“bud and lieu”. . . and other responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

 

“Your days are numbered. Use them to throw open the windows of your soul to the sun. If you do not, the sun will soon set, and you with it.”  Marcus Aurelius, The Emperor’s Handbook



These responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, In Lieu of Flowers (re: legacy and/or eulogy), October 17, 2018 variously prove a sense of humor, a spiritual leaning, and/or a practical perspective on the inevitable for all of us. Kudos and thanks to Gary W. Bowers, Paul Brookes, Deb y Felio (Debbie Felio), Tamam Tracy Moncur, Carol Mikoda, Sonja Benskin Mesher, and Anjum Wasim Dar. Special thanks and welcome to Jen Goldie, joining us for the first time.  Well done, poets.

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.


Unknown to Us

She left a legacy.
A legacy of love.
That’s all it was,
Simple and pure of spirit.

She left a legacy,
A legacy of hope.
That’s all it was,
Simple and pure of heart.

She left a legacy.
A legacy of caring.
That’s all it was,
Simple and pure of mind.

She left a legacy.

© 2018, J.E.Goldie

Don’t Miss Me

Take our times together
and apart
as memories to savor
or not.

Don’t miss me
Take challenges for me,
Be my eyes,
Be my voice,
Be my heart,

And remember this.
We’ll never be apart

© 2018, J.E.Goldie

J.E. GOLDIE (Jen) tells us: The more I learn..the more I realize how little I know about myself….and others. I continue to learn.I’ve reached an age where knowledge exceeds impetuosity And where wisdom allows freedom, An age where unreasonable demands without question become irreconcileable. I give you this wisdom and take mine, as you go through the current demands of your life be sure this is your course, because if the course is not yours and is demanded of you, Be sure you want to accept the regret since You will change the lives and times of others. Are you ready? Unreasonable demands without question are irreconcileable. The atmosphere will be extremely stressfull for you if the course is not yours. .

What your head knows, your heart doesn’t always remember…..

An old/new friend showed this quote to me. It brought tears to my eyes.

“Never let success hide its emptiness from you, achievement its nothingness, toil its desolation. And so…keep alive the incentive to push on further, that pain in the soul which drives us beyond ourselves…Do not look back. And do not dream about the future, either. It will neither give you back the past, nor satisfy your other daydreams. Your duty, your reward—your destiny—are here and now.” Dag Hammarskjöld (1905–1961), Swedish statesman and diplomat, 1961.


bud and lieu

in lieu of flowers
have a beer
or soda water
sparkled clear
or pinetop freshness
golly gosh
or kiss enmeshness
(use mouth; wash)

for when i’ve died
and journey ends
i’ll be relaxing
with my friends
who went before
and saved a seat
or barstool where
we toast, complete;

so ixnay tears
omit that flower
and raise your glass:
it’s Happy Hour.

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


Silence

wears piles of shoes and bags
new white shirts never opened

charity irons
creases out of the forgotten

sometimes a relative

gives a story
in feel of used cloth

weighs time in threads
how a story continues

nothing is possessed
If you never heard

a previous owner

only shoes have tongues
fail to speak of their wearer

except in wear

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

O, Lady Of The Breath (Six Vacanas)

1. You Rise

from my forest and leave
out of the gob and earth falls.

It shivers renewed,

welcomes a similar you
into my gob.

You excite my spring buds,
allow the earth to rise, again.

2. Can’t Let

you stay long in the dark,
or the earth will rot.

I can’t let you out for long,
or the earth will rot.

Let’s follow this pattern.
I’ll briefly allow you into my dark wood,

But please don’t take woodsmoke, car fumes,
coal dust, iron filings, water in with you,

else I’ll hack you out. These companions
quicken the rot.

3. Help With The

tasting snake in my cave
form the words I need to say.

Take my words out into air
loud enough for others to hear.

Please don’t say you are weak
and can’t carry such a weight.

Please don’t say I failed to welcome
enough of you into the forest.

4. My Dad Let You

in with pungent watercolours on his back,
stink of Clwyd cowpats and fresh mountain air,

but when he scraped boilers you secretly
took into his forest asbestosis strands

that speed his rot and ruin. I can’t understand
your thought in all of this

5. My Sister Threw You

out over her steering wheel,
her forest crushed by molded plastic.

She tried to welcome you back
but the wood was gone,

so you gust over her grave
under an overseeing tree.

O, my lady of the breath.
I welcome your coming and going.

6. Your Cheyne Stokes

delay before my unconscious Nanna
let you in.

I waited a minute, a 10-20
second episode of
stopped breath

suddenly her welcome
let you in

deeper and again
deeper in and out.

then delay

then delay

then delay

her welcome of you
and delay I watched seven days

until she refused your entry for good.

Gave me a legacy of breath.

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

The Afterthoughts

When this brain Is medically dead . will I pray I locked the door?

or made presentable by morticians knife fret I left the Box plugged in;

then lowered so others cast first soil or flame-grilled to fine urn ash tell myself I left the oven on;

(From my first chapbook”The Fabulous Invention Of Barnsley”)

or gladly leave this legacy a real reminder how I used to be.

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


Finally

I leave to each and all of you

in equal and careful measure

my love everlasting, ever new

it is my only treasure

that and hearty laughter

shared in close and distant quarter

may you hear it long after

my ashes settle in the water

when in the best of times

with family and friends

hear me in your laughing

bringing hope that knows no end

and when the time for sadness

comes into your lonely days

may the mystery of love once planted

help you navigate the waves

nothing more have I to offer

life itself could only know

those times of love and laughter

and how it made a family grow.

© 2018, Deb y Felio


..side parting..

looking for a legacy

i find nothing / no words

no comfortable leavings

parting on the wrong side

can be painful

some hide secrets

i do not

we hope you will feel good

about pins

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

..the book..

is discussed at length,
the book is bound for

nightmares. it starts
early evening. retiring
to the upper rooms

the rags are torn ready
to close, to bind his
book in definitely.

it is an inheritance.
he talked about wills,
put his head under the cover,
slept.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher


The Last Symphony

The melodious singing of the church choir intensifies emotions replacing tears with a melancholy joy. I am on the outside peering in the dimension I vacated a week ago. In walks the bass striding to the beat of distant drums. My reasonably long life has come to an end as I prepare to make my transition. Piano lines racing and spacing…fingers flying… harmonic overtones filling in what was. I can hear the accolades,in lieu of flowers, the resolutions that say when I took Jesus in my heart was the start of new beginnings for me. Trombone sounds announce a life supreme…the tambourine marks time. I become the wife…the mother…the grandmother I should be. I am the teacher that cares for her students working diligently to enable them to succeed. I give back to the community…working to ameliorate poverty. Blue tones…chords dissonant…syncopated rhythms inspire my march against hatred…enabling me to poetically protest ignorance…racism…fanaticism…sexism and economic discrimination in the world’s richest nation. Last message to My Country Tis of Thee…choose God not money…choose God not money…choose God not money. God is LOVE! The bass takes my hand…stepping high. A crescendo of symphonic tones fills the atmosphere for God is near. Jazz stands on the horizon beckoning. The coffin is now closed on my life.

© 2018, Tamam Tracy Moncur 

Diary of an Inner City Teacher “is a probe into the reality of teaching in our inner city school systems as seen from the front line. Over two decades in the trenches, educator Tamam Tracy Moncur exposes through her personal journal the plights, the highlights, the sadness, and the joys she has experienced as a teacher. Come to understand why the United States Department of Education and the various state departments of education must realize the teaching of academics cannot be divorced from the social issues that confront the students. Let s be innovative together and design new millennium schools that address the educational needs of the inner city students before it s too late! Our children s very existence is at stake! Laugh, cry, and become informed as you embrace the accounts of an inner city teacher.

Tamam Tracy Moncur

“Tamam Tracy Moncur was born in Oakland, California. She attended elementary school in Oakland, and attended middle and high school in Berkeley. She was a civil rights activist in San Francisco prior to relocating to the East Coast. She met her husband, renowned jazz musician Grachan Moncur III in New York City. They were burned out of their apartment in Harlem, and eventually her husband s grandmother was able to secure an apartment for them in Newark, New Jersey, in one of the high rise projects that existed at that time. Tamam in the past has worked with her husband arranging musical compositions and performing. In her spare time, she has self published several poetry booklets, co-produced a CD of music and poetry, and collaborated with her family to produce a play that her mother wrote. She also has written short stories and a novel, but this project, Diary of an Inner City Teacher, is very close to her heart. She invites you to walk with her on her personal journey so you can perceive the classroom experience from a different perspective and become an advocate for change in the development of innovative schools for the future.”

Tamam’s Diary of an Inner City Teacher is available HERE. I just got the Kindle version and look forward to reading it. / J.D.


Smile at Fear

Wait,
humbly,
for everything
to flow in this direction.
It’s not
a competition.
Wind and water may
want to rush past
but not when
I have created
a meandering path to draw them
around corners,
into nooks,
leaving traces of
energy.

In lieu of flowers,
please sing:
gather many
ensembles to set
the air
v i b r a t i n g.

Smile at Death
vibrantly.
Remember me
in melody.

© 2018, Carol Mikoda


Leaving Love as a Precious Gage

(in Urdu and English)

کہتے ہیں چاہت اندھی  ہوتی ہے 
یہ دل اور روح  کا لطیف  رشتہ 
اس میں کیا پرکھنا کیا   عمر کا  تقاضا  کرنا  
  جب کوئی  خوشبو   چپکے  سے روح  میں  سما  جا نے
تو کسی  سے  کیا  شکوہ  یا  شکوہ یا شکایت  کرنا 
 
بس یہ کرنا کے  کہ کسی کو دکھی نہ کرنا 
 
احترم ن  آخری  بار  پکارا  پھول  آپکو 
اب  آداب  باغے شاہی  تو  سیکھ  لو  پہلے 
پھر کسی  گل  و  شہزادی  کو چاہنے  کی  جرات  کرنا 
دنیا سے چلے جاؤگے  انجم  
کچھ  اپنی  چمکتی  خوشبو 
 
 
یھاں  چھوڑ  دینا
پھر  آسمان  پر  جا کر 
سکوں  بھری  چاندنی 
نچھاور کرنا 
 
 
love is blind and so we say,it
 finds to the heart and soul –its way-
so why think about age 
why judge  the clayey cage
 
when  sweet fragrance engulfs
the spirit then lament not, nor
pity thyself nor cry, for 
love is a precious gage
 
so grieve no heart on Earth
nor make bleak a life
you will soon be away
from struggle trial and strife
 
before I cease to be I called you
 a flower  a tender rose petal
and now I must learn the laws
of the garden’, accept the nettle 
 
maybe in time I may find
 the  true bright light, till
then on the high night sky
will be to shine , and sigh
 
so I leave behind some love
some  effulgent fragrance with 
 perpetual  radiance ,remember,
peace is- only with complacence
© 2018, 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 PorchVita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation Press, The River Journal, The Bar None GroupSalamander CoveSecond LightI Am Not a Silent PoetMeta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman

::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 PorchVita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation PressThe Bar None GroupSalamander CoveSecond LightI Am Not a Silent PoetMeta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman.

“QUIETUS” … and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

“If life is not a celebration, why remember it ? If life — mine or that of my fellow man — is not an offering to the other, what are we doing on this earth?”  Open HeartElie Wiesel 



What a treasure of a collection, these serious thoughts this week in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Riding the Ebb-tides of Eternity, September 5. Touching. Stunning. Thoughtful.

Thanks and a warm welcome to Jim Wardell, new to The Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt.  Thanks to Gary W. Bowers, bogpan (Bozhidar Pangelov), Tamam Tracy Moncur, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Carol Mikoda and Susan St. Pierre. Special thanks to Susan and Bozhidar for sharing illustrations.

Read. Enjoy. Be inspired. And do join us for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are encouraged to participate: beginning, emerging, or pro poets.


Quietus

On this dew soaked morning
gentle sunlight streams between
the dampened boughs of an awakened day.

I think of you and of me
and of the many misted mornings
we laughed and whispered
until we had to part for a time.

Afternoon and evening sped by
but morning always lingered.

We moved at the pace of sleep
slow and without effort
to prepare the day for ourselves
while hustle and bustle and rush and whim
scurried and fretted about us.

Hidden smiles and secret plots contrived in haste
deals brokered in the light of the rising sun
conspiracies bound in blood and love
carried us through the day apart
the time of our unknowing.

Always when evening came
separated paths joined once more
promises of morning were fulfilled
in the drifting dusk.

As this morning of our lives lingers
I sit share laugh cry
etch upon my heart this memory
of hidden smiles and secret plots.

We have not changed
You and I remain bound in blood and love
we have not changed.

Morning ends as it always does
you on your path and I on mine
frightened to be alone.

We now step into the time of our unknowing
confident that when evening falls
the other will await.

© James Wardell (A Day of Wind and Moon)

James Wardell

JAMES WARDELL, a native of Kentucky, is a musician and educator who has made his home in the mountains of southwest Virginia. He plays, writes, teaches and learns at the University of Virginia’s College at Wise. Some days he works.

Previous publications include Jimson Weed Journal, Tipton Poetry Review, Goliath, Snakeskin Magazine, Bitterzoet Magazine and Press, and Voices Literary Journal.


tsftpot

teapots and tempests
some crafted some not
tosspots and destinies
often are wrought
if you behold
you’re beholden eh wot
but
cast
away rules
and then blossom some more
doorways to wayfaring ferret
glissandos
chandelier faceting
billboardish asseting
heat-rubbled smoke
the rising signal
A hell it made
not merely of manglecrush forms
but of the simmering magma
of hatred

the bombs we make we
lob into crowds
and they unmake
and we know it is wrong
but it is again a signal
that we are lost

but some of us love
some see seedlings
and keep them for spring

and some beyond us
save all endeavor

a tempest is not endeavor
a teapot is endeavor
thought is endeavor
some thought is divine

and tsftpot
stands for
the society
for the preservation
of thought

oral tradition
was its larva
movable type its nymph
and eons hence
its adult form
will be the very texture
of reality

stars do not die
they become something else
as will you
as will i

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


Supernatural Senses

How do I look at my own demise?
It’s not a surprise because the one thing we all know
Is that one day we too shall die
We will pass from this plane into eternity.
At 73 many people close to me have made
This transition in creation to another place in space.
Twice in my dreams two of my loved ones have appeared
at different times in my life
To free me from fear and doubt
First my grandmother and then years later my son
Each came during a time of hurt
Each came during a time of spiritual pain
Each came during a time of emotional distress
My grandmother and my son
They made that journey from the world beyond
to give me a supernatural hug
A magical hug
A mystical hug
A hug that enveloped me in God’s love
A hug of reassurance strengthening my mind
And my endurance to always walk in faith
Until my ultimate release into peace comes.

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


800px-Dürer_-_Mort_d'Orphée_(1494)

Orpheus

along the rivers Maritsa floats the cut head
of Orpheus
– „no,“ he had told the Maenad,
but they did not understand
in this land only in this land
„yes“ is for a return
the legend tells you that in the autumn you can hear
the tender sounds of the Lira, for everything is back –
Eurydice

now
only on the sounds and on the drops of blood
you can find me

© 2018, bogpan (a.k.a. Bozhidar Pangelov ) (bogpan); illustration,  “The Death of Orpheus (1494) by Durer,” public domain


BeFunkyfriends

To be remembered…
Leave footprints in the
Fresh sand of youthful wonder,
And seek wisdom found in
Questions you can’t answer .
Make memories on the
Pristine palette of a baby,
And explore forever with an
Eye on being present.
Eternity belongs to those
<Who stand out in a child’s life>
Etched in time and tradition,
You’ll be remembered.

© 2018, photo and poem, Susan St. Pierre (Silly Frog Susan)


‘smiley smiley’
monkeys smile

as can we, yet i guess
a duck can’t smile, ian.

can snails smile, i know
i smile a lot, learned it
at dance class, whatever
happens, keep it up.

continues now, at work,
they say it cheers you up,
makes your cheeks hurt,
sometimes.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

.my life.

sundays is three things.today may be one.

sometimes it comes easy,sometimes it

don’t.

it is warm today, just look at all there is

here.

as opposed to elsewhere.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher


Four Disagreements

The first postcard from hell said, “Don’t you get sick of being honest all the time? Everyone is always checking and making sure. Why not give them something to surprise them?” So I allowed jewels to fall from my mouth along with my impeccable word and flowers and once in a while bolts and washers with no nuts. Everyone was continually surprised.

The second postcard from hell told me I could relax, slough off my usual care and meaningful intention. “It’s so hard when you’re always trying to do your best, isn’t it? You deserve a break!” So I collected up a million of my favorite human beings and tooks us all to a resort where we relaxed in hammocks and beach chairs. All of our beverages included blossoms and little umbrellas. We napped.

The third postcard from hell was direct but a bit strained: “Some of these people? The ones with you at the resort? They look funny or smell funny or eat weird foods or speak funny languages! They don’t match you. Who knows who is lurking in there?” So I walked among those million people, talking, laughing, singing with them, sharing meals, until we all found something in common, like the color of our socks.

The million human beings had to go back to schools, jobs, homes, so I read the fourth postcard from hell all alone sitting in a broken beach chair. “Ha! They left you! Loser! They don’t like you! Go eat worms!” So I invented a machine to rearrange the grains of sand on the beach to send messages to the stars. The message I sent was:
L O V E

© 2018, Carol Mikoda (At the Yellow Table / We Are Stardust: Change Is What It’s All About)


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 PorchVita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation PressThe Bar None GroupSalamander CoveSecond LightI Am Not a Silent PoetMeta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman.

 

” . the gift 2 . ” … and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

“Life is subversive.” Ernesto Cardenal, Zero Hour And Other Documentary Poems



The longing for and appreciation of the gifts of nature, the gifts unsullied by marketers are expressed beautifully in these responses to the last prompt Wednesday Writing Prompt, No Account of Trifles, September 1.

Featured this week: Paul Brookes, Irma, Sonja Benskin Mesher, and Carol Mikoda,

I hope you’ll visit participating poets and get to know them. It’s important for us to support and encourage one another in our art and in our solidarity around concerns for the social and ethical issues we care about, even if we disagree. Respectful discussion is a healthy thing. I’ve linked in blogs for each poet and for your convenience. If the poet doesn’t have a blog, it’s likely you can catch up with her/him on Facebook.

Paul Brookes

FYI: Paul Brookes, a stalwart participant in Wednesday Writing Prompt, is running a series on poets, Wombwell Rainbow Interviews. Five in the series are already completed and posted. Worth your time. I believe Paul has ten planned altogether and I’m honored to be among those that are upcoming.  So visit him, enjoy the interviews, get introduced to some poets who may be new to you, and learn a few things.

Join with us for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt.  All are welcome – encouraged – to join in: novice, emerging or pro. It’s about exercising our imagination and our writing muscle, showcasing our efforts and getting to know other poets. This is a safe discerning place to share.


An Open

hand this petal an invite
to the best party
where laughter is plenty

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

A Little Girl

Places her found autumn oak leaf
In all its yellow and red on my conveyor belt.

I consider my potential responses:

Sorry love you can’t buy that here.

Sorry love it has no barcode, so won’t go through.

That’s a free gift from nature, love.

At the finish I advise

Sorry you can’t put that through, love

and she removes the leaf from the belt.

At the finish it is all child’s play
in the adult buy and sell.

From Paul’s collection Please Take Change, forthcoming from cyberwit.net.

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

Paul’s Amazon Page U.S.

Paul’s Amazon Page U.K.

When World Is

1.

an eye
you look into white surf clouds
roll over blue gust
white surf clouds roll over blue
gusted bright reed brands rise.

2.

Leaves fall to their end
cold darkens every step
naked limbs outstretch
untidy trees slough leaf clothes
so others forced to clean mess.

3.

Squirrels skitter up,
hold bounty for a nibble
stop, look and listen
as sky looks at itself holds
mirror up close for blemish

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

Let Me Pass Through

city walls
that bind all your threads together,

walk through this wood,
let your cityself take same walk, see
buildings as lone trees,
homeless hostel
is an oak, butchers
a willow that bends
down over the stream
where jammed traffic swims.

A dead bird breathes
animated by flies
is a man in the corner who sings
the blues to passers.

That fall of a leaf
tickertape homecoming parade.

Your pavement footfall
echoes in my forest.

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


Shade

Building or tall tree

Nature’s coolness shared with me

A welcome reprieve

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


.gift.

it was raining.

heavy.

the green house chair is comfy blue.

the book was read, while spiders

wove

their webs.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

. the gift 2 .

i was given a gift . not wrapped

just given. before the winter

festival, before the anniversaries.

the gift was given

gladly received.

if i believed in all that i guess i would give thanks, yet give thanks anyway.

one has escaped.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher


seasonal disorder

profoundly subtle cricket silence
that is not really
silence might not even
be only crickets but
powerful trigger of nightmares
deeply delicate evolution of leaves
first red maples edging
marshes eventually stunning yellow
of tall singular poplars
keenly subdued morning light
reaching resistantly sleepy eyes
intensely indistinct chill spice
of damp morning air

© 2018, Carol Mikoda (At The Yellow Table, We Are Stardust: Change is what it’s all About)


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 PorchVita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation PressThe Bar None GroupSalamander CoveSecond LightI Am Not a Silent PoetMeta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman.