The last Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt, to write about farms and farming (Conjuring Farmhouses), December 12, is covered quite broadly here with responses from Gary W. Bowers, Paul Brookes, Irma Do, Jen E. Goldie, Shiela Jacob, Frank McMahan, Mike Stone, and Anjum Wasim Dar. These will provoke some thought and much pleasure, spiked as they are with memoir, questions, humor, and insight. Enjoy!
Wednesday Writing Prompt will return on January 16, 2019.
three cow salute
walking to my high school meant walking past three cows
just as 61st avenue came to its
senses and straightened up
south of bethany home road
and what was then
a bobwire fence held back these bored cows
who stood and chewed or didn’t
and slowly turned
their
heads
in
unison
as
you
passed
they were the stolid
they were the stupefied
the stunned
the milkbaggy trio
the watchers of boys and girls
they needed a date with a frisky bull
or maybe they needed nothing
but daily relief from udder strain
grass
and me tweaking their monotony
into near monotony
couldn’t tell you
don’t know why those bored
and boring cows still lease space
in a pasture in my head
just know
the smell of horseshit does nothing for me
but
the smell of cowshit
has more than once filled
my stupid stolid eyes
with nostalgic tears
droplets of blood from the tail
of last October’s sacrificed horse,
ashes of the stillborn calves,
the shells of beans.
We are sprinkled with water,
wash our hands
in spring-water,
drink milk mixed with must.
Towards evening after shepherds
fed their flocks,
laurel-branches
are used as brooms
to clean their stables,
water sprinkled through them,
then stables adorned
with laurel-boughs.
Shepherds burn sulphur,
rosemary, fir-wood, and incense,
usher the smoke through the stables
and the flocks to purify them.
cakes, millet, milk,
and other food
is offered.
Hay and straw bonfires lit
cymbals and flutes play
as sheep and shepherds
are run three times
through the fire.
At an open air feast
we sit or lay
on turf benches
and sup a lot.
who plough
who prepare the earth
who plough with a wide furrow to bring water from the river
who plant seeds
who trace the first ploughing, reploughing as first did not work
who harrow
who dg
who weed
who reap
who carry the grain
who store the grain
who share the grain
who share their good fortune with us, the dead
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 blue sky smelled of manure. Even the allure of coffee and raw milk, homemade bread with rhubarb jam and omelets plucked from their mother just that morning couldn’t overcome the scent that distinctly said, “You’re on a working farm.”
The distinct sound of a tractor pulled up to the farmhouse door. The farmer offered us a hay ride around the farm and explained the difference between hay and straw, silo versus barn. The farmer named each machine and it’s purpose, but not the animals.
That night, I briefly wondered if the chicken that gave her life for our pot pie dinner also sacrificed her progeny for our breakfast. And if the rooster that would wake us in the morning, knew what happened to his family.
Plastic and foam trays
Deception and protection
Farmers eat the truth
Yes, that’s me on a tractor – picture courtesy of one of my sorority sisters who posted some “throwback pictures” of a reunion we had a bed and breakfast in the Pennsylvania countryside a few years after we graduated college. I don’t think the tractor was actually moving for the picture, but it was a first for this city girl!
Coincidentally, Jamie Dedes’ Wednesday Writing prompt requested: This week share poem/s out of your own nostalgia, experience, impressions, gratitude, concerns, or convictions about farms, farming, or farm policy. Despite now living in “farm country”, I still don’t know about farming although I do appreciate the numerous farmers markets in our area.
One thing I do know: I am very appreciative of the men and women who work on farms because I know I don’t have the constitution or inclination to grow things or kill things to eat. Maybe because living in cities, I was never exposed to that reality and thus my aversion to being close to the true source of what I/we eat. Food came in a package and didn’t have faces. Maybe if more people were aware of the reality of farming, there would be less food waste and a better understanding of the need to conserve and protect the environment/nature and animals as finite resources. But what do I know…I’m just a city girl…
When Dad barked
You hopped to it,
Let’s go! In the car!
He loved the country.
One day, he said,
I’m moving to some
Small town,
Somewhere,
Someday.
Got my love of trees,
Wide expanses
And the smell of grass
From him
I guess.
Let’s go pick strawberries.
Get some fresh picked apples,
Some corn, if it’s ready,
Right from the field.
He always took the
Side roads
On our way to
Where he wanted
To be.
I marvel,
Now,
Where he was
Coming from,
Some secret desire,
Some past life,
Taking him home….
A tithed farm had flourished
since Queen Victoria’s reign.
Then the council needed acres
of land, built a housing estate
in the 1930’s for families like
us who couldn’t afford to buy.
Small, airy houses with an inside
toilet and coal shed, no running
hot water but spacious gardens
front and back.We made our home
here in the ’50’s and I walked past
apple trees to my first school.
Elderly neighbours recalled
the redbrick farmhouse, told
how they were sent there
as children and exchanged
a few pence for pats of golden
butter and hay-warmed eggs.
They felt the land’s closeness
despite shops and post office
and bus routes to the city centre.
Road names were echoes.
Farmcote Swancote
Old Farm Glebe Farm
And during the War,they dug
over their long back gardens.
Potatoes and turnips grew again.
Carrots were shaken free of soil,
peeled, grated and added to cake
mix instead of rationed sugar.
Hefting water out of the river to
feed the newly-planted.Long years since I
had to do the same on Uncle’s farm:enamel
white bucket hung from a windlass,sweet
water drawn from deep. I could lift but half
a pailful then. Brothers, neighbour’s girls,
rudimentary washes after endless
play; earth closet in the yard, potatoes,
their skins slowly curling in the cauldron
on the hearth.Somewhere a clock. Bored one day,
I stood beside the well and bawled for help.
Dad came running and rough chastisement
was love’s affirmation.
Brief check before I
swooshed down the hay bales in the barn, guiltless
until the straws in my hair betrayed me.
The years have added muscle, as I bend
and dip and lift from the grateful water,
remembering my boyhood’s guilty smile.
Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA paintings (This is her Facebook page, so you can connect with her there as well as view photographs of her colorful paintings.)
The dark cloud squats heavily on the horizon
Undecided whether to drift slowly
Over our dusty fields with its fat bladder
Full of drought quenching rains
Or to drift up the coast a ways
To quench the thirst of our enemy’s fields.
O Lord, I know it makes no difference
In the grand scheme of things,
But I can’t help the fact
It would make all the difference in the world
To me.
The dead don’t envy the living
Any more than the living envy the dead.
Who’s to say what’s the best state
For matter to be in
In the long run?
I would think the best,
For one above ground,
Is to make the most of what you are
And, for those below,
To make the least.
Farm and village
soul and spirit
a nation’s harvest giver,
agri-armor of defense ,
lived in one,never,
but loved one where
Grand Dad lived
near the Jhelum River
A place, Sarai Alamgir
with tilled fields
lush green yields,
lands fulfilling needs
wells run by cattle
in circles, bound
pulling out water
round and round
and we so freely….
running in the fields
touching the trees
shouting and singing
with the breeze
But
When land is threatened by famine ,when food is scarce
by waywardness and sins,
when fuel is short
and dry are the streams
the farmer with his horse
and plough
is back in the fields-
the backbone of the people
he is following his dreams
or so it seems-
going back in time
working coping hoping
amidst blasts and screams’
Farmer Farmer get some coal
if you want your crop
and reach your goal
Farmer farmer get your horse
for salvation of the loss
Farmer Farmer get your plough
Let us work and fulfill our vow’
کسان اور گاوؑں
روح رواں زندگی
زرہ بکتر زراع و دفاع
رہنا فارم پہ کبھی نا ھوا
دادا کے گھر سے پیار ھوا
سراےؑ عالم گیر جھلم دریا
گاوؑں تھا پیارا سا
لھلھاتے کھیت و باغ
ھر سو سبزا سبزا ھوا
کوؑیں سے جوتے بیل
کھیت میں پانی ڈالے
ڈبے پے ڈبا ٓاتا جاؑے
اور ھم کھلے میدان میں
بھاگتے دوڑتے ھنستے
درختوں کہ چھوتے رہتے
مگر جب
زمین خطرے میں پڑھنے لگے
قحت و قلت ھو جاےؑ زیادہ
ایندھن کم اور ندیاں خشک
پھر کساں اپنا سامان لیکر
کھیت میں واپس جاتا ھے
گھوڑا جوت کہ ہل چلاتا ھے
اپنی قوم کی فکر ھے لاحک
اپنے خواب ادھورے پا کر
محنت کرنے لگتا ھے
بم دھماکے اور چیخوں میں
بھایو ٓاو آوؑ کوؑلہ نیکالو
اپنا اپنا کھیت اپنا ہل بچاوؑ
صلیب کو دیکھو مسجد جاوؑ
اپنا وعدہ پورا، خوب نبھاوؑ
شاید نجات مل جاےؑ شاید بخشے جاوؑ
“Let us all strive for peace on Earth for all. Let us make a better world. Write to make peace prevail.” Anjum Wasim Dar, Pakistani poet, writer, artist, educator, and parent.
Thank you for sharing your love of words. Comments will appear after moderation.
In addition to their words and illustrations, I’ve included links to blogs or websites where available. I hope you’ll visit these poets and get to know their work better. It is likely you can catch up with others via Facebook.
Enjoy! … and do come out to play tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are encouraged to participate: beginning, emerging and pro. You are also invited to submit poems in languages other than English if they include a translation into English. See you tomorrow! 🙂
up up and awry
when a man is hacked to pieces
while still alive and
the murder was suborned
by a royal
killer
and small fry are arrested
and the big shot walks
and another big shot says
in effect
attaboy
and the world takes five minutes’
notice
and shrugs–
decency has taken a powder
ethics is in A locked chest in the attic
and kindly is an uncomfortable party guest
who gets hints to leave
from the big boy host
My eyes were parched, yet I kept them open, watching you as I did when you walked to the school bus. It seemed like such a long way for you to walk with your little legs. I told you not to look back, that looking back would make it harder, and I wanted us to have a “peaceful goodbye”. Peace was the September “virtue of the month” and it helped those first days when being apart wasn’t normal.
My throat closed up, as if I could cry, choking the words I wanted to call out – I love you! I’m proud of you! But you didn’t need to hear that – your humility and compassion allowed you to understand more than your 4 year old self should.
My heart slowed, a molasses drip, wondering what you were thinking as your tiny feet plodded on. Perseverance and courage might as well be etched on your retreating back. But the little wrinkles on your forehead would spell curiosity – we had that common. I wanted to help you, but you respectfully said you would go alone and that I should stay. I would have held you back, you honestly said. You knew I wouldn’t want that. Oh, how wise you had become!
My breath hitched and I was afraid – afraid you wouldn’t find the joy that I knew you deserved. But you didn’t look back and when you started to run – that’s when I knew:
You were going to where you truly belonged.
This short story is in response to Hélène Viallant’s “What do you see?” Picture prompt. There were so many ways to respond to this picture that Hélène posted – it could be scary or exciting or sad. It could have elements of science fiction or fantasy. Or a metaphor. My story is a little bit of all that. The back story could be that the world is coming to an end, the mother left behind to perish watching the sole survivor, her child, walking towards the unknown. Is it hopeful? Or ominous?
While I’m not sure my story is one of values gone wrong, it does remind me of the saying “good guys finish last”. But do they really? If they believe their behavior, their sacrifice is for a noble cause, are they finishing last or being the first hero?
Please spell AWRY.
definition?
: not straight or neat
: not working correctly
: not happening in the expected way
: off the correct or expected course
: in a turned or twisted position or direction
AWRY:a sentence?
“If one or another part of this progression goes awry,
there are sufficient compensating processes
in the average social environment”.
“Because each assumption requires extra tests,
fewer assumptions mean a smaller probability
that the assumptions go awry.”
AWRY: A- W- R- I
WRONG! be seated.
Askew,
aslant,
atilt,
cockeyed,
oblique,
Off-kilter,
uneven.
Disordered,
distorted,
Contorted.
WRONG!
Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA paintings (This is her Facebook page, so you can connect with her there as well as view photographs of her colorful paintings.)
He asked, ‘What kind of man?
why of Mankind ‘ he said,
‘of patience bereft, of agitation disposed,
not so eloquent nor with knowledge
or apprehensive of consequences
No, he fears none but mosquitoes
No, he fears none, no one
what language, or words of wisdom ?
‘none,sire but a stare baleful, of rage
a chaos in cape carries he, chosen
but outcast, a clever archimage,
No, he fears none, no one
manufactured, of lustful desire,
embroidered with adventure
en-robed with possession
of dark deceit, half concealed
No he fears none, no one
mankind today, lost astray,
oblivious of truth, a symbol
of hate, a killer without motive,
a killer for cash and pay-
No he fears no one-
mankind today, siding with evil,
a terrorist, beguiler kidnapper
Oh, where is the mystagogue?
fettered in a dungeon, I may
I may write an apologue !
O mankind your spirit is good, turn,
a repentant forgiver grateful person,be
turn, turn, towards the right travelogue’
so that the Light of Truth ye may see
ٓاج کا انسان کچھ بھی در گزر کرتا نہین ھے
ٓاج کا انسان اللاہ سے نہین مچھروں سے ڈرتا ھے
استاد کی زباں پے وہ اقوال زرین نہین ھین
ٓاج کا استاد کیا لکھتا ھے کیا پرکھتا ھے
ٓاج کا انسان پیار کا بھوکا ھے
ھر نظر پر نظر ھر ھاتھ پر ھاتھ رکھتا ھے
ھر غریب بے کار ھر امیر دوست لگتا ھے
اج کا انسان کیا اپناتا ھے کیا پرکھتا ھے
دوستی نرمی صبر و برداشت کہاں
سب کو گرم غصے کا بخار چڑھتا ھے
ٓاج کا انسان طیش کا سامان
ٓٓاج کا انساں شیطان کی ھمدردی کرتا ھے
ٓاج کا انسان دھشت گرد
ٓاج کا انسان پیسے کے لیے مرتا ھے
اے لوگو دل و روح کے اچھے ھو زرا
سوچو سیدھی راہ تلاش کرو سیدھی راہ چلو
“Let us all strive for peace on Earth for all. Let us make a better world. Write to make peace prevail.” Anjum Wasim Dar, Pakistani poet, writer, artist, educator, and parent.
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 byNorthern 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.”
“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
Thank you for sharing your love of words. Comments will appear after moderation.
“Sometimes you see a man in a restaurant reading while eating — a very commn sight. He gives you the impression of being a very busy man, with no time even for eating. You wonder whether he eats or reads. One may say that he does both. In fact, he does neither, he enjoys neither. He is strained and disturbed in mind and he does not enjoy what he does at the moment, does not live in the present moment, but unconsciously and foolsihly tries to escape from life.” What the Buddha Taught, Walpola Rahula
These are the responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, In March, Flowering, November 21, which challenges our poets to dip their pens into stream of consciousness, a narrative style that gives the impression of the mind at work. I think Buddhists might be inclined to call this “monkey mind,” a mind that is restless, capricious, whimsical, confused, tortured, out-of-control. From a spiritual perspective, we want to still our minds, to be at peace. That’s why all our wisdom traditions encourage regular periods of prayer and meditation. In terms of writing though, I think giving in to the jumping monkey may work well. If you find yourself blocked when you write, it’s likely that you are trying to write and edit at the same time. You’re like the man in the quotation above, really not writing or editing at all. That’s why some teachers give the advice to “just write.” Write anything that comes to mind. Why? Because this takes you out of your edit mode and sets you free on the road to writing. Plenty of time to edit when your first draft it done.
I enjoyed the creative responses to this prompt. Thanks to Paul Brookes, Irma Do, Jen Goldie and Sonja Benskin Mesher. Thanks also to Irma and Jen for value added for me and other readers with their commentary. In addition to their words, I’ve included links to blogs or websites where available. I hope you’ll visit these poets and get to know their work better. It is likely you can catch up with others via Facebook.
Enjoy! … and do come out to play tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt.
Clamped
Clamped in the upright station of the world
Drowned in the come uppance daylight
Hunkered half light knowingness
Hefts hollow along kerbside
Ferret the mammal heart of the world
Become harsh chandeliers
Become rude shoeless adjectives
verb your character into business
letteropen an alphabet of fire,
a draining board of desire
a kitchen cupboard of flesh
a knifeblock of words
unseating themselves
Griddle down lightning days
Heavying nights moisten to open
Forgiveness in a handshake of trees
a massage of fields amid the nursery
Of war
record visual media
stand to attention wall
mounted retreat into hill
stations of past lives
lived hands free
autobot rainbow of perception
Tinker, tinker with children’s toys
repair your own gored scars
fix bro
ken and Barbie cars without
wheels pieces
lost toothless jigsaw
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.
Thoughts of all the things I should have done today
That I didn’t
Thoughts of being in bed with you
yet writing and writing
the writing is getting in the way
but I have to get down these thoughts
still so many have escaped
I can’t write while I am driving
I can’t write while I am parenting
I can think of what to write but if I can’t get to the computer
if I can’t get to the pen and paper
The thought runs away
Probably the one that would have gone in that lit mag
in that e-mag
the one to win that accolade
It’s so fleeting the good words and phrases that come
In and out
I need to catch them
I need to hold them
I need to write them
I need to sleep
I need to pay attention to the children
and to you
and the laundry
Ugh I hate the laundry
and the dishes
I’m supposed to do these chores out of love for my family
But I don’t love the chores
It doesn’t mean I don’t love my family
I can show them love in other ways
by ignoring them so I can write words of love
To them for them of them
Or cooking
I love to cook
or snuggling
I love to snuggle
Or sleeping
Choosing writing over sleeping over you
But the deadline is tomorrow
There is no deadline for chores
or family or lovers
Or is there…
This stream of consciousness poem is the first I have ever written. I must admit it was a difficult write for me! I guess I usually edit my thoughts long before it reaches the paper – thinking about the words, phrases, rhythm before I even begin to type with my thumbs. Maybe because I do so much of my writing in little bits during the day on my phone, that I am loathe to edit once it’s already down. Can I blame technology for my writing style?
I wrote this piece around 2 am with a sick child who had kept me awake. I couldn’t go back to sleep since I was thinking about this prompt. I had tried a few other times to write something but kept getting interrupted or writing something that I knew wasn’t exactly stream of consciousness since I had already thought about what to write (I don’t cheat on these prompts!). It took an overtired brain to get to this un-filtered point! If I hadn’t fallen asleep, I wonder where else it might have led or if my words would have continued to perseverate….
This is ecstasy,
This is love and lunacy,
This is the Artist.
The true artist is everyman,
Is any man,
Has a child’s sensitivity,
And knowledge only age can bring.
Unfettered of his earthly ties,
Sings through the ages,
Touching hearts, Touching minds,
And,
Creating joy and sorrow,
In the lives
of those he meets…
I had a marvelous Professor who stressed “Stream of Consciousness” as a method of writing. My first awakening to this was looking at a tree. Simply a tree. I hadn’t realized why I love images of trees until just now. He emphasized being in the moment, which is so fleeting. If the moment moves you to write. You MUST write! “I saw the Moon tonight! It shone down like a beam from heaven. And made the stars more bright.” Its the moments that most people miss in life. A poet cherishes those moments, and from what I’ve seen so far, all of the people who have graciously shared their moments with us have been “In the Moment”.
Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA paintings (This is her Facebook page, so you can connect with her there as well as view photographs of her colorful paintings.)
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 byNorthern 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.”
“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
Thank you for sharing your love of words. Comments will appear after moderation.
“So I don’t think I’ll make Poet Laureate, but I swear I’m not twisted and bitter, If finely-wrought talents don’t weigh in the balance, I can always write haiku on Twitter.”
In addition to their words, I’ve included links to blogs or websites where available. I hope you’ll visit these poets and get to know their work better. It is likely you can catch up with others via Facebook.
Enjoy! … and do come out later today for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are welcome including beginning and emerging poets. Poems in languages other than English are welcome as long as they are accompanied by a translation into English.
My Obsess
Your blue eyes
So deep but surged
I wished to swim
and be merged
I longed to play with you
But they called me shameless
Withered all my flowers were
Their clutches -my obsess
I longed for wings
I desired for a blue sky
They tied my dreams
and bade goodbye
Why I’m so confined
Should I now be blind
Why do they blame me
I just tried a Freedom to find
I was a 50’s child. We were fairly sheltered no doubt, because of the hardships our elders went through before us. I was lucky, pampered and did not do without. But as I grew up and the 60’s and 70’s crept in, I heard Chants like “MAKE LOVE NOT WAR”. Although I was not perceivably effected by this, or knowingly effected, I must have been. I wrote prolifically as I grew to be aware of the world around me.
-DID I SAY IT WAS SWEET-
In all reality the fight is never the reward,
If reward there be.
They take the good times when they find them,
They step on those who could intentionally
Destroy them.
They never enjoy the good times but for themselves.
They would take the bread from your plate;
They would see you starved and boiled for oil
when they needed light. They never want to give.
The loss they suffer is their humanity
And sense of joy.
They are Dark People with shining faces.
They would challenge your integrity to win a fight.
Fortunately, they do not live around every corner.
If they did, God help us all.
The war would have begun and ended Mankind,
Long ago….
Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA paintings (This is her Facebook page, so you can connect with her there as well as view photographs of her colorful paintings.)
I am a dew drop in your desert
You are a pearl in my ocean
In this groaning world
It’s either dust or turbulent waters.
You’d die of thirst
I’d wish to die in a raging flood
But long ago the flood found me
By deceit I was swept away
By this neoliberal world.
Unveiling its darkness
Three bullets besiege our souls:
Overwork
Stole our precious time
“Bang”
Reload, two more rounds
I miss that I don’t read anymore
I’m subserviant to those who make the time
For personal growth, artistic reflection on self
Still as rocks we cannot be
Chipped away or burned to ashes
Awaiting Einaudi’s Divenire?
What will we become?
As Queen Bohemian’s Rapsody
Carries me by the headphones away
Part of me sees hope in surrender to the mundane
The other part of me only defeat
Amid the storm and its crashing waves
Hardened
Multilayered skins?
Each layer is a bullet fired
Against their system.
Layers of art and poetry lines
Our little raindrops in the desert.
I am a raindrop in your desert.
But unfortunately I cannot provide
All the rain a friend like you would need.
No rainy day friend.
If I could just make it rain
As it did yesterday in my town
After so many months of silence
I felt its sound and cadence
The humid touch on my skin.
This would be the rain
For a no rainy day friend.
Yet I am still a raindrop in your desert.
Dyed my hair red passion today
As I would just dye the wide ocean
And red would be the love we all need
Where three things must always be:
Your willpower, your talent and
The third, the most difficult
Of all the things to achieve, is
The opportunity,
Someone’s willingness, as you say
A world that mentors that love.
Marta wrote this poem in collaboration with Donald Standeford. She recommends his blog.
O for whom the blood flowed first
when we were the young children
we knew by which enemy for what
cause reason or division of landwe lost hundreds and hundreds then
we got the land for faith and peace
we knew the flag and leadership
but down the line,lost was the grip
somewhere entered the evil mind
slashing loyalty leaving faith behind
everything further divided destroyed
killers shooters n enemies employedlife became money and money life
race to be rich in struggle and strife
a freedom attained became enchained
freedom protests in free country life-strangest demand with song n dance
putting the children young in a trance
once again we know the enemy for sure
but a nation dead, not alive anymore–when beauty salons and fashion grow
destructive decline of civilizations show
O people where did you lose the way?
is faith weak, have we gone astray?For whom the warm blood flows now?
gold of hemlock have we drunk
growing greed broken kin ships
how deep have we, in Lethe sunk?
what does it mean in a world, free?
are we free, then still ask, to be free ?
why palestinian people every day die,
blinded with pellets are the kashmiris ?
but death is rampant brutal and rude
we have forgotten Aad and Samood
death will visit again,who knows
to separate lives, leave bodies in pain
smiling young innocent laughter
quietened for ever in every country
grieved, shocked at butchering blows
O For Whom,the blood so young flows ?
helpless I feel but write I must
wake up faith, let us be just
rise repent, follow the true path
before as dust, we all return,to dust.
پہلے کس کے لیے خون کے دریا بہے ،
جب ہم بچے تھے ،
ہم جانتے تھے دشمن کو پہچانتے تھے
کس نے زخم لگاءے وار کیے وطن کو کاٹ دیا بانٹ دیا ،
سینکڑوں بچحڑ گےء قرباں ہوءے
امن و ایمان کی خاطر ، ہم اپنے جھنڈے کو سمجھتے تھے ،
اپنے قاعد کی دل سے عزت کرتے تھے
مگر افسوس ، کیا ہوا ؟ وقت کا دریا طوفانی رہا ،
قاتل دشمن لٹیرے فریبی جھوٹے لالچی لاتا رہا بناتا رہا
جب فیشن اور اراءش و جمال کے ادارے بڑھیں
تو قوموں کا زوال ہوتا ہے ۔۔کہاں راستہ بھولتے گےء
اب کس کے لیے گرم خون بہایا ؟
کیا سونے کا زہر پی لیا ہم نے ؟
بھول گءے قوم آد و سمود ،
کیا دنیا آزاد ہے اور پھر بھی آزادی کی طلب گار ہے ؟
کیوں کشمیر جل رہا ہے ؟
فلستیں کا خون بہ رہا ہے؟
موت ہر طرف پھیل رہی ہے ؟
کیوں ظلم ہو رہا ہے ؟ اور رک نہیں رہا ہے .؟
کیا انساں کا کھیل بن چحکا ہے ؟
ظلم و ستم چوری اور لوٹ مار بس
بے قصور مسکراہٹ سرد ہو رہی ہے
ہر قوم ملبے تلے دب رہی ہے
اب کس کے لیے خون بہ رہا ہے ؟
بے بس ہوں مگر بے حس نہیں ہوں میں ،
آواز اپنی اٹھاوں گی ، لوگوں کا ایماں جگأو نگی
جاگو جاگو ایماں والو سمجھ بوجھ اور عقل والو
اٹھو استغفار پڑھو سیدھی راہ پے چل نکلو
اس سے پہلے کہ خاک سے بنے
خاک میں ملے پھر واپس خاک ہو جاوء تم
مالک نے بنایا انساں کو اشرفلمخلوقات نرم حلیم ابتر
کیوں انساں بنا اک خون پیتا قتل کرتا ظالم خونخوار جانور
دنیا کی تباہی جنگ و جدل چور بزاری کا حسین پیکر
کیا مالک نے ایسا ہی سوچا اس پیاری دنیا کا منظر ؟
Jamie Dedes' THE POET BY DAY Webzine 