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

“I do not feel obliged to believe that the same God who has endowed us with sense, reason, and intellect has intended us to forgo their use.” Galileo Galilei, Letter to the Grand Duchess Christina

A thought provoking response – and rather wide-ranging in terms of focus and perspective – to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Our Evolving, August 15.  Enjoy! this collection courtesy of newcomer (Brava! and Welcome!) Susan St.Pierre and of Gary W. Bowers, Paul Brookes, Deb y Felio (Debbie Felio), Irma, Frank McMahan, Sonja Benskin Mesher, and Carol Mikoda

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

Read on and be with us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt.

Knots of Time

Believe.
Evolution insists upon changes
Physically rearranges
All but our memories,
Experience.
Random threads of finite days
Weave one single maze
A sui generis emerges,

UnBreAkaBle.

© 2018, Susan St.Pierre (Silly Frog Susan)

Susan St.Pierre

“I’m a ‘nearly’ retired family day care provider. I have invited (often 6) children into my home 5 days a week for approximately 10 hours a day since 1975. It’s been the most enlightening, humbling, and messy experience!

“Meanwhile, my husband and I raised two children and have gained two granddaughters. I have two blogs, which I’ve neglected for a few years, but this Fall will open up my day for much more “me” time. Hopefully, that will include writing time. Besides finding the company of kids and pets inspiring, I also enjoy Nature, painting, drawing and reading. I don’t know how well I’ll do in moments of quiet, though. My best work has always been accomplished among clutter and chaos!”

Evolving Door

In goes a lungfish
And out comes an outcome.
Pop go the measles
And wipe out a tribe.

Lenny heard Zug Nicht
And wandered about some.
Thundering Diesels
Suggest we imbibe.

In goes a notion
And out comes an essay.
Guidelines and labels
Give sojourning ease.

Spit in the ocean
And spite minks and sables.
Laissez-faire less, eh.
And conquer displease.

Tuppence for pleasantries;
Cheese-whizzed parcheesi
Challenges wellsprung
Make Autumn to mold.

If you’re uneasy,
Dear Reader, nor well hung,
Take ye some evolvement
Out doorways to freedom
And bed and break strictures
To push through the membrane;
Grow pairs not of testes
But peregrine wings.

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

From…

evercrash of waves put me
on the untouched shore

I crawl because i don’t know
how to walk this grain.
Now I would say tumbled waves

are fletched like an arrow constantly
turned to ensure its flight straight
and unencumbered by splinters.

Later I staunch blood, remember
the now of the sun then, too bright,
too warm in this comfort blanket.

Now I would say I was slippery
as bladderwrack or between thighs
of a woman heated by want,

and hungry but not for food.
I leave it to the ocean
behind me that flickers

with sounds some of which
i understand but the waters
less and less drag me back,

push me to drygrain land.
I must find leafshelter
in the arms of mothered soil,

in the limbs of the trees,
beneath the coddling leaves,
a fallen tree stump helps

me stand. I break a branch
test it does not break with my weight.
I stand free of the stump. Upright.

Now I would say my skin
lost its sheen, became sticky
as the green blood of plants
that trap food with their leaves.

from The Spermbot Blues (OpPRESS, 2017)

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

To…

upright, you can see further,
and in the sand prints
of your own feet, and others,
smaller, differently shaped,

Now you would say these are scratches
on pages, distinct signs in a forest,
or plain, each holds itself a tell, a map,
of sense and season and root.

smooth your hand over gnarled
stick of then that supports your weight
when you stride forward to follow
the beckoning of others tracks,

inhale the freshness from the waves,
that tastes salty to your tongue,
the sweetness from the inland trees,
and smaller flimsy coloured leaves,

and a bitterness, a stink gets stronger,
as you trace the tracks other
than your own go inland, broken
leaves. How many feet does it have?

Now accused of techno anomie
because you refuse others access to your senses,
your avatar still in the forest, on the plain,
walks without aid beside the everwaves .

from The Spermbot Blues (OpPRESS, 2017)

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

Evidence Against Evolution

women dragged by the hair into the dank rock caverns of the cavemen

women uncounted in records of attendance when miracles performed

women operated on to remove bits of brain believed
to create trouble for men

women unacceptable as witnesses in man’s court

women condemned to death by superstitious men

But now
with more education, enlightenment, progress

women drugged, raped, silenced
– without ever being victims of hate crimes

women questioned and doubted in courts and media
– dismissed by sound bite hash tags and tweets

women humiliated for combining emotional expression
and intelligent thought

– the 1% used as proof glass ceiling is gone, when it is
only windexed

women condemned to death by superstitious men
– for shedding their own blood rather than another’s

Evolution?

Just finer tuned delusion.

© 2018 deb y felio

I Can Do It Myself

said the 2 year old to his mommy
and tripped on the untied shoelaces
falling to the ground and waited
for his mommy to pick him up,
dust him off, and set him right
so he could once again insist,
“I can do it myself!”

© 2018, Deb y Felio

Opposable Thumbs

It sets us apart from other animals

The ability to grasp objects and concepts

To finely manipulate tools and other people

With this simple communication

We can catch a ride or point the way back

We can say Winner or Loser

With a twist of the wrist

For complexity

We now use them like beaks

Pecking letters that make or break relationships

The more it gets used

The faster it gets

Bypassing the higher brain

Thinking only of the print it wants to leave behind

Mayhap, flattened against the button

Signaling the start of the end

Of evolution.

 

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

ON THE CUSP

A yacht sails in summer, northwards to the Pole.
A slush of gelatinous grey greets its bow
as it makes its ambivalent journey.
On Admiralty charts a woman replaces islands,
sketches new sandbars, reefs marked with buoys,
while their people are moving into legend.

Lines of footprints cover deserts; jackals, bones,
eyeballs. Driven from shelter to shelter, children
ailing and confused, half-filled ditches,
refuse tips: where will the unborn live as
their families take flight?

A gig
was once a party, an impromptu concert
in a corner pub, a mingle of music, sweat
and beers.A world of miasma now,
of beck and call for paupers’ pay, waiting
to be plucked like a lobster from a tank.

Yes, yes, the richest should have more,
more tax-breaks crammed into their maw
until they vomit gold, excrete jewels and mansions,
super yachts and private jets, smearing
earth and airwaves
with their self-obsessed banalities.
In shadowed lobbies, their hired hands work
on dispossession, the cutting of common bonds,
democracy just one more acquisition.

Anthropocene.
Swallowing the future
Is the corporate plan.

We know enough
To stop and turn and heal
Our poisoned planet.
Are we enough
To gather now together?

© 2018, Frank McMahon

FALSE LIGHT

The moon scatters the light it has stolen
out of vanity, cycling round us in
its futile effulgence. Earthworms harvest
the autumn’s leaves, enriching the crust, thin
below the dwindling branches where we sit
and watch the axes hew the trunk and slash.

© 2018, Frank McMahon

.head above water, a swimmers perspective.

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

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

I lived on the coast, played by the sea

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

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

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

I collect cuttings of people in water.

“a diary, a personal relationship with the landscape.

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

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

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

.the query.

.winding wool is mindless

she said, well maybe madam,

yet look at the lovely machine,

all red and cream plastic, that

winds in a way we cannot do

by hand.

look at my work which evolves

while working this and thinking.

i folded her goods tidily, packed in a

nice paper bag, said nothing

except mere politeness and niceties.

then got on with winding.

mindfully.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

. day six .

your eyes last night were wide, your body

smaller without the sleep, all that

worry and distress.

it will not end , just change and evolve.

sometimes it takes years, and then it is

never the same.

any more.

maybe you must go back to sleep

a while.

i will keep reading, tell you all

when you wake

#bear.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

There’s much to enjoy in Sonja’s art and you can view much of it on her sites and she shares are generous amount on her Facebook Page. So multitalented.

Transformation

Systems call out for evolution,
for complexity, development, transformation,
a whole new suit
of cells, mutation of molecules
and microbes replacing themselves
at rapid rates, a constant reminder
that so much of myself
is not myself, but a cocktail party
of bacteria and viruses, which
sounds bad, very noisy gut,
but so efficient; they communicate,
even between different sorts.
Their differences do not
paralyze them. This human
language I am so proud of,
is clunky next to what happens,
the communication of organisms
and systems, inside me.
So many misunderstandings out here
among humans, while inside us,
networks are constantly lit up,
exchanging essential info, proteins
and amino acids, adjusting
and altering, individual evolutions,
on a daily basis, sometimes hourly.
I should listen more, learn something.
But mostly that’s just not how I roll.

© 2018, Carol Mikoda (At the Yellow Table, We are stardust: Change is What It’s All About)

ABOUT

Testimonials

Disclosure

Facebook

Twitter

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 Porch, Vita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation Press, The Bar None Group, Salamander Cove, Second Light, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman. 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.”

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“Unlearning” . . . and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

“It is impossible to escape the impression that people commonly use false standards of measurement — that they seek power, success and wealth for themselves and admire them in others, and that they underestimate what is of true value in life.” Sigmund Freud, Civilization and Its Discontents

The sense of shared values and a rather enthusiastic and almost immediate response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Pigeon Pie, August 1 suggests that we share concerns over the bill of goods with which our cultures, corporations, and marketing gurus attempt to engage us and with the soul-numbing responses from folks who buy in.

Thanks to Gary W. Bowers, Paul Brooks, Debbie Felio (Deb y Felio), Carol Mikoda, Sonja Benskin Mesher and Marta Pombo Sallés for sharing their work, ideals, and convictions in such glorious poetic form. Bravo! A warm welcome to newcomer, Irma, and we look forward to more from her.

Read on and be with us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt.

I hope you’ll visit and get to know these poets. It’s important for us to support and encourage one another in our art and in our solidarity for peace, sustainability and social justice.  I’ve linked in blogs for your convenience. If the poet doesn’t have a site, chances are you can catch up with them on Facebook.

Unlearning

I learned in the back seats of cars

The alcoves of bars

How to please

And how to tease.

I learned at the department store

How to dress to settle the score.

And underneath, my angel side

Learned how to cause a great divide.

A push, a pinch, a tug, a spin

Put pain to the side; upfront, just grin.

I learned my worth, a ratio

Of tits and ass and let it go.

And when you think the game is done,

You spy your girls and know they’ve won.

Those weren’t lessons, they were deceit.

I was fooled, their greatest feat.

Should I just acquiescent to my defeat?

Oh hell no.

#metoo

#timesup

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

c Irma

IRMA: “I am a mother, runner, writer, social worker – not always in that order and definitely not all at the same time! I have recently restarted my blog while I am in the process of restarting my ‘life” now that all my kids will be in school this fall.

“I hope that is enough info. I am happy to tell you more juicy details about my life if you would like (and by “juicy” I mean things like what my kids made at camp and what my laundry routine is like).
“I have very much enjoyed the poetry and the community of writers created here. I am new to the poetry blogging community and I feel a resonance in this niche that I didn’t find in the running blogging community.”

denimous snake

there was a ne’er-do-well who lived nearby,
his smile the potting soil his words the sphagnum,
he beamed and charmed the chicks, the milfs, the spry,
and toasted conquests with a well-chilled magnum.

with jeans and opal-buttoned shirt and hat
he two-step-swept the younguns into bed,
and played with fiery reds, and blondes, and flat-
blacked glossless goth girls, poor to topdrawer-bred.

one found he’d used an alias with her
but on the fly he cooked a quick excuse
and soon he moved to who was more demure,
less gullible, and up for frequent use.

he’s down and out now, old and full of grief–
not quite a rapist. certainly a thief.

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

A Retail 

for Mark

Park where your psychology is assaulted
by money hankering aisles that say buy me,

where all is marked up as essential, basic.
Necessary for your wellbeing and good health.

You travel with a list made at home,
yet are assailed by choices symptomatic

of freedom, of indulgence, of sensual overload.
Tricked into a purchase that is more than you need.

from a forthcoming collection called “Please Take Change”

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

Teeters

on edges of his arms,
frozen peas, coffee jars,
large pack of ice cubes,
two tins of dog food,

Smiles as unloads it all
on my conveyor.
“Let me guess, you only
came in for one thing?”

He smiles “And I haven’t
even got that.”

“Shows the shop worked.”
I offer as I blip through
his collection. No answer
as he fills his rucksack.

from a forthcoming collection called “Please Take Change”

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

A So Last Year

on trend,
upgrade
style conscious,
fashion,
old school ,
obsolescence,
need not want
is invention
to makes me buy more.

There was once only one
suit, tie, shoes,
golden age that never existed.

I’m suggestible to better,
faster, cleaner, sexier,
leaner, easier.

Pure impulse. I kid myself
It’s all deliberated,
considered, thought through,
that I’m reasonable.

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

Targeted Customer Reached

FORGET THE CLICHÉ

Remember a time when you thought
you would live forever,
you were immortal.

Well, we can offer you
that time again,

that time without wrinkles,
you felt not tiredness,
but joy reaching the summit,

your mind was not dull,
and blunted but sharp
and alive.

When you could make a difference.
We  offer you
that time again.

You’re welcome to visit
and feel the difference
at any of our shops,

or look online, experience
the virtual models
of you at your best.

Terms and conditions apply.

From “The Spermbot Blues”, OpPRESS, 2017

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

Encore over and over

Free trial offer
1-800 holds all the secrets
3 easy steps to whatever you’re looking for
4 pills to increase the places you want to grow
or reduce those you don’t
also increases your energy and productivity
libido and get up and go

every electronic was to free up time
which is now spent tied to those same
voluntary monitoring devices
tracking our location, heart rate and friends

Votes to make America Great again failed
to determine which America that was –
the Founding and Philandering Fathers?
When slavery was a measure of wealth?
When women and children of the white men
were also chattel?
When only property owning white men
could vote for other property owning
white men?
When women were denied education,
credit, and the right to own property?
When children had no protection
from abuse or labor and no
guaranteed education?

When Change is Possible didn’t define
the where and what and the only real
change was the late night show hosting
the White House friend of Weinstein
and the golf courses and Hawaiian
vacation spots he would be staying
and the increase in racial volatility
and the lack of accountability
because no one wanted to appear
prejudiced

and the continued
proliferation of the great pretend
that the next election will
be the one just the way the last
war – whatever it was – would be the last

and neither will ever be because
if there is one thing we know
it is how to repeat past mistakes
over and over.

So for a limited time only
and for those reading this
I am offering a free book – ‘3 Easy Steps
to the Life, Family and Country You Want”
with a free 30 day sample of supplements
to improve you and those around you for
just the shipping and handling costs of
$39.95. Just send your name
address and credit card number and
receive this limited time free offer.
It will prove change is possible and
make America great again.

© 2018, Deb y Filio

#fear

‘ i was scared of saying it, telling it, so

long. only recently shared it. they seem

to like it ‘

yes.

‘do you like it?’

yes. i like it too.

‘will i be scared again though?’

yes.probably.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

. no horizontal line .

early it came,where there are no roads, no silent killer.

spinning. set me free. let me see swallows return to

nest.

let us cause a reaction, turn our heads quickly. no one

is looking, there is no one here. we are not afraid of

the night.

we spin.

soft cottons, whimsy thread, mothlike.

turn about hour on hour. your time is

come.

we spin.

to spite silent killers.

sbm.

(written for those with out understanding)

asd

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

.. small item ..

what you see is magnified.

they leave here larger than life,
petrified in their own forests.
scan beds and lens.

light the cracks, the boxes.

tie the books closed, leather
bound, broken, words lost.

boxes can be opened to
reveal.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Choices

We can watch the ads
that air like heartbeats
before viral videos
during news or bad sit com reruns
we can inhale the small print
the fast talker spewing
tales of disease and death
side effects to life
in the passing lane
of twenty-first century pharma
whose lobbyists build
artificial islands in the ocean
from whence they will come
to bury the quick and the dead
right after we talk to our doctors
about the newest tetra-recyclable
pseudo-opioid topical cream
to apply to any symptom
for a complete revival
of ancient natural biomes
in the bowels of our bowels.

Or we can stop the movement
from wallet to Wall Street
bank to brokers
hand to mouth
go for a walk sing a song
paint a picture throw a baseball
skate from here to there
play the piano or even the drums
bake a cake chop kohlrabi into salad
build a fence for the chickens
swim to Penny Island and back
take deep breaths in quiet rooms
until Roman candles release
clouds of butterflies
that completely engulf
the labs dissolve the white coats
turn back the chemical clock.

Cue the rainbow.

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

 

From Marta: Her poem in both English and Catalan. Enjoy!

The Black Pigeon 

A tasty lentil soup

keeps you warm from the cold.

Coldness outside

speaks of emptiness,

sadness in a cloudy day.

Or is it just the fog all around

that saddens your mind and spirit?

Going through the streets

the walking dead

if they can still walk.

You saw poverty’s face

the system’s decay.

 

Needles in their hands,

hollow eyes, ailment,

people lost without a second chance.

Is this what you came here for?

But you had your lentil soup

that kept your body warm

while your bleeding heart

sank into the deepest darkness.

You detached it from the body

took it to analyze and

put it on to a microscope

 

And the bleeding heart spoke up

vomited nothing but the truth

awaiting the other truth that hurts.

You knew it would happen.

The lentil soup eaten

in the Arabian restaurant

and then a sudden sound,

a slight noise on the floor,

something moves near your table.

You raise your eyes and there it is:

A black pigeon inside

walks a few steps toward you

as if he wanted to speak.

“Do we have a new guest?”

The waitress gently guides him

to the main room

near the entrance door.

The bird moves his wings

flies inside the restaurant.

The waitresss, a little scared,

utters an “oh” sound

while the black pigeon

displays his wings, flies away

through the restaurant door.

A sad bird looking

for temporary company,

maybe a friendship

but forever unattainable.

 

El colom negre

Una saborosa sopa de llenties
t’escalfa del fred.
La fredor a l’exterior
parla de buidor,
tristesa en un dia plujós.
O és només la boira per tot arreu
que t’entristeix la ment i l’esperit?

Anant pel carrer
els morts caminant
si és que encara poden caminar.
Has vist el rostre de la pobresa,
la decadència del sistema.
Agulles a les seves mans,
ulls buits, malaltia,
gent perduda sense una segona oportunitat.

És per això que has vingut aquí?
Però tu et menges la teva sopa de llenties
que t’escalfa el cos
mentre la teva ànima sagnant
s’enfonsa en la més profunda foscor.
La separares del teu cos
i l’agafares per analitzar
posant-la en un microscopi.

I l’ànima sagnant va parlar
vomitant res més que la veritat,
esperant l’altra veritat que fa mal.
Ja sabies que això passaria.

La sopa de llenties menjada
en el restaurant àrab
i llavors, un soroll sobtat,
una remor al terra,
alguna cosa es mou prop la teva taula.
Alces la mirada i és allí:
Un colom negre a dins.
Camina uns passos cap a tu
com si volgués parlar.
– Tenim un nou convidat?
La cambrera el guia gentilment
cap a la sala principal.
L’ocell mou les seves ales,
vola dins del restaurant.
La cambrera, una mica espantada,
deixa anar un “oh!”
mentre el colom negre
desplega les ales, vola lluny
a través de la porta del restaurant.
Un ocell trist, buscant
companyia temporal,
potser una amistat
però per sempre, inabastable.

© 2018, poem (English and Catalan), Marta Pombo Sallés (Moments)

ABOUT

Testimonials

Disclosure

Facebook

Twitter

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 Porch, Vita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation Press, The Bar None Group, Salamander Cove, Second Light, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman. 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.”

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::crumbs:: … and other poetic responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

“Please, no matter how we advance technologically, please don’t abandon the book. There is nothing in our material world more beautiful than the book.” (From Smith’s acceptance speech, National Book Award [nonfiction], November 17, 2010)” Patti Smith

The last Wednesday Writing Prompt, iPoem, July 25, was meant to offer something on the lighter side after the seriousness of previous prompts. We can see here a mix of humor with sometimes underlying notes of pathos. Some surprise. Much pleasure. Kudos to Gary W. Bowers,  Paul Brookes, Debbie Felio (Deb y Felio), Kakali Das Gosh, and Sonja Benson Mesher. Read on and be with us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt.

I hope you’ll visit and get to know these poets. It’s important for us to support and encourage one another in our art and in our solidarity for peace, sustainability and social justice.  I’ve linked in blogs for your convenience. If the poet doesn’t have a site, chances are you can catch up with them on Facebook.

three-ring circuits

smartphone is a contra
diction in terms

features include spell autoincorrect
wrong-sign astrology
minuscule x so if you don’t touch it
with micrometer precision
you may be on your way to installing
the hell app
also known as the he’ll app

it is less smart than a dog
most dogs i should say

dogs that know how to he’ll

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

“You Had Me, You

DON’T OWN
me.”
I shout
at my Mam and Dad.

“You were all we could afford,
son. You’re only a teenager.
We’ve all been there.”

And I wish I was dead.
My parents wanted kids
so they bought my mind
and body with a Bilder loan,
(Babies Integral Learning
and Development Responder).

Now I’m eighteen and can
buy stuff myself, my mind

is full of adverts for upgrades
I can buy, that Mam and Dad
used to buy for me.

For each level of my education
they were charged
For advice and for my knowledge
they were charged
For my toys food and clothes
they were charged.
Now paid in full.

I get automatic adverts for workskills
downloaded into my mind,
for skills I can accept as upload,
for new bodies I can upload
my mind into.
After every thought in my head,
an advert,
pay extra for advertless content.

Now the bank’s Maturity Adviser,
with my best interests at heart,
advises The Dark Option,
Sex, drugs, rocknroll, short life.
The Light Option, marriage, kids,
work and pleasant retirement.
I have to choose a life option,
or what they call “The Best of Both”

Mam says ” Get used
to the adverts in your head.
We have them too.
Life is unfair. Live with it.”

(From “The Spermbot Blues”, OpPress, 2017)

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

My Robot

skin forgets tha softness.
At least me snout works,
I can smell thee cherry lips,
and strawberry perfume.

When my old bod got weak
and fell down more than stood up
tha had me swap to this robot job.

with “flexible skin-inspired touch sensors
as store tactile information,
like haptic memory”
or some such, as manual said.

Store touch sensations
in my brain, like what
old one used to.

Few decades on, this grip
no longer delicate,
damages stuff like fruit,

your skin smells of strawberries.
I used to be able to
remember it soft,
but “softs” only a word,
with no memory
of what it meant
or means.

My skin stored
a handshake from a particular person,
their kiss, their hugs.

It forgets now.
Squeezes too hard.
Hurts thee, and I can
do nowt about it,
‘cept keep away from thee.

Robot doctor has it my skins pressure-sensitive layer no longer
detects
changes in electrical resistance
when force applied.
Wants us to spend more cash,
us can ill afford for the cure.

Sensors retain information
for about a week, if that.

My record of touch,
wavers.
It’s touch memory loss.
I squash a lot of fruit.

I cannot touch thee.

Bloody tear ducts work.

(From “The Spermbot Blues” , OpPress, 2017)

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

Retro Is

the new Black.

When I were nobut a bairn
A fella dahn our street got one.

He’d traded in his 100 inch
HDR: HDR10, HDR10+ and HLG
4 x HDMI with Integrated soundbar

For an analog black and white valve TV.
We couldn’t wait to see it.

Picture had a cool fuzziness.
He couldn’t have it on long

as the valves acted like his own heater.
Godsend in the winter.

Leaving our boneshakers outside
we perched on his brown leather sofa

in our tank tops and shorts agog at the cool
beeps and scratches and when the screen

started scrolling when it weren’t meant to
or fog sidled out its big perforated back

we laughed like a barrelful of monkeys.
This were real retro. This were wizard.

(From an ongoing ekphrastic collaboration with Hiva Moazed, atist for future publication)

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

Parting Ways

I admit I’m a computerholic
before thirty years ago my life was bucolic
I could manage my time, the news, my data
If I misplaced something it didn’t much matta’
I knew it was here somewhere in the stack
With a little search I would have it back.

But that all changed with internet speed
no more waiting for dial up – a gift indeed
immediate access to required information
along with so much from across the nation
and the world coming in at incredible rate
who could imagine the future fate.

What would only take a minute or two
now requires hours – to read streaming news
I begin to write and then a new ping
I have to click – can’t miss a thing
then I return and autocorrect
has made the last sentence a total wreck.

It is a marriage made in hell
this computer and me – you know too well
a love/ hate thing – everyday a bout
I keep coming back – can’t live without
It knows me best, permanently recorded
if only I could get it sorted.

One wrong key I scream out loud
it’s lost forever in some stupid cloud.
Which password did I use last
our good times are going fast.
I’ve grown too old, I’m getting tired
More memory for both is surely required

I’ll close this out, I’m shutting it down
Cold turkey – there’s no patch that I’ve found
to make the parting any less hard.
It’s been a good run, but now I’m charred
Good bye old comp, it’s been a great fling
but wait! let me check that very last ping!

© 2018, Deb y Felio

#How to confine life?#

A frantic search for life ,
A chase for a rivulet of a thirsty stag .
Life , a dazzling sunshine ,
a murmuring stream walking over shingles ,
How to confine ?
How to compare
The screen of my computer in a chamber finite
And
The slate of clouds in the sky azure infinite ?
Comfort , gifts of technology
Crawls in my brain , body ;
Atomic war , sucks my blood like a leech .
Beauty – my earth ,
My grassy -flowery way ,
Scent of my motherly air ,
My hills snowy , my dandelions , birds in my skylight
Are nothing but passion fruits
In every nook and corner
Of my heart and soul ,
Smearing a cool ointment
Over my sore throat .

© Kakali Das Ghosh

.with regard.

maybe connections are missed the link dismissed. metaphors faint as my flimsy whispers symbols do you deny me peace? perhaps you utter the words constantly? look closely

or brush it regularly. talk about birth. stand during the rain fall. regard the chimney. take it off to return it. sometimes we need to commit a while, until we don’t no more

this is not a word i have used much recently, if i did it will be related to plants i expect. adjective. i may use plush in regard to velvet clothing, cloth, clothed. another adjective

it could have been simple, days of sewing crosses. red. eight thiry till five. it could have been easy, yet there were issues of the electronic kind meaning wasting time with wires and connections

she suggested that i write a novel, when i noted that she walked briskly to the post box, dressed suitably. i do not copy plagiarise or write about my friends

some of us like to be neat in some ways. some of us draw big and messy, and i understand both. we have made marks a long time, since the dawn of. probably

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

:: crumbs ::

she orders a sonnet about modern tech

nology , some recent language urban

slang. wiki & googling helps while spellcheck

defeats nistakes . publishing on blurb and

lulu. gifs no issue. focus on taste.

.work. memes are impossible to pronounce.

denounce the pass it forward, copy/ paste.

why write verse when we can talk or announce

loudly.. save in my cloud to edit share

. no rhyme no more. no elizabethan

manner. we taps it clear. is with difficulty

keyboards sticky, some have no empathy

that I prefer old ways. yet computer

smart create in a more abstract manner

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher 

we have washing.

we always have washing, yet it is the dusting needs doing, behind where no one can see, except me

with a torch..

so i label wiring, and wonder at it all.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

. fact, fiction, myth .

it is a fact.

all is computerised,

of course these days. yet cold comfort

counting is the order of a quiet day,

to correct the till, as, maybe

we have input wrong. we do

sometimes you know.

so we count the stuff, lose our

minds , hope it all adds up.

when probably it was right.

i hope this is alright?

hello.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

ABOUT

Poet and writer, I was once columnist and associate editor of a regional employment publication. Currently I run this site, The Poet by Day, an information hub for poets and writers. I am the managing editor of The BeZine published by The Bardo Group Beguines (originally The Bardo Group), a virtual arts collective I founded.  I am a weekly contributor to Beguine Again, a site showcasing spiritual writers.

My work is featured in a variety of publications and on sites, including: Levure littéraure, Ramingo’s Porch, Vita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation Press, The Bar None Group, Salamander Cove, Second Light, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman.

Posted on

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

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

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

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

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

The Creation

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

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

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

I stand, wholly joined with

Love, hand in hand, heart to heart with

You.

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

Rob & Laura Bowes

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

whodunit

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

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

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

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

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

I Am Not My Dad

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

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

or card games, or build
Airfix Golden Hind,

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

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

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

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

munch on her wooden pizza,
toast and tomatoes.

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

Our Identity

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

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

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

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

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

I am not what I say I am not.

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

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

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

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

Self Search

I am not

myself

or the you

you were looking for.

parents with unfinished dreams

pour into new life

their old ones

friends looking for a place

to belong / to rest

seek you in their

desires

lovers needing love

to restore / affirm

embrace a possibility

without attaching

reality

I myself

only have myself

for moments

before transmuting

to another self

contained within

an aging, forgetting

mind and body

forgetting what it knew

where muscle

was held tight

and who

I was

supposed

to be

© 2018, Debbie Felio 

#Rejoinder Of The Mirror #

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

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

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

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

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

© 2018, Kakali Das Ghosh

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

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

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

I lived on the coast, played by the sea

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

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

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

I collect cuttings of people in water.

“a diary, a personal relationship with the landscape.

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

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

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

. i am the pin .

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

the drawing, the written page.

i am paint and cotton

i am pins and details

codes and reasons

calm and seasons.

i am boxes, charcoal,

fires and birds.

i am hand writing.

i am the old house,

all things considered.

i am the joker, the radio,

the music.

i am four dots.

i am the folded page,

the falling face.

i am the picture, the painting,

i am the mouse, the little bird,

a monstrous woman.

i am a word document, a picture file.

i am the pin.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

The Light Toy-Railway

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

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

The light toy-railway is traveling.
Traveling.

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

ABOUT

Poet and writer, I was once columnist and associate editor of a regional employment publication. Currently I run this site, The Poet by Day, an information hub for poets and writers. I am the managing editor of The BeZine published by The Bardo Group Beguines (originally The Bardo Group), a virtual arts collective I founded.  I am a weekly contributor to Beguine Again, a site showcasing spiritual writers.

My work is featured in a variety of publications and on sites, including: Levure littéraure, Ramingo’s Porch, Vita Brevis Literature,  Compass Rose, Connotation Press, The Bar None Group, Salamander Cove, Second Light, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman.