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Into timelessness, poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

“Will the day tell its secret
Before it disappears,
Becomes timeless night.”

Dejan Stojanovic, Circling: 1978-1987

These responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, melting into timelessness (i.e., God, Source, Being, the Ineffable), October 10, 2018.

Kudos and thanks to Sonja Benskin Mesher, Bozhidar Pangelov (bogpan), Marta Pombo Sallés, and Anjum Wasim Dar. A very warm welcome to Bhaga and to Shaik Sana.

I’ve included links to blogs or websites. 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 join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt.

Aaaahhh…
This one I like.
This one I can enter in
With pleasure
And melt in it
Into Timelessness…
The Foreverness,
Fullness
And Sweetness
Of Spirit…

© 2018, Bhaga (Lab of Evolution, For Research on Conscious Evolution)

I enjoyed Bhaga’s spontanious response to the last prompt and am delighted to introduce this wise bilingual (French and English) blogger here. Bhaga has mixed ethnic and national origins.She grew up in West Africa and spent significant time in France. You can read more detail about origins HERE and name HERE. The MIssion Statement HERE. Lab of Evolution is a stimulating, though-provoking site and worthy of you time. It makes a soft rather unique expression in our blogosphere. / J.D.

Imagine

But just imagine
Your home next to mine
‎And
‎You next to me. .
‎We’ll be laying
‎Side by side
‎Under the tree,
‎Talking about
‎Dreams and our
Coming destinies,
And just like that
We’ll live forever
In our own
Timed infinity.

© 2018, Shaik Sana (eleven eleven * Everyone Dreams of Being Home *)

c Shaik Sana

SHAIK SANA tells us, “I’m a medical student from State of Andhra Pradesh in India. Even though I’m committed to medicine, I have a thing for both history and literature. I like writing poems when the idea hits me.”

 

 

 

. the birds fly up.

it is a clear word

as water pure and bouncing

off rocks

a bird

or

messing about

remembering #

days mud building dams

fighting the tide

pushing back years

running the path

fighting for freedom

then it comes

unexpected

like

the lark

bird

having written of the hour,

move on when all is lost.

the days remain

timeless.

today, we walk the woods,

back home.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

A true compass

(Jamie Dedes)

“Our fate like cast lead can not
to change.
Nothing can change. ”
G. Seferis

Like a desperate winter …
Do you hear – how do the branches
the trees crack
under the night snow.
Bones under your weight.
You who embraced the frozen
water to see only
your body.
Your remote body.
I spoke to you out of the law.
Sometimes.
Not always
(“forever”it is for the prophets).
How lied your experience,
which accumulate the old gods
in the blood.
The true rulers of fate.
Who else talks behind your voice?
As soon as the homes touch,
who comes with the torches?
Glare of glass, ash
of the stars you make …
And deaf loneliness like a bell
(Lead gives nothing).

I tried.
Behind the ground and the winter.
On the day of John.

© 2018, bogpan [Bozhidar Pangelov]  (bogpan – блог за авторска поезия блог за авторска поезия)

Marta writers: “How is it possible to make something timeless when we are finite beings and born to die, as Lana Del Rey sings? Yes, God is timeless, but so are human-made creations and memories that pass from generation to generation. Where does timelessness start? Lewis Carroll gave me an answer when Alice spoke with the Caterpillar. They were both responsible for a bit of inspiration to write this poem.”

I Tasted Spring

I tasted spring through my body,

closed my eyes and felt

that touch on my lips.

Memories of a dream revival

where everything felt so true:

My mouth on yours,

your delicious touch,

your willingness,

our timeless embrace

where nothing receded

in the open air,

in the magic moment

of timeless soulmates.

Time suddenly froze,

it turned into

Eternity…

Can you capture time?

Do you know how to freeze it?

“I can beat music”,

said Alice to the Caterpillar.

So there is time in music.

