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CELEBRATING MOTHERS’ DAY (U.S.) PART 3: a separate peace, a poem

“I think this to myself even though I love my daughter. She and I have shared the same body. There is a part of her mind that is a part of mine. But when she was born she sprang from me like a slippery fish, and has been swimming away ever since. All her life, I have watched her as though from another shore.” Amy Tan, The Joy Luck Club



Note: This is the third in a three-part series celebrating Mothers’ Day, which is today in the U.S.. All the pieces were published some time ago – here and/or elsewhere and it just feels right to publish again this year. I hope you’ll enjoy this short series … And Happy Mothers’ Day to all the mothers and to all the dads, aunts, uncles, grandparents and older siblings who are covering for moms who are gone.

sometimes …
near impossible to see past the manic crowds
or to lift our eyes to look at the wholesome
trees inscribing their calm upon the sky

sometimes …
we record our fears with writing utensils,
call them weapons, coloring the margins
of our books with the dry dust of martyrdom

sometimes …
the children use their pages to blot away their
mothers’ tears, turning backs on the old refrains,
hearing their own souls speak, deaf to their fathers

sometimes …
those children fell trees, transforming them
to paper and well-sharpened pencils, their lives
written in the manner of their own separate peace

“Everything has to evolve or else it perishes.” John Knowles, A Separate Peace

Originally published in Brooklyn Memories

© 2013, poem, Jamie Dedes; illustration courtesy of Dawn Hudson, Public Domain Pictures.net

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Foraging for Blackberries, a poem … and your next Wednesday Writing Prompt

800px-Ripe,_ripening,_and_green_blackberries

“The winter seemed reluctant to let go its bite. It hung on cold and wet and windy long after its time. And people repeated, “It’s those damned big guns they’re shooting off in France– spoiling the weather in the whole world.” John Steinbeck, East of Eden



Summer arrived a bit ahead of schedule
with dry air, stifling heat, persistent drought
and languid children, too hot and too sleepy.
The weird winter weather put a damper on some crops,
but others arrived earlier than usual …
So here I am, foraging for blackberries in April.
At the neighborhood grocer’s, they’ve arrived,
their deep purple tamed, trapped in clear plastic boxes,
stacked by pears tossed on a wayward rumor of autumn

Originally published in The California Woman

© 2014, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved; photograph courtesy of Sage Ross under CC BY-SA 3.0.

WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT

What are your everyday observations of the fallout from climate change. Or, maybe you don’t think climate change is for real. Tell us why.

Share your poem/s on theme in the comments section below or leave a link to it/them. All poems on theme are published on the first Tuesday following the current Wednesday Writing Prompt. (Please no oddly laid-out poems.)

 No poems submitted through email or Facebook will be published. 

IF this is your first time joining us for The Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt, please send a brief bio and photo to me at thepoetbyday@gmail.com to introduce yourself to the community … and to me :-). These are partnered with your poem/s on first publication.

PLEASE send the bio ONLY if you are with us on this for the first time AND only if you have posted a poem (or a link to one of yours) on theme in the comments section below.  

Deadline:  Monday, May 13 by 8 pm Pacific Standard Time.

Anyone may take part Wednesday Writing Prompt, no matter the status of your career: novice, emerging or pro.  It’s about exercising the poetic muscle, showcasing your work, and getting to know other poets who might be new to you. This is a discerning non-judgemental place to connect.

You are welcome – encouraged – to share your poems in a language other than English but please accompany it with a translation into English.


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LOST: One Grandpa Bodhisattva, a poem … and your next Wednesday Writing Prompt

“Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind.
‘Pooh!’ he whispered.
‘Yes, Piglet?’
‘Nothing,’ said Piglet, taking Pooh’s paw. ‘I just wanted to be sure of you.’”
A.A. Milne, The House at Pooh Corner



Dear Ernie,

I sensed Friday that Time had released you into Eternity,
like a flower releases its perfume to the wind.
Confirmation came this morning.
You’d left, the kindly message said,
at 6:15 a.m,
like a responsible worker off to a new job.
You couldn’t come to the phone, so I sent
a card last Monday …
… to say goodbye.
To say, Ernie ~
You are our Bodhisattva. We’ll never forget.
We’ll never forget:
You walked into our embrace ruffled and teary
and you grew into a saintly calm.
You reminded me of the Summer of Love
with your long hair, your gray beard and mustache.
I had to blur my focus to see you clearly,
to see the ancient sage, the grandpa Bodhisattva,
the motorcycle Buddha,
the wise, funny, accepting not resigned, friend.

In metta,

Jamie

© 2019, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved; Photo courtesy of Fran Hogan, Public Domain Photographs.net

WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT

Write a poem about a friend or about friendship.

Share your poem/s on theme in the comments section below or leave a link to it/them. All poems on theme are published on the first Tuesday following the current Wednesday Writing Prompt. (Please no oddly laid-out poems.)

 No poems submitted through email or Facebook will be published. 

IF this is your first time joining us for The Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt, please send a brief bio and photo to me at thepoetbyday@gmail.com to introduce yourself to the community … and to me :-). These are partnered with your poem/s on first publication.

PLEASE send the bio ONLY if you are with us on this for the first time AND only if you have posted a poem (or a link to one of yours) on theme in the comments section below.  

Deadline:  Monday, May 6 by 8 pm Pacific Standard Time.

Anyone may take part Wednesday Writing Prompt, no matter the status of your career: novice, emerging or pro.  It’s about exercising the poetic muscle, showcasing your work, and getting to know other poets who might be new to you. This is a discerning non-judgemental place to connect.

You are welcome – encouraged – to share your poems in a language other than English but please accompany it with a translation into English.


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Dreaming of the Sheik, a poem

I’m the Sheik of Araby,

Your love belongs to me.

At night when you’re asleep

Into your tent I’ll creep.

The Sheik of Araby, lyrics by Harry B. Smith and Francis Wheeler, music by Ted Snyder, written in 1921 in response to the popularity of Rudolph Valentino and the movie The Sheik.



Valentino by James Abbe

This – probably silly little poem – was inspired by the tales my mother told me of how the women swooned over the actor Rudolph Valentino, even the women from the Arabic-speaking world who seemed not to have realized their beloved “Sheik” was Italian (Rodolfo Alfonso Raffaello Pierre Filibert Guglielmi di Valentina d’Antonguella).  She also told me how the streets were lined with adoring fans as Valentino’s funeral cottage passed through the city. Valentino died at 31 years of peritonitis. I included a clip from the movie at the end of this post. You can watch the whole abysmal thing on YouTube if you have an unhealthy inclination to do so. 


Doe eyes stare at the waiting world

Long lashed, bright with longing, feeding

An inner vision, a secret, hers alone

·

Music played the strings of that heart

Magical whispers of marriage, she’d

Assume love as young people do

·

Predictable fantasies, the house with a white

Porch and rocker, a picket fence, a back yard

Rich dark earth, flower bedecked, fruit

·

Of the womb, of course, expected and roses

On birthdays, lilies at Easter, garlands in May

Christmas trees and mistletoe and other such

·

She watered beets on the fire escape,

Helped her mother with siblings, dreamed

Dreams gifted by movies and magazines

·

There, tying her boots, ready for school

Smooth the hand-me-down dress, then

Down the steps and on through the streets

·

Dreaming of ocean mists, oak trees

Well-groomed houses, polished rides

In horseless-carriages, easy transit

·

She grew old enough, hopeful enough

To dance in the jaundiced night, a ghetto-bound

Diana waiting for her Sheik, and he

·

Looking for his Sheba, he took her

Hand for one bright minute, then gone

To be followed by another, and each

·

Sheik stayed to steal her heart, rode off

With another piece of her, a souvenir of

Yearning and promise, love and gullibility

·

“The movies and the magazines”, she says, “they lied …”

Then whispered softly: “When Valentino died, women

lined the streets for his funeral cortége and cried  … “

·

Rudolf Valentino as the Sheik and Agnes Ayers as Lady Diana.

“Women are not in love with me but with the picture of me on the screen. I am merely the canvas on which women paint their dreams.” Rudolph Valentino – 1923