-cheveux indisciplines- … and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

Warning

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people’s gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

© 1961, Jenny Joseph

Joseph’s best known poem, Warning, was written in 1961, first published in The Listener in 1962, and later included in her 1974 collection Rose In the Afternoon, in The Oxford Book of Twentieth Century English Verse, and in her Selected Poems (1992). Warning was identified as the UK’s “most popular post-war poem” in a 1996 poll by the BBC. The second line was the inspiration for the Red Hat Society. Due to its popularity, an illustrated gift edition of Warning, first published by Souvenir Press Ltd in 1997, has now been reprinted forty-one times.



This week we bring you poems on the joys – or at least the odd or funny things – about aging in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, What’s It to Me?, November 20. In a world gone mad, it’s nice to be able to share a few giggles today.

Thanks for this collection go to: Gary W. Bowers, Olive Branch, mm brazfield, Paul Brooks, Anjum Wasim Dar, Irma Do, Kakali Das Ghosh, Urmila Mahajan, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Pali Raj, and Clarissa Simmons  Enjoy!

Note: The Poet by Day will be on hiatus for the Thanksgiving holiday here in the States and will return on December 4 with the next Wednesday Writing Prompt.

♥ May everyone have much for which to be thankful.


endgame adjustments

it’s easy to have a blast at 65
just don’t do it in your pants
for your once reliable digestive tract
is now a trickster
and sometimes pretends one substance
is another
so be discreet
hie thee to a bathroom stall
and relax
and enjoy
one of life’s unsung pleasures
unless…

your tract reaches into its bag of tricks
and inexplicably delays the countdown
and subsequent blastoff

and then you must wait
r e l a x
pretend you have all
t h e t i m e
i n
t h e w o r l d

except you don’t
and if the parcel is still
on the loading dock five minutes on
it is time to go fishing
with ernest hemingway
marlin fishing
for the extreme rocking motion
papa uses when he has a marlin on the line
sometimes is a sufficient propellent
for the contents of the large intestine to offload
so catch that marlin

but that doesn’t always work
so it’s time for desperate measures
make yourself laugh
cough like a firefighter
find something to sneeze at

still…unmoved?
in this extreme
i must refer you to Project DJT
and ask you to form
the most real image in your mind
of Inauguration Day 2021
and…
(ogodno)
DONALD TRUMP TAKING
THE OATH OF OFFICE!!!!!

now, if that
doesn’t Scare You Shitless,
NOTHING will!

© 2019, Gary W. Bowers

Gary’s site is: One With Clay, Image and Text


Bliss

One summer
night, after
a trip to the
American West,
and comfort in seeing family
and an old
friend,
a contentment
prevailed.

The torch was now passed
to the next generation,
and we’d lived to be
witness to the 30 years
onward that we’d
travelled to arrive at
the current nuptial.

Unanticipated and fleeting,
the gladness
when it appears
sometimes in the aftermath,
can be all the more memorable.

© 2019, Olive Branch


-cheveux indisciplines-

i love the color of my hair
brown red and in some places pink
my tired legs and lined filled hands
eyes that stare flat beyond the sky
and a mind that has lost the hard shell
of youthful indulgence and inexperience
i love my lips still round and plump
and the new found freedom
of spouting my own thoughts
that are crafted with the filigree of wisdom
i love my face
oh those expression lines
that will never be usurped by botox
my cheek bones high and tight
to frame a genuine smile at the wind
i love my hair when she gets wild
and i walk the streets of Beverly Hills
stroll in the Rolls Royce isles
worn out Chucks with the strategic tears
where the toes are too tight
salesmen follow me with Lysol cans
and their neat white gloves
that eradicate the traces of the hoi polloi
the hair a right of passage glorious
furious bright riot
reminding me that my agedness
is a catalyst to the third eye lens
from where i can finally see
the dimensions of the world
the good and the bad
and really only give a dam
about the moments that matter

© 2019, mm brazfield

mm’s site is: Words Less Spoken


To Biddy

Scatter radiances of milk
on her icy sod.
Let each brightness warm her earth.

Broadcast flames of oats
on her waters, stoke embers of fish.
Let her waves be ablaze with shoals.

Brush and scrub your home for her visit.
Put her bread and butter on windowsills.
Make her a bed of twigs for her rest.

Waxing light polishes
her crone wrinkles
into maiden’s roundness.

Make her a doll
out of primroses
and snowdrops.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

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.

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

© 2019, Paul Brookes

My Decrepit Is Good

Bring on grey hairs turn to silver.
Bring on sharp pain in the knees
as I hobble downstairs.

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

My Friction Ridges

Seventeenth week of mam’s pregnancy
my fetus friction ridges fully form
arch, loop and whorl,

My basal layer buckles and folds
in several directions, forces complex shapes.
Not barkskin growth rings
light and dark, a seasonal response.

Rather as if someone thumbs out my face
or mine tbeirs, erase facial recognition
on a photo, stain the image
with sand dune ripples, tropical fish stripes,
convecting fluid patterns,

von Karman vortices, air or liquid currents
move in opposite directions, curl clouds.

Insects speed and manoeuvre
borrow energy from their wing made
von Karman vortices,

this blotted face buckles and folds
with age.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

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

The Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: Jamie Dedes

  • Paul’s Amazon Page U.S. HERE
  • Paul’s Amazon Page U.K. HERE

More poems by Paul at Michael Dickel’s Meta/ Phore(e) /Play


Something It Is To Me Surely

Something it is to me surely,
something is
my shirt hangs loose and long
from the shoulders, I have no worries
I am smart, silver streaks do not bother
I still wear the ‘jhumka earings’ I can smile
I cover my head, no hairstyle, am free of the
chair and clip in the hair
Wow what freedom has come-

I am free. I have nothing to hold
I am more bold, when cold, I wear socks
as I please,
I am a bit old, not much for
I can sit of the floor, need not reach for
the stick, nor for the bottle ‘on the rocks’
no cigarettes please, just coffee hot
Something it is to me surely
something is

dark glasses help me to see, what I
wish, what fun to be served and waited upon
Old is gold, and Grand and Great Grand
I am soft and stern at the same time
I am there among laughter and hugs
I am a bit old not much
I am just seven with a zero I say
I am fine my wrinkles may show
I am now eight with a zero I say
I still love am loved how lucky I say
Without me, value me-

something it is to me surely something is
It is love and respect as I love all and bow
and I pray and I pray and soon I may not be
If I have been good, I will be young as seven
and I will not grow old again, for I will be in heaven

© 2019, Anjum Wasim Dar

Anjum Ji’s sites are:

“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


When I Am An Old Woman

I want to be
A old woman
With a squishy tummy
From having babies and eating chocolate chip cookies
I would have wrinkles in all the right places
I would wear my grey hair the same way as I wore it when it was my black hair
I would wear a bright print top
And swingy pants made of linen
I would sit in my rocker
On my front porch
Under a retractable awning
A glass of sweet tea on the table next to me
With a battery powered fan next to it
Just in case it got too hot
I’d have my knitting in a bag
But I wouldn’t take it out
Instead
I would watch the street
I would watch the sidewalk
I would wave to the kids as they walked to school
I would give the stink eye to unfamiliar cars
I would greet the UPS driver and chat up the mail carrier
I would chide the dog owner who didn’t pick up what their dog put down
I would smile to the mama with the sleeping baby
I would listen to the birds and the squirrels, the ambulance and the fire trucks
I would only glance at the air planes overhead
And when the sun is high enough, I would pull back the awning
And let the sun kiss my un-sunscreened face.

© 2019, Irma Do

Irma’s site is: (I Do Run, And I do a few other things too . . .)


Old Eyes

When my old age comes

I”ll not be upset

Thinking I too have to leave this world

Keeping my old eyes on the velvety sky

I will count innumerable stars

I know that this counting will remain incomplete

Though time goes on

There is an impression of events

While counting stars I will remember my left days of past

Then I will come to my mirror

Reflection of sunrays on it will make my existence happy

I will recall my glorious past

And collect a jug of honey

With full of vivacity

Thus I will be a sparkling beauty of innersense .

© 2019, Kakali Das Ghosh


Purple

Noiseless as autumn footfalls,
clematis vines reach higher on
the trellis into the blinding
sun. The season unravels gently

preserving a trail of beliefs from
the echoes of coral jasmine gathered
in two orange-smudged childhood
baskets of burnished brass, reserved
for practising faith with garlands
and incense, to the intrinsic
rituals of coral jasmine itself:
simple beginnings and growth. The
flamboyant carpet of bauhinia petals
below my feet (now past its
prime) coils into rich chains

of understanding, edging unbroken
days and nights towards reflection
on natural systems and those
flashes of purple autumn stillness.

© 2019, Urmilia Mahajan

. yes we come older .

I just copy and paste
the whole thing,
they can take it or leave
it.

i do find that
much does not
matter now,
all that fiddly stuff,
all that desiring
things, when all around us
is ready.

i like the birds
and such like
little things.

glad of the heal.

yes a sensitive soul, when all is quiet,
small sounds, voices interrupt
the day.

is best we listen.

just now the planes fly over, the dog runs out looking up, barking.

it is pleasant here again today,
a piece of mind.

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Sonja’s sites are:


Growing old I enjoy it
WHAT’S YOUR PROBLEM
Ah, when I get off my bed I rub my back
You don’t find it annoying
I am too old
I need rest, and medicine ….yeah,
I raised a good, and gentleman
YOU CALL HIM SON
I am old but who are we kidding?
WHAT’S YOUR PROBLEM
if only there were just one
I cough with half my mouth
Son, I can’t stay in the air for a long long time
Well, you treat us like we are dying ….yeah
Growing old I enjoy it
WHAT’S YOUR PROBLEM
Ah, when I get off my bed I rub my back
You don’t find it annoying
I am too old
I need rest, and medicine

© 2019, Pali Raj


Elliptical

In secret grasses
Wild flowers thrive, watching me
An aging Goth Granny
Freely pedaling
Tiring easily
Suddenly seeing
I’ve become paprika
A shadow of cayenne
O, but the beat
The music thrums
Through overloud speakers
Legs moving faster
Lungs gasping
Singing voice rasping
Sure will pay for it
Tonight when the yard is
Moonlit
But worth every moment…

© 2019, Clarissa Simmens

Unrecognized/Winter Disguised

Following middle of the night
Poetry ideas
Into oblivion
Darkness magics the words
So Stygian
Yet moonlight
Like blankets
Shields and comforts
Transforming a stressed face
Into a softened glow
As the mask melts
Lost in a
Mythology unrecognized
Although semiotically using
Correct signs, symbols and
Elemental scents
Winter disguised
It is the unrecorded that
Fascinates
Separating historically
Asking the clouds rhetorically
Who will I be this decade
Because I certainly don’t know
That other person from the last
And moving back in time
Across an invisible line
Is a very different
Woman
Young adult
Teenager
Child
And I think
To my great surprise
I like this old one best…

© 2019, Clarissa Simmens

Find Clarissa on her Amazon’s Author Page, on her blog, and on Facebook HERE; Clarissa’s books include: Chording the Cards & Other Poems, Plastic Lawn Flamingos & Other Poems, and Blogetressa, Shambolic Poetry.


Jamie Dedes. I’m a freelance writer, poet, content editor, and blogger. I also manage The BeZine and its associated activities and The Poet by Day jamiededes.com, an info hub for writers meant to encourage good but lesser-known poets, women and minority poets, outsider artists, and artists just finding their voices in maturity. The Poet by Day is dedicated to supporting freedom of artistic expression and human rights and encourages activist poetry.  Email thepoetbyday@gmail.com for permissions, commissions, or assignments.

About / Testimonials / Disclosure / Facebook / Medium

Recent and Upcoming in Digital Publications: Jamie Dedes, Versifier of Truth, Womawords Literary Press, November 19, How 100,000 Poets Are Fostering Peace, Justice, and Sustainability, YOPP! * The Damask Garden, In a Woman’s Voice, August 11, 2019 / This short story is dedicated to all refugees. That would be one in every 113 people. * Five poems, Spirit of Nature, Opa Anthology of Poetry, 2019 * From the Small Beginning, Entropy Magazine (Enclave, #Final Poems), July 2019 * Over His Morning Coffee, Front Porch Review, July 2019 * Three poems, Our Poetry Archive, September 2019


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

To Be a Poet. . . and other responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

“. . . when a good poet is confronted with difficult facts that he knows to be true but also are inimical to poetry, he has no choice but to flee to the margins; it was . . . this very retreat that allowed him to hear the hidden music that is the source of all art.”  Orhan Pamuk, Snow



And this being Tuesday, here are the responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, I Am the Poem, October 9., which involved process. The poems which form today’s collection include two from newcomers who are warmly welcomed here: midnight sky’s poet and Erik Nicholson.  The other are from our stalwart participants: Gary W. Bowers, Olive Branch, mm brazfield, Paul Brookes, Anjum Wasim Dar, Irma Do, Frank McMahon, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Ben Naga, Clarissa Simmens, Leela Soma, and Mike Stone

Enjoy! and do join us for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt, which will post tomorrow morning. All are welcome to come out and play, no matter the stage of your career: beginning, emerging, or pro.


To Be a Poet

To be a poet
is to sit behind the throne,but put
pen on paper and rule the kingdom.
To be a poet
is to cry and be broken,but put
pen on paper and create a smile for somebody else.
To be a poet
is to fail and lose your faith,but put
pen on paper and give hope to the world.
To be a poet
is to look into his eyes and stammer,but put
pen on paper and win a handful of hearts.
To be a poet,
is to be only human,but put
pen on paper and build a castle on the moon.

© 2019, midnight sky’s poet

Wecome, midnight sky’s poet!
midnight sky’s poet has a passion for all things literary, especially poetry and is new to blogging and to The Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt.  Link HERE to visit and encourage.



I am not a poem
written from the other side

a hundred poems remained unwritten
when you were alive
and now
the letters blur and drop
out of sight
in a fugitive dance of black
and white

this unwritten poem hears your whispers
from the other side
and wishes to
lie alongside the annotations you made in pencil
when it could
be fixed if only your annotations
were collected up
and rearranged in dark lines
along side
a rejected passage
about
missing
filial fellowship

but this
unwritten poem cannot
set in ink the past’s lack.

© 2019, Eric Nicholson

Welcome, Eric Nicholson (Erik Leo, All Things Creative)
I am retired and live in England. I try and keep active and interested and involved in a variety of activities: yoga, singing, walking and writing, to name a few. I am a volunteer in the nearby countryside and help to monitor the activities of the iconic red kites. My reading includes poetry, fiction, philosophy and other non-fiction. My writing reflects my interests, as you can see. I have many poems and articles published online.



you are in there somewhere

michelangelo moved on
but left behind the notion
that what sculptors did was free
imprisoned beauty
or trapped wiadom
from an embedded limbo

every slab of marble is a jail cell
and the sculptor has
the chiselmallet keys

and so you o secret net of words
o conveyance of transcendance
you are tangled
you are caught
but my chisel is discernment
my mallet insistence
and in three more words
you are free

© 2019, Gary W. Bowers

Gary’s site is: One With Clay, Image and Text


And

It began at an ending
and at the forefront of
beginning,
an attempt to decipher the darkness
and sift through the tensions of
relationship.
As dilemmas grew, the need was to
reconcile the tension and
provide catharsis to emotion.

At times the natural world brought beauty
and balm and later
there was more of trying to
grasp that reality.

Much of what is now present seems
inconsequential, and
the belief this endeavor brings to the table
something less than a glass full, to most
it is possibly nearly
empty,
perhaps the result of
neglect, time and weariness of
quandaries
left unsolved.

© 2019, Olive Branch


shroud

window at dusk
clove cigarette
clings between wet lips
diet coke
dangerously close to keyboard
sad tired eyes
the color of gypsy moss
blood trickles
from her nose
at times
thoughts bounce
like dandelion pappi
blown from the tiny lips of babes
and at times
an invisible pang
slightly electrically melancholic
in the middle of the chest
looking down to see
how people such as we
just all wander
on Spring street
she thinks with slightly damaged brain
do they see as i see
she feels the wounds of the mistaken
and soothes the misguided vigor of the innocent
the sweet sweat of gardenias
distract the ghost
locked in her heart
life becomes less ordinary
and so she sits to write
out the fabric of her soul

© 2019, mm brazfield

mm’s site is: Words Less Spoken


A World Where

I can’t recognise this pattern of words,
the timetables at work. I can’t make

a pattern is a world without form,
without substance, an out of focus

pictures in which there maybe more
than one of me. I don’t orientate

without signposts or landmarks or signatures.
All is blur. Meaning elusive.

If I make it could be false. There is grief
at a loss of shape, of pattern.

A gallery of random words and pictures
I can reshuffle so every time a picture

has different words, words you can apply
to any other picture. The application of shape

more meaningful perhaps. As we can’t say
when someone close will leave this earth.

Port of Souls is found landlocked sometimes.
Like marrow locked inside a bone, at other

Times it is a small island surrounded
by a repetition of water. Occasionally after

so many have passed into memory,
a port of souls occupies our inside.

From Paul Brookes and Marcel Herms A Port Of Souls (Alien Buddha Press, 2018)

© 2018, Paul Brookes

The Bestiary

You sit cross legged cradle its bairn
as Imagination with its feet on the ground
talks to the fish who hangs in the air.

The fish speaks of the tides of the gusts,
fronds of the trees and breaking crests
of the crash of clouds.

Those images are so lame Imagination replies,
So already done. Exercise your fish brain,
More you train larger it gets.

You recognise the bairn’s bawl
so settle it under imaginations udders..
Gently place its mouth around a teat.

It sucks contentedly as the fish speaks
of the lotic waters of the clouds,
upended deltas of trees and turbid air.

Imagination smiles as her bairn sups,
winces at the backward leap of the fish
Into obscure words to deepen what’s said.

Forthcoming in Skyfish (Alien Buddha Press)

© 2019, Paul Brookes

Yon Gob Agape

A neet starstruck,
rocks kal in dialect.
Spoutin’ foreign.

Oyle in rock
is a wobbly gob.
Tha spies stars in spate.

Can’t dip thee hand in
and grab a mite
o’ clear blue and sparkle.

Stars are sparking
molten steel,
creation unmaking,
remaking themsens

in words wi a different roll
off of the tongue,
that touches a new
combination of truths.

An almost oxbow and meander
frames itsen agog
at leet streamin’ into this cave.
Spouts another lingo.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

O, Lady Of The Breath (Six Vacanas)

1. You Rise

from my forest and leave
out of the gob and earth falls.

It shivers renewed,

welcomes a similar you
into my gob.

You excite my spring buds,
allow the earth to rise, again.

2. Can’t Let

you stay long in the dark,
or the earth will rot.

I can’t let you out for long,
or the earth will rot.

Let’s follow this pattern.
I’ll briefly allow you into my dark wood,

But please don’t take woodsmoke, car fumes,
coal dust, iron filings, water in with you,

else I’ll hack you out. These companions
quicken the rot.

3. Help With The

tasting snake in my cave
form the words I need to say.

Take my words out into air
loud enough for others to hear.

Please don’t say you are weak
and can’t carry such a weight.

Please don’t say I failed to welcome
enough of you into the forest.

4. My Dad Let You

in with pungent watercolours on his back,
stink of Clwyd cowpats and fresh mountain air,

but when he scraped boilers you secretly
took into his forest asbestosis strands

that speed his rot and ruin. I can’t understand
your thought in all of this

5. My Sister Threw You

out over her steering wheel,
her forest crushed by molded plastic.

She tried to welcome you back
but the wood was gone,

so you gust over her grave
under an overseeing tree.

O, my lady of the breath.
I welcome your coming and going.

6. Your Cheyne Stokes

delay before my unconscious Nanna
let you in.

I waited a minute, a 10-20
second episode of
stopped breath

suddenly her welcome
let you in

deeper and again
deeper in and out.

then delay

then delay

then delay

her welcome of you
and delay I watched seven days

until she refused your entry for good.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

This Mop And Bucket

are poetry to me.
My pen is a mop

I stick in a bucket
of disinfectant floor cleaner

pull out mop sodden
with words and splash

them backwards and forwards
slop lines one after the other

until the floor fair shines.
My mop is dry, needs another dip.

I squeeze out the gunk
back into the bucket.

More the floor shines,
dirtier the bucketful gets.

A good poem is a clean floor.

From Please Take Change (Cyberwit.net, 2018)

© 2018, Paul Brookes

Dustpan

and brush are poetry.
Brush is my pen

sweeps all the words
dust, ripped plastic packaging,

used sucked lollipop sticks,
shop receipts, religious pamphlets

sausage roll pastry, used product
labels into a neat pile,

position the dustpan to receive
the words. Carefully flick

the words towards a dustpan page.
Inevitably, some words are swept

under the page. I have to rescue those.
Sometimes the page is the floor.

Sometimes the pen cleans away
a chaos of words to leave a poem.

From Please Take Change (Cyberwit.net, 2018)

© 2018, Paul Brookes

Poem as Competent Nineteenth Century Merchant Mariner

This poem is able
to Chock a Block,
make a mat
or splice a rope.

This poem is
a rope block heaved to its full extent.
Full up, no room for any more.
When the two blocks
of this poem’s tackle meet
it will prevent any more
purchase being gained
Keep cargo from a shift
in the dark hold

This poem is
a rope yarn mat used to fasten
upon outside of exposed parts
of standing rigging exposed
to friction of yards, bolt-ropes of sails,
or other ropes.

This poem splices rope
twists words wrapped
into sentences that strengthen
when tautened by meaning.

This poem is
carefully rigged
for cargo
into your imagination.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

Prolific Yorkshire Poet, Paul Brookes

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

The Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: Jamie Dedes

  • Paul’s Amazon Page U.S. HERE
  • Paul’s Amazon Page U.K. HERE

More poems by Paul at Michael Dickel’s Meta/ Phore(e) /Play


By Grace

A sensation invisible awakens in the soul
stirs the spirit into restlessness , cold
warmth engulfs the soul, it is love being
born,

desire tender like a rosebud, soft like
the kiss of a butterfly, caressing deep inner
recesses, yearning to emerge, take shape and
create a revelation.

O heart show me the way.
I will, just touch me when you transform
in petals soft , layered in magical encasements
to emanate , manifest, a colorful coronet.

O Intellect add thy wisdom complete the process
Bless me with language to mold the thought
meaningful that aspires to be known , to reach the
realms of the printed universe!

The Pen Moves tracing patterns on paper
word by word line by line, this is it, a poem
it is by grace, a blessing, an act of The Divine.

© 2019, Anjum Wasim Dar

A Brief Comparison First

poetry comes in all shapes and sizes
so does knitting in moods ‘ere one realizes
poetry instructs as well as delights
knitting covers the shivers, fevers and ‘frights’
poetry supports all living things
felines frogs to human beings
if not poetry its knitting mittens
no wonder the first poem was, “three little kittens”
for long paper or words may stare
hunt for rhymes or synonyms spare
blog page if you dare, only one ounce ?
watch out, needle, ready is poem, to bounce, er.. pounce…
poetry is beauty if you may think
write, whatever you see in a blink
rhyme or not, blank open or run-on
which is easy, to knit? or ‘ poetry’ with skill n wit’

© 2019, Anjum Wasim Dar

Anjum Ji’s sites are:

“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


Down a Dark Hall

I wander down a dark hall
Peeking in this room
Throwing wide the doors in another
This door is locked
That door I quickly shut
One door leads me down a corridor that takes me a few hours to get through and back to where I was before
Now, I have to walk quickly
The light from my phone
Illuminating the way
I find a door and pull it
But it’s stuck
I jiggle it
I lean into it
I hip check it
I take a running start and slam into it
I slide down and sit
My back against it
It opens
And there sits my Muse
She says, “Hello, Poet!”

© 2019, Irma Do

Irma’s site is: (I Do Run, And I do a few other things too . . .


Craftwork

We shuttle, like spiders,
between the fractured, anguished days
and the leap of the heart
in a transcendental moment,
weaving our threads in the sway
of wind and rain, patient
for the time when the light
will play on the captured dew
and the passer-by will pause
as we wait behind the curling leaf.

© 2019, Frank McMahon


.. my writing ..

have spent three days

handwriting, neatly. it gets

on my nerves that it is so

tidy, repetetive, that i never

did achieve the badge at school

for such a skill.

words a bother too,

always gentle, no grit

really, no filth, or dastardly

deeds.

i spent three days writing,

one eye closed, storm building.

you never know what goes on

behind the scenes.

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Sonja’s sites are:


The Love of My Life

She watches the idiot boy tinkering.
Muttering, mumbling, worrying at the cud,
stuttering through the fog, clutching at limp scraps,
floundering in discarded redundancies.

She recalls that piece of paper on which he
scrawled “Words are the pegs on which experience
is hung out to dry.” Inconsistent or what?
The image bristles with frustration, contempt.

Is he completely disenchanted by words?
Yet it was words neatly condemning themselves
satisfied him so deeply as he wrote them.
He loves paradox, adores ambivalence.

They’re like two long wedded lovers, him and words.
A profound affection for one another,
but also resenting the chains of habit
and codependence that tie them together.

She is happy to be his occult bedmate;
mistress also of that realm where sounds are born,
she knows how to set them coursing through his veins:
a great deluge; a mighty niagara.

Essence of being and experiencing
thunders through the flume, sparks flecks of vocal spume.
Words once again stand agape, untongued, dumbstruck.
For this is the mistress of his heart, true

love of his life.

~~~~

The relationships between the poet, his wife (words) and his mistress (the Muse – gateway to the Essence).

© 2019, Ben Naga

Ben Naga’s site is: Ben Naga, Gifts from the Musey Lady and Me. “Laissez-moi vous recanter ma vraie histoire.”


Pandora’s More Fortunate Daughter

Working
Mothering
All the usuals
Happiness
Sadness
All the emotions
The real me
Kept boxed up
Until one day
Retirement

What to do?
Collection of boxes
Containing nothing but
Sparkly dust
Poured a bit into my palm
A sonnet appeared
Oh, sure, not Shakespeare-worthy
But each day it grew
Until there were twenty-two
One for each symbol
Of the Major Arcana
Then there were twelve
Terza Rima
For each Zodiac sign

And each box
Had its own lines
Until there was a
Rima Royale of birds
And a tiny box of Haiku
Slightly larger box of Tanka

But in a special box
Of the loveliest cloisonne
Shone silver Moon dust
Mixed with golden Sunlight
And Stars of blue and every hue
They whirled above me
Then gently drizzled down
Covering my head, lips, shoulders

And as I grew older
I became bolder
Free
Free at last
Poetry that had no use for rhyme
Stream-of-consciousness
Confessional
Memoirs
Gutter talk
A touch of erotica
Words made up
Words spilling from a box
Filling ten books
Of words hidden inside
For decades
The real me

Then one day
Those magical boxes
Were empty
I’d open the lids
In the three a.m. shadows
Whispering, “Where’d you go?”

So, I bought more boxes
My collection growing
And one cloudy morning
Something sang out
From a new box
And there
As I hastily opened the lock
Was a different dust
Sparkling? Not quite
Sparking!
Like electricity
And poetry melded
With musical chords
And songs were born
Euterpe with her magic flute
Pushed open the lids
Danced with her sister
Terpsichore

And I wrote
And strummed
And sang
And hummed

But I see
The magical dust
In my box collection
Is once again disappearing
And so I say
Today is the day
I shop for a new box
And begin an unknown
Collection…

© 2019, Clarissa Simmens 

Find Clarissa on her Amazon’s Author Page, on her blog, and on Facebook HERE; Clarissa’s books include: Chording the Cards & Other Poems, Plastic Lawn Flamingos & Other Poems, and Blogetressa, Shambolic Poetry.


Blank Page

Virgin white page, finger poised,
words falter,
ink dries.

Great plops of rain, purple-blue splatters on
colourless glass,
forms patterns.

My mind engages the diary of the soul
silver memories,
the rhythm opens.

Begin the beginning.

© 2019, Leela Soma

Leela site is: leelasom.com


Ode to a Poem

Raanana, July 17, 2015

The first time I saw her,
Her flowered dress hanging loosely
From her slender body,
Her boyish haircut belying her doll-like face,
Her dactyl fingers holding
The frail unfolded page she recited from
Trembling but heroic in her hexameter,
Lips touching the microphone in a whisper,
I knew she was a poem
And not a real person like me.
I saw her once again in a city park
With her small daughter
Who is also a poem,
A haiku full of frogs and butterflies,
Ponds with bridges and lanterns,
And crayon buddhas
Dancing in her dreams of childhood,
Tucked in by her mother’s watchful love
But not a real person like my child.
My mother was a poem
A southern antebellum belle,
Sitting on the floor,
Her generous skirts flowing out from her,
Her freeform youth and beckoning beauty
To all who admired her poetry,
The only language she could speak and sigh,
She knew to be a poem you had to die,
Not a real person like me.
Me, I don’t rhyme, I scarcely scan,
My iambs died from anapestilence,
I go to work and come back home,
I watch the news and worry some,
My wife and I go to movies when there’s a good one,
I walk my dog and deal with encroaching silence,
And this man in mirrored parody
Becomes increasingly estranged to me,
But it’s a life I’d feign give up.
Still and yet at times I wish
I were a poem too.

(c) 2015, Mike Stone

On Poetry

Raanana, July 3, 2015

It’s been said by poets who should know
That it’s a sin to write a poem about a po-
Em, probably because it’s hard
To find a word that rhymes with poem
But, if I could, that sure would show ’em.
All of my life I’ve been thinking of poems,
From day break to night fall, from five until three,
Why can’t they just once be thinking of me?
I may not be in possession of beauty but
I can rhyme truly in dactyl tetrameter,
Though most of my rhythm is sprung into free verse,
That’s no excuse, n’est-ce pas, for not thinking
Of me.

© 2015, Mike Stone

“A Poem Unwritten”

Raanana, March 9, 2012

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

© 2019, Mike Stone

Want Ad

Raanana, June 5, 2009

Wanted muse to pose for poet
Work challenging but not too strenuous
(Just need to exist)
References desirable previous poets
Preferably Romantic though
Classic also accepted
Exquisite beauty and grace not required
Please reply in fourteen lines or less
Iambically
M.

© 2009, Mike Stone

Like Ghosts

Raanana, August 25, 2006

Poems are like ghosts,
Not everyone can see them,
Floating behind the rocks and distant pines.
But when you finally do see one
Your eyes open wide
In wonder full of surprise
Like someone I knew once
Who is herself a ghost now.

They are so powerless,
They can’t even open a door by themselves
But must wait for someone real to walk through.

Poems can’t be forced,
They’re like a talking horse
That only speaks when
Others are not about.

Poems can’t be heard by everyone.
They are much like silence
And there’s no knob to turn the volume up
There’s just
Silence.

Poems have a sense in which they’re right
That can’t be understood by everyone
Within the bounds of normalcy
Like dreams and madness.

Yet I believe in them
Having heard one once myself,
But never more.

© 2006, Mike Stone

No Words

Raanana, June 25, 2005

Can a white man dream
a black man’s dreams?
Can a man think
a woman’s thoughts?

If I use words to tell you how I feel,
You won’t understand me,
Nor I you.
What use are words?

They’re only good for lies and prayers
and stirring winds of war,
not for poems
or for poets sick of them.

Find another occupation:
Syncopation,
Obfuscation,
Salivation.

© 2005,  Mike Stone

I Ink Therefore Iamb

Raanana, December 22, 2004

A few things I’ve learned about poetry:
Never write a poem about poetry,
And the more emotion you put into a poem
The less you get out of it,
And rhyme is less important than reason,
And a poem not read is as sad
As a poem not written.

© 2004, Mike Stone

Little Jack Horner

Raanana, March 3, 2003

Little Jack Horner
Sat in a corner
Eating his humble pie;
He plunged in a dagger
Pulled out his heart
And said what a good poet am I.

© 2003, Mike Stone

Mike’s website is HERE.

Call of the Whippoorwill is Mike Stone’s fourth book of poetry, It contains all new poems covering the years from 2017 to 2019. The poetry in this book reflects the unique perspectives and experiences of an American in Israel. The book is a smorgasbord of descriptions, empathies, wonderings, and questionings. It is available on Kindle and if you have Kindle Unlimited you can download it as part of your membership. I did.  Recommended. / J.D.

MIKE STONE’S AMAZON PAGE IS HERE.


Jamie Dedes. I’m a freelance writer, poet, content editor, and blogger. I also manage The BeZine and its associated activities and The Poet by Day jamiededes.com, an info hub for writers meant to encourage good but lesser-known poets, women and minority poets, outsider artists, and artists just finding their voices in maturity. The Poet by Day is dedicated to supporting freedom of artistic expression and human rights.  Email thepoetbyday@gmail.com for permissions, commissions, or assignments.

About / Testimonials / Disclosure / Facebook

Recent and Upcoming in Digital Publications Poets Advocate for Peace, Justice, and Sustainability, How 100,000 Poets Are Fostering Peace, Justice, and Sustainability, YOPP! * The Damask Garden, In a Woman’s Voice, August 11, 2019 / This short story is dedicated to all refugees. That would be one in every 113 people. * Five poems, Spirit of Nature, Opa Anthology of Poetry, 2019 * From the Small Beginning, Entropy Magazine (Enclave, #Final Poems), July 2019 * Over His Morning Coffee, Front Porch Review, July 2019 * Three poems, Our Poetry Archive, September 2019


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

“The Forbidden Birthplace” … and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

City of San Mateo, Japanese Tea Garden courtesy of Daderot and generously released into the Public Domain

“In great cities, spaces as well as places are designed and built: walking, witnessing, being in public, are as much part of the design and purpose as is being inside to eat, sleep, make shoes or love or music. The word citizen has to do with cities, and the ideal city is organized around citizenship — around participation in public life.” Rebecca Solnit, Wanderlust: A History of Walking



Today we have a wonderful collection of poems submitted in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, From the Churches and the Houses, August 28, which suggested poets write about their city.  The result is a virtual tour from cities in India and Pakistan to ones in England and the United States.

This virtual tour is gifted to us by a Wednesday Writing Prompt newcomer, Olive Branch, whom we warmly welcome, and by Anjum Wasim Dar, Irma Do, Irene Emanuel, Sheila Jacob, Urmila Mahajan, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Pali Raj, and Clarissa Simmens.

Enjoy! and do join us for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt, which will post tomorrow morning.


The Two

This was her tale of two cities,
nothing revolutionary, only
wide-eyed comparisons,
each bearing its own
pronounced individuality
as she struggled to find
a niche in one and then
the other.

One was born of strong
politics and toughness and
every winter a new coat and
shoes. The other grew out
of Quaker thought and old money
and neighborhoods bearing
the stamps of Ireland and Italy.

Both she would long to leave as
finding a niche was
an ache that always plagued.
She finally gave up her story,
believing she could go
anywhere and find home,
only to realize the wrongness in her bones
has made her battle weary
(and longing again for
a place).

© 2019, Olive Branch

OLIVE BRANCH (Cornelia Trent) I live in a small city in the U.S. Northeast and writing poetry has, at times, proven to have been a catharsis for me in my adult life.  I’ve only been published a few times in print and in recent years normally I write poetry under the pen name of “Olive Branch.”  I’ve been writing a blog on WordPress under the name of Cornelia Trent that tends to feature other poets’ poems, pieces about fiction & nonfiction writers and also songs and sometimes photography.  I work as a Librarian currently for a suburban township library.


 

My Friend’s City

When I visit your page,it is as if I am visiting your place in a famous city
a city of japanese gardens, a kaleidoscope of bright flowers,of music in the air
reaching out it turns into a dream and I wish I was actually there-

when I visit your page I feel the warmth of your hospitality, an aroma of a hot cup
of coffee served with chocolate muffins and strawberries, bright sun
shines through the window as

your soft furry cat eyes me jealously and springs and slips around me finally landing
onthe sofa, while you smile patiently, and I wish I had a
cat if not anyone else around-

when I visit your page I hear the cars and trucks on the road down below,
an occasional siren or two, your city is so well planned and seems a lot
in order so, unlike many others

when I visit your page I find your city full of books and magazines, inhabited by talented
gifted authors and poets,it gives me great joy to find
a reading public lives nearby

My visit to your page guides me through my thoughts, I compose words on paper
and leave for you to see, and hope and pray that I may come again and again
to leave all affection there and take love away

© 2019, Anjum Wasim Dar

Rawalpindi City Pakistan

Ah Old Harley Street, If Only You could Speak
Where art thou? With All Thy Grace and Treat
Where evening cool breeze would gently sweep
And the open spaces would be free and neat;
Where I learned to ride the bicycle and Greet
My friends who came out to meet-
Ah Harley Street! where art thou?
With memories sweet-
This same road where bell tingling horse driven tongas
With strong horses and shining leather reins
Would lift the learning loads and stay on the beat-
At that time, this same road was all for residents
No sounds, not even an innocent lambs bleat.
Ah Harley Street! where art thou?
So defiant in dilapidated defeat!-
YOU seem to be there still serving in retreat-
Though gone is the tar rubble crush and concrete;
Ah Harley Street . All is not lost.
Courage never to submit or yield-
YOU have the BEST on YOU
YOU are replete with –Institutes of Education
Tuition Guidance and Dedication-
But AH there’s the rub-
The cuts craters humps and dilapidation-
OH Lord, what are WE learning and teaching
in this precarious condition? That is the question-
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer,
the slings and jumps of outrageous travel
The heart aches and
thousand natural shocks that the flesh is heir to-
Or to take arms against oceans of ditchy trouble..err. rubble-
And by appealing begging imploring
“Please Sir , may we have some more” Ah No!
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 ; AH SILENCE!
Do we continue to grunt and sweat under a weary life?
Or has conscience made cowards of us all?
AH Harley Street! If only you could speak’

© 2019, Anjum Wasim Dar

The Forbidden Birthplace

Walking for more than half a day,she sat on a large stone by the deserted road
thought how far now, the place of birth, just once she wished to set eyes on

‘all roads lead to unknown places, never go anywhere,stay where they are laid.
Oh a passerby! please stop a while and tell me, have you seen the heaven here?

‘the heaven on earth, the land of fruit and flower gardens, and a lake full of boats
yes,there is a place,where weather stays cool and fresh, vegetables grow in plenty

No the passerby replied, ‘heaven can not be on earth,you are mistaken, this road
leads to nothing but death and destruction, killing,shooting, and occupation by enemy

Oh No,heaven is beautiful peaceful,green and glorious, with no killing or any pain
where peace eternally prevails,contentment reigns,quietude rests as mountains protect.

No, sorry’ the passerby walked away shaking his head.’Oh a horse rider’ trotting along
Oh Rider please stop a while and tell me,have you seen the heaven here, quite near?

‘Hmm No, I don’t think heaven can be here. It used to be long ago,I heard people say so,
but my horse and I are tired, in vain looking for grass and clean water,but nothing for miles

O Farmer with your cow,please stop and tell me have you seen heaven here,nearby?
O Sister Dear, go back go back, there is not a barn or a haystack, all broken and burnt

the wooden huts with slanting roofs, lawns with pine and chinar trees, pansies and roses
in flower beds, no more no more, you will find,nothing in air is clean and kind,all are blind’

Oh No, what do these people say and why, how can a heaven on earth be so destroyed
lush green hills be dry, lake devoid of lovely shikara boats,rows of graceful poplar trees

that lined the road, seen no more, shops closed, windows and doors barred- smoky air
the road is here,but no traveler travels, barbed wires cordon streets, all empty,unfair-

O dear, the journey in vain, the quest remains, how places by enemies are overtaken
birthplaces vanish in gunfire and teargas,bomb blasts, fires, stone and brick fights-

Tis a pity how humans hate, cannot tolerate or follow advice,spread love and peace
and grant the deserving rights, bless and comfort,fulfill each others basic needs –

Alas, heart is heavy the spirit laden,no return ever to a birthplace called heaven
majestic mountains pure air, sunny days filled with apples red,starry nights,gone

All that remains are stories, heard, the house was wooden but shone like gold
a home is no home,it has to be left or abandoned,’ a dream in life is all, to hold’

© 2019, Anjum Wasim Dar

My Pine Scented Home Town,
Abbottabad

The last five miles are
winding winding ways,
As the bus turns the corners,
I remember the winter days,
Home, home on the range
Reflecting autumnal grace,
Before you know, its
Behold ! the town itself, reveals,
At its own, the evergreen stature,
The Spiritual Presence of Nature

Majestic melodious mountains,
Blow the Highlanders March,
of The Hundred Pipers.
As early as cool February
As fresh as is the month of May
When Spring awakes
and apple blossoms call,
Soft snowflakes greet you,
Sinking and vanishing, as they fall;

Serenity intense, beauteous nature
crisp and pure
White and sure;
Oh! Let me feast my eyes
On the beauty of my town,
Breathe in the sweet smell of pine,
Oh! Let me live the truthful moments
While they are there
And let the freshness creep into my soul

© 2019, Anjum Wasim Dar

Anjum Ji’s sites are:

“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


Salt of the City
They were mostly tall, thin, and dark skinned like the softest black velvet. Their clothes hung on them. Their feet in flip-flops covered with dust. Yet their voices were strong, offering their wares in accented English – mini Eiffel towers, larger Eiffel towers, ones that light up as if it were covered with fireflies, ones that were staid. Their bodies seemed strong, carrying large sacks of these trinkets to different parts of the park. The odor of their sweat was strong, evidence of their hard work in the heat.
They stood out among the tourists – they were their working, laboring under the sun – while we were there for fun, our choice to stand in lines under the sun.
Maybe they arrived in this city with a degree or some other skills; definitely they arrived with hope. Yet their labor in the City of Lights seemed to diminish the light in their own eyes.
Summer’s salty sweat
Seasons the immigrant’s work
Hope masks bitterness

© 2019, Irma Do

Irma’s site is: I Do Run, And I do a few other things too . . .


The Dancer

Static in the traffic,
Sparks Road on a cool mundane morning.
Selfishly sorting my day into easy
slices of work and food,
I blank-watch the robot.
I disregard the news vendors so that
I won’t note the latest crime statistic.
I dismiss the sad eyes and life-weary palms
aimed at my car window.
I am in my motor-home,
I am not seeing visitors today.
Ahead is the corner vacant lot,
charred by open fires and human detritus.
Transient dwellers stirring their raggedness
into their bleak empty day.
Slow smoke-wisps swirl softly over
the scandalous scene.
As my eyes seek a prettier place,
the cars inch forward and I see him;
jumping through the smoke,
a joyous spinning dancer,
oblivious to his shocking surroundings.
Raising his smiling arms to the grey sky,
shouting his pleasure at being alive.
Suddenly the lot is etched in gold
and I am filled with gratitude for my good fortune.
The green light beckons me onward as
the dancer completes his pagan pirouette.

© 2019, Irene Emanuel


Backtrack

You’ve changed, of course, since I saw
you last, whispered Tarra a bit, Brum.
You boast a glitzy New Street Station
and the Reference Library’s a chapter
in your history of bulldozed buildings.

But I’ll recognise you after eight years.
I’ll soon connect with your bustling hub,
find my feet the moment my toes touch
your pavements and I hear the ker-swish
of bus doors and hum of passing shoppers.

Don’t forget how many times I circled
your heart. Bloodlines will pulse me down
Corporation Street, over the traffic lights
and into Priory Queensway, opposite Argos.
I’ll wait at the 14 bus stand, check the fare.

It’s the old route home through Nechells
where Dad was born, the back-to-backs
long gone except as names for the new estate.
Rupert Street. Cromwell Street.
Do you hear them echo in your bowels?

Do you meet the friendly shade of Bridget,
Dad’s Mom, on her knees and soaping
her doorstep, greeting a neighbour across
the yard? Or Ernie, his Dad, in a white muffler,
striding to the millwrights at the edge of town?

I’ll reach Saltley Gate then window-gaze
through Alum Rock, where Mum grew up.
Once, on my way to see her, a young couple
caught the bus at the Gate and asked the driver
if he could stop near Parkfield Road.

Don’t know it, he said, and I called out:
I’ll tell you when to ring the bell.
I know where Parkfield Road is.
I was born there,
in my Granny Kate’s house.

© 2019, Sheila Jacob

Down The Old End

Some of them survived
until the mid-60’s,
waited to be demolished
like rows of smoke-stained teeth.

Birmingham’s back-to-backs,
three walls out of four
joined to the next dwelling
and, through covered alleyways,
courtyards with communal privies,
a streetlamp and clothes lines.

This is where my Grandmother came
as a young bride, took the key
to 2/228, Cromwell Street, Nechells,
and called it home.

This was where she bloomed,
thrived in a community
of silversmiths, button makers
and biscuit-factory workers.
She reared four children,
worshipped with them
at the local Catholic church,
kept her kettle on the boil
for tea and gossip
and bustled each day
to the corner shop that sold
bootlaces, tobacco and cough drops.

She liked her spacious house
in a leafy suburb,
enjoyed a hot bath
filled by water from the tap
but still hankered
after “the old end”,
told how neighbours
drew comfort from one another
and the shared red brick
that weathered births, deaths
and two world wars.

© 2019, Sheila Jacob

To purchase Sheila’s little gem of a volume, Through My Father’s Eyes (review, interview, and a sampling of poems HERE), contact Sheila directly at she1jac@yahoo.com


Bangalore through the window
Like dairy-free chocolate the square
tiled yard sweats sultriness livened
by sparks of music from the living
room piano. Past the iron gate
autos trundle as insistent as bikes
that thunder in the lane where
a listless dog drags a woman swinging
her pointless cane past the vendor
with sharp samosas in his voice
smearing yesterday’s oil in today’s
newspaper. Money plants struggle
in verandas crammed with city
life too preoccupied to care
for other things besides.
Pot-bellied and backpacked
even pressured fore and aft
an old man hangs in the balance
(much like our existence) with
eyes that rake the sky. It’s long
overdue and not the way
when he was young
when it was greener.
He tracks the points of no
return as dominoes topple.
Away from these musings
a schoolgirl masticates to
appease shooting hunger
focused on a short-lived
bargain from a kirana store.
Keys ripple as a
koel pleads in the soupy
mirage for rain.

© 2019, Urmila Mahajan

Urmila’s site is: Drops of Dew


.the little city.

little place
we did not live there really
only in heart in memory
power house
god of clattering birds
hills and history
a place to look at cows
look at
clean houses
pieces
coffee small cakes
pot jam
trusted patrons
we need to concentrate on detail
to describe things properly
need to
go there each year a while
to retain to remain in memory
need to
care for little things
st david
may be a myth a memory
he carved it so
said it was the centre of the universe
for some it is
so
so
st david’s
the city is in Wales

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

.bournemouth.

come gently with birth
come gently with life
grow with the place
until we grew beyond how it was
beyond the culture and crowding
thinking
becoming unsettled
moving
retaining memory

1.

cycling the promenade hoping
some one will love us some day
baking down dunes
walking down tracks
barefoot hoping for less paving in town

2. humbling for a home
walking looking in windows
will some one want us
house us?

3. finding the two above
settling for the place where folk
come to holiday beautiful
while we work the bones of it
the grit beneath
bournemouth beautiful
the reason beneath the move away
is beyond any words i have just
now
where folk
come to holiday beautiful

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

.then there was manchester.

maybe in the fifth visit i met him
in the city in the thrift shop
open
from nine maybe till six or five thirty
several buttons and an open face
head
adorned with patterns
he opened easily
recognised we are not robots
despite the badges
it is colourful in the city
she mentioned it in suprise
immediately apologised
notice i talk more about people than
the archtiecture though that was appreciated
and wrote of it especially
do you know i watched the pigeon paddle
the parakeets flying
crossed
over the road carefully minding the trams
the tram lines
tripping gently forward
we found ouy way together
in manchester the fifth time

© 2919, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Sonja’s sites are:


A city lover….
“”””””””””””””””””””””
I’ve a home is my city and you gotta tell me
what’s the city’s name?
where a boy is insane and you couldn’t help
but smile back.
I cry out for God sake
Tell me, where do you wish to be framed
would you stay in a hotel ….yeah,
From the churches, and the houses, a poem is out to the prayer.
wish you all the best:
Tell me what’s the city’s name?

© 2019, Pali Raj

Beastly Beauty

Big city late night smogging
Human volcano awaiting
Final intolerance of life
Neighborhood via drugs degrading

Nominally safe inside row home
Dangling a keychain of pepperspray
Alone while sons at work today
Overactive imagination spirals away

Back home in humid Florida
Gators move prehistorically
Searching for mates in yards and swamps
Devoid of any sensuality

Here in my old hometown Philly
Human hoards do the same
Cruising in cars, buses and subways
Any-cost sex, biological imperative aim

Inside I strum guitar and read
While some sad soul screams outside
Teetering between two realities
Alone on a great divide

Where is the truth
Worthy to compare?
Or is beauty hidden
Everywhere…?

© 2019, Clarissa Simmens

Find Clarissa on her Amazon’s Author Page, on her blog, and on Facebook HERE; Clarissa’s books include: Chording the Cards & Other Poems, Plastic Lawn Flamingos & Other Poems, and Blogetressa, Shambolic Poetry.


ABOUT 

Jamie Dedes. I’m a Lebanese-American freelance writer, poet, content editor, blogger and the mother of a world-class actor and mother-in-law of a stellar writer/photographer. No grandchildren, but my grandkitty, Dahlia, rocks big time. I am hopelessly in love with nature and all her creatures. In another lifetime, I was a columnist, a publicist, and an associate editor to a regional employment publication. I’ve had to reinvent myself to accommodate scarred lungs, pulmonary hypertension, right-sided heart failure, connective tissue disease, and a rare managed but incurable blood cancer. The gift in this is time for my primary love: literature. I study/read/write from a comfy bed where I’ve carved out a busy life writing feature articles, short stories, and poetry and managing The BeZine and its associated activities and The Poet by Day jamiededes.com, an info hub for writers meant to encourage good but lesser-known poets, women and minority poets, outsider artists, and artists just finding their voices in maturity. The Poet by Day is dedicated to supporting freedom of artistic expression and human rights.  Email thepoetbyday@gmail.com for permissions, commissions, or assignments.

Testimonials / Disclosure / Facebook

Recent and Upcoming in Digital Publications * The Damask Garden, In a Woman’s Voice, August 11, 2019 / This short story is dedicated to all refugees. That would be one in every 113 people. * Five poems, Spirit of Nature, Opa Anthology of Poetry, 2019 * From the Small Beginning, Entropy Magazine (Enclave, #Final Poems), July 2019 * Over His Morning Coffee, Front Porch Review, July 2019 * Three poems, Our Poetry Archive, September 2019


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