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Witching Hour … and other responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

“Alas! a woman that attempts the pen,
Such an intruder on the rights of men,
Sucha presuptuouos Creature, is esteem’d,
The fault can by no virtue be redeem’d …
How are we fallen, fallen by mistaken rules?
Ad Education’s , more than Nature’s foods,
Debarr’d from all improve-meats of the mind,
And to be dull, expected and designed …
-Anne Finch, The Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilesea, ed. by Myra Reynolds
as quoted by Sandra M. Gilbert and Susan Gubar, Shakespeare’s Sisters, Feminist Essays on Women Poets

I think our poets just had a lot of fun with the last Wednesday Writing Prompt,Spinning With Shakespeare, February 20, 2019. I had  fun reading them and so will you.

Thanks Gary W. Bowers, Irma Do, Jan Goldie, and Anjum Wasim Dar.  Thanks also to Cubby (Sonya Annita Song) for her contribution. Please welcome her warmly. She is new to Wednesday Writing Prompt.  Special thanks to Irma Do and Anjum Wasim Dar for the added value of the photographs and to Anjum for her artwork as well. Appreciation to Clarissa Simmens for sharing her Shakespeare homage.  They’ll be shared in a separate post.

I’m tickled to see that folks are commenting on one another’s poems and visiting one another’s sites.  That what it’s really all about. Bravo!  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 unique collection and do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt.

To Scratch or Not to Scratch

To scratch, or not to scratch, that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The itch and burn of abusive mosquito bites
Or to take arms against a sea of irritation
And by opposing end them:

To scratch, to rub, no more;
And by a rub to say we end
The frustration and the maddening,
Relentless shocks that flesh is heir to?
‘Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.

To scratch, to rub – to rub, perchance to slake:
Aye, there’s the bub,
For in that rub of satiation
What doubts may come
When we have abandoned
This self-restraint must give us pause.
There’s the inanity that creates confusion
Of such simplicity:

For who would bear the jolts and pangs of bites,
The insatiable lust,
The sleepless nights,
The pangs of irate skin,
The obsessive thoughts,
The insolence of the unbitten,
And the spurns that impatient scratchers
By the self-righteous take,
When he himself might his liberation make
With a sole finger?

Who would itchiness bear,
To shake and tremble
Under a tortured skin,
But that the dread of something
After the scratch,
The possibility of greater itch to come,
From whose scratch no human can deny,
Puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear the itch we have
Than scratch to others that we know not of?

© 2019, Sonya Annita Song (a.k.a. Cubby) (Reowr, Poetry that purrs. It’s reword because the cat said so.)

c Sonya Annita Song

SONYA ANNITA SONG is a poet whose rhymes are loved by both adults and children. Her writing style for children is delightfully whimsical with a natural flow meant for reading out loud. Sonya’s goal as a children’s author is to create engaging rhyming picture books that children and parents will have fun reading together. One of her favorite memories as a child is going to the local library in the summer and bringing back shopping bags full of books to read. Books were, and still are, passports to incredible destinations full of joy and wonder, and Sonya hopes all children will discover the marvels of reading just like she did. Children’s site: http://www.sonyaannitasong.com;  Poemhunter: http://www.poemhunter.com/sonya-annita-song/ .  Clipped from Cubby’s Amazon page.

dj b.ill.e shex

how sharper n a SERPENT’S tooth
n one bare bodkin
[Dies.]
4sooth
singe my white head
4 b n old
2 b r naught
poor tom’s acold

ah words words words
r’t naught th point
o band o bruhs
time out
a joint

© 2019, Gary W. Bowers (One with Clay, Image and Text)

Recycling Shakespeare for a Better World – A Haiku Sonnet

In this brave new world

Plant a heart of gold, harvest

A bouquet of friends

Faint-hearted farming

Doesn’t yield food for the soul

Cold comfort hunger

Break the ice – Be brave

Be fancy free with warm words

Of love and welcome

All our yesterdays

Are meant to be composted

Nutrient wisdom

Silence can kill with kindness

But regretful words do not.

This was a fun and challenging prompt initiated by Jamie for The Poet by Day Wednesday Writing Prompt. She writes, “Fe, foh, and fun … Take a spin with Shakespeare and write us a poem using phrases of his that have come into common usage.” I honestly didn’t realize that all these phrases came from Shakespeare’s work! I’ve really only read “Romeo and Juliet” and some sonnets so seeing all these common phrases attributed to his work was quite a surprise. Check out this link if you want to see what Shakespearean works the phrase I used came from.

And of course, I had to do a sonnet to further honor The Bard. To give it a bit of my own flavor, I chose the Haiku Sonnet form. Again, I never new there was such a thing until I saw it in this website here.

Learning new things and new ways of looking at the world is one of the best gifts I’ve gotten from writing and reading poetry. What do you think of this recycled Shakespearean piece?

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

Witching Hour

All that glitters, is not gold and

all’s well that ends well, he sighed.

Yet there was no method in his

madness, for the naked truth is,

he made the foregone conclusion,

that misery acquaints a man with

strange bedfellows, and that the

course of love never runs smooth,

which left him heartsick and lackluster.

 

At the witching hour of the night,

When churchyards yawn and hell

itself breathes out, and as he breathed

his one last breath, a ministering

angel of infinite space, came to save

him from the jaws of death, and

trippingly on the tongue, said,

 

What, a piece of work is man.

What  fools these mortals be,

violent delights have violent ends.

Ah, There’s the rub.Truth will out,

he’s had too much of a good thing.

Love is not love which alters

when, it alteration finds.

And thereby ends the tale.

Which is tedious as a

Twice Told tale, but

What is done is done.

© 2019, Jen Goldie (Starlight and Moonbeams and the Occasional Cat)

In Words: A Shakespearian Tale

Neither a borrower nor a lender be!
As luck would have it, in this brave new
world I managed to break the ice,
discovering that brevity is the soul of wit.
The fellow refused to budge an inch, this
was cold comfort as conscience does
make cowards of us all. I, with bated breath,
In one fell swoop, decided to play it fast
and loose, set my teeth on edge
and with a heart of gold, proclaimed,
ill wind blows no man to good!
You have eaten me out of house and home,
For goodness sake! Good riddance!
I am more sinned against than sinning!
In my heart of hearts, I had to conclude
the game is on. Love, is blind filled with
forgotten yesterdays. I gave the devil
his due, for much ado about nothing.
“O God, O God, how weary, stale,
flat, and unprofitable seem
to me all the uses of this world.”
“My tongue will tell the anger of my heart,
Or else my heart, concealing it, will break.
And rather than it shall, I will be free
Even to the uttermost, as I please,
in words.”

© 2019, Jen Goldie (Starlight and Moonbeams and the Occasional Cat)

‘Tis the Road Out of the Frame

1535606_10152158621385747_420230311_n

Who’s there? unfold yourself ‘
Oh ’tis the road, out of frame, once
in grace, wore an inky metaled cloak …

With memories sweet- on it
trotted Arabian horses, held by leather
reins, with mirth in riding, jingling bells
Would lift the learning loads and
stay on the beat-  but
something is rotten, makes me sick
at heart-  behold  in silence it lies 
So defiant in dilapidated defeat!
it seems to be there, still serving in retreat-
Though gone is the tar crush and concrete;

Ah Old  Harley Road, I speak with reason,
You have the best on you, treading 
You are replete with learning homes
words words and words,
But، Ah there’s the rub-
The craters humps and dilapidation-
Oh Lord, what are we learning  
in this precarious condition? 
That is the question-

While yet the memory of good times
be green ,me thinketh,
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer,
the slings and jumps of outrageous travel-
The heart aches, thousand natural shocks
that the flesh is heir to-or to take up arms
against oceans of ditchy trouble,
Or by opposing, clean sweep them…?

Who would bear the whips and scorns
of time immemorial, the laws delay,
the repairs astray, the rains decay ;
all is not well, tis an unweeded garden-
do we continue to grunt and sweat
on a weary road? tis but my fantasy,
as  foul deeds will rise’, beware  the
Ides of March…

Oh Fair Poetess, soft you now ,
Ah there’s the bump..OUCH…!
Angels and ministers of grace defend us’

s.peares home
Shakespeare’s Home -An Artist’s View

© 2019, poem (English and Urdu), photograph, and colored-pencil drawing, Anjum Wasim Dar (Poetic Oceans)

کچھ  خستہ و بدحال سڑک کے بارے میں

کون ھے؟
اپنے آپ کو ظاھر کرو

ارے  یہ  تو  اکھڑی ھویؑ سڑک ھے  زخمی 
کبھی  گہری   شاھانہ  پوشاک پہنے ھوتی تھی

میتٹھے سہانے سفروں کی یادیں سمیٹے ، گھنٹی
بجاتے تانگوں پہ بچوں کو سکول پہنچاتی تھی

اب  خاموشی  میں لپٹی  اطاعت  سے  بچھی ھے
 گر  چہ اڑ  چکا ھے  تار کول ، غایب ھے بجری ساری

دلاؑیل  سے بات ھو تو سوال اٹھے ، جھٹکے دھکے
کھا کر گزریں، کیا حاصل علم ھو ، روحانی یا کتابی

جب تک اس پہ گزرے وقت کی اچھی یادیں باکی ھیں
دل تھام کہ اٹھایں غلیل ،مرہم پٹی سب کرواین  سرکاری

 کون کرے انتیظار،قانون پہ  انہسار، ھو بارشوں میں خوار
  ملک مشکل میں ،کھرپا  درانتی نا مالی، پھر خزانہ بھی خالی

اے شاعر معصوم  انجم   مہینہ مارچ کا سخت ھے بچنا زرا
 یہ  لو ، کھایؑ   اک اور ظرب کاری speed breaker آیا آیا او 

“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

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1950 Brooklyn, NY – my mother, Zbaida, and me

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.”

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

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

“A Word is Dead

A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.

I say it just
Begins to live
That day.”

Emily Dickinson, The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson

Thanks today to Gary W. Bowers, Paul Brooks, Irma Do, Deb Felio (Deb y Felio), Jen Goldie, Anjum Wasim Dar, and new to our community, Maribeth Parot Juraska for responding with such well-considered and diverse perspectives to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, On the Way to the Top, February 13, 2019.  A warm welcome to Maribeth. And, for value added, a special thanks to Irma Do for her stunning butterfly photographs and to Anjum Ji for her lovely illustration. Together they have enriched our day.  Well done!

Enjoy this unique and thought-provoking collection and do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are welcome, no matter the stage of career – beginning, emerging or pro.

Fatwood

Buried by salt of dead sea;
one red maple perched atop patchy earth
grows narrowly
straight upside-down:

Roots in place of canopy,
poking upwards into sky’s electricity
like bed-head hair of old men,
fingers tangled in strands,
yanking, frantically, for just a few more
hours, floating somewhere with genies in bottles
of clouds risen from moisture
leaked out of their piss,
brown paper wrapper bags.

Branches budding into tunnels of earth,
burrowing like kangaroo rats into ground.
One whippoorwill singing,
“You’re doing it wrong.”
While chubby wind pummels, sound funnel of storm
rocking mud-tinged roots, taking two sapling capillaries,
every note of her song.

Even with renewed forms of ambition,
doubt, judgement,
trespass
never take long.

(Leaves, neither, never enough to cover
eggshells of empaths, mottled misunderstandings,
pioneering mistakes, despairing last breaths.)

And hence one red maple, topped by electrified scalp,
salty with sea brine, dives
where darkness becomes expectation,
not breach,
bringing what grains might help it adapt; and
sometimes, exhaling out impatience,
whispering wisdom to wriggly worms,
bites blindly, deeper into ground, misconceived as
growing its own matches, just another grave
mistake.

© 2019, Maribeth Parot Juraska

Maribeth Parot Juraska

MARIBETH JURASKA, Ed.D. debuted in the world of ISBN numbers with selected poetry pieces in American Poetry Anthology (Vol. VIII) published by the American Poetry Association. Dr. Juraska has earned an Ed.D., M.S.Ed., and B.A. in English, and is a former Training & Development Director and Professor/Director of teacher-candidate preparation. She has conducted research on multiple themes in T&D/Education, writing and presenting in areas of andragogy, performance assessment, candidate training, diversity, inclusion and social justice. She’s now a professional researcher/writer, dabbling in creative writing and spending other free time scoffing at cold winters and decaf coffe

cramberry sauce

crammed into the arena
are mostly men stunned
by the woeful reversals
bequeathed them
by the recession

they attend this
FREE!!!! motivational seminar
to get some steam back
and will hear a former first lady
and a former astronaut
several former ceos
and a silvertongued real-estator

and will be bucked up
and will fall for new schemes
and will spend
an average of $107.28
and will still not learn
the meaning
of FREE!!!dom

© 2019, Gary W. Bowers (One With Clay. Image and Text)

Born Top

of the heap, King of the hill.
Ambition when retire is pushing broom,

at the valley bottom where the river flows.
Work your way steadily down slippery slope,

responsibilities and job titles roll away scree
downhill, watch ground underfoot, see silver

of the river, get bigger, find the bristles
and whittle the handle, nail together.

From “A World Where”, Nixes Mate Press, 2017

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

Be Complacent.

Take all for granted.
Be blasé. Let it all happen.

Smile sweetly as that car kills
that bystander. There’s nothing

you or I can do. We are not
in the car to stop the driver.

We are not by the pedestrian’s side.
We can only witness it all.

Don’t get involved. It will take up
all your life. Valuable time you cannot give.

You have work and family commitments.
Must strive to better yourself.

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

Be Vague.

Recognition follows your
strive to be vague.
Lose sharp edges. Fade
A little at the corners.

This will define you.
Nothing must be prominent.
If it stands out make it sit down.
Don’t make an exhibition of yourself,

blend into background.
Urban camouflage expert.
Stealth worker. No loud clothes.

Self efface, deface your selfies,
if you must. Annunciate in whispers.
Mumble. Stay off the interweb.

It is only self publicity and aggrandisement.
Aver bright colours keep
to the colour of shadows.

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

Achievement

“It’s a hobby.” he says
as he buys the latest adventure.

Level One: a half eaten pizza
goes cold as he outwits the foe.
Only 35 levels to go.

Levels Two-Ten: unopened bills
amass behind the front door.
He strives for a better score.

Levels Eleven-Twenty: The bath has
a black ring. Mice skitter dustclouds.
Over halfway and he is proud.

Levels Twenty-One-Thirty: He orders food
in on his mobile. His girlfriend left at level
Eighteen. If only he can reach the next level.

Level Thirty-One: He doesn’t hear or see the bailiffs
as they take his other tellies, cooker,
microwave and sundry furniture.

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

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 t

The Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: Jamie Dedes

Ambition – A Haibun

Does the caterpillar look in the sky and seeing a bird strive to soar upon rainbow hues wings? Does she eat and eat out of envy and frustration? Does she hide away in her chrysalis, depressed that she hasn’t reached her full potential?

No, the ambition of a caterpillar lies in her ability to become her true self. The hard work is being satisfied and doing her best with each stage of life, so that when metamorphosis happens, she is ready in mind, body and soul.

Ambition becomes

Wings unfurled, colors revealed

The truth of hard work

Jamie, The Poet by Day, challenged us to write a poem about ambition. I had many thoughts about this but was inspired by a visit to a butterfly garden yesterday. Humans ambition has both positive and negative aspects of it but for animals, ambition or that strive to be the best seems to be ingrained. Maybe this is another aspect that sets humans apart from other animals.

Since I myself am not a very ambitious person, writing about it was somewhat of a difficult task. True, I have hopes and wants but I am content with whatever comes my way. It’s not so much that I don’t strive or that I don’t work hard (because I do!) but that drive towards a goal is not a focus in my life. While this drives my partner nuts (not to mention my parents when I was growing up), my ambitious drive is just not that strong. And I’m ok with that!

Thus, this totally not ambitious Haibun about ambition.

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

Be the 1

And everyone threw away whatever was an inconvenience
that challenged themselves to something more than themselves
God was first – not because of who he was but because
others’ misrepresentations, misbeliefs and misunderstandings
better he was wrong than they were
what they chose to keep and what they emulated —
writings by others who would abuse and misuse
weak science based in opinion
backed by big money
colleagues strung out on substitute
mini gods – manageable at least
an all for one and one for all mentality
each believing they were the one and the all.

© 2019, Deb y Felio (Writer’s Journey)

If You Do Not Stop

If you do not stop
on the way to the top,
to brace your footing,
on the way to the bottom
there will be no ledges.

© 2019, Jen E. Goldie (Jen Goldie)

Ambition

ambition

a human thing good or bad,holocaust,
moon landing, power, kingdom in hell,

to be king is to be but born a king,
beauty by itself cannot royalty be,

or chance may crown a commoner
so  kill on , you may commit error

and gain the throne, the game is on,
bullets may rain at any cross roads

you may be martyred, but that risk
must be taken, for fame or notoriety~

11

in  man’s first disobedience, lies supreme ambition,
in delusions of grandeur,  in deceitful revenge  ~

man lives with countless desires, the heart may
rule mislead but mind  must think,  be smart,

a struggle between choices,of wishes noble and base.
of reason, courageous honor, of  lust greed and anger

ambition self centered is Daedalus, in dead darkness,
ambition worthy, ‘inordinate desire, with no spurs’

 

شدت خواہش نے کی چاند تک رسایؑ، انسانی اچھایؑ یا برایؑ
گر برایؑ تو ،  بادشاھت جھنم ، شیتانی طاقت یا عالمی تباہی

                         چاھت  کی  سزا  سخت ھے  انارکلی  ایک مژال ھے
                  اللاہ  کو یہ  شکواہ نہ  ھو  کسی اور کو دل  میں بٹھا  لیا

خوبصورتی سے تاج شاہی نھیں،  خاندانی پیدایش چاھیے   
یا قسمت  ھو  تو عام  شخص بھی ھاصل کر لے تخت شاھی

 جنوں خبط   کی کویؑ حد نہیں  ، کتنے قتل کروگے
    جبری  طاقت ،موت پا کر  جلد  نظر ھوتی ھے  گولیوں کی   

خواھشات عظیم    کے  دھوکے میں جنت سے ھم نکلے
بڑے بے  اؑ برو ھو ےؑ ،  لالچ  میں   باغ ازل  سے  عزت   گنوایؑ

    اللاہ  نے عطا   کی  جب عقل   تو اسے   استعمال  کرنا
سوچ  کر چاھت کرنا ، سیکھنا  مگر  پہلے، اداب باغے شاھی

،امنگ سورج  کی  طرف؟, جلا ڈالے گی ، مٹ جایںؑگی لاکھوں
،خواہشیں  سب ، مستیؑ ہوس  دنیا  کی   لزتیں ہیں ،  عارظی

نفس متمعنہ کی سعی جاری رھے انجم دنیا ےؑ فانی میں
آرزو ھو  محبت، اللاہ کے لیے،رھے بیچ میانہروی میں زندگی

“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

RELATED:

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.”

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

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I’M NOT DONE YET … AND OTHER RESPONSES TO THE LAST WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT

“When I was young and miserable and pretty
And poor, I’d wish
What all girls wish: to have a husband,
A house and children. Now that I’m old, my wish
Is womanish:
That the boy putting groceries in my car

See me. ”
Randall Jarrell, Selected Poems

What a generous and engaging response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, I Am Beautiful Now, February 6, 2019. I guess we all have something to say about aging: poignant, wry, wise, well considered. You’ll find a lot to munch on here today.

Thanks to Julie Standig (and a warm welcome), Paul Brookes, Irma Do, Jen Goldie, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Marta Pombo Sallés (welcome back), Mike Stone, and Anjum Wasim Dar.  Well done, poets, and thank you!

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

I’m Not Done Yet

I lost my ovaries a week ago:
no, they were not misplaced,
like my keys, cell phone and eye
glasses. They were unruly
so, like that bad student years ago,
they were removed. Don’t miss ‘em.
Don’t need ‘em.

Heads no longer turn when I walk
down the street,and when I meet
my daughter on Columbus, the waiter
barely takes my order, but quickly
knows to hand me the cheque.
I expect it.

I’m the oldest woman at work.
My earrings don’t hang as long,
my heels are not too high,
and my hair is quite short.
I wear pants, and if they’re tight
is more around the waist.

But I love nights filled with music,
wine and friends. Amber necklaces
and oversized rings that still slide
over my knuckles.
Words are comrades, still, and so far
they have not deserted me.

The lines around my mouth and
creases at my eyes, I wear like medals.
Not for bravery, or a war that was won.
I can’t win this war and I know it.
I have lost, I miss, yet I have no regrets.
Beware.
I’m not done yet.

© 2019, Julie Standig

JULIE STANDIG was born in Brooklyn, grew up in Queens, lived on Long Island. She now splits time between New York City and Doylestown.PA. She has studied at the Unterberg Poetry Center,participated in Writer’s Voice and is an active member of a private workshop in NYC.  Published in Alehouse Press, Arsenic Lobster and Covenant of the Generations, Then and Now Issue of Sadie Girl Press, as well as the online journal, Rats Ass Review. Her first chapbook, Memsahib Memoir  has just been released by Plan B Press and is currently working on her next project.

Poetry is her voice and it has taken a long time to find it. She works her way through loss and dementia and her love of life. She writes on trains, in cars, Central Park walks, late at night and always somewhere between New York City and Doylestown.

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.

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

My Decrepit Is Good

Bring on grey hairs turn to silver.
Bring on sharp pain in the knees
as I hobble downstairs, deafness
is my body’s editor.

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 (Wombwell Rainbow. Inspiration / History / Imagination)

Biddy To A Young God

Have you some anti aging cream
in your warm skin young god
for as you caress these ancient hands
this bent body wintered
the wrinkles smooth out?

You have planted fresh
delight in these eyes
that sprout visions again
as when I was a young girl.

You have breathed
through my cold embers
and stroked warmth
into this thin skin.

My face has plumpness
and reddens
as your hands find flesh
for my angled skull.

My limbs no longer bare
begin to dress themselves
with buds and colour
for your lustful eyes.

Perhaps these changes
are only in your eyes,
and this puddle reflection
may be false, a false Spring.

From forthcoming book “Stubborn Sod”, Alien Buddha Press, 2019

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

Bairns Are Old Codgers

Before I get taken to play at my soft playcentre,
my one year granddaughter toddles with her zimmer frame.
Later we will take her to the memory cafe
where she’ll remember her past lives.
“Hard”, of before dawn and midnight hours:
A welder in the Clyde shipyard, 1942.
“Stinks that,” she says of the steel shavings, and Swarfega.
“Heavy”, of the hammer…
A kitchen servant in a big house.
“Hurts”, of calloused pestle and mortared deferment…
I’m all giddy at tumble down
slides, scramble nets and ballpools.

From “A World Where”, Nixes Mate 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

Chive On – A Limerick

There once was woman, aged forty five

Who felt her life was somewhat contrived

Despite her face being full of lines

She still wrote some pretty good rhymes

So she just stayed calm and continued to chive.

If you haven’t heard the phrase, “Keep calm and Chive on,” there is a link in the limerick explaining this saying. The last line was originally going to say “So she said “F#%& that” and continued to thrive” but I thought the modern reference was a “cooler” ending.

I’m turning a significant age this year (five years until half a century!), and like Jamie, I too feel quite comfortable at this age. Maybe it’s because despite my advanced age (thank you for that phrase, medical community!), I actually don’t feel “old”. I feel more secure in myself, more confident, more daring – all characteristics that are related to gaining experience and self knowledge, which can only come with age.

So this fun poem reflects the fun that I’m having now – being a mom, a runner, a partner, a friend, a writer – despite of or probably, because of, my advanced age!

© 2019, poem and photo, Irma Do (I Do Run … And I Do a Few Other Things Too)

Fighting Age

Combing through darkness

Five stand, admitting defeat

Plucked out – victory!

I’ve written a lot of poetry lately, but I’ve also done a fair share of running this past week. Thursday’s short 4 mile run was so hot that I couldn’t even even run the last two miles of it. My head was pounding and I was starting to feel dizzy. I felt defeated and annoyed at my inability to do these minimal miles.

Saturday, I ran 11 miles in cool weather with a slight drizzle and I felt great! I felt like I could have finished another 2 miles for an impromptu half marathon (I didn’t though, as coffee and a bagel was calling my name). I felt elated and victorious, ready to conquer the rest of the day.

Poetry and running keep my soul from getting old and stagnant. I never know what to expect but the range of feelings I experience before, during and after every run is similar to my writing experience. What a blessing to have both in my life and to also have a community of wonderful people to share it with!

© 2019, Irma Do (I Do Run … And I Do a Few Other Things Too)

Details

I zero in

On the cracks in the walls

The spaces between the tile and grout

The layer of dust on the grand piano

The peeling Formica under 80’s sought after giveaway cups

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

I zero in

On the grays in your hair

And the spots on your hands

The slowness in your cane aided walk

Your mouth agape during your afternoon nap

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

I zoom out

And see the humor and kindness in your eyes

The hands that lovingly prepare my favorite meal

The 20 year old bed that fits generations

The clock where time has stopped but happiness lives on

The struggle of remembering and honoring and forgetting and accepting.

I zoom out

And notice what you do without

What you’ve sacrificed

What you’ve preserved

What you’ve done with love

What you’ve done for love.

I zero in on that detail.

© 2019, Irma Do (I Do Run … And I Do a Few Other Things Too)

Come,
see me now.

I am, the wind in your sails
when storms cause you fear,
I am, the love on your skin
when complexion gives in,
I am strength in your bones
as your bones become thin,
You will know me by sight
when your sight isn’t clear,
When darkness is near,
You will deny any fear.
I am the warmth
of your Sun.
and the light
of your Moon.
I am everything
you know,
I am everything
you knew
Who am I?

I am you.

© 2019, Jen E. Goldie (Jen Goldie, Poetry and Short Stories)

Scorched Bones

Gathering thoughts
of remembrance
Time stood still.

My kind eyes
Muddied by a world
Full of hate,
We see everyday.

This is not
Where I want to be
This is not
What I want to see.

My gentle, trusting
Nature being worn
Away by the news
The confusion I see.

This is not
Where I want to be
This is not
What I want to see.

Beauty dying In front
of me not naturally
But gradually, and
strategically on course.

This is not
Where I want to be
This is not
What I want to see.

I and my friends
losing Grace, misplaced
Days dwindling by
Shortening time.

This is not where
I want to be
This is not what
I want to see.

Gone is the wonder
Gone is the trace of
Smiles erupting
on this aging face.

This is not where
I want to be
This is not what
I want to see.

God give me grace.
When the loving warmth
Of the final fire
scorches my bones.

This is not where
I want to be
This is not what
I want to see.

© 2019, Jen E. Goldie (Jen Goldie, Poetry and Short Stories)

The Tallest Tree

Graying hairs, and
Weakened bones
Could snap as the fragile
Aging branches
Of the tallest tree.
I am now as tall
As I’ll ever be.
Time is mine to keep.
My eyes have opened
Though I can hardly see,
my limbs have
taken me the distance
and no longer carry me.
I am wind and I am sea,
The heavens tenderly
Beckon me,
My arms are open.
Please
look
at
me.

© 2019, Jen E. Goldie (Jen Goldie, Poetry and Short Stories)

.the rain came suddenly.

sun, was done and dusted.

by the slate they talked, shining.
faces older now, friendship retained.

learned a little more on life, the small
things, wisdom rings
the generations.

i did not need all the mange tout.

how beautiful

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

.angel.

sit with me, talk to me
about yourself and things
surrounding.

i am older now, look
like this, and will harm,
no living thing.

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

.these days these days.

are longer now, i feel younger now,

i am older. we do so many things.

we are no longer afraid.

make the best of summer days,

winter follows.

he remarked that it was

good enough

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Girl, my little pearl

Girl, my little pearl
you swirl in golden waters
when you wear the highest heels
when you show your slim body
when you put on that lovely dress
when you wear that perfect make-up
when you exhibit those expensive earrings
when your fingers and toe nails are so carefully painted
when you completely remove all your hairs
(except those on your head)
when your hair is dyed accordingly
(never forget to dye it when you grow older,
you should always look younger)

Girl, my little pearl
you still want to swirl in goldern waters
when you exhibit those piercings and tattoos
though they are not still enough,
so you will want to have some more, perhaps
some botox and breast size operations too.

And girl little pearl says:

I do not want to wear high heels,
they’ll ruin my feet and back forever.
I was not born with a slim body so
why should I want to have it?

I do not want to wear that lovely dress,
it’s terribly uncomfortable, unpractical,
has no pockets and it’s too cold now,
so why should I wear it?

I do not want that make-up made of chemicals affecting my health.

They always want to sell
and so they never tell.

The same with nail polish. I do not want it
unless I buy these things at the organic shop
just in case I changed my mind.
I do not have earholes for earrings.

Why does almost every girl have them
to mark their gender as soon as they’re born?

My mum has those earholes and wore once
some unexpensive pair of earrings, bad metal,
and ended up with red skin, red spots and allergy.

No, I do not want earholes to mark my gender differentiation.
I want to choose if I want them or not when I grow up.
As for my hair and its natural color,
I am perfectly satisfied, well, perhaps
some streaks to highlight a bit of color
together with shades of greys and whites.
I want to look my age, why younger?
I am getting older and have grey hairs.
So what? Will I be less of a woman
if I don’t dye my hair anymore?

I refuse irreversible things
like piercings and tattoos.
Some other women and men
may like them very much.
Perhaps they’ve been the luckiest ones
who had no health problems so far
after piercings and tattoos
marked their bodies
forever.

I do not want this on my body
I do not want to be obsessed by esthetics
I do not want to do something just because
it’s fashion, everyone does it.
I do not want to be who I am not
I want to be myself
I want to be appreciated for who I am.
And if somebody wants to love me
I’ll say, please, look first at my inside
and then you’ll be able to decide.

I am no girl, little pearl
to swirl in golden waters
I am simply who I want to be
now you just take me or leave.

© 2019, Marta Pombo Sallés (Moments)

A Dying Light

Raanana, July 14, 2017

Once when your light was at its zenith
We could see the possibilities of poetry
And now, and now,
Your light is swollen and bloodred
As it sinks below the crags of the far horizon
We would not venture to explore,
But even in the dying of your light
And the cold night that it portends,
You show us the way we all must tread
Through dreaded mindscape
That leads us lemminglike to fall free
Through the nothingness of nonexistence.
Though you would bid me follow you
Showing me the beauty here
Or the danger there,
You can only point at them
For words have deserted you,
Adjectives no longer describe
Nouns no longer are
Verbs no longer act,
And time itself was ever only deceit.

© 2017, Mike Stone (Uncollected Works)

Retirement

Raanana, April 30, 2017

We sat at the kitchen table
The two of us as we did most evenings
Her eyes tear-brimmed.
I reached over and touched her arm
Why? I asked although I knew.
She had retired just a few months back
But I had kept on working
Til now.
We’ll turn into a couple of old people
It’s the last chapter of our lives, she said.
Both of us turned around and looked at Daisy
Snoring softly from her mattress
As she does most days now.
Neither of us could imagine life without her
But I sensed my wife’s sadness
Spilling and spreading out towards me
And I promised her
Wherever we’d go
We’d go together hand in hand
Til time’s far-flung end.

© 2017, Mike Stone (Uncollected Works)

Wisdom

Raanana, April 4, 2017

And in the end
They’re right, you know,
The Hindus and the Buddhists:
All life is illusion
Cut adrift from the shores of reality
With a logic of its own
Like the shells on the beach
That my mother remembering
When she was a little girl
Picked up and put to her ear
And heard the sea in them.
This was the wisdom they talked about
Sitting around the fires
Toothless grins under a full moon,
A wisdom that is not a wisdom,
At all.

© 2017, Mike Stone (Uncollected Works)

Trembling Hands

Raanana, October 8, 2016

My hands,
I look at them now
Trembling
As they are wont to do
And I wonder why
They do,
My hands.
My father’s hands trembled too,
More toward the end,
How I loved them,
His hands.
I think maybe they know something I don’t know,
My hands,
That starlight trembles in the night
From distance and the coldness of it,
That strings on violins tremble
From Sheherazade’s beauty,
Or remind me how my vulnerability
Lets me listen to your heartbeat.
O captain, my captain,
Perhaps your hand upon the wheel
Trembled before the port that was your destination.

© 2016, Mike Stone (Uncollected Works)

Little Things

Raanana, January 3, 2019

The desert hills behind me
The white-flecked sea in front of me
Clouds roiling on the horizon
A chill wind shivers old bones.
That’s when the clementines are best
And a steaming cup of mud-black coffee.
The sky is golden just before dusk,
What more could one ask for?
My hands age while I watch,
I suppose, like everything else here.
Slowly,
It’s hard to tell,
If you don’t pay much mind,
Little things
Get subtracted from your life
Until there’s not much left
But I guess it’s simpler
To keep track of
What’s important
And what’s dying.

© 2019, Mike Stone (Uncollected Works)

Mike Stone’s Amazon Page is HERE.

Age Is An Unknown Thing

img_20190210_162610.jpg                                                      Photo Credit  CER  ©  2019

age is an unknown thing
in silence  passes by
begins and ends with a cry
has honey and ‘a  sting’

Age is but a shadow dark-
why shadows are always
dark ? as night and day
– it’s all time, at play-

age is but a phase
called child,adult, old,
beauty grace wrinkled
body, bent slow and cold

age is but wisdom, 
in metallic sounds, a
a syzygy of time and life
a digital pattern

age is but a state of
mind, manner and matter
‘as old as one thinks’
a gauge of strength’

age is but ‘no age for love’
immune to all seasons
mobility gifted, a graceful cage 
 of  moments measured.

IMG_20190210_162504
Photo Credit  CER  ©  2019

Age is but beauty even in  
withered state, often ‘over
or under’ or right grade,yet 
praised or un praised,

all must fade…

© 2019, poem (English and Urdu) and illustrations, Anjum Wasim Dar  (Poetic Oceans)

 ءمر کیا ھے

اک انجان  ھقیقت  
اک خاموش راہ گزر 
اک آنسو اک مٹھاس
اک تیز چبھن اک ڈنگ       

،اک سایہ گہرا ،سایہ
 گہرا کیوں ھوتا ھے؟
جیسے رات اور دن
جیسے وقت کا کھیل

ءمر اک دور ھے 
بچپن جوانی بڑھاپا
خوبصورت جھریاں 
قمر  جھکی ھویؑ

عمر عقل کا نام ھے
عمر اک سوچ ھے
عمر اک وقت  ھے
عمر اک زندگی ھے 

اک  زہن  کا  تصور
اک  طاقت کا  اندازہ
عمر بس پیار کی عمر
اک وقت مقررہ عمر 

 عمر سب خوبصورت
عمر   سب  کی کہانی
عمر   بڑی  یا  چھوٹی
عمر     سب  کی   فانی

“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

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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 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.”

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

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VANISHING SOLUTION . . . and other responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

“In the long run, the sharpest weapon of all is a kind and gentle spirit.”
The Diary of Anne Frank, Anne Frank

The last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Plotting a Story, January 31, 2019 was a real challenge and it speaks volumes that it is so very difficult for us to envision a world where murder, torture, separation, and starvation are no longer options.  What would such a world look like? Intrepid souls all, Gary W. Bowers, Irma Do, Jen Goldie and Anjum Wasim Dar have risen to the occasion.  Well done, poets, and thank you!

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

dew unto others

suddenly dew
turned blue and combusted
trustworthy wherewithal
came with the aerosol

all who breathed hue
once spewed-hate-encrusted
dusted off bigotry
shed their misanthropy

new things to do
included feasts mustered
for clusters of needy
and all were ungreedy

arcadia stew
and utopia custard
frustrated our devils
and we reached new levels

all due to a psychologist
and major-league geneticist
and freejack climatologist
enacting armagenesis

her name was diana
euglena endora
late of tijuana
born in bora bora

when asked of the process
she wasn’t specific:
“i alchemized raw cess
found in the pacific

“a punster’s emotion
bears brunt/onus/blame
for making an ocean
live up to its name.”

© 2019, Gary W. Bowers (On With Clay / Image and Text)

Vanishing Solution – A Rubaiyat

To vanquish all the demons of senseless aggression

The women left, with children on hips, for vacation

Without the men and older ones, corrupted too soon

In the middle of the night, they left without resignation.

It started with whispers under the heartbroken moon

Mothers left behind who wanted to hear a new tune

The song of “I’m sorry” for rape, murder, starvation

Made for a hollow dirge in the empty baby room.

Without any recourse than to cry and wail with rage

The women made a plan to change the history page

Eve’s disobedience might be original sin

But Cain killing Able spotlight the violent stage

Without testosterone, how/where would the anger begin?

It became clear that peace could never start from within

Add in voices loud with societal machismo

Can’t unlearn this behavior yet men had no chagrin

It took years to create the perfect utopia

Women agreed there was only one panacea

As much as it hurt to acknowledge the truth of it

Leave them behind, the only viable idea.

After kisses and climaxes for the lucky ones,

And tender tough love goodbyes for those who had older sons

The women vanishing in one night of defiance

Bringing babies, clothes, food, seeds, tools to create, no guns

When the world awoke, there was silence then confusion

There was crying and wailing and raging delusion

The accusations turned deadly with no end in sight

The world was burning, cleansing all those in collusion

And the women waited, teaching their children new ways

With emotional regulation, without fake praise

Listening, reflection, the basis for discussion

Decisions consensus, not perfect, a better phase.

Is separation the best course of action for now?

Or work hard together and put our backs to the plough?

I don’t know the answer or the moral of this tale

To change our world, what are we willing to disavow?

This is my first attempt at a rubaiyat – inspired by Frank Hubeny at dVerse call to action. Feedback is welcome and most appreciated!

The theme is in response to Patrick’s Pic and a Word Challenge #172 – Vanishing as well as Jamie Dedes’ Wednesday Writing Prompt. Jamie’s prompt this week deserved a lot of thought – it was hard (for me at least) to imagine what a world would be like without murder, torture, starvation. In writing this poem, I am NOT saying that all the bad in the world are due to men but statistically, most of the violence in the world are perpetuated by those with a Y chromosome.

I don’t think separation is the answer. As the saying goes, if you’re not part of the solution…however, sometimes I do just want to take a vacation from all the strife I hear about in the world. Yet, where would we go?

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

He came to the end of the road,
looked left and looked right,
He feared looking forward.
His father once said,
Endings are beginnings
Concealed as doors,
and hidden from view, so,
Seek your way through.
But these doors were murky,
Hard and impervious,
Stained with blood and bone
by the scratching of nails on
the aged worn wood,
yearning for freedom,
tears have etched trails, with
deepening grooves of sadness,
in its woody worn frame.
These are days to remember,
Not days to forget.
Solemnly he gazed
into his Father’s vacant eyes,
and sighed,
We’ll find a way through.

© 2019, Jen E. Goldie (Jen Goldie, Poetry and Short Stories)

The Noonday Place

Where are you going son?
To the Noonday Place Papa.
Where’s that son?
Where the sun shines!
And where the light lives!
The light Son?
Yes! the light!
Where the children play!
It’s a living place Papa,
A living place?
Yes papa!
No hurting, no fighting
No guns.
Where the flowers bloom
Where the birds sing
Where the rivers run.
Is that all son?
Is that all you need?
Yes Papa.
Alright Son
Thy will be done.

© 2019, Jen E. Goldie (Jen Goldie, Poetry and Short Stories)

Still, Silent and Serene

23319098_1873071902708343_3608095764492300486_n (1)
see
no murder, nor starvation or separation
no people to torture, now you shall
see, no enemy

warm feelings smiling  eyes, cool
raindrops dropping  from the skies,
on  a green carpeted vast  expanse
embroidered from edge to edge,
said the one who saw the white horse run

see
no guns, no rifles or grenades
no barbed wires or walls، who
would ever think of sinning
 not one all would be in, for Heaven
said the one who saw the fiery horse driven

see
the Earth grows green, sweet gold
honey abounds even if we eat it all,
still there is more and more ,for the
seasons changing, times coming-
said the one who saw the black horse fall.

see
the  showers bloom the buds
life reawakens from deep slumber
graves descend to the depths beneath
disease defeated  must await its orders
said the one who saw the pale horse chained,

see
the world in perpetual beauty
peace silence fragrance abound
streams crystalline carry music
no shots nor blasts anywhere sound

see
no envy or pride, nor greed nor 
sloth to slow and hide all good
behind, go not for lust, for dust
we are and shall  to dust, return,
said the one who saw four horses gallop away

the world is still silent and serene.

©2019, poem (English and Urdu) and illustration, Anjum Wasim Dar (Poetic Oceans)

یہ  دنیا  کیسی ھو اگر ظلم و تشدد قتل و غارت فاقہ کشی و جدایؑ نہ ھو

دنیا کی حقیقت  بس ؑ عارظی و فانی  اک   مدت   مقرر ہ   تک  ھے
گر ظلم و تشدد  قتل و فاقہ کشی نہ ھو تو کویؑ دشمن بھی نہ ھو

محبت بھری مسکراھٹ  ٹھنڈی بوںدوں کے موتی سبز وسعت پہ گرتے ھوں
 کنارے سے کنارے تک نقش و نیگار  کھلتے ھوں تو سب پر امن کیوں نہ ھوں

نہ ھتھیار نہ جنگ، نہ خاردار تار نا دیوار  ایسے ماحول میں کون گنہگار ھو
کیوں کر ممکن ھوجب  نہ خطاوار نہ  مجرم تو  کویؑ  محسن  بھی  نہ  ھو

    ھریالی زمیں  روانی شہد  خوراک کی فراوانی  موسم کی لازوال کہانی ھو  
  خوش حالی و  سکوں، کیسے ممکں ھے  کہ پایلؑ  کی  جھن جھن  بھی نہ ھو

 ھسین  رنگین  دنیا،  عارطی ھے پیرہن، زندہ رہیں کہ  فلحال  امراز مر چکے
      نفرت نہ غرور نہ لالچ کریں انجم ، من پاک ھو ،  میلا مگر تن بھی نہ ھو

یہ دنیا پر سکوں خاموش اور خو بصورت ھی ھو گی

“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

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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 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.”

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