Any musical piece has indeed

frozen time forever

just as well as the other arts:

Photography, painting…

And writing…

How could I make this happen

with our delicious kiss,

the best I have ever tasted

although it was just a dream.

© 2017, Marta Pombo Sallés (Moments)

“And here is another one with the issue of time linked with cruelty.”

Time and Human Cruelty

Time
cannot be changed
or escaped.
Time is a thief,
a friend to no one
and every day is
a gift.

You cannot change time
or travel back
to reverse those things which
should never have taken place.
People killed for no reason
or
is there ever a reason
to kill other human beings?

Those people did not get lost.
When you’re lost you’ll sooner or later
find the way back.
Or perhaps not.
But you’re not erased from Earth.

Those people were killed,
just a few compared to other countries
in our world.
None of them will ever return
to the world as we know it.
They’ve just been removed too soon,
swept away by the cruelty of others:
white supremacists, Muslim terrorists …

But which governments are orchestrating
such massacres in our world?
Who’s feeding the monsters
is equally a monster.

Let’s tackle the root of the problem.
Only this way we’ll be able to say:
I am not afraid!

Time and human cruelty
are friends to no one:
Charlottesville, Barcelona, Cambrils
and many more.
The outcome is always the same.

© 2017, Marta Pombo Sallés (Moments)

Only My Heart Can See

every moment a tiptoe sounds

I close my eyes to see

as I feel the page

as words take shape and form

my thoughts encircle the song

inside the circle of the dance

is it the dancer or the dance?

Ah! only my soul knows

Only my heart can see-

I close my eyes to look

up from the book

at the love of purity

which is but a scent sweet

I reach out to touch

Nothingness ‘

Ah The presence in Nothingness’

Love of Eternity ‘

Close…

closer than the thorn is to the rose

growing from dust

glowing in the dust

dust to dust we rose

engulfed spirits in time

destined together to repose…

arms spread out to receive

like the scattered petals

of the beloved rose…..

my eyes on the book I close

the dancer moved bent and rose….

life went on, life goes….

far far away, forever

© 2018, Anjum Wasim Dar

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.

 

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::i too shall die:: . . . and other responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

“And anyway, it’s not as though I’ll never see Mum again, is it?” J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

A modest but rather fabulous collection garnered from the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, near death experience, September 26. Sonja Benskin Mesher, Carol Mikada and Bozhidar Pangelov (bogpan) rose to the occasion with insight, passion and even a certain verve. Read on … Enjoy! … and do join in tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt.

. that feeling, that .

arrives unexpected from darkness, some winters’ mornings,

opening the door to the sound of one black bran bird calling.

track four repeated. that

comes on waking finding peace and comfort bound in clean
linen.

arises with perfume, an uncertain memory.

it may be chemicals, peptides in the brain as love, what
ever the germ or warfare

I find no word to describe, no random feather nor dust on
my plate. pass a finger.

that feeling of trimmed nails upon the keys pounding
words and silences.

while music plays. that feeling. that.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

:: i too shall die ::

we have a memory or two. the world goes dark, we teach and learn, wait for light to appear

it is the way of things, while there are birds. while you read, you will not understand all words, that is the way of things.

it is natural, it is what they do, they live in the wild. . we have no power, they, no disgust that reels and kicks. yet while small birds live, they too will die. like us.

drift. in air, in words. symbols of poetry, cut and pasted. literally. naturally .

everyday tiny things sing.

when some small birds have failed and gone others sound just the same.

touched by the small things, softly, we drew

we cannot delete things we do not like

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Last Words

In the style of Dali and Zappa,
fittingly obtuse, I say to you:
We exist only collectively.
We are all one force,
one consciousness.
It is all Love.
There is no I.
I will enter nothingness
so as worldly experiences are concerned.
I will move on to pure energy.
This is all a dream, graded gold,
burst in black light,
thinking of God, as God with God.
Nothingness and omnipresence
are one and the same.

Take my art. Take my writing.
It is all yours now.
Love my son, the best,
the best of all I have done.

In the end, there are no words.
Be grateful, as I am, for our time together.
Be grateful, each day, for life.
Be present, in each day, each hour, each moment
as if you were sure that
the present moment is all that’s certain.

© 2018, Carol Mikoda (At the Yellow Table)

Exploring the Memory

A light day…

My granny was a little
woman.
She loved to speak in other
languages:
Italian, French and
German.

And in the Grannies language for their grandchildren:
“my pretty”.
She didn’t get pension (that was
the time) and
our home was thronged with pupils. Surely because of this I learnt
neither one. Or with the guests who
dropped in
often (we lived in the downtown by the tail
of the horse* – they used
to say so), for having a cup of black coffee.
The coffee
was special – for fortune-telling. She
“was telling fortune” and they
were telling us. A lot of stories. Surely
because of this I
know neither one.
Then she started getting less and less and
slender.
One night my mother told me,
“Go to see her…”
A thin, transparent leaf.

Now surely she’s telling the fortune and
is speaking only in the Grannies language
for their grandchildren:
“my pretty”.
……………………………………………
*”the tail of the horse” is slang for the Historical Monument Tsar Osvoboditel (tsar liberator) that indicates the downtown of Sofia; more on the monument can be read here:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monument_to_the_Tsar_Liberator

© 2018, Bozhidar Pangelov (bogpan – блог за авторска поезия  блог за авторска поезия )

ABOUT

Poet and writer, I was once columnist and 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 Bar None Group, Salamander Cove, Second Light, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman.

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“Tears of God” … and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

“It’s ironic that poets use words to convey what lies beyond words, that poetry becomes most powerful where simple language fails, allowing one to bridge the conscious and unconscious.” – Diane Ackerman, poet and writer

These responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt on parenting and being parented (yes! I coined an ackward word), September 12 are likely to bring you to tears, to awaken forgotten memories or validate ones that are vivid in mind. Thanks to Gary W. Bowers, Paul Brookes, Irma Do, Renee Espriu, deb y fell (Debbie Felio), Sonja Benskin Mesher, Tamam Tracy Moncur, and bogpan (Bozhidar Pangelov) and a warm welcome to Jennifer Collins.  Brave, wise and wonderful poets all.

Read on and do join us for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt tomorrow.  All are encourage: novice, emerging and pro.

The long road home

The umbilical cord between us,
Invisible to the naked eye,
Has a life of its own.
No matter how hard I try,
To pull away, even at my age,
It has an elastic snap
And cuts me short, then bounces
Me back to you.

I wonder how long it spans,
Even as you get carted away,
Across highways,
Somewhere upstate,
I know I will feel the internal tug,

Pull and tug and pull,
Till the pain brings tears to my eyes
And I run to the kitchen to grab hold
Of the scissors to cut and cut and cut
Me away from you.

But no matter how hard I try,
The damn thing finds its way back
And re-attaches itself to my heart,
To my gut- to your beating belly center
From which it was born.

© 2018, Jennifer Collins

JENNIFER COLLINS: I’m a writer, yoga instructor, social worker, wife and mom. I live on long Island. Writing for me has always been an outlet and a way to navigate and understand the world and my experiences. It is my compass, guiding me through the rough and quiet waters of my life.

 

toughish love

dad had a note he would send
one of the three of us brothers
to the store with: “please sell my son
2 packs of pall malls”

i didn’t like to do it
i never liked to do it

one day i refused.
i had to not lie.
“dad. i’m not going to do this
any more.”
i looked at him
and made my eyes say You
Want Me To Help Kill You.

in his eyes
was a question.
Do I Let You Defy Me?

Then there was an answer:
Ah, Well,
It’s Because He Loves Me.

dad said, “okay,”
and i never bought him cigarettes again.

i was twelve,
he was thirty-three,
but i was the parent that day.

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

Tears Of

God

My sons eyes are cold.
I have seen this look before.
He lugs my dog Sheba by her mane,

hauls her along the floor
a piece of meat, slopping over gunnels
in an abattoir, blood down the drains.
Her paws scratch and scrape
he dumps her at my feet.

“Bite its ear!”
I shake my head.
“If it’s done wrong, and it has
bite its ear.” I shake my head
mumble

“Done nothing wrong.”

“Eh! Speak up woman!”

“It ‘aint done nothing wrong. Jack!”

Fine rain falls through grey skies
in the pub yard, and a yellow
fluid flows out from under the dog.

“Dirty bitch!”
He kicks Sheba in her side.
She whimpers, puts her head
pleadingly on the black shiny
surface of my court shoes.

“I’ll do it then!”
Snatches her up
by the scruff

“Getting a dog
and not bringing it up right.
Stupid cow!”

He snaps at the silk of her ear.
She yelps. I cry.

“Stupid sodding cow!”
He slaps me hard
across my face. I feel
his gold rings on my cheek.

“Stop whimpering!”
Pushes me up against
the wet wall. His cold eyes
up close make me shiver.

One hand on my throat,
the other points at her. I mumble.
“Not again Jack. Please!”
My legs have gone.

“Treat the bitch right
and it’ll treat you right.”
Sheba inches against the wall,
low and hung back like the grey clouds.

Jack lets me fall. The pub door slams
Sheba, up on her legs again,
licks my face, lays down by my side
puts her head on my black court shoes.

Her neck is warm. My back hurts.
They call the rain the “Tears of God”

Originally published in Degenerate Literature, Domestic Violence Edition, Weasel Press

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration. History. Imagination … and now running The Wombwell Rainbow Interviews [of poets and writers] )

Billy

still wears a nappy at seven
doesn’t understand
why folk tell him off

climbs through an open
window with his six year old
sister whose dress tears

as they tumble on wet
grass in the garden
amongst the dogshit

and mucky diapers mam
has chucked out the kitchen
door, and they walk

on the broken glass
from beer bottles dad
has lobbed out onto

the asphalt path to the front
garden gate that has only
one hinge and they totter

down the street to the big
sign of the supermarket
where steal some sweets

and sit outside and somebody
shouts at him and tells him off
and he doesn’t know why.

originally published in Nixes Mate Magazine

© 2017, Paul Brookes  (The Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration. History. Imagination)

“A fist in

the ear.”

he whispers to me

“What she needs.
She pushes me to it.
Harder than any squaddies.

And her children.
Her little bastards,
that’s what they need

I tell her,
a fist in the ear
and they don’t
lack discipline anymore.

They’ve got to tell me
she’s got to tell me,
where she goes,
what she does,
who she meets.

I’ll not worry then
will I?

What she needs,
If she’s off with some other
I’ll bring a shotgun to her.”

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

No More Fetch

you here,
Fetch you home.

Fetch my lips to thine.
Fetch my arse to this.

Fetch you dinner.
Fetch you a snog.

Fetch your groceries.
Fetch your washing and ironing.

Fetch your slippers
Fetch my social to your wallet.

Fetch my hand up to stop thy fist.
Fetch your belongings in a black bag.

Fetch your gob and its mouthful.
Fetch mesen to thy want.

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

Details

I zero in

On the cracks in the walls

The spaces between the tile and grout

The layer of dust on the grand piano

The peeling Formica under 80’s sought after giveaway cups

The places where your innovative nature took precedence over getting the job done right.

I zero in

On the grays in your hair

And the spots on your hands

The slowness in your cane aided walk

Your mouth agape during your afternoon nap

The hand me up shirt you’ve been wearing for decades because it still fits

I zoom out

And see the humor and kindness in your eyes

The hands that lovingly prepare my favorite meal

The 20 year old bed that fits generations

The clock where time has stopped but happiness lives on

The struggle of remembering and honoring and forgetting and accepting.

I zoom out

And notice what you do without

What you’ve sacrificed

What you’ve preserved

What you’ve done with love

What you’ve done for love.

I zero in on that detail.

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

Oranges and Apples

A mother is what she needed
not a friend that played
jacks, marbles and jump rope

where she was left
to her own devices of
making mischief
with her brother

or watching a locomotive
barrel down steel tracks
to crush a penny
newly set
upon them

but her mother an only child
longed for siblings
for playmates
to fill
a yearning

so even as she needed
wanted a mother
oranges and apples
would not mix

yet her mother turned flour sacks
into underclothes and slips
for her sewn dresses
to lie upon

her mother cooked food
laden with the aromas
of love

pies trimmed in the lace
of gold brown crust
even when money
was a
luxury

she would surmise in life
that mothers do the best
with what life
gives them

© 2018 Renee Espriu (Angles, My Muse & Turtle Flight)

It’s No Big Deal

A minor slight —
sliver of glass
under the skin
every day

how bad could it be?

© 2018, deb y felio

Broken

How can we not
when it is in our
blood

How can we not
when it is in our
histories & herstories

Broken love —
self seeking,
conditional,
misunderstood
assumptions.

How can we not
when it is in our
cultures

How can we not
when it is in our
pasts and presents

How can we not
hurt/break others
when we start that way

enter broken —
what else can be given
but brokenness
passed generations
to generations
in disguised iterations

I will never be
her, him, them
but how can I not

Memory in words
action, emotion
overwhelm, repeat

How can we not
what else is there —
only practiced brokenness.

Father forgive them
Father forgive me
When I cannot.

© 2018, deb y felio

.mother love.

mother loves; son loves.

three. sons arrive. two.

father disappears a while,

&

while he is gone they grow.

up.

mother loves; son loves.

a while.

middle one dies, elder blames

mother, abuses her daughter.

a while.

the younger blinks and stutters.

mother loves; son loves.

he has a different story.

mother loves; son loves.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Second response

..slabbed..

lay dead . do not speak nor ask for fear.

lay quiet. do not write nor tell. there are

new shoes by the wardrobe. at an angle.

still. do not move nor participate in any

way.

do not breathe, nor cry. there are new

shoes by the wardrobe, new shoes.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

The Shadows of Addiction

Addiction
Affliction
Abuse
What’s the excuse?

Substances infuse the brain
No pain
Worries…anxieties flee
Mocking reality

Illusions of joy
Permeate the atmosphere
No fear
Confidence in abundance
Eradicates the twins
Insecurity and timidity

Crack cocaine dances with heroin
Down opioid lane
The life of the party has been born
Sworn in only to begin
The cycle over and over again

The belle of the ball
Begins to fall
Tumbling…tumbling…tumbling
Into the depths of despair
Where even love-starved children
Cannot pierce the fierce
Grasp of addiction

Brokenhearted families
Succumb to the numbness
Of a devastating madness
Found in pipes…pills…powders
In the streets…prescriptions
over the counters
living death destroying
the fabric of love…

Addiction
Affliction
Abuse
What’s the excuse?

© 2018, Tamam Tracy Moncur (The Road of Impossibilities)

Pain In Your Heart

“Art creates the dream of life”

Is that the season?
The leaves are hitting the silent windows
and some roots of trees are creaking,
but I am a dream.
I do not recognize the colors,
when the sun of that town
without time shelters me like Mum.
Which flowers shall I gift to you?
I am not a saint – I cannot revive you.
I cannot even grieve

To gift to you – a last flower.

© 2018, bogpan / Bozhidar Pangelov (bogpan – блог за авторска поезия  блог за авторска поезия )

ABOUT

Poet and writer, I was once columnist and 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 Bar None Group, Salamander Cove, Second Light, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman.

 

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“I Am Not My Dad” … and other responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

“Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.” T.S. Eliot

Here are the oh-so-relatable poetic responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, who are you, July 4, 2018.  Thank you to Gary W. Bowers, Paul Brookes, Debbie Felio, Kakali Das Ghosh, bogan (Bodhizar Pangelov), Sonja Benskin Mesher and to newcomer Rob Bowes, who steps out of the closet as a poet soul and debutes here today.  Well done all. 

Contributor websites/blogs are added so that you may visit and get to know one another. I hope you do. Some don’t have sites but you can probably catch up with them on Facebook.

Enjoy! … and do join us tomorrow for the next The Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are welcome: novice, emerging and pro. 

The Creation

The radiant Sun rises,
Former black, empty shadows,
Reformed. Full. Colourful.
Exploding, popping, intriguing –
Spellbinding to Everyone.
Myself, mystified, bewildered, bemused…As it
Transformed, singular to plural, a whole
Intertwining of emotions,
Heart to heart throbbing, pulsing, pounding
Throughout our minds, bodies and souls.

The portrait of perfection before me;
An artist (unique) skilled to create a
Masterpiece.
By the Hand of God you breathe
The sweet succulent scent of hope and desire,
Humble (curious) as the spring bee I am drawn
Naturally my starving eyes feast.

Feeling of uncertainty and disbelief evaporate as
Real fireworks of emotion form and take over –
Controlling and honing the skies of senses to One;
With which the Moon rises to
Shadows now revealed, open and completely aware.
Alongside the vast peace and utter calm

I stand, wholly joined with

Love, hand in hand, heart to heart with

You.

© 2018, rjbowes (The Bowes Blog, Thinking out loud. Be creative)

Rob & Laura Bowes

ROB BOWES tells us, “I am a farmer and agronomist. I manage farmers crops for them and work in the North East of England, UK. My Grandfather was a published author and lived for writing, travelling and taking photographs, all of which have inspired me to do the exact same. My notepad and camera come with me on all of my travels. My only downside is I never do anything with my photographs or writing so this is the first step in being more open and showing everyone what I’ve got. Hope you like my poem I’ve popped on your comments section, thank you.”

whodunit

i at six
questioned the baskin-robbins ice cream pricing.
they wanted ten cents
for a cone with one scoop,
twenty for a cone with two scoops,
thirty for one with three.
why would anyone buy the three-scooper
when they could get three ones at the same price
and get two extra sugar cones?

i at seventeen
kissed the most splendid creature in the universe.
that was most of my life ago.
only two times since
have i been that happy.
i at twenty-one
crossed the finish line
at the 1984 San Francisco marathon.
my friend waiting there
asked me how i felt.
with my first breath i said,
truthfully,
“i feel terrible!!”
with my second breath i said,
truthfully,
“i feel great!!!”

at thirty-five i saw
the top of my newborn’s head
bookended by my poor then wife’s skull-tightened flesh.

today at sixty-three
I feel accursed by congestion of the nose
and blessed by what the day
promises.

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

I Am Not My Dad

“I can’t cope with babies.”
says my Dad.

“Now you’re nine I can talk to you.”
He wants me to play board

or card games, or build
Airfix Golden Hind,

I’d rather read or draw.
He does not know

how to step into my shoes.
My two year old granddaughter

on my knee we sing nursery rhymes.
She makes me a cup of tea

with her wooden cups, saucers,
and teapot. I drink the tea,

munch on her wooden pizza,
toast and tomatoes.

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

Our Identity

is unnecessary. Don’t
haul around the weight
Of what you are.

I am not defined by my roles,
Husband, grandfather, son, brother.

I am not defined by my choices
Whether to help others or not.

I not classified, regulated, defined
In law, financial position or clump

of negative biases. I am not programmed
from birth to contribute.

I am not what I say I am not.

