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A Long Day’s Journey Into Montana . . . and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

Photograph courtesy of Zoltan Tasi, Unsplash

“if i knew what the artist knows,
i would surely respond soul and body
to the echo of the Ineffable in rough earthy things

i would not fear decay or work left undone
i would travel like the river through its rugged, irregular channels
comfortable with this life; imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete”
Wabi Sabi, Jamie Dedes (inspired by Wabi-Sabi for Artists, Designers, Poets & Philosophers by Leonard Koren



And this being Tuesday, here are the wonderful, inspired, and through-provoking poems from the poets who came out to play in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt and poem, The Art of Reinvention, April 29. I have no doubt that you will enjoy these poems by Anjum Wasim Dar, Irma Do, Frank McMahon, Sandra Benskin Mesher, Ben Naga, Nancy Ndeke, Eric Nicholson, Adrian Slonaker, and Mike Stone.

Do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are welcome: beginning, emerging, and pro poets.


She said…
My birth was a reinvention, nature’s just intervention,
against worldly desirous selfish, the spirits conspired.

Ever since I opened my eyes and saw Land Ahoy’
my caretaker’s faces fell, Oh it’s a girl, not a boy’

O boy, O boy, how I lost all attention, in the newly
found dimension, and to adapt to the Earthly code

I was reinvented from a ‘star’ to the human mode,
Life was all peaceful joy, lots of frolic and fun

Books pens and colors, my best teacher was a nun,
all good till I grew a bit, life then pointed a loaded gun

Not a golden buttercup, nor a bed of red roses, life was
a journey with hypertension and little comprehension

Flashes of love, commands, reprimands, and countless
demands, as ‘you girl, stop romping like a tomboy, restless’

Reinvention began early in skin and bone , a change enforced
had to leave and move away from the personal comfort zone.

Repeated bouts of illness drenched me in sweat and pain
I came under the surgeon’s knife again and again and again.

So she said

Destined to shine in a constellation up high, for a purpose,
sacredly pure, nature tested experimented me for sure

Called ‘short’ in height and low on the scales, actively smart
at home with three sisters I became ‘The prince of Wales.’

The young carefree part was over too soon, reinvention
returned to transform me into a bride, wife and mother.

What people saw was a lucky lady, sari clad laden with gold
what my inner self felt was a commodity invented, and sold.

Reinvention did not stop, as roles and health kept changing
from bride to wife, to mother cook , a total maid in the making.

‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on’, all revels will end,
Earth’s surface is emptied, humanity to isolated lock down, sent.

People are reinventing a whole new digital life, a fresh slice,
but this time a tube a mask a cane or wheelchair may not suffice.

So she said

Reinvention is the art, part of life, it is in nature from the start
For all in this world, a role to play, a duty, before we depart.

© 2020, Anjum Wasim Dar

Some Lines

I am but a label in a category
of diverse species, of humanity
surrounded by crows, chicken
and cats,visited by cows, in
company with a grey African parrot,

Sun’s changed position gives light
moon sometimes peeps through the
window at night,silence distorted by
barking dogs, wonder they are angry
or happy at humans locked down.

Unseen ecosystems decaying or
surviving, green or brown,one moment
wood, the next misunderstood, sprayed
netted drowned in fathoms bottomless,
nature changes forms, reinvents, recreates
all terrestrial on Earthly plane, all celestial
in the Milky Way-

and I say
‘All life is forever to be-
O Lord Thou hast made me-
shall thy work decay?’

© 2020, Anjum Wasim Dar

Anjum ji’s sites are:

“POETRY PEACE and REFORM Go Together -Let Us All Strive for PEACE on EARTH for ALL -Let Us Make a Better World -WRITE To Make PEACE PREVAIL.” Anjum Wasim Dar


Red Cup Revisited

The red cup – a fixture in pictures
My focus yet blurred in my mind
Strong and sweet – the fake message
Scared and silenced – the truth
It matched everything
Or so I thought
Remember?
I can
Not
Stop
Drinking
Toss the cup
Where can I drown
This fear of living
Who can I reinvent?
Lost for so long in the mix
I need to climb out of the rocks
Where is the hand holding the red cup?

© 2020, Irma Do

Irma’s site is: I Do Run / And I do a few other things too . . . 


