“A Plague on Both Your Houses” . . . and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

“There will come a time when it isn’t ‘They’re spying on me through my phone’ anymore. Eventually, it will be ‘My phone is spying on me’.”
Philip K. Dick

[Loneliness is your only friend]

In the face of algorithms, surveillance capitalism,
Political hacking, be in the world, not of it, the plague
Of lies and distortions, amoral predict-and-control,
Trust you to be the Truth and the Mercy, you are
The lived ethic  . . .
Jamie Dedes



Here we are at our first Tuesday in 2020 with responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, The Plague, January 7, which asked poets to write about living in a hacked world that is driving our consumption one our politics and policies

Today’s thoughtful collection is collection is courtesy of  Anjum Wasim Dar, Irma Do, Kakali Das Ghosh, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Mike Stone, and Clarissa Simmens.

Enjoy! and do join us for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt, which will post tomorrow morning. All are welcome to come out and play, beginning poets, emerging and pro.


E- Plague Massacre

No hack ride nor tool
a horse would pass through rush hour
masked rider, no fool.

No Pied Piper to kill
wired theft e-connect exposed
bankrupt, ethics raped.

hotmail then Yahoo
info data all gone, lost
paper pen, safer?

No! Black or White Hat
safe, not kidnapped to Kenya
e-mail hit by hack,

This plague will not die
communications may fly
mouse lives in wi-fi

© 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


Liar, Liar

Cough, cough, ahem,
Excuse me,
You’re on fire
Yes, you, holding the cell phone
And scrolling
Scrolling
Is it Facebook? Instagram?
Twitter? Tiktok?
Or maybe just the news?
Oh, you don’t notice the smell?
The smoke coming from your pants?
Those pants twisted from all the gymnastics you do –
Well, not actual gymnastics
But the mental gymnastics you do
So you can sleep at night
Oh wait, that’s right
You don’t sleep
You’re scrolling
At 2 AM
Your body, your mind
Your life
Hacked
Into believing
You’re the only one entitled to the American Dream

© 2020, Irma Do

©️2019, Irma Do (I Do Run, And I do a few other things too …)


Light in the darkness

A hot smoke is emitting from our land
Smoke of the volcano is terrible – its natural
But fumes of pseudo politics-jelousy and diplomacy is more deadly
The sun in the sky is the source of energy
But today we need a sun on the ground
A real politician
A true leader
Who can shine light in the darkness of despair
He may the one who can bring a strong cool shower on the hot smoke
From the wound of earthly heart .

© 2020, Kakali Das Ghosh


:: hack ::

although

twitter account,

hotmail hacked,

hacked me off,

will continue to write

low-quality, quickly

put-together articles,

hack llanelltyd

© 2020, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Sonja’s sites are:


The Good Old Days

A dry wind rushes the fallen leaves along
Like a desiccated school marm hurrying
Her children in from recess or maybe
A frightened father calling his kids to the shelter
During the insane oscillations of the incoming sirens:
Choose your metaphor based on where you live,
And I think about our politicians calling us
To return to the good old days
When people were nicer
When they listened to each other before talking
When they all knew what was right
And it was pretty much the same for all folks
But nobody tells them how to return,
That to return to those good old days
You have to be those good old people
Instead of what you’ve somehow become
Today.

© 2020, Mike Stone, Raanana Israel

Find more of Mike’s poetry at his website HERE. His Amazon page is  HERE.


A Plague on Both Your Houses!

*Mercutio, “Romeo and Juliet” by Shakespeare

Email bloated with accusing words
My own house, party,
Insisting on money
Issues like wet tissues
Disintegrating like my love of democracy
The issue is money to win
Worse, the other house
Opposing party
Tweets full of hatred
From a man I do not follow
Yet due to dictatorial rules
He raids my daily reading
With pictures and vitriol
Bacterial words of disease
Slamming the republic
Mocking my once-great land

I will vote
I will vote my house
Though plagued
Yet there is still a chance
For healing
Despite the unfeeling
Of those we put in power…

“We better stop
Hey, what’s that sound?
Everybody look – what’s going down?”**

**Buffalo Springfield, For What It’s Worth

© 2020, Clarissa Simmens

Find Clarissa on her Amazon’s Author Page, on her blog, and on Facebook HERE;


Poetry Rocks the World!

Jamie DedesAbout /Testimonials / Disclosure / Facebook / Medium Ko-fi

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.

Link HERE for Free Human Rights eCourse designed and delivered by United For Human Rights, Making Human Rights a Fact



FEEL THE BERN

For Peace, Sustainability, Social Justice

The Poet by Day officially endorses Bernie Sanders for President.

The New New Deal

Link HERE for Bernie’s schedule of events around the country.

“Democracy is not a spectator sport.” Bernie Sanders



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

 

Hanged Man, a poem by Clarissa Simmens

Ryder Waite Tarot XII, U.S. Public Domain

“’Christ! You know it ain’t easy
You know how hard it can be
The way things are going
They’re going to crucify me'” *



Crow cawing in early morning clouds
Tallest tree invisible in fog
Tarot’s Hanged Man
Initiation into a mysterious world
Odin hung for 9 days
Euhemerizationally** sacrificing his eye
Think of other mythical and biblical
Heroes hung over the centuries
All in the name of knowledge
Ah, but John Lennon
Knew he was a sacrifice
No worse than others
Yet, in his quest for wisdom
He cried out to us:
“Christ! You know it ain’t easy
You know how hard it can be
The way things are going
They’re going to crucify me” *
He knew, he knew
But tell me who
Would assassinate a rocker?
So many of us
Hanging in silence
Smoke and steam
Muffling our dreams
Then thinking we’ve learned
Slip off the slip knot
Abrading the ankle’s skin
Moving into the Earth’s valley
Carrying new knowledge
But never satisfied
And in time
Wake up to find
We’re back on the tree
Dangling in space
Another lesson to memorize
A path to retrace…

.
(c) 2018 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

.
This is poem is an excerpt from Clarissa’s collection Cording the Cards and shared here with Clarissa’s permissions.

,
* The Ballad of John and Yoko

CLARISSA SIMMENS (Poeturja) is an independent poet; Romani drabarni (herbalist/advisor); ukulele and guitar player; wannabe song writer; and music addict. Favorite music genres include Classic Rock, Folk, Romani (Gypsy), and Cajun with an emphasis on guitar and violin music mainly in a Minor key. Find her onAmazon’s Author Page, on her blog, and on Facebook HERE.

Clarissa’s books include: Chording the Cards & Other Poems, Plastic Lawn Flamingos & Other Poems, and Blogetressa, Shambolic Poetry.


Poetry Rocks the World!

Jamie DedesAbout / Testimonials / Disclosure / Facebook / Medium Ko-fi

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.

Link HERE for Free Human Rights eCourse designed and delivered by United For Human Rights, Making Human Rights a Fact



FEEL THE BERN

For Peace, Sustainability, Social Justice

The Poet by Day officially endorses Bernie Sanders for President.

The New New Deal

Link HERE for Bernie’s schedule of events around the country.

“Democracy is not a spectator sport.” Bernie Sanders



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

element. . . and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

Oh lovely chance, what can I do
To give my gratefulness to you?
You rise between myself and me
With a wise persistency;
I would have broken body and soul,
But by your grace, still I am whole.
Many a thing you did to save me,
Many a holy gift you gave me,
Music and friends and happy love
More than my dearest dreaming of;
And now in this wide twilight hour
With earth and heaven a dark, blue flower,
In a humble mood I bless
You wisdom– your waywardness.
You brought me even here, where I
Live on a hill against the sky
And look on mountains and the sea
And a thin white moon in the pepper tree.
Sara Teasdale, The Collected Poems



This week we bring you poems in response to If You Get Another Chance, the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, December 11, 2019.  This interesting mix of wise, sad, and authentic is the gift of mm brazfield, Anjum Wasim Dar, Denise Fletcher, Alethea Kehas, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Pali Raj, and Clarissa Simmens.

Note: I am putting The Poet by Day on hiatus starting tomorrow for the holy days. I’ll return on January 8, 2010 with the next Wednesday Writing Prompt.

Wishing you much joy in the year end festivities.

Best wishes for the 2020! 


element

if the rust stained bones in my frame
where to ever get a chance again
to glide across the universe
look into Pandora’s jet white eyes
and smell the lighted stars
like people sniff the roses
my soul to keep i’d give away
to plug the holes
and pave new ways
for dusk to kiss the lonely hearts
for dawn to inter the bitter crop
from where my old roots are rotted
i’d be a renegade of love again
with bombs of ear drums
i would fight
to give a spot to everyone
in God’s angelic choir
if the sacred morning dew
can forgive me
for not being wide awake
in baptizing my sinful state
in the worldly river of life
reason being i was up all night
marching behind my sisters and brothers
blinded by the poisoned dark
with intent to guide them out
of their imposed upon madness
or if the maidens of the light
would prefer to bring me back
i would want to be
a lightning bolt
looking to correct
the wicked negatives of the cold hard ground
with the positives in the celestial clouds
to quench the crops of kindness
that are drying out
yet in all honesty
i’d be more than content
to come back as a rainbow colored bubble
making some kid laugh

© 2019, mm brazfield

mm’s site is: Words Less Spoken


On a Positive Note

If ever I get the chance
to make a fresh start

I will go all the way to Rabat-
wearing a jambart, will keep
and push a tea -cart, serving all
in the street and ghat

my currency will be Thai Baht
will make many and sell, tarts
in bazars and all marts
will accept the Burmese Kyat

then love to rest under Green heart
and wish for a trip to Kalat
but before I depart I will
listen to Beethoven and Mozart

fill a large apple cart
dress up very very smart
will go slow not dart
outsmart all,this will be

my restart

© 2019, 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


I Guess

I guess it’s too late
To live in Nashville
and become a star

I guess it’s too late
To sing on the You
Can Be a Star show
Since it officially
ended in 1989.

I guess it’s too late
for that demo tape
To be found like
Lost treasure and fall
into the right hands

I guess it’s too late
To record another
Gospel tune for
my listening
Audience to hear

But it sure would
have been fun to
Be on that TV show
after my demo tape
Was accepted

I guess it’s too late
To live in Nashville
and become a star

Or is it too late?

© 2019, Denise Fletcher 


A Girl Named Truth

She would have been a wild child
Wind-blown without temperance
She would have held her truth
high like a flag, running
Her feet scraped raw
Her words etched into never-ending
Wonder. She would have gulped life
Ever-thirsty Her heart, the drum of Earth
River-blood in her veins
She would never stop
Until she flew wings
Cutting gravity. Each slice pushing
Her higher. Lungs becoming sky
So vast and blue she would not know
Ending, She would have been
Free

© 2019, Alethea Kehas


..lindisfarne..

it was you that made me do it

think back

and wonder if it could have

been different.

it could have

been better.

except it is what it is,

and was just what it was.

i do not expect to time travel

i do not expect a change in history

any time

soon.

she said that we were young then.

i do not remember that i think

i always felt older

i did not ever feel that young thing

except that day with you at sea

when after

they all shouted at me.

come away with me to lindisfarne

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

ah john

you ask what would i do different

if i could change the past

i cannot change it yet look to the future

to have more care and education for all

folk to understand have empathy

be kind

& let us keep it simple

maybe the creatures have good ideas

& go to bed when dark ; don’t destroy

the earth

the air smells good in the new book shop

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Sonja’s sites are:


Tantrums, and cries
Capture hearts
So let it be
A bolt from blue
Say “Hi”
Well, you have got “Nothing” to say ….yeah
Then you tell me that
You don’t tell us “Sorry”
Join in our circle of friends
Let’s talk ….yeah
Let sags of your face rise and fall
More and more
Say “Hi”
Well, brace yourself to love
And make it a plan but little sense ….yeah
Smile
More and more
If you get another chance
Tantrums, and cries
Capture hearts
So let it be
A bolt from blue
Say “Hi”

© 2019, Pali Raj


Moment of Immanent Action

O, that moment of imminent action
When a confluence of worlds intersect
All is possible
Like The Death of Socrates
As he reaches for his hemlock
Iconic cup of forced suicide
What will he do? Recant?
It would change history
But the speechifying continues
Outcome clear
“Don’t!” I shout to the painting
As if there is no known conclusion
Might as well scream at the hero of a horror flick
“Don’t go down the cellar/up the attic/outside to the shed”
And now, in modern times
I find myself screaming at the dumb teenager:
“Charge your phone!”

O that special moment
Time etched on canvas in paint
And the Universe holds its breath
As I hesitate
And then say, “Sure, we might as well get married”
Maybe not as important as Hector
About to be murdered by Achilles
Can he surrender and live to fight
Another day?
And why do I
Focus on marriage?
Surely I regret giving up
Guitar, writing, tarot
Perhaps it’s just feeling Blue
During this Red, Green and Gold holiday
But junctures appear, innocently beckoning
And I so wish there had been
A painting depicting that imminent action
Something I could have studied and thought about
Before opening my mouth
And just maybe
Unlike Socrates and Hector
That moment could have been deflected
A lone laser point harmlessly careening
Into endless space…

© 2018, Clarissa Simmens 

Find Clarissa on her Amazon’s Author Page, on her blog, and on Facebook HERE; Clarissa’s books include: Chording the Cards & Other Poems, Plastic Lawn Flamingos & Other Poems, and Blogetressa, Shambolic Poetry.


Poetry Rocks the World!

Jamie DedesAbout / Testimonials / Disclosure / Facebook / Medium Ko-fi

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.

Link HERE for Free Human Rights eCourse designed and delivered by United For Human Rights, Making Human Rights a Fact



FEEL THE BURN

For Peace, Sustainability, Social Justice

Senator Bernie Sanders

The Poet by Day officially endorses Bernie for President.

“Democracy is not a spectator sport.” Bernie Sanders



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

-cheveux indisciplines- … and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

Warning

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people’s gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

© 1961, Jenny Joseph

Joseph’s best known poem, Warning, was written in 1961, first published in The Listener in 1962, and later included in her 1974 collection Rose In the Afternoon, in The Oxford Book of Twentieth Century English Verse, and in her Selected Poems (1992). Warning was identified as the UK’s “most popular post-war poem” in a 1996 poll by the BBC. The second line was the inspiration for the Red Hat Society. Due to its popularity, an illustrated gift edition of Warning, first published by Souvenir Press Ltd in 1997, has now been reprinted forty-one times.



This week we bring you poems on the joys – or at least the odd or funny things – about aging in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, What’s It to Me?, November 20. In a world gone mad, it’s nice to be able to share a few giggles today.

Thanks for this collection go to: Gary W. Bowers, Olive Branch, mm brazfield, Paul Brooks, Anjum Wasim Dar, Irma Do, Kakali Das Ghosh, Urmila Mahajan, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Pali Raj, and Clarissa Simmons  Enjoy!

Note: The Poet by Day will be on hiatus for the Thanksgiving holiday here in the States and will return on December 4 with the next Wednesday Writing Prompt.

♥ May everyone have much for which to be thankful.


endgame adjustments

it’s easy to have a blast at 65
just don’t do it in your pants
for your once reliable digestive tract
is now a trickster
and sometimes pretends one substance
is another
so be discreet
hie thee to a bathroom stall
and relax
and enjoy
one of life’s unsung pleasures
unless…

your tract reaches into its bag of tricks
and inexplicably delays the countdown
and subsequent blastoff

and then you must wait
r e l a x
pretend you have all
t h e t i m e
i n
t h e w o r l d

except you don’t
and if the parcel is still
on the loading dock five minutes on
it is time to go fishing
with ernest hemingway
marlin fishing
for the extreme rocking motion
papa uses when he has a marlin on the line
sometimes is a sufficient propellent
for the contents of the large intestine to offload
so catch that marlin

but that doesn’t always work
so it’s time for desperate measures
make yourself laugh
cough like a firefighter
find something to sneeze at

still…unmoved?
in this extreme
i must refer you to Project DJT
and ask you to form
the most real image in your mind
of Inauguration Day 2021
and…
(ogodno)
DONALD TRUMP TAKING
THE OATH OF OFFICE!!!!!

now, if that
doesn’t Scare You Shitless,
NOTHING will!

© 2019, Gary W. Bowers

Gary’s site is: One With Clay, Image and Text


Bliss

One summer
night, after
a trip to the
American West,
and comfort in seeing family
and an old
friend,
a contentment
prevailed.

The torch was now passed
to the next generation,
and we’d lived to be
witness to the 30 years
onward that we’d
travelled to arrive at
the current nuptial.

Unanticipated and fleeting,
the gladness
when it appears
sometimes in the aftermath,
can be all the more memorable.

© 2019, Olive Branch


-cheveux indisciplines-

i love the color of my hair
brown red and in some places pink
my tired legs and lined filled hands
eyes that stare flat beyond the sky
and a mind that has lost the hard shell
of youthful indulgence and inexperience
i love my lips still round and plump
and the new found freedom
of spouting my own thoughts
that are crafted with the filigree of wisdom
i love my face
oh those expression lines
that will never be usurped by botox
my cheek bones high and tight
to frame a genuine smile at the wind
i love my hair when she gets wild
and i walk the streets of Beverly Hills
stroll in the Rolls Royce isles
worn out Chucks with the strategic tears
where the toes are too tight
salesmen follow me with Lysol cans
and their neat white gloves
that eradicate the traces of the hoi polloi
the hair a right of passage glorious
furious bright riot
reminding me that my agedness
is a catalyst to the third eye lens
from where i can finally see
the dimensions of the world
the good and the bad
and really only give a dam
about the moments that matter

© 2019, mm brazfield

mm’s site is: Words Less Spoken


To Biddy

Scatter radiances of milk
on her icy sod.
Let each brightness warm her earth.

Broadcast flames of oats
on her waters, stoke embers of fish.
Let her waves be ablaze with shoals.

Brush and scrub your home for her visit.
Put her bread and butter on windowsills.
Make her a bed of twigs for her rest.

Waxing light polishes
her crone wrinkles
into maiden’s roundness.

Make her a doll
out of primroses
and snowdrops.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

Old Are Young

My wrinkles disappear,
No more crow’s feet.

Knees lack pain when I get up,
or walk stairs. Mind so pin sharp

it hurts. Touch my toes,
cartwheel, run marathons.

I’ve had to throw away my false teeth,
As I’ve grown new ones.

Age means less struggle.
Life should be struggle.

Age means less pain .
Everything should hurt.

I tell my wrinkled grandkids.
Never grow old. Wish it on no one.

Excerpt from Paul’s collection A World Where (Nixes Mate Press, 2017)

© 2019, Paul Brookes

My Decrepit Is Good

Bring on grey hairs turn to silver.
Bring on sharp pain in the knees
as I hobble downstairs.

Bring on memory loss
as I know no different.
Bring me my stick,
my arrow of desire.

Bring it all on, fuzzy brain,
misty sight, zimmer frame,
adult nappy’s, oxygen through
plastic tubes, a knowing.

Bring on wrinkles, laugh lines,
tang of autumn, radical spice
of spring, footskate winter,
wild summer, all natural process.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

My Friction Ridges

Seventeenth week of mam’s pregnancy
my fetus friction ridges fully form
arch, loop and whorl,

My basal layer buckles and folds
in several directions, forces complex shapes.
Not barkskin growth rings
light and dark, a seasonal response.

Rather as if someone thumbs out my face
or mine tbeirs, erase facial recognition
on a photo, stain the image
with sand dune ripples, tropical fish stripes,
convecting fluid patterns,

von Karman vortices, air or liquid currents
move in opposite directions, curl clouds.

Insects speed and manoeuvre
borrow energy from their wing made
von Karman vortices,

this blotted face buckles and folds
with age.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

FYI: Paul Brookes, a stalwart participant in The Poet by Day Wednesday Writing Prompt, is running an ongoing series on poets, Wombwell Rainbow Interviews. Connect with Paul if you’d like to be considered for an interview. Visit him, enjoy the interviews, get introduced to some poets who may be new to you, and learn a few things.

The Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: Jamie Dedes

  • 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


Something It Is To Me Surely

Something it is to me surely,
something is
my shirt hangs loose and long
from the shoulders, I have no worries
I am smart, silver streaks do not bother
I still wear the ‘jhumka earings’ I can smile
I cover my head, no hairstyle, am free of the
chair and clip in the hair
Wow what freedom has come-

I am free. I have nothing to hold
I am more bold, when cold, I wear socks
as I please,
I am a bit old, not much for
I can sit of the floor, need not reach for
the stick, nor for the bottle ‘on the rocks’
no cigarettes please, just coffee hot
Something it is to me surely
something is

dark glasses help me to see, what I
wish, what fun to be served and waited upon
Old is gold, and Grand and Great Grand
I am soft and stern at the same time
I am there among laughter and hugs
I am a bit old not much
I am just seven with a zero I say
I am fine my wrinkles may show
I am now eight with a zero I say
I still love am loved how lucky I say
Without me, value me-

something it is to me surely something is
It is love and respect as I love all and bow
and I pray and I pray and soon I may not be
If I have been good, I will be young as seven
and I will not grow old again, for I will be in heaven

© 2019, 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


When I Am An Old Woman

I want to be
A old woman
With a squishy tummy
From having babies and eating chocolate chip cookies
I would have wrinkles in all the right places
I would wear my grey hair the same way as I wore it when it was my black hair
I would wear a bright print top
And swingy pants made of linen
I would sit in my rocker
On my front porch
Under a retractable awning
A glass of sweet tea on the table next to me
With a battery powered fan next to it
Just in case it got too hot
I’d have my knitting in a bag
But I wouldn’t take it out
Instead
I would watch the street
I would watch the sidewalk
I would wave to the kids as they walked to school
I would give the stink eye to unfamiliar cars
I would greet the UPS driver and chat up the mail carrier
I would chide the dog owner who didn’t pick up what their dog put down
I would smile to the mama with the sleeping baby
I would listen to the birds and the squirrels, the ambulance and the fire trucks
I would only glance at the air planes overhead
And when the sun is high enough, I would pull back the awning
And let the sun kiss my un-sunscreened face.

© 2019, Irma Do

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


Old Eyes

When my old age comes

I”ll not be upset

Thinking I too have to leave this world

Keeping my old eyes on the velvety sky

I will count innumerable stars

I know that this counting will remain incomplete

Though time goes on

There is an impression of events

While counting stars I will remember my left days of past

Then I will come to my mirror

Reflection of sunrays on it will make my existence happy

I will recall my glorious past

And collect a jug of honey

With full of vivacity

Thus I will be a sparkling beauty of innersense .

© 2019, Kakali Das Ghosh


Purple

Noiseless as autumn footfalls,
clematis vines reach higher on
the trellis into the blinding
sun. The season unravels gently

preserving a trail of beliefs from
the echoes of coral jasmine gathered
in two orange-smudged childhood
baskets of burnished brass, reserved
for practising faith with garlands
and incense, to the intrinsic
rituals of coral jasmine itself:
simple beginnings and growth. The
flamboyant carpet of bauhinia petals
below my feet (now past its
prime) coils into rich chains

of understanding, edging unbroken
days and nights towards reflection
on natural systems and those
flashes of purple autumn stillness.

© 2019, Urmilia Mahajan

. yes we come older .

I just copy and paste
the whole thing,
they can take it or leave
it.

i do find that
much does not
matter now,
all that fiddly stuff,
all that desiring
things, when all around us
is ready.

i like the birds
and such like
little things.

glad of the heal.

yes a sensitive soul, when all is quiet,
small sounds, voices interrupt
the day.

is best we listen.

just now the planes fly over, the dog runs out looking up, barking.

it is pleasant here again today,
a piece of mind.

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Sonja’s sites are:


Growing old I enjoy it
WHAT’S YOUR PROBLEM
Ah, when I get off my bed I rub my back
You don’t find it annoying
I am too old
I need rest, and medicine ….yeah,
I raised a good, and gentleman
YOU CALL HIM SON
I am old but who are we kidding?
WHAT’S YOUR PROBLEM
if only there were just one
I cough with half my mouth
Son, I can’t stay in the air for a long long time
Well, you treat us like we are dying ….yeah
Growing old I enjoy it
WHAT’S YOUR PROBLEM
Ah, when I get off my bed I rub my back
You don’t find it annoying
I am too old
I need rest, and medicine

© 2019, Pali Raj


Elliptical

In secret grasses
Wild flowers thrive, watching me
An aging Goth Granny
Freely pedaling
Tiring easily
Suddenly seeing
I’ve become paprika
A shadow of cayenne
O, but the beat
The music thrums
Through overloud speakers
Legs moving faster
Lungs gasping
Singing voice rasping
Sure will pay for it
Tonight when the yard is
Moonlit
But worth every moment…

© 2019, Clarissa Simmens

Unrecognized/Winter Disguised

Following middle of the night
Poetry ideas
Into oblivion
Darkness magics the words
So Stygian
Yet moonlight
Like blankets
Shields and comforts
Transforming a stressed face
Into a softened glow
As the mask melts
Lost in a
Mythology unrecognized
Although semiotically using
Correct signs, symbols and
Elemental scents
Winter disguised
It is the unrecorded that
Fascinates
Separating historically
Asking the clouds rhetorically
Who will I be this decade
Because I certainly don’t know
That other person from the last
And moving back in time
Across an invisible line
Is a very different
Woman
Young adult
Teenager
Child
And I think
To my great surprise
I like this old one best…

© 2019, Clarissa Simmens

Find Clarissa on her Amazon’s Author Page, on her blog, and on Facebook HERE; Clarissa’s books include: Chording the Cards & Other Poems, Plastic Lawn Flamingos & Other Poems, and Blogetressa, Shambolic Poetry.


Jamie Dedes. I’m a freelance writer, poet, content editor, and blogger. I also manage The BeZine and its associated activities and The Poet by Day jamiededes.com, an info hub for writers meant to encourage good but lesser-known poets, women and minority poets, outsider artists, and artists just finding their voices in maturity. The Poet by Day is dedicated to supporting freedom of artistic expression and human rights and encourages activist poetry.  Email thepoetbyday@gmail.com for permissions, commissions, or assignments.

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Recent and Upcoming in Digital Publications: Jamie Dedes, Versifier of Truth, Womawords Literary Press, November 19, How 100,000 Poets Are Fostering Peace, Justice, and Sustainability, YOPP! * The Damask Garden, In a Woman’s Voice, August 11, 2019 / This short story is dedicated to all refugees. That would be one in every 113 people. * Five poems, Spirit of Nature, Opa Anthology of Poetry, 2019 * From the Small Beginning, Entropy Magazine (Enclave, #Final Poems), July 2019 * Over His Morning Coffee, Front Porch Review, July 2019 * Three poems, Our Poetry Archive, September 2019


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