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

Trace back
through father’s asbestos boiler lungs
a glaziers eye,
a solicitors assistant’s discretion
a linen merchants fingers
a hotelier’s welcome
a linen merchants touch
a coal merchants aroma
a farmer’s tread

he walk towards me
short coated in sky blue
a waterman of the River Wytham

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

Self Search

I am not

myself

or the you

you were looking for.

parents with unfinished dreams

pour into new life

their old ones

friends looking for a place

to belong / to rest

seek you in their

desires

lovers needing love

to restore / affirm

embrace a possibility

without attaching

reality

I myself

only have myself

for moments

before transmuting

to another self

contained within

an aging, forgetting

mind and body

forgetting what it knew

where muscle

was held tight

and who

I was

supposed

to be

© 2018, Debbie Felio 

#Rejoinder Of The Mirror #

” Who am I? ”
Sprouting from my mother’s womb
I’m here to you ,
I belong to my parents like you ;
Is it enough for my identity ?

Then why I’m an escaped from hustle of all sounds ?
Then why I’m traversing a lonesome peak
Where the first ray of sun lights my heart ?

Then comes my child -part of my corpus ,
Entangling my all .

Time rotates -he finds out his own world ,
Then that query chases me asking-
“Who are you ?”

Approaching to a mirror my query goes ,
” Who am I ? ”
The mirror replies laughingly –
“you are the one with your own view-own judgement -own love -own passion and own perseverance .
You are not just a body evolving from genetic materials ,
Rather a heart -a spirit laid in the cluster of atoms
Of your own physique ;
Your footsteps on this earth
will fade with you ,
Just colors of your composition would subsist for ages . ” ;
But still I think ,
“Who am I ?”

© 2018, Kakali Das Ghosh

‘Head Above Water: A Swimmer’s Perspective’.

Metaphorically, i have spent much of my life, keeping my head above water.

Dealing with life facts and disappointments, not forgetting the quiet times to help the work along

I lived on the coast, played by the sea

As a child, I floated gently until all became spongey. Now I swim head above water, up and down obsessively counting, hoping all will come clear..

Friends in water talk more, baring much, reflecting their clothing

I am drawn to water, my work reflective. Writing, swimming, painting, drawing.

I collect cuttings of people in water.

“a diary, a personal relationship with the landscape.

“Shoreline would be more an exploration of the concept….shorelines more related to actual examples…..how about that?

Shoreline…..an ever-changing interface……between 2 media…..2
worlds…..can be crossed in both directions, but only temporarily?……but
aren’t we only here because something had the courage to cross
permanently…..something emerging from the sea is such a powerful
image….turtles, ursula andress in dr. no, monsters from the deep…..and
why do we find it such an attractive place to be
xx salty”

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

. i am the pin .

:: a book of pins :: handwritten, copied in a day.

the drawing, the written page.

i am paint and cotton

i am pins and details

codes and reasons

calm and seasons.

i am boxes, charcoal,

fires and birds.

i am hand writing.

i am the old house,

all things considered.

i am the joker, the radio,

the music.

i am four dots.

i am the folded page,

the falling face.

i am the picture, the painting,

i am the mouse, the little bird,

a monstrous woman.

i am a word document, a picture file.

i am the pin.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

The Light Toy-Railway

The light toy-railway is traveling,
with the kids who aren’t anymore.

To Paris, to Brussels is traveling,
to the Black Africa too.
The light toy-railway is grieving,
for the fawn’s steps under Christmas tree,
for the luster in the eyes and
ah, for the toys.
For the Blue Bird, for the white photos,
for the hand that is putting the little star.
For the dream that’s coming true.

The light toy-railway is traveling.
Traveling.

© 2018, Bozhidar Pangelov (bogpan – блог за авторска поезия блог за авторска поезия)

ABOUT

Poet and writer, I was once columnist and 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 Bar None Group, Salamander Cove, Second Light, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman.