE: A state where tandem
should be true.
DESIRE: A thing that marriage
should but will.
Would that tandem were the way,
And put marriages at bay,
Let Lovers have their say……….

© 2018, Jen E. Goldie

..cypher spoken clear..

passed over by accident, the
thing occurred naturally,
without clerics. without beatitude.

given by friendship, yet
piety slowly eroded.

they come now with learning,
holding large words, a different language.

the charm now gone,
perhaps they did not need it any more.

once again, it is said, that,
they speak latin. made
the word bleed.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

.once in france.

he sat on the step in the heat, I, sickly dozed under the damson tree. lizards flicked. while in the village below this hill music played. a wedding.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

..spoon..

it is an ancient place,
oswald’s tree, the floor
bends, polished wood.

there was a wedding yesterday,
all kilted, the groom ate pie,
wore proper shoes with segs.

she showed me a cabinet, a spoon,
hand forged, old, beaten for sale.

i was travelling, a pretty
place, not good enough for some.

the bottle is crooked,

we left it
so.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

I Locked My Heart and Let the Key Drift in the River

Urdu and English

وقت  جو گزر گیا  اک  خواب  سا  لگتا ہے
اب یہ  سوچتی ہوں  کہ  حقیقت  کیا  ہے
جب ہر  کام   میں  الله  پر  بھروسہ  کر  لیں
تو پھر  فکر و  پریشانی  کی ضرورت  کیا  ہے
کتنا  جھوٹ  بھرا ہے  آج کے انسانوں میں
سچ  کہاں ہے  اور  صداقت  کیا  ہے
ہر ایک  کو فکر  ہے بس اپنی ذات کی
ہمدردی  کہاں  ہے  انسانیت   کیا  ہے
دکھ درد  سے  بھری  ہے  یہ  دنیا سری
بیکاری  بیماری  کی  یہ  حالت کیا  ہے
اپنے  بھی  پراے  بن  جاتے  ہیں  جب
چاہیں  تو  اپنا لیں  پھر  چاہت  کیا ہے
بکتی  ہیں  بازاروں  می  علم  کی سندیں
محنت  و  لگن  و  ذہانت   پھر  کیا  ہے
دھڑکتے  دل  پے تالا  ہے چابی  دریا میں
گر  چاہت  گناه  ہے  تو پیار و محبت کیا ہے

Time that is past,seems like a dream
now I think about what certitude is

when for everything we trust the Almighty
then for worry and stress, no need is

how full of deception is humanity today
where faith righteousness and truth is

individuality narcissism reigns supreme
then where empathy compassion pity is

the world is replete with pain and grief
what nauseating malady, disease this is

knowledge is sold, in markets hot,openly
what then dedicated effort and vision is

I locked my heart and threw the key adrift
if desire is a sin then what love n affection is

© 2018, Anjum Wasim Dar (Poetic Oceans)
Green and Yellow Weddings, Color or Collar

متعلقہ تصویر                                                 10931594_10153064832645747_809812903100677600_o (1)A Wedding in gold in green and yellow, green soft and yellow bold 
A Time to become the wanted and the unwanted, to feel hot and cold,
Be the, Special One, of the rare species, definitely, surely be in a color
and maybe sooner before you can  say cock robin, be in a collar’.

I  must apologize  for my distraction by nature ,
but being born under the Gemini  Skies I cannot
help being either Castor or Pollux-whichever is me,
I am a Human for I can see hear eat lie and cheat

mock taunt smile sleep grab and command and
write believe me I belong to a humble and honest
uh the Race that has inhabited this greener Planet
for centuries and made a humble  smelly mess of it.

and thus in this  ailing failing binding mending
cunning stunning weeping keeping entertaining
side of life one is selected decorated and collected
along with gold cash furniture house and boarding

yellow yellow all over, in flower bower and cover
in drums and dance in drinks and feast till over
in the loudness of music, drowns the fear n tear
the savage side of possession command n cheer

there reigns more hurt and pain and  complaints
a bondage a commitment a promise of  affection
forgiveness patience courage and  conviction of
of sacrifice support of honor  and appreciation

but an image horrific looms large  and long
unwashed dishes,ants crawling in line
anger  aggression   insults subtle and fine
depression loneliness  forgetfulness of the divine

how soon the green mixing with yellow withers
away, the fragrance  fades and  flowers decay
the joy of togetherness drags and drifts away
and all love ‘soon dies in its own too much’ a day

a wedding is a promise if one makes it then one should keep it

© 2018, photos and poem, Anjum Wasim Dar (Poetic Oceans)

ABOUT

Poet and writer, I was once columnist and the associate editor of a regional employment publication. Currently I 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 River Journal, The Bar None Group, Salamander Cove, Second Light, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman

* The BeZine: Waging the Peace, An Interfaith Exploration featuring Fr. Daniel Sormani, Rev. Benjamin Meyers, and the Venerable Bhikkhu Bodhi among others

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