Schrodinger’s Cat

Desperate to avoid reality’s sharp spears,
the walls of his world closing in,
he thought he’d apply for the role
of Schrodinger’s cat. He’d read a bit
about it, liked the idea of being at the same time
somewhere and nowhere.

He thought he’d seen an advert inviting
applications, in a paper or on-line,
he wasn’t sure. He dug around
on the world-wide web, learned that Schrodinger
had died. Or so it said. But how could they be sure?

To be a cat, sure of its identity,
pampered master of the household!
To have nine lives! He’d need those, or one
at least if they sealed him in the steel-
walled chamber, give him for company
an atom, which might decay or then
again might not. And if it did go off, triggering
the deadly charge of cyanide or bomb,
then his other self would be elsewhere
outside the chamber, observing the scientists
or safely ensconced in Harrogate.

He dreamed of this happy feline state.
To be and not to be, that indeed
was the question, inside reality
and outside. It might lead on, perhaps,
to a part in Cats: Eric, the quantum cat.

He fell asleep, humming the Great Escape,
replete with dreams. Until a worm
of doubt began to slither and ruffle
his grey, drowsing cells, led him, nearly,
to the edge of a fundamental question.

© 2020, Frank McMahon

At the Storm’s Edge, Frank’s debut collection, is available through Amazon US HERE and Amazon UK HERE.


.reinvention, day one.

so we have no internet, the

tv went off, we slept lovely.

woke to pouring rain and i

am still in pyjamas,

not a bit angry.

was hoping to write grevious

and nasy, yet without the spell

check i am as nothing.

it is later now, a slight

reinvention.

© 2020, Sonja Benskin Mesher

…reinvention, another day…

seems i have reinvented

everything quieter than before.

wet autumn days or is it winter,

the change comes

gradually.

i dreamed a cloud of

falling leaves, awake to find it is so.

it is so very quiet here today.

© 2020, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Sonja’s sites are:


Unconventional Gambit

Shall I compare thee to a pile of dung
Left, still warm and steaming, by my horse?
So graceful, so well groomed, so well hung.
I describe the creature not myself of course
And pray my words may not, my darling, cause dismay.
Oh forgive a fool whose ardour outruns his tongue.
Should my simple similes offend thee what can I say
But that ’tis from untrimm’d spontaneity they’ve sprung.
If thou wrinkle thy nose at the smell, even sight
Of manure let my lips bid you reconsider the conceit.
Coming upon such ordure to the gardener is a delight
To be shovelled up and carried away tout de suite
For forking it into a bed is surely only but meet.
Without such sustenance would a rose smell so sweet?

© 2020, Ben Naga

Ben’s site is Ben Naga, Gifts from the Musey Lady and Me. “Laissez-moi vous recanter ma vraie histoire.”


Past This Corner.

Names define, like locales and culinary delights,
Faith’s too and the practices demanded,
Routines set, manners and etiquettes,
Arriving at ports of who the outside says we are,
See how the tides disagree,
With the silent wind howling and sweeping,
Knocking sense of old forts down,
Hear the rhythm of anxiety drive leaders to tears,
See the rise of questions over old biases,
Notice the flattening of hills of divisions,
Depths are shallowing with new eyes,
Everywhere a new dawn speaks,
Deference is no longer business as usual,
Indifference is learning a new thing,
Every truism is called for re-evaluation,
Hearts are matching with a light lense,
One not trained to pay allegiance to differentiate,
Reprograming the senses to acknowledge more,
We are back at the drawing board of humanity,
And shocking results bear witness,
That all we held prestigious is hollow,
And those we thought minions are angels,
And that material can be so valueless in times of need,
And that humanity needs a higher power to pull it out of it’s own mess,
Leading fact being,
It’s taken a tempest to teach us to be human again,
Harshness has sent us to observe,
Ever so carefully,
That either,
We reinvent our collective treatment of Earth and earthlings,
Or, tragically,
Man walks the dinosaur road.
Everything teaches.
Let agony teach us repentance ,
Forgiveness and fair play.
Respecting life and it’s sustainer.

© 2020, Nancy Ndeke

Nancy’s Amazon Page is HERE.


In the Shadow of Covid 19

In the garden
daffodils wilt; blossom falls.
Some may see today repeating
like a wind-up toy, while
what may seem hum drum,
the hum of the fridge,
a ticking clock,
the science fiction silence outside,
is the world renewing itself
in each dying moment.
And we too, while honouring
the bitter taste of each
remembered mistake
can fall apart again and again.

© 2020, Eric Nicholson

Eric’s site is: https://erikleo.wordpress.com


Long Night’s Journey Into Montana

Barely cognizant of the college town
just clinging to the jagged western edge
of Big Sky Country
the way a hostage hangs on to hope,
I’d never been to Missoula.
But at three-thirty a.m. last Thursday,
inspired by filtered internet images
and a kind wrestler in a cowboy hat
raised in the region,
I bought a one-way ticket,
concluding that this
must be a place capable of
incubating a fugitive from
stultifying status quos
who’s ghosted
his foot-gazing gait
and pizza-packed paunch,
swapping them for tight-fitting togs
and a swagger that surfaced
once he split from
toxic sap staining a family tree
and a metropolitan apartment
polluted with the vibrations of
vicious self-vilification.

So I spend the plane’s descent
placing a faded denim jacket
over broad, bony kneecaps,
extracting a pocket spiral notebook
adorned with the address of a
hotel-turned-home,
and noting down a new name
that spontaneously becomes
my own.

© 2020, Adrian Slonaker

Use the search feature on this site and on The BeZine to read more of Adrian’s poetry. Worth your time.


Body and Soul

All things physical were once naught,
Became, changed, continued changing,
And will be naught once more,
Whether it is a living breathing thing,
A skyscraper or a star,
And if it was once beautiful
That will also change,
But Plato spoke of ideals,
Perfect and so unchanging,
Untouched by the experience of time,
So impossible in the world of physicality
Yet so real as only souls can be
Where time never was nor will be
And if a soul is beautiful
Then beautiful it will always be.

Except from The Hoopoe’s Call

©2020, Mike Stone

Hope and Despair

There are but two futures to portend:
Hope is one, despair the other.
Despair comes to you from the western horizon
Bearing a large sack on his hunched back
And kerplatzes his fat tuches on your chest,
Plucking reasons why you can’t or shouldn’t
From his heavy sack.
Hope is not a safety net to catch you if you fall
Unless first you put one under you.
Hope comes to you from the east
Bearing nothing but her thin light
To dispel the western darkness.
Hope softly persuades you to change
What you can and must.
She gently pushes you over your nest’s edge
Impossibly high off the ground
So that you may fly
Or die.

Except from The Hoopoe’s Call

© 2020, Mike Stone

Creating a Language

I had a thought one day:
Why not create a special language?
After all, it has been said that
Languages shape the way we think
And likely what we think,
And since we can do whatever we do want,
I would like to change our language.

I would start by getting rid of certain words,
The hateful, hurtful, shameful ones,
The ones we wish we’d never said or heard:
Killing, hurting, raping, stealing,
Cheating, lying, disrespecting,
Boasting, pointing fingers,
Singing na-na na-na,
Warfare, torture, threats, and frightening,
Anger and self-righteousness.
There’s probably more, I’ll let you know
When I think of them.

I wouldn’t get rid of sad words
Since sadness is the other side of happiness
And nothing has just one side.

Then I’d add some brand-new words,
Some words we wished we had but didn’t:
Words that tell you how I really feel,
Rainbow words with all the gradients of feeling,
Like different grades of love,
Powerful words that can do what they say,
Single words that say everything,
Words that make you lift your head to hear them,
Different lengths of silence, like rests in music;
These are words I’d like to add.

Except from The Hoopoe’s Call

© 2019, Mike Stone

I Am What I Am

I’m not what I once was
Neither am I what I will be.
I am what I am
Until death do me part.

Except from The Hoopoe’s Call

© 2019, Mike Stone

To Survive in a Haphazard World

To survive in a haphazard world
In which good and evil are meaningless words
To understand what is happening all around
What has happened and what might happen or not
To feel what is good or evil to oneself and others
To think of what one’s done and not done
What one might do and what one must
To believe what one can’t think through
And to doubt those beliefs when doubts arise
To act when there’s no more time to think
But to stop that action when there’s time to think
Or it’s no longer needed,
These are what a mind is for.

Except from The Hoopoe’s Call

© 2019, Mike Stone

Mike’s website is HERE.

Call of the Whippoorwill is Mike Stone’s fourth book of poetry, It contains all new poems covering the years from 2017 to 2019. The poetry in this book reflects the unique perspectives and experiences of an American in Israel. The book is a smorgasbord of descriptions, empathies, wonderings, and questionings. It is available on Kindle and if you have Kindle Unlimited you can download it as part of your membership. I did.  Recommended. / J.D


Jamie Dedes:

Your donation HERE helps to fund the ongoing mission of The Poet by Day in support of poets and writers, freedom of artistic expression, and human rights.

Poetry rocks the world!



FEEL THE BERN

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

Sticky Summer Morning . . . and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

Photograph courtesy of Martin Widenka, Unsplash

“Perhaps home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition.” James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room



Here now Tuesday and the responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, A New House in the Suburbs, April 22, 2020.  That prompt asked poets to write an ekphrastic poem inspired by this painting.

New House in the Suburbs
1924 – National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC

Today’s responses are gifted to us by Anjum Wasim Dar, Sonja Benskin Mesher, and Adrian Slonaker. I’ve included an old poem of my own. Do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are encouraged: beginning, emerging, and pro poets.


This Is The House

this is the house I dream of and long for
on a beautiful piece of Gods Earth, where I
first cried and opened my eyes, I am told
It was a cool evening of June otherwise hot
It was my Grandma’s house, made of strong
wood and and a roof of iron sheets-

logs burnt in a small brazier kept inside the room-
the place a hill station built around a lake, bordered
by the River Jhelum-houseboats lined the lakeside,
but my grandma’s house was on land, with trees
around a small lawn, and a small vegetable garden

but I have heard only stories about the house
never saw it nor ever will, the real houses are fading
memories,
‘we shall meet in a house in heaven’ father used to
say,’pray for that for that is real’ , and so he left this
world, and grandfather too and grand mother even
before him- all in a home in heaven-

and now we say, ‘stay home stay safe’ as safe as
houses indeed. but not always, not in war with bombs
falling and shells blasting’ but perhaps in a pandemic
of the Corona kind,
O heart mind and soul, true love strong faith breaks all
roofs,distances, spaces and walls
houses or no houses, the faithful are, will be together
all-
all culture erased all traditions wiped out-life’s uncertainty
matters not for new ones, memories survive like tender
butterflies as love and life itself flutters with colors
fragrance and the softness of a pansy flower.

© 2020, Anjum Wasim Dar

Anjum ji’s sites are:

“POETRY PEACE and REFORM Go Together -Let Us All Strive for PEACE on EARTH for ALL -Let Us Make a Better World -WRITE To Make PEACE PREVAIL.” Anjum Wasim Dar


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

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
she saw herself as a victim,
she exhausted her own mother’s charity

when she turned her silence on kinfolk
there was no one else she could
beat upon or say her grief to or even
show her bruises and lacerations ~
except for that wee child of silence,
useless in matters of such magnitude

© 2012, Jamie Dedes

My sites are Jamie Dedes’ The Poet by Day Webzine and The BeZine


..new house in the suburbs..

was not for me

though i imagined it to be

pleasant

i would have wondered how

it could  have been

to live there

new and important

with parents tidy

neat garden and no bashing ever

not in that house

yet

maybe that is where it happened

behind the shiny clapboard

the neat hair and spectacles

foul mouths hidden

tempered by gins those

other nasties

came gathering here

hidden in the shiny

exterior

my honeys

oh really

down in the cellar

not painted so fine

© 2020, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Sonja’s sites are:


Sticky Summer Morning

Daybreak mimicking Homer’s “rosy-fingered Dawn”
(once hammered into my head by a high school literature teacher)
attacked the starkly white aluminum siding
on the boxy property
my parents had built just before I turned two.

They’d never predicted
that an accountant a decade my senior
would someday park his sedan in the driveway
under the basketball hoop –
where my brother and I played “H-O-R-S-E” –
after said sibling and Mom and Dad had departed
for an August adventure in Boston that I’d
flaked out on
following one of our gargantuan arguments

or that the visitor would deflate my dream of what
my deflowering would look like,
unfolding on the family room floor as
a poorly-paced procedure between
a basket of oily onion rings and a
yawning goodbye,
but I didn’t regret the “meh,”
since it had to happen sometime,
and at least I’d proved I wasn’t
too grotesque for sex,
as some of my classmates had concluded,
so I raced through my prayers and nestled
on the settee for an
air-conditioned nap
as a black-and-white sitcom
flickered across the TV.

© 2020, Adrian Slonaker


Jamie Dedes:

Your donation HERE helps to fund the ongoing mission of The Poet by Day in support of poets and writers, freedom of artistic expression, and human rights.

Poetry rocks the world!


FEEL THE BERN

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

Honoring All Nurses, a poem and its backstory by Anjum Wasim Dar

Photograph courtesy of Jesoots.com@jeshoots, Unsplash

“It is impossible to describe exactly what I learn, though I know it lies somewhere between science and art. It is all about the smallest details and understanding how they make the biggest difference.”  Christie Watson, The Language of Kindness: A Nurse’s Story



Anjum wrote me that she’d penned this some years ago. It was originally published in the Pakistan Times. She’s dusted it off in light of the current COVID-19 travesties and the heroism of nurses in response. I value her wish to honor those compassionate health care providers who are putting themselves in harms way for the greater good. / J.D.

The day is near its ending
The sun is slowly sinking,
The black veil of night is spreading,
Covering the day’s golden gown

Air outside is cold, but she is ready
With her cap, cape and coat,
Pen and red pencil, her pockets hold,
Pips and buttons shine like gold

For duty she is bound,
To the ward, she makes her way,
To look after the sick in the dark hours
As they rest and sleep till day

Alone, as midnight strikes, she goes
To give patients the medicine due,
Two gulps of a “mixture’
A ‘capsule’ or ‘tablets’ two

Awake alert ready she will be
To ease the pain and all misery
Never tired never with a frown
Comforting all in painful recovery

Darkness gently slips away
Silence prevails, peaceful and holy
Her duty done, she leaves the ward
As dawn approaches, slowly, slowly

Nurse on Duty

One night as I was about to drop off to sleep a sharp pain in my armpit shook me. I almost screamed. I put my hand where I was feeling the pain and my heart missed a beat. There was a hard lump there. 

Terrified, I felt a shiver run down my spine. I realized I was running a fever. Should I wake my mom who was dead tired after a heavy days work.? No, wait, the inner voice said. I don’t remember how I spent the night, my pillow was wet with tears of pain and  fear.  In the morning I was taken to the hospital, a military hospital.  Upon evaluation, surgery was recommended and then followed the most unforgettable eleven days of my life.

On that first day, I was struck by the smiles on the nurses faces, a welcoming smiles, reassuring comforting. “No need to worry all will be well,” said Captain Maryam as she tucked me in. I put my head on the white pillow and noted the red blanket that covered the bed. Red was the official color of the blankets of the military hospital. They gave me a sedative and the nurses smiles were a warming touch as I succumbed to a deep oblivion.

The next day the Operation Theatre Nursing Officer: quick, efficient, deft in her handling,  prepared me by helping me put on the gown and suddenly  I was on the operating table.  Presently in came the Surgeon. Then another man walked in with a mask on his face, the nurse held my hand: “Count till ten” . . .  and at  3 … 4……5…I fell asleep.

Four hours later I came to myself and the same tall nursing officer was leaning over me putting plaster across my chest. She covered me with another red blanket. I felt myself being lifted and carried on a stretcher. The ambulance moved slowly I dozed in and out of consciousness. I  vomited from the anesthesia …lost consciousness and later woke up again vomiting. Dozed again and so it went until . . . I don’t know how many hours passed by.

And so it was the care of the nursing officers of that Military Hospital where I spent eleven days and recovered from my critical operation. I was lucky to have a benign tumor but I was more lucky to be under the loving responsible care of the Nursing Angels who gave me the emotional physical and medical care I needed most.

I wrote a poem for them which I wish  to share. Here I would like to Dedicate this story to all the Brave Nurses of the World in this Pandemic time. Day and night they doing  their duty courageously, risking their lives and I will never forget my time of need.

© 2020, Anjum Wasim Dar

Anjum Wasim Dar

ANJUM WASIM DAR (Poetic Oceans) was born in Srinagar (Indian occupied Kashmir) in 1949. Her family opted for and migrated to Pakistan after the Partition of India and she was educated in St Anne’s Presentation Convent Rawalpindi where she passed the Matriculation Examination in 1964. Anjum ji was a Graduate with Distinction in English in 1968 from the Punjab University, which ended the four years of College with many academic prizes and the All Round Best Student Cup, but she found she had to make extra efforts for the Masters Degree in English Literature/American Studies from the Punjab University of Pakistan since she was at the time also a back-to-college mom with three school-age children.

Her work required further studies, hence a Post Graduate Diploma in Teaching English as a Foreign Language (TEFL) from Allama Iqbal Open University Islamabad and a CPE, a proficiency certificate, from Cambridge University UK (LSE – Local Syndicate Examination – British Council) were added to  her professional qualifications.


Jamie Dedes:

Your donation HERE helps to fund the ongoing mission of The Poet by Day in support of poets and writers, freedom of artistic expression, and human rights.

Poetry rocks the world!



FEEL THE BERN

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

If We Lived in a Just World (or Country) . . . and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

Courtesy of Annette Batista Day, Unsplash


“If we lived in a just world (or country)
We wouldn’t raise hopes where there were none to raise
We’d just roll up our sleeves and do the best we could
We’d know the difference between right and wrong
And forget the difference between right and left
We wouldn’t have to choose between our past and our future
Because nobody can take away our past
And nobody should try to take away our future.

– Mike Stone



Well, the computer is finally up and running and I’ve spend a good part of the day catching up on things. Still Tuesday here, but dinner time and at last I can deliver the poems in response to Wednesday Writing Prompt, Beyond Yearning to Hope, April 1, 2020.  That prompt asked poets to focus on right versus wrong, life versus death, on living wages, guaranteed health-care for all, unemployment and labor rights. Dare we move beyond yearning to hope? I think for the most part the answer is equivocal. There’s certainly a sense of moral agreement with regard to the ideals and the abuses but whether or not we can spur compassionate and sensible change remains the question in the air.

This collection – I think an important one in its way –  is courtesy of Paul Brookes, Anjum Wasim Dar, Irma Do, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Nancy Ndeke, Miroslava Panayotova, Adrian Slonaker and Mike Stone.

Do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are encouraged: beginning, emerging, and pro poets.


RSPH OldMoor

From our skies small figures
In camouflage plumage, laden with binoculars
and scopes wend between hides.

We record them as they record us.
We are Royal Society For Protection
of Humans.

Nothing worse than for humans
to sense they have no control
over their landscape

so we make it seem they care
for us, design this site, build the hides,
nurture our nature.

They must feel valued and necessary,
and make their own decisions.
Sometimes the females carry all the equipment.

Stats: 3 Widowers, 2 female single parents
And 3 young, 4 unemployed males, 7 volunteers.

© 2020, Paul Brookes

Paul’s site is The Wombwell Rainbow
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


One Day when I had the time and freedom to go for a walk I met Life on the way–

I went for a walk, to nowhere have I been
my eyes are painful at what they have seen

have stepped on trash rough paper and stones
have bent down to peer at what was ‘real bones’

stray cats dogs cows and goats seemed to wink,
as I wandered near many a strange company

Walking to a book center was heavy on the feet
if school were good I would’ve stayed on the beat

question me not please, for I have no answers
have no words, for humans, living as campers

fumbling empty tins bags bottles and cans
living often without food water, pots and pans

kids roamed, hair disheveled scratching away
hungry, hopeful beyond hope, ignorantly at play

what people are these, are they refugees ?
do they need passports and passes, please

I wanted to be at ease, but restless I felt
there is more than eye can see, the ears

can hear, figures grow, the world thickens
unkempt more, like a place of Charles Dickens

question me not for what more I see
people hit, shot, killed, a girls bleeding body–

Oh now I question myself, about right and wrong
a world for all, a world just, equal, fair and strong

am I awake is this real I ask myself, as I turned back
why can’t I reach for the answers, in- The Book on The Sh

One Day when I had the time and freedom to go for a walk I met Life on the way–

I went for a walk, to nowhere have I been
my eyes are painful at what they have seen

have stepped on trash rough paper and stones
have bent down to peer at what was ‘real bones’

stray cats dogs cows and goats seemed to wink,
as I wandered near many a strange company

Walking to a book center was heavy on the feet
if school were good I would’ve stayed on the beat

question me not please, for I have no answers
have no words, for humans, living as campers

fumbling empty tins bags bottles and cans
living often without food water, pots and pans

kids roamed, hair disheveled scratching away
hungry, hopeful beyond hope, ignorantly at play

what people are these, are they refugees ?
do they need passports and passes, please

I wanted to be at ease, but restless I felt
there is more than eye can see, the ears

can hear, figures grow, the world thickens
unkempt more, like a place of Charles Dickens

question me not for what more I see
people hit, shot, killed, a girls bleeding body–

Oh now I question myself, about right and wrong
a world for all, a world just, equal, fair and strong

am I awake is this real I ask myself, as I turned back
why can’t I reach for the answers, in- The Book on The Shelf?

me not for what more I see
people hit, shot, killed, a girls bleeding body–

Oh now I question myself, about right and wrong
a world for all, a world just, equal, fair and strong

am I awake is this real I ask myself, as I turned back
why can’t I reach for the answers, in- The Book on The Shelf?

© 2020, Anjum Wasim Dar

Not long ago I was not in a lock down situation
though I felt like being in one, restricted in ways
unreasonable- socially distanced for unknown fears
‘women of the house should stay in the house’
someone said bluntly at a combined family picnic,
‘so why are you lazing on the mat after a hearty
meal, a hot mug of tea with brownies sweet?’
No one dare say that to the man of the house-
Today, I see the whole world ‘locked down’,
in isolation, in full covering of body, fighting for
life’ –

‘Stay Home Stay Safe’ is the glaring call
For All rich or poor,white or black,short or tall-
It is not ‘come closer’ it is ‘stay away’- Ha! Life
is at war,terror fills the air, humans caged inside
as animals roam free, shattered is the economy,
roads parks markets streets silent and empty

Covid-19 is the deadly enemy,
restricting those who restricted others
isolating those who isolated others
forcing obedience on disobedient
forcing cleanliness on the unclean
exposing cowards against the brave
forcing charity on the possessive-
Creating Fear? but wait, perhaps a far cry’
hunger poverty suffering need for medical
care, threat and danger everywhere,

Heartless humans had rendered many
homeless,hungry raped deprived deceived
life screamed for justice peace and equality –
Earth suffocated in soil and sea, pleas
fell on deaf ears,powerful showed no mercy’
So much wrong without a bit of right, how long
would torture bear the plight,as cries of innocent
took the flight and reached the Purest Point of Light
Covid-19 overnight awoke humanity to a painful sight

No more, no more, will be, the laws of might,forget -me
-not became ‘touch -me-not- if you love me hug me not
can’t hold your hands first wash them please, you may
kill me by this deadly viral disease, though I can’t see
but I know it is there, If only I had followed the law of
Care Share Beware and Be Fair—

And now Nature is taking its course as hope remains
for blessing and cure, a renaissance a cleansing a
reset for sure, a hope for faith pure-
There is hope there should be there is still some
honest just humanity-

© 2020, Anjum Wasim Dar

“POETRY PEACE and REFORM Go Together -Let Us All Strive for PEACE on EARTH for ALL -Let Us Make a Better World -WRITE To Make PEACE PREVAIL.” Anjum Wasim Dar


Bananas

I sit on my overstuffed couch
Scrolling on my iPhone
Waiting
Impatiently for groceries
Annoyed
At not being able to get all the food
I ordered from that same couch
Two weeks ago

She sits in her second hand Honda
Giving her phone to her toddler
Popping the trunk
Opening her door in the rain
Gathering two bags at a time
Making five trips
Leaving them on the covered porch
After ringing the doorbell
And then swiftly getting back into her car

I open the door
Dismayed that two bags had fallen over
And the cereal had gotten wet
I see her drive off with the toddler in the back
Eating a banana
And I wonder if that’s why I didn’t get bananas in my groceries.

© 2020, Irma Do

Irma’s site is I Do Run, And I do a few other things too …


:: really, oh really ::

what some folk feel is right

others consider wrong, some

write with the music

a few fail, falter

without much to live on

no one to care for them

some say this is not fair, yet

i find that fair does not even figure

this life you gets what you gets

and feels how you choose to

after

dealing

however the dice fall

the cards come out

this may be your heaven

here on earth

if you like

if that is the way to think

really, oh really.

© 2020, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Sonja’s sites are:


THAT’S WHY,
I water this house bound potted plant for i now know it’s feeling,
I speak softly to my pet petting it to calm it’s days indoors,
I make an effort to check kin near and far to offer an assurance I have in short supply,
I sing songs that has my throats conscripted,
I reflect on yesterday’s and marvel at my assumed ignorance,
I read a good book and refuse to get frayed,
While I yearn for a hug and a kiss close,
While I year for a drive and the wind on my face,
I remain grateful knowing many are worse off,
I turn inward and offer a prayer in humility,
Not just for me and my household,
But for humanity whom I admit are me,
And as I stay in and about my space,
My heart aches for those lying on a rocky pillow,
I cry in prayer for one isolated unable to breath unassisted,
I forgive those who should have known better but chose to ignore,
And I send good vibes to the universe with this plea,
May we never again as a species with ability to chose,
Ever again divide and demonize the very essence of life in health.

© 2020, Nancy Ndeke

Nancy’s Amazon Page is HERE.


We haven’t had winter,
but we have spring,
with rain and even some snow.
We were locked home
and only the birds sing outside.

The cage can be cozy,
if we go back to ourselves again.
It is raining hard
and the birds are singing,
while someone is saving the world.

© 2020, Miroslava Panayotova

Miroslava’s blog is HERE.


Considerations

Shop doors and borders,
opportunities and certainties
slam with a bang
as millions of fingernails are
frayed and
billions of curses are
screamed,
yet among the maelstrom of
closures comes
the kindness of the
pharmacist finding a way to
dispense multiple months of
blood pressure pills to a
panic-ridden patient despite
restrictions against stockpiling or the
hotelier reducing rates
for self-isolators
in a strange city or the
project manager setting aside
special assignments for the freelancer
freaking out about rent.
Pandemics and presidential elections
linger as blips in textbooks, but
undying compassion is what secures
sustainable safety nets.

© 2020, Adrian Slonaker


If We Lived in a Just World (or Country)
inspired by Jamie Dedes

If we lived in a just world (or country)
We would not deny a seat at our table to someone who came after us
And no one would be forced to choose between medicine and food
Between one child and another
Or between grandparents and younger people.

If we lived in a just world (or country)
We wouldn’t have to be generous because our government wasn’t
The government wouldn’t steal money from us to give to the rich
The rich wouldn’t choke us and cook us with their carbon dioxide
Our armies wouldn’t march into weaker countries just because they could
And we wouldn’t turn back immigrants because we were once them.

If we lived in a just world (or country)
We wouldn’t raise hopes where there were none to raise
We’d just roll up our sleeves and do the best we could
We’d know the difference between right and wrong
And forget the difference between right and left
We wouldn’t have to choose between our past and our future
Because nobody can take away our past
And nobody should try to take away our future.

 from The Hoopoe’s Call

(c) Mike Stone 2020 

And yet We Live

We don’t know why life leaps from nonliving things
And yet we live.
We don’t know why we see a bird or think a thought
And yet we see and think.
We don’t know why we die
And yet we die.
I don’t know why you love me
And yet you love me.
Aren’t these things enough for us?

© 2020, Mike Stone

The Two Colors of Wisdom

All things in the world
Are painted with two colors:
The color of good
And that of evil.
Those with wisdom
Can see both colors
But some only see one color
And not the other.
Don’t blame the blind
For being unable to see.

© 2020, Mike Stone

Making Peace With Ourselves

Most of the time I’m just me
And sometimes I’m we
But every once in a while, we are them
And they are us.
It seems to me that everyone
Who wants their story heard
Would want their own country
To tell it loud and clear
And the problem with countries
Is that nobody will give you one
Just because you asked for it nicely
And nobody wants to be occupied
So, if you still want a country
You’re going to have to make life
Pretty uncomfortable for the occupiers.
I mean when we were them
And they were us,
Why can’t we remember that?
Then maybe we could make peace with ourselves.

© 2020, Mike Stone

Mike’s website is HERE.

Call of the Whippoorwill is Mike Stone’s fourth book of poetry, It contains all new poems covering the years from 2017 to 2019. The poetry in this book reflects the unique perspectives and experiences of an American in Israel. The book is a smorgasbord of descriptions, empathies, wonderings, and questionings. It is available on Kindle and if you have Kindle Unlimited you can download it as part of your membership. I did.  Recommended. / J.D


Jamie Dedes:

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