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

Along the drive by my friend Mick B’s house.

“When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.”
Henri Nouwen, Out of Solitude



The last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Lost: One Grandpa Bodhisattva, May 1 was a call to write about friends and/or friendship. What you’ll mostly find here in response is how affected we are by the loss of our friends who have meant so much to us and done so much for us. The aching emptiness cannot be filled. The memories are joy and pain. There are a few other notes in these songs of friendship: Irma and the support of her running friends; one of Sonja’s poems puts me in mind of Pooh Bear; Paul writes about the strange intimacy of distance; and Anjum’s poem shows such a deep appreciation for friendship, a flower the scent of which permeates our lives. All these poems are worth your time and thought and will likely trigger a few tears and a few poems of your own. Read on …

Thanks to mm brazfield, Paul Brooks, Irma Do, Jen Goldie, Frank McMahon, Sonja Benskin Mesher and Anjum Wasim Dar for coming out to play this week. Thanks to Irma and Anjum for the added value of their illustrations. And once again, thanks to everyone for your patience with the time it took to get this post published, still Tuesday here but Wednesday already in England (Paul and Sonja) and in Pakistan (Anjum) and Wednesday in the places where a lot of readers live.

Readers will note links to sites are included that you might visit these stellar poets and …

… do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt, whether you are a beginning poet, emerging or pro.  All are welcome – encouraged – to come out and play and to share their poems on theme, which will be published here the following Tuesday.


sometime in an August

Asa who laid in the Panhandle with me you strung out on love i on wild chemistry from around the Tenderloin Asa who lent me his Walkman for Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters as i stared into the night sky higher than our hangout on Coit Tower Asa who was ecstatic when we shared stories about the boys we kissed at the Trocadero on Wednesday nights as i cried when you told me your fate Asa you with your toothy smile biting my cherry Danish as you took off the shirt from your back to cover all of my track marks when the workers came to take you away to your mother’s place in silence and all i could do for you Asa was stand as the ambulance pulled away

© 2019, mm brazfield (words less spoken)


What’s So

special about me
after my mates are gone?

Nobody to talk to.
They left before I could say goodbye.

They bleed and I don’t.
No reason. I went to their leaving.

I can’t hug them.
They are so cold

Wish I could have left.
At the same time.

Wish I could be as cold.
No reason.

© 2019, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration. History. Imagination.)

I Always Lose

contact with everybody
so find out how they’re invaluable.

Taught at school to make promises
that can’t be kept can’t keep. As is fashion

Lost contact with school mates.
Taught memory makes you responsible

for their anniversaries, forgot
to pay the provider. No internet.

Taught to lose books cos they dont
tell you owt. Libraries are records

of folk losing stuff. What I want
to read that for. Enough on forgetting

my own, our lasses and I swear some
kids are saying am theirn. All in air.

© 2019, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration. History. Imagination.)

My Strangers

are friends who haven’t been estranged yet.

All my mates are strangers.
I keep them at a distance.

Chat to them in third person.
Internet on my mobile tells me

when I’ve to give them best wishes
for a special occasion like anniversaries.

They inspire closeness and loyalty.
I can trust them.

They know me.
What I eat, sup.

laugh at.
Strangers are more intimate than friends.

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

© 2019, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration. History. Imagination.)

On Female Friends

Both tote cans of lager,
all in black leggings

get the weekly shop in.
One says to the other who

Packs the shop “I’ll stand
on his face. Tell him.

I’ll stamp on his face.”
The next couple,

“Mam, you buy the weirdest.
What’s suet for the birds? Fat balls?”

“It’s your dad’s dinner, pet”
They both laugh.

From Paul’s last collection Please Take Change  (Cyberwit.net, 2018)

© 2019, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration. History. Imagination.)

Prolific Yorkshire Poet, Paul Brookes

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

The Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: Jamie Dedes

  • 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


For Karen:

You’re bright!
And lovely!
And beautiful!
I will always
Hold that gift
In my heart.
Because,
The warmth
And joy
Your friendship
Has offered
Will stay with
Me,
Forever.

As I said…a simple poem.
But straight from my heart.

This is a simple poem I wrote many years
ago for a true friend I’d known for over 30
years. She has passed now. But I still benefit
from her strength and passing wisdom and
I will never forget her.

© 2019, Jen Goldie (From the Corners of My Heart)


Heaven Sent Group Run

Eyes up to heaven

Running mile seven

I’m tired

My legs feel deaden

“Come on,” you beckon

Perspired

Running moms hearten

Together driven

Inspired

Another Lai Poem for D’Verse. The topic for this one uses the prompt from Patrick’s Pic and a Word #185 – Heavens. I’ve been on a streak with Patrick’s wonderful prompts! Head on over and see the lovely photos and words he uses for his weekly challenge. Patrick’s photos and poems from his recent travels are magnificent!!

While I didn’t get to actually run my seven miles this weekend like I was supposed to (rain and family obligations had me cutting it short), I was very grateful for the women who joined me from my local Moms Run This Town chapter. I was running short intervals while two other mamas were running longer intervals and our speedster mama was just running. We would leapfrog each other on the out and back trail, coming back when we would get too far out.

Even though I was running by myself at my own pace for most of this group run, just knowing my running friends were ahead of me or behind me made me happy and kept my motivation high. That’s running heaven!

I’ve also submitted this for Jamie’s Wednesday Writing prompt on The Poet by Day to write about friends. Is it weird that most of my friends are runners or writers?

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


For Karen:

You’re bright!
And lovely!
And beautiful!
I will always
Hold that gift
In my heart.
Because,
The warmth
And joy
Your friendship
Has offered
Will stay with
Me,
Forever.

As I said…a simple poem.
But straight from my heart.

This is a simple poem I wrote many years
ago for a true friend I’d known for over 30
years. She has passed now. But I still benefit
from her strength and passing wisdom and
I will never forget her.

© 2019, Jen Goldie (From the Corners of My Heart)


ROYALTY

For Bryan Southwell

You were the King, upbraided in rehearsal
for taking too long to die. “They’ll all miss
the last bus home if you don’t speed this up!”
Even now, your fury reverberates.

Ah, my gracious friend, so many miles walked
upon the links, everything elegant,
even your bon mots in the midst of our
vulgar chaffing. The Schubert Impromptus

as we drove those Norfolk byways, the sun
flecking the chestnut leaves. The Canterbury
Tales in Melton, shared hours of bawdiness
and helpless laughter. You could have graced those boards
making love to the Wife of Bath and who knows else.

Admissions and discharges, blow
after vicious blow, cries of pain filling
the ward, nothing imagined for effect.

In the end, death could not come soon enough.
You slipped away, into the wings, denying
us all one final curtain call. You were
ready, not us, no, palms uplifted, empty.

© 2019, Frank McMahon


.friends.

we are friends .

we are friends , we met in the lane.

the words sound like poetry, the quiet
voice sounds shouting in this silence.

it can make windows and opportunities,
space to accompany the music.

travel far and in between, play the right notes,
write notes, and then maybe, all will come

clear. or not.

i need that stop.

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

#facebook friends day

so bear says,

why aren’t i in the film,

i am your friend.

ah yes i says,

yet no one will

believe that.

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

.memoire.

he says it is the word.

they will remember.

i will remember them all,
tidy, kind, white table cloths,
napkins, the favourite
picture.

i will remember you,
work out your age
every year. the wind blows.

all beautiful faces. the friends.

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

                                            You my friend  –  A Flower

If Humans Are Friends

Your thoughtful  smile makes me stay
a little while more than I really should
lost in space, I am like Icarus, wings burnt
many lessons in life I have now learnt

I would fly over ethereal plain, if I could,
To meet you at this stage of life,
The distances are understood,
Of age  culture and traditions,
You’ a flower and me, a piece of wood.

images  formed,  are shattered soon
Time like dust ,vanishes over the moon,
You inspire me and give me hope though
as friends for long, I’m scared  of the scope,

What lies ahead what tomorrow brings
What, where, now’  I will not think,
See the miracle of hearts and feelings
With all the spaces, no family dealings-

I am hopeful of good and beautiful things
As shared in moments short and precious
Your advice as a poet writer, full and sincere
Given asked and unasked,without fee or fear,

We met as friends as friends should be
Who make life joyful  light  and easy
I will remember till heartbeats permit
If humans are  friends,
Allah’s Blessings are writ۔

© 2019, illustration and poems (English and Urdu), Anjum Wasim Dar

کچھ امیدیں  ابھی باقی ھیں

اگر دنیا  میں ٰانسان دوست مل جایںؑ تو
کچھ امیدیں  ابھی  باقی  ھیں

اس کی مسکراھت  میری روح  کی رکاوت بنی
کچھ  ضرورت سے زیادہ رکنے کا احساس ،
خلا کی وسعت  میں گم اونچی اڑان  سے
،اونچی اڑان  سے پر جلا کر سوچ میں محو   

کچھ سبق  سیکھنے ابھی باقی  ھیں

ٓٓپھر بھی عمر ا  ٓخر میں  اس دوست  سے  ملنے 
افلاک  پہ فظاوںؑ میں  اڑتے ھوےؑ  فاصلوں کو  کاٹتے 
ھوےؑ ، رسم و رواج کو  نظر  انداز کرتے  ھوےؑ صفر
کا آغاز  ، سورج  کی شعاوں میں ، چاندنی راتوں میں

کچھ راستے  طے کرنے  ابھی  باقی  ھیں

اے  دوست، یک پھول کی مانند  پاوؑن  تجھے
میں کہ اک لکڑی  کا کٹا  ھوا   تکڑا بے  بس
تصور  جو  کیا  بکھر  گیا ، وقت  گزر  گیا،  بس
 تمھاری  ھمت  سے  زندہ  ھوں سانس باقی  ھے

کچھ  کام  کرنے  ابھی  باقی ھیں

مجھے نہیں  سوچنا  کہ کل کیا ھوگا 
کب کہاں کیسے یہ سب کیسے  ھوگا
بس احساس  کے دلی جزبات کے  حیراںکن
معجزات  کی دعایںؑ ملی ھیں  بضشش  کی 

کچھ رشتے نبھانے ابھی  باقی  ھیں

اس کی تحریروں پہ ھدایت  ملتی رھی 
لمحہ ببہ  لمحہ  قیمتی گھڑیوں میں  
پوچھنے پہ  اور  پوچھے  بغیر  بھی،یہ
  قدریں دوستی میں  اب نایاب ھیں سبھی

ابھی کچھ  افسانے لکھنے باقی  ھیں 

دوست بن کے ملے دوست ہی رھیں گے
جو زندگی  کو  پر لطف  اور خوشگوار بناےؑ
بھلا  سکتے  نہیں  انہیں  جو اللاہ کے لیےؑ 
دلوں میں رہتے ھیں ، اگر ایسا ھو تہ سمجھ لیں

کہ اللاہ  کی رحمتیں ابھی بہت باقی  ھیں 

Find Anjum here:
https://anjumwasimdar.wordpress.com/    Unsaid Words of Untold Stories…Prose  writing
knitting projects/stories
https://helpingenglishteachinginpakistan.wordpress.com/  ELT   Work experience/educational service for the country

ABOUT

“Gust Is Deaf, Hills Are Blind”. . . and other responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

“It’s that magnificent interlude in New York between winter and spring, when you feel the warmth stirring, and you remember that the dreadful naked trees will inevitably sprout tiny green buds, soon. Everyone rushes into the parks, the streets–and you even forget that, very soon , summer will come scorchingly, dropping from the sky like a blanket of steam…”  John Rechy, City of Night



In response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Another Kind of Beauty, February 20, 2019, poets Paul Brooks, Cubby (Sonya Annita Song), Irma Do, Jen Goldie, Frank McMahn, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Marta Pombo Sallés, Anjum Wasim Dar share the joy and inspiration they find in nature. Special thanks to Irma and Anjum for the added pleasure of their photographs and to Anjum for her artwork. Nicely done.

Readers will note that links to sites are included when they are available so that you can visit. If there’s no site, it’s likely you can catch up with the poet on Facebook.

Enjoy this nature collection and do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt.


Gust Is Deaf, Hills Are Blind

trees can’t walk properly,
Flowers twitch haphazardly.

Grass is mute, rivers are dumb.
Nature is differently abled.

Mountains are too tall,
struggle to talk when they can’t

bend a knee, get down to those smaller
who are in awe when all mountains need

is to speak face to face , dispel their myth.
Same with water that rushes by,

no time to stand and stare, moments pass
before they have time to fully comprehend.

Flux needs a still moment but has to go on.
Still waters wish they could rush.

All hankers after what it Is not,
Cannot accept their place as their lot.

© 2019, Paul Brookes (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.

© 2019, Paul Brookes (Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration. History. Imagination.)

Riverbrain, Rivermind. Riverwives

synaptic rivulets
neuron canals
sacred water

riverbrain flows in my head
fountainbrain channels my ideas
lakebrain plays the fey

electric rivulets move earth
inside my head

waterskin neural net
circumnavigates damage
fruited hemispheres
replenish, restore, reimagine

senses water roots
springwaters in my head
well in my head.

sheflow

her flaps of the water
bride of the waveskin
her inner lips of the river,
spring and waterfalls,
fermented honey drip
not dragonfly laced stained glass

faplap
lamina moist make out

fragile weirs into lust
nympha

tongue kindly these guardians

 Excerpt from The Headpoke And Firewedding (Alien Buddha Press, 2017)

© 2019, Paul Brookes (Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration. History. Imagination.)

Grovemind, Groovemind

synaptic branches
neuron tipped limbs
sacred grove recovery

oakbrain opens doors in my head
ashbrain spears my ideas
elmbrain plays the fey

electric gust moves limbs
inside my head

barkskin neural net
circumnavigates damage
fruited hemispheres
replenish, restore, reimagine

senses water roots
grove in my head
grooves in my head

between oaklimbs
between ashlimbs

her flaps of the wood
bride of the barkskin
her inner lips of the forest
fermented honey drip
not butterfly laced stained glass

fapleaf
lamina mulch make out

fragile doors into lust
nympha

tongue kindly these guardians.

Excerpt from The Headpoke And Firewedding {Alien Buddha Press, 2017)

© 2019, Paul Brookes (Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration. History. Imagination.)

Prolific Yorkshire Poet, Paul Brookes

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

The Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: Jamie Dedes

  • 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


When Galaxies Cry

When galaxies cry,
The tears that they shed
Are showers of light
We see overhead
That leave us in awe
As we touch our cheeks,
Speechless but listening
When radiance speaks.

So gaze at the sky
When stars shoot above
And hear as they make
Their statements of love,
For they long to be heard
In the vacuum of space,
Stardrops streaming down
A celestial face.

© 2019, Cubby (Reowr, Poetry that purrs. It’s reowr because the cat said so.)

I Long to Climb

I long to climb into the sky
On steps of wisp and smoke;
I long to feel the sweet caress
Of heaven’s velvet cloak.
I long to greet the newborn dawn,
Blushing in its youth;
I long to shoo the honeyed rays
From shadow’s hungry tooth.
I long to hear the faeries sing
Conducted by the moon;
I long to dance with dimpled winds
In Eden’s fair lagoon.
I long to stroke a comet’s tail
Impetuous in flight;
I long to whisper in the dark
Of dreams beyond the night.
I long for things I cannot have
And I will not deny,
For beauty’s sake is why I long
To climb into the sky.

© 2019, Cubby (Reowr, Poetry that purrs. It’s reowr because the cat said so.)

Sonya Annita Song’s (a.k.a. Cubby) Amazon page is HERE.


March Madness – A Haibun

It is March and I am Mad. The sky is a vibrant electric blue. The clouds are soft cotton pillows. The sun is bright but not warm enough to melt the recent snow. It is a fake spring.

But when a gentle wind blows, soothing my brow with the feel of soft yellow daffodils and hot magenta tulips, I release the anger and betrayal.

Disappointment healed

By springs flowers marching on

The promise of hope


Another coming together of prompts! Merrill at dVerse requested a Haibun about “March Madness” while Jamie Dedes’ Wednesday Writing Prompt asked: How does nature inspire joy in you, inspire your creativity and perhaps even your sense of peace? For me, the symptoms of spring sparks joy however where I am now, spring has been a tease – snowing one day then 60 degree temperatures the next. It is enough to drive one mad!

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


The Trees are making music

The trees
Are making music
To the sky today,
In apology for
Yesterday’s silence.

Music
With crystal bells
Of questions,
Hanging on the limbs,
Unspoken,
Unanswered.

© 2019, Jen E. Goldie (Starlight and Moonbeams and the occasional cat)

DANCE WITH DESTINY

 

ETHEREAL WHITE SNOWFLAKES GENTLY

FALLING FROM AN UNSTIRRING GREY SKY. STATELY

FIR BOUGHS LADEN AND RELENTING UNDER  

NEW- FOUND WEIGHT. I’VE LOST MY LULLABY.

 

ONE PROLONGED AND LONGING BREATH AFTER

ANOTHER AND ANOTHER AND YET ANOTHER.

 

EYES FILLING WITH TEARS YEARNING FOR BEAUTY

TO ENFOLD ME ONCE AGAIN. MY PENCIL

SCRATCHES PAPER BUT I STILL CANNOT

SEE THE BEAUTY SURROUNDING ME,

 

A FOG OF DISMAY WASHES OVER ME

AS THE MIST DOES THE MEADOW.

THOUGH DESIRE IS ARDENT, MY VISION

IS CLOUDED, MY MUSE HAS ABANDONED ME,

 

ADRIFT IN A SEA OF MISCONCEPTIONS, NEGATIVITY

AND TRAGEDY. SPRING WITHIN MY REACH,

SO MUCH BEAUTY YET TO SEE, MY EYES

WEARY, MY SOUL MIRED AND LOST IN MISERY,

WARRING WITH COMFORT AND CHARITY.

 

JOY BROUGHT DESPAIR ALONG FOR COMPANY,

I TOOK HIS HAND AND HE DANCED WITH ME

THE WORST OF IT, IS, HE HAS STAYED WITH ME,

WHILE JOY LEFT THE FETE WITH HARMONY.

 

MY HEART HAS DONNED AN ICY COAT TO

HIDE ME FROM SADNESS, I CANNOT SEE THE

PATH TO HEAVEN, THOUGH I SEE THE ROAD

TO HELL, AS I DANCE WITH DESTINY.

 

© 2019, Jen E. Goldie (Starlight and Moonbeams and the occasional cat)


Wordsmiths

Letters inscribed in air; branches
write the seasons and their fickle
variations, shredding coherence
as they thresh and whine, blasts and rants
of leaves and barren seeds.

Gift of the wasp’s gall: indelible
tales from the oak’s heart and hearing;
grand hotel and shelter, shade for
transient languor.Acorn fall.
Sap retreats slow to reticence.

Meditation under rimed sky,
the hermit’s calligraphy spread
across the crystal sheet, utterance
of promise laid in autumn’s scatter.

The year turns; dew-varnished beech glints
with angled light. Decipher the forest’s
library: curlicues unfurling
on spring-dancing branches, stickiness
and insect hum, in April’s breeze
the Book of Kells unscrolling.

© 2019, Frank McMahon


.turkey island.

they say it is too cold there. cold as icebergs

none came the year the storm broke, breached

the shingle bank

decisions were made

i hear

to not repair

now there is salt marsh where samphire grows

some eat it

i don’t

i like turkey island

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

.clean water.

we left early to visit

clear pools of water,

the mountain sloped.

here we wandered,

among sheep.

watched the bug

glide the water,

sucked down

the fish leap.

storm past, this

was a day of sunshine.

we are good friends.

we got better.

so it goes.

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher


I just met a turtle

I just met a turtle in the park.

It was on the way

Not where its mates

Usually are,

Near the lake

Sunbathing.

It was solitary.

I figured out it spoke

To me.

Told me to slow down.

And so I sat

As words began to dance

In flight

Carrying a smell of pine trees,

Rosemary and lavender.

Like butterfly wings

Fluttering in the wind

They intertwined

And slowly began

To land on my paper

One by one.

I pulled my thread,

Took the needle

And began to sow

One after the other.

A word weaver

Just like my friend

Quim

And all the others.

I just met a turtle.

© 2017 Marta Pombo Sallés (Moments)

The Park

Trees and blue sky,
sweet lavender and rosemary
not knowing why
a few lines I could invent.
Soft wind caressing my face
and the birds singing distant
feeling this nature’s embrace
longing to hold.
So much there is now at stake
sunbeams crossing through tree leaves,
peaceful water of the lake
sensing all, what nature presents.
Let us go on rowing
together on our humble boat
even though not knowing
how long to keep it afloat.

© 2016, Marta Pombo Sallés (Moments)

Out of the Shell

Out of the shell!
the tortoise said
out of that hell!
the price was paid.
Now I am cold
but not in vain
as I am told
I won the pain!
I can walk free
did nothing wrong
there is no tree
but I stay strong.

I’m a bit old
and just need love
I’ll be a bit bold
and play the dove.
I found a girl
on a dating site
oh, how I swirl
to her I write.
She’s just too young
or I’m too old
but I’ve begun
and now I’m sold.

My name is Frank
and she’s Nicole
I’m not a prank
yet she’s my goal.
Told her the truth
what will she do?
she’s in her youth
and I feel blue.
Difference in age
is not so good
it is a cage
you think I should?

© 2019. Marta Pombo Sallés (Moments)

Poem inspired by poet Newton Ranaweera’s post: See, we’re free!!: , and by chapter 6 of Mario Savioni’s novel Pickles and Tarts.


Jewels of Joy

Raindrops in heat,
showered  jewels of joy,
a backdrop white dark and grey,
of infinite mercy, yet warning
thunder, of a power beyond –
what joy I felt, as the sun I found
hiding behind a rainbow –

adorned, in grace crowned
unaware yet cautious, masked thorn,
protection visible, smile on the side
why so quiet in repose, love embodied
profound, yet in complete solitude,
few moments in time,when no words formed,
sweet sounds of love’s intense symphony
in two souls, silently merged, a
rose plucked, surrendered to the hand
that controlled, in colorful scent, that
its joyful destiny, meant,in complete
fragrant beauty, drowned-
Nature’s eternal joy in spirit, replete

© 2019, poem (English and Urdu below), photograph and artwork, Anjum Wasim Dar (Poetic Oceans)

rose4.jpg

                             قدرتی حسن کی دلکشی

یہ بارش کی بوندیں  خوشی کے ہی موتی  
ھیں رحمت  کے قطرے  ھے  بخشش برستی

یہ  قدرت کی طاقت  ھے   سب   سے   بڑی 
   خوشی و راحت ملی ، قوس و قزح پہ نظر جو

پڑیدلکش گلاب  محتاط  مسکراھٹ بکھیرتا  ھوا 
وقت کے خطرات سے انجان چند لمہوں میں 

محبت کے ہاتھوں میں مغلوب ،خشبو میں نہایا

ھوا ، کسی چاہنے والے کی خوشی کے لیے 

قربان ھوا، ،کہ قدرت نے اسی لیے ؑبنایا اسے
روح کی گہرایوں میں  اتر کر  خوشی مکمل  ملے

“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


ABOUT

“Shoes on the Danube” and a commemorating poem by U.K. poet Frank McMahon

“In memory of those who lost their lives during the Arrow Cross rule, the ‘Shoes on the Danube’ memorial was erected on April 16, 2005. Created by film director Can Togay and sculptor Gyula Pauer, it takes the form of 60 pairs of shoes cast in iron and anchored to the ground. Different styles and sizes can be seen, showing that nobody was safe – not men, women or children. Today, candles are placed in the shoes, flowers are laid alongside them. . .” A History of Shoes on the Danube Bank, Culture Trip



Shoes, pointing in all directions
as if they could not decide which
way to go. Ahead the river,
wide and fast, its shore empty of
boats. And people. The shoes, fissured,
soiled, heels broken; children’s clogs. As

they stood in their final sunlight:
prayers? Huddles of comfort? Piss and
shit leaking onto ancient leather.
Hurled backwards, no funeral flowers
save the smoke curling from the guns,
downwards, where the Duna receives
them, cold, reddening as it flows,
mere dross and cargo. A flask of
spirits opened, a cigarette
lit, safety catches on, the world
more Judenfrei.
Shoes, now again
pointing in all directions.

© 2018, Frank McMahon

Originally published in November 2018 in the Anthology Persona Non Grata, Ed. Isabelle Kenyon.

Photo credits: Memorial courtesy of Nikodem Nijaki under C BY-SA 3.0 license; plaque courtesy of Tamas Szabo under CC BY-SA 3.0


FRANK McMAHON has professional career in Social Work in the UK. He’s had poems published on line in The Poet by Day, The BeZine, I am not a Silent Poet, Fly on the Wall, in Riggwelter; in print in BrittleStar,The Ceannon’s Mouth, Persona Non Grata, The Curlew and Cirencester Scene. His first radio play was produced this year on Corinium Radio. Frank is currently working on two more radio scripts. He just finished first draft of children’s novel and is awaiting publication of a short story.



ABOUT

Testimonials

Disclosure

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Poet and writer, I was once columnist and associate editor of a regional employment publication. I currently run this site, The Poet by Day, an information hub for poets and writers. I am the managing editor of The BeZine published by The Bardo Group Beguines (originally The Bardo Group), a virtual arts collective I founded.  I am a weekly contributor to Beguine Again, a site showcasing spiritual writers. My work is featured in a variety of publications and on sites, including: Levure littéraure, Ramingo’s PorchVita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation PressThe Bar None GroupSalamander CoveSecond LightI Am Not a Silent PoetMeta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman. My poetry was recently read by Northern California actor Richard Lingua for Poetry Woodshed, Belfast Community Radio. I was featured in a lengthy interview on the Creative Nexus Radio Show where I was dubbed “Poetry Champion.”

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

“What if our religion was each other. If our practice was our life. If prayer, our words. What if the temple was the Earth. If forests were our church. If holy water–the rivers, lakes, and ocean. What if meditation was our relationships. If the teacher was life. If wisdom was self-knowledge. If love was the center of our being.” Ganga White, teacher and exponent of Yoga and founder of White Lotus, a Yoga center and retreat house in Santa Barbara, CA

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

“A Dark Matter” … and other responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

“We sit and talk,
quietly, with long lapses of silence
and I am aware of the stream
that has no language, coursing
beneath the quiet heaven of
your eyes
which has no speech”
– William Carlos Williams, Paterson


These responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, your darkness, my light – how is it that love transforms us, October 3, 2018, delight, intrigue, thrill your mind and touch the heart. I know you will enjoy them and the two “value-added” sections (Frank’s lastest victory and Mike’s comment) as much as I have.

Kudos and thanks to Renee Espiru, Frank McMahon, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Marta Pombo Sallés, Mike Stone and Anjum Wasim Dar. A very warm welcome to Christi Moon. I’ve been reading her work on Facebook for some years and am delighted to have the opportunity to include her here today.

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 join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt.


Arrivals

(foreword)

I want to write about a man beside a train.
A year later and I’m still looking for the words.
The palm of that strong hand-
balm on small of my lower back;
always, pulling.

I’m getting closer.

Arrivals

I’ve only taken a few steps
when my legs stop responding
to the signals from my brain

my vision locked
on an image

you’re running
beside the train
your green hat folded
in your hand

five hundred thousand minutes
careen

into this
one

my feet can’t feel the ground

airy echoes
of your name
far away and
thrumming

she sounds like me

in s l o w m o t i o n
cinematography
we are captured
in these frames

in front of the lens
behind the lens
we are the lens

we are

standing still
and spinning

as the clocks vanish beneath

we are

heaved beyond
the gates

of this brief ceiling

© 2018, cs moon

CHRISTI MOON grew up in a small coastal town in California and currently resides in rural southeastern, Pennsylvania.  Her poetry has been published in the journal Brush Strokes and Ink Spots, an Anthology of Poetry and Art ~ The River Journal, Nomos Review edition 3 ~ Women on War and Conflict, Meat For Tea ~ The Valley Review Vol 8, Need Change, Poets Against War, and Twisted Tungz art & literature magazine, and online on Combustus, VerseWrights, The Creative Nexus, Solstice Initiative ~ Aqueous, and The River Journal. When not writing poetry, her personal interests also include; photography, yoga, and exploring local nature trails. She also facilitates poetry workshops for local cancer patients.


Flourishes & Whorls

When I first made your acquaintance
my hand wrapped ’round you
and found warmth & light

even though a tiny fragment of cedar
I minded not the lustrous feel of
your soft black carbon
within

as I grasped you time & time again
my muse trembled in anticipation
as she watched gradations of lines
forming

creating magic with loops curving
in every direction
to give life to every breath I
inhaled & exhaled

giving substance to the wind
to the very universe of which
the rotating earth is
contained

with each flourish & curve
you became as putty in my hand
as burning fuel for my muse

whereupon the light of day
merged with the dark of night
transforming sunrises
sunsets

igniting the embers in my soul
within my heart
into a flame

I have kept you close since
that crucial moment
the dawning of
a single
letter

© 2018, Renee Espriu (Renee Just Turtle Flight)


EVOLUTION

It takes a big leap of the imagination
to see the line of descent from dinosaur to
blackbird, until you view the fossil record. But
you still can’t quite collapse fifty million years into
an hour’s time-frame. Think then instead about falling
in love and being in love. Falling, but more
crucially, being caught in passion’s net, held or trapped
depending. Two tyros learning their moves on high-wire
or trapeze, diving earthwards, hands outstretched. Maybe
love really begins when they both discard the net.

This poem was first published in England in The Cannon’s Mouth.

© 2018, Frank McMahon

COSMOLOGY

Some millions of years ago two stars collided,
creating cosmic dust of platignum and gold.
Seven shillings: your nuptial ring, signifying
the conjunction of orbits,love’s trajectory,

not like Cassini, all mapped out. Some few details
clear, the rest to be discovered in those early
starlight days; trial and error, error and trial; flesh and
blood, proud children, losses, carefree days and friends,

small frustrations and winter days
yet love lacing a necklace of stars
round deepening inner space, new elements
re-fashioning our Periodic Table.

© 2018, Frank McMahon

Frank McMahon’s first radio play was broadcast last week.  It concerns the last two years in the life of William Tyndale, the priest and scholar who translated much of the Bible into English and was convicted of heresy for so doing. If you want to hear it, then go to: http://www.Corinium Radio.co.uk, follow the link to Listen Again and look for Somewhere Else Writers Present ” A death in Flanders.” Bravo! and Kudos! to Frank.  

Tyndale, before being strangled and burned at the stake in Vilvoorde, cries out, “Lord, open the King of England’s eyes”. Within four years, four English translations of the Bible were published in England at the King’s behest, including Henry’s official Great Bible. All were based on Tyndale’s work. Woodcut from Foxe’s Book of Martyrs (1563) / Public Domain.


.love . the numbers.

he kindness that is. glass reflecting. slowly it starts. maybe we need to check our numbers?

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

. mathematics .

irregular, you came, your best clothes shining. never mind. the first tune hit the mind, patterns and mathematics. the kindness that is.

he said. machine you see. glass reflecting. slowly it starts repeating. the walls of differing colours. we have the dvds. on and on repeating on and on repeating on and on repeating.

back to the counting, how many have there been, how many are left still standing. an issue for some, yet we amend the figures here and move on. lucky ones, maths divides and decimates others.

1.2

repeating.

© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher


The night is speaking like a cascade

The night is speaking like a cascade.
She’s knitting filigreed lights and shadows.
Sunk in the deep sea
of Sargasso eyes
I stay quiet and don’t find words.
And the scars on your hand
are fading, in order to burn
in my heart.
Oh, sailboats after a long trip
with all the winds in the sails –
sand is calling you.
But it isn’t death!
Oh, it isn’t the end too!
The hand
is going to knock up a hut for you
and in the wide garden
it smells with magnolia and manuscripts…

And I am a sign.

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


When Silent Love Met with Boasting Vanity

A long time ago
I got used to living with
My open wounds,
The last withered while
I was staring at the sunset
In the middle of the fog.

Yes, you told me so many times
About your suffering,
How your heart shrunk
Fisted in bleeding red
While your eyes tasted
The salt of the ocean waves
And cristal pearls were running
Down your cheeks.

On that plane you felt
The freezing coldness
Where just one thing
Would not freeze:
The fountain of your tears.

Yes, indeed I remember
All the pain on that plane.
You sent me back to the
Land of rejection.

Yet I am a resilient rock
With my withered wounds
That I carry since ancient times
On this eroded earth.

But to exist is to resist
And so I dwell in human hearts
Who care for each other.
And may I receive your boasting waves
Crashing on my shores
Those hearts will restore me again
For I am silent love and not vain.

© 2018, Marta Pombo Sallés (Moments)


“Your lines (and prompt), “your darkness my light” caused an explosion of thoughts in my mind. I thought about the latest scientific speculation about the composition of the universe, that most of it is composed of dark matter and dark energy that don’t interact with the matter and energy that we sense. I thought about how we focus on the sources of light and its reflections, the things that exist, the presences, but gloss over the sources of darkness, dismissing it as merely the absence of light, rarely able to sense the absence of things that once were, or that never were. Our world is filled with those things, words that were never spoken, or were spoken and unheard, or forgotten. I will try to come up with a poem that embodies these thoughts before the prompt is due, but I do have one poem that is more-or-less on theme. [Dark Matter – below]

“… and of course there’s the idea of somebody composed of dark matter falling in love with somebody composed of “normal” (baryonic) matter, although current laws of physics declare that impossible. Dark matter is not anti-matter. Anti-matter and matter interact by destroying each other. Dark matter and regular matter are just ships passing (through each other) in the night.” Mike Stone (Uncollected Works)

“A Dark Matter”

(Raanana, October 4, 2018)

I see you everywhere I go
You follow me even into the bedroom
And crawl into bed beside me
Entering my dreams.
You are the dark sun shining your dark photons,
Your shadows are my only light.
You are every age you’ve ever been,
You are the idea of you
Just after I discovered I was pregnant,
You are this thing growing in my belly
Now, this homunculus bursting from my womb
Suckling my breast,
And suddenly you are human,
Helpless, still inchoate, primal.
Then you see me seeing you and you smile,
You crawl, you stand unsteadily on your feet
And then you start to run.
You hold my hand, going to the nursery
And won’t let go.
Suddenly you’re holding her hand
Going to the Homecoming
In our car.
Then you come home
From the place you can’t talk about,
Your uniform full of grease and stench
Which I wash and iron throughout the night,
Then they knock on the door
And tell us you can’t come home,
That we can’t see your body
Because there’s nothing left to see.
When you were alive,
You were just a single person
In just one place, nowhere else.
Now that you are dead,
All of you,
The idea of you, the homunculus,
The primal human,
The little boy holding my hand,
The young man holding her hand,
The soldier coming home,
The soldier never coming home again,
Are everywhere, all the time.
You are my darkness,
I want no other light.
Your absence is so palpable to me
I don’t think I could live without it.

© 2018, Mike Stone (Uncollected Works/Call of the Whippoorwill) 

“Dimdumim”

(Raanana, September 14, 2018)

Here they call it dimdumim
But you call it twilight,
Still light when the orange sun
Sinks behind the distant trees
Or the purple sea under the far horizon
And the colors of the things around you,
The whites, the browns, and the greens,
The grass and trees, even the faces of people,
Bleed into gray, move farther away than before,
Not yet dark, yes, darkening perhaps,
But not quite dark. Suddenly the air
Through which you wade cools slightly,
Is easier to breathe, making you almost weightless,
Waiting for the absolute darkness of night.
In its obscurity possibilities hide,
Almost anything can happen
In the cool darkness
And the obscurity takes any shape
That thoughts can touch.
When night does come
You never see just when
The dimdumim disappears.

© 2018, Mike Stone (Uncollected Works/ Call of the Whippoorwill )

“A Poem Unwritten”

(Raanana, March 9, 2012)

No one has ever written a poem about a poem unwritten
Of the many virtues of such a poem
The perfect meter of noambic nometer
The clarity and minimalism leave
Even haiku silent with envy.
The language of silence is universal
Requiring no translation.
It will be unread by billions!
It’s amazing that no one has thought of it,
No one and I.

© 2012, Mike Stone (Uncollected Works/Yet Another Book of Poetry)

“Waiting to Be”

(Raanana, December 4, 2015)

What does a poem look like
Before it is written?
Just like a lover looks
Before you have met her
Or an infant looks
Before it is conceived
Like a soul looks
Whenever you look
Like potential,
Pregnant but barren,
Like the blank page of a notebook
But more than that
More than nothing
But undefinable
Waiting in the dark
To collect itself
To be.

© 2015, Mike Stone (Uncollected Works/Yet Another Book of Poetry)

Bemused is Mike Stone’s third book of poetry, covering the years from 2016 to 2017. The title means “perplexed” but Mike intended a more literal meaning: “in thrall to the Muse”. Mike has been in the Muse’s thrall for most of his seventy years. This collection shows his maturity as a writer and his courage in facing the dilemmas of life’s endgame without fear or delusion.

Kindle (digital): https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0786JQJHQ/ ($2.99)

Amazon (paperback): https://www.amazon.com/dp/1981543775/ ($19.95)

Mike is one of The BeZine’s nominees for Best of the Net 2018.


Does Age Matter

And I believed in you because

I loved you

as a charming human being

Knowledgeable attractive witty and quick

And I tried to bear with your weaknesses

Because we all have them and impress

And I believed in you because

I wanted to

For I could see the tremendous potential

In you as a creative enthusiastic loveable

Charming personality that

The Almighty

Had made you.

And I believed you

That you knew so much more

than me

You could drive the car so perfectly

And examine the patients

so expertly

as your learning taught you.

And I believed you that you would share

With me all

That I wanted to tell you

That I wanted you to learn

You could do so much more

In your profession

And I believed you when you said

I always say’ Help yourself’

And you planned your time

And tried to read every book

that came your way

and after meeting you I had hopes of

reviving my shattered faith and trust

In relationships

And I loved you because

I believed we could make it together

I gave you all the chance

And I am still hopeful

That despite our age difference

We can still be happy with each other

And share care and learning and achievements

And I am sure it will be so

Because I believe in You.

CER © 2018, Anjum Wasim Dar (Poetic Oceans)

This is Anjum’s poem in Urdu. Unfortunately, I was unable to get the breaks right for which I apologize to Anjum and to any readers who speak/read Urdu. At least we have this, another example of how our poetry crosses borders.

مسکراؤں تو کس کے لئے آنکھوں کو چمکاؤں تو کس کے لئے غم کو بھول جاؤں تو کس کے لئے کوئی اپنا تو ہو کیوں دنیا ایسی لگے کیوں اپنے بوجھ بڑھیں کیوں اپنے غیر لگیں کیوں میں غیر بنوں میں بے وفا تو نہین چمکتی ہوں سب کے لئے رات بھر ٹمٹماتی ہوں خاموش کس کے لئے کوئی اپنا کہنے والا نہ ایگا کبھی انجم دل کا دروازہ کھلا رکھنا ، محبت انجن جگہ پانے گی


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.