“bud and lieu”. . . and other responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

 

“Your days are numbered. Use them to throw open the windows of your soul to the sun. If you do not, the sun will soon set, and you with it.”  Marcus Aurelius, The Emperor’s Handbook



These responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, In Lieu of Flowers (re: legacy and/or eulogy), October 17, 2018 variously prove a sense of humor, a spiritual leaning, and/or a practical perspective on the inevitable for all of us. Kudos and thanks to Gary W. Bowers, Paul Brookes, Deb y Felio (Debbie Felio), Tamam Tracy Moncur, Carol Mikoda, Sonja Benskin Mesher, and Anjum Wasim Dar. Special thanks and welcome to Jen Goldie, joining us for the first time.  Well done, poets.

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.


Unknown to Us

She left a legacy.
A legacy of love.
That’s all it was,
Simple and pure of spirit.

She left a legacy,
A legacy of hope.
That’s all it was,
Simple and pure of heart.

She left a legacy.
A legacy of caring.
That’s all it was,
Simple and pure of mind.

She left a legacy.

© 2018, J.E.Goldie

Don’t Miss Me

Take our times together
and apart
as memories to savor
or not.

Don’t miss me
Take challenges for me,
Be my eyes,
Be my voice,
Be my heart,

And remember this.
We’ll never be apart

© 2018, J.E.Goldie

J.E. GOLDIE (Jen) tells us: The more I learn..the more I realize how little I know about myself….and others. I continue to learn.I’ve reached an age where knowledge exceeds impetuosity And where wisdom allows freedom, An age where unreasonable demands without question become irreconcileable. I give you this wisdom and take mine, as you go through the current demands of your life be sure this is your course, because if the course is not yours and is demanded of you, Be sure you want to accept the regret since You will change the lives and times of others. Are you ready? Unreasonable demands without question are irreconcileable. The atmosphere will be extremely stressfull for you if the course is not yours. .

What your head knows, your heart doesn’t always remember…..

An old/new friend showed this quote to me. It brought tears to my eyes.

“Never let success hide its emptiness from you, achievement its nothingness, toil its desolation. And so…keep alive the incentive to push on further, that pain in the soul which drives us beyond ourselves…Do not look back. And do not dream about the future, either. It will neither give you back the past, nor satisfy your other daydreams. Your duty, your reward—your destiny—are here and now.” Dag Hammarskjöld (1905–1961), Swedish statesman and diplomat, 1961.


bud and lieu

in lieu of flowers
have a beer
or soda water
sparkled clear
or pinetop freshness
golly gosh
or kiss enmeshness
(use mouth; wash)

for when i’ve died
and journey ends
i’ll be relaxing
with my friends
who went before
and saved a seat
or barstool where
we toast, complete;

so ixnay tears
omit that flower
and raise your glass:
it’s Happy Hour.

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


Silence

wears piles of shoes and bags
new white shirts never opened

charity irons
creases out of the forgotten

sometimes a relative

gives a story
in feel of used cloth

weighs time in threads
how a story continues

nothing is possessed
If you never heard

a previous owner

only shoes have tongues
fail to speak of their wearer

except in wear

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

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.

Gave me a legacy of breath.

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

The Afterthoughts

When this brain Is medically dead . will I pray I locked the door?

or made presentable by morticians knife fret I left the Box plugged in;

then lowered so others cast first soil or flame-grilled to fine urn ash tell myself I left the oven on;

(From my first chapbook”The Fabulous Invention Of Barnsley”)

or gladly leave this legacy a real reminder how I used to be.

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


Finally

I leave to each and all of you

in equal and careful measure

my love everlasting, ever new

it is my only treasure

that and hearty laughter

shared in close and distant quarter

may you hear it long after

my ashes settle in the water

when in the best of times

with family and friends

hear me in your laughing

bringing hope that knows no end

and when the time for sadness

comes into your lonely days

may the mystery of love once planted

help you navigate the waves

nothing more have I to offer

life itself could only know

those times of love and laughter

and how it made a family grow.

© 2018, Deb y Felio


..side parting..

looking for a legacy

i find nothing / no words

no comfortable leavings

parting on the wrong side

can be painful

some hide secrets

i do not

we hope you will feel good

about pins

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

..the book..

is discussed at length,
the book is bound for

nightmares. it starts
early evening. retiring
to the upper rooms

the rags are torn ready
to close, to bind his
book in definitely.

it is an inheritance.
he talked about wills,
put his head under the cover,
slept.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher


The Last Symphony

The melodious singing of the church choir intensifies emotions replacing tears with a melancholy joy. I am on the outside peering in the dimension I vacated a week ago. In walks the bass striding to the beat of distant drums. My reasonably long life has come to an end as I prepare to make my transition. Piano lines racing and spacing…fingers flying… harmonic overtones filling in what was. I can hear the accolades,in lieu of flowers, the resolutions that say when I took Jesus in my heart was the start of new beginnings for me. Trombone sounds announce a life supreme…the tambourine marks time. I become the wife…the mother…the grandmother I should be. I am the teacher that cares for her students working diligently to enable them to succeed. I give back to the community…working to ameliorate poverty. Blue tones…chords dissonant…syncopated rhythms inspire my march against hatred…enabling me to poetically protest ignorance…racism…fanaticism…sexism and economic discrimination in the world’s richest nation. Last message to My Country Tis of Thee…choose God not money…choose God not money…choose God not money. God is LOVE! The bass takes my hand…stepping high. A crescendo of symphonic tones fills the atmosphere for God is near. Jazz stands on the horizon beckoning. The coffin is now closed on my life.

© 2018, Tamam Tracy Moncur 

Diary of an Inner City Teacher “is a probe into the reality of teaching in our inner city school systems as seen from the front line. Over two decades in the trenches, educator Tamam Tracy Moncur exposes through her personal journal the plights, the highlights, the sadness, and the joys she has experienced as a teacher. Come to understand why the United States Department of Education and the various state departments of education must realize the teaching of academics cannot be divorced from the social issues that confront the students. Let s be innovative together and design new millennium schools that address the educational needs of the inner city students before it s too late! Our children s very existence is at stake! Laugh, cry, and become informed as you embrace the accounts of an inner city teacher.

Tamam Tracy Moncur

“Tamam Tracy Moncur was born in Oakland, California. She attended elementary school in Oakland, and attended middle and high school in Berkeley. She was a civil rights activist in San Francisco prior to relocating to the East Coast. She met her husband, renowned jazz musician Grachan Moncur III in New York City. They were burned out of their apartment in Harlem, and eventually her husband s grandmother was able to secure an apartment for them in Newark, New Jersey, in one of the high rise projects that existed at that time. Tamam in the past has worked with her husband arranging musical compositions and performing. In her spare time, she has self published several poetry booklets, co-produced a CD of music and poetry, and collaborated with her family to produce a play that her mother wrote. She also has written short stories and a novel, but this project, Diary of an Inner City Teacher, is very close to her heart. She invites you to walk with her on her personal journey so you can perceive the classroom experience from a different perspective and become an advocate for change in the development of innovative schools for the future.”

Tamam’s Diary of an Inner City Teacher is available HERE. I just got the Kindle version and look forward to reading it. / J.D.


Smile at Fear

Wait,
humbly,
for everything
to flow in this direction.
It’s not
a competition.
Wind and water may
want to rush past
but not when
I have created
a meandering path to draw them
around corners,
into nooks,
leaving traces of
energy.

In lieu of flowers,
please sing:
gather many
ensembles to set
the air
v i b r a t i n g.

Smile at Death
vibrantly.
Remember me
in melody.

© 2018, Carol Mikoda


Leaving Love as a Precious Gage

(in Urdu and English)

کہتے ہیں چاہت اندھی  ہوتی ہے 
یہ دل اور روح  کا لطیف  رشتہ 
اس میں کیا پرکھنا کیا   عمر کا  تقاضا  کرنا  
  جب کوئی  خوشبو   چپکے  سے روح  میں  سما  جا نے
تو کسی  سے  کیا  شکوہ  یا  شکوہ یا شکایت  کرنا 
 
بس یہ کرنا کے  کہ کسی کو دکھی نہ کرنا 
 
احترم ن  آخری  بار  پکارا  پھول  آپکو 
اب  آداب  باغے شاہی  تو  سیکھ  لو  پہلے 
پھر کسی  گل  و  شہزادی  کو چاہنے  کی  جرات  کرنا 
دنیا سے چلے جاؤگے  انجم  
کچھ  اپنی  چمکتی  خوشبو 
 
 
یھاں  چھوڑ  دینا
پھر  آسمان  پر  جا کر 
سکوں  بھری  چاندنی 
نچھاور کرنا 
 
 
love is blind and so we say,it
 finds to the heart and soul –its way-
so why think about age 
why judge  the clayey cage
 
when  sweet fragrance engulfs
the spirit then lament not, nor
pity thyself nor cry, for 
love is a precious gage
 
so grieve no heart on Earth
nor make bleak a life
you will soon be away
from struggle trial and strife
 
before I cease to be I called you
 a flower  a tender rose petal
and now I must learn the laws
of the garden’, accept the nettle 
 
maybe in time I may find
 the  true bright light, till
then on the high night sky
will be to shine , and sigh
 
so I leave behind some love
some  effulgent fragrance with 
 perpetual  radiance ,remember,
peace is- only with complacence
© 2018, Anjum Wasim Dar (Poetic Oceans)

ABOUT

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

My work is featured in a variety of publications and on sites, including: Levure littéraure, Ramingo’s PorchVita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation Press, The River Journal, The Bar None GroupSalamander CoveSecond LightI Am Not a Silent PoetMeta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman

“Moon Child” . . . and other responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt


I’ve so enjoyed the responses to the last prompt, the republic of innocence, January 31, which was to tell us how near to good and honest is that which is untamed in ourselves. Thanks! and Bravo! to John Anstie, Lisa Ashley, Colin Blundell, Bozhidar Pangelov (bogan), Ginny Brannon, Paul Brookes, Sheila Jacob and Sonja Benskin Mesher.

I’ve also included some information on Pretichor Rising, a collection of The Grass Roots Poetry Group (proceeds to UNICEF) and Anjum Wasim Dar’s gentle response to Evelyn Augusto’s passionate U R Not Your Gun.

Join in tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. You are welcome here.


Moon Child

Once in a while you exceed yourself.
Are you blue, because we thought no more of you
as the driving force for life on Earth
or potent impetus for the exciting waves of witches.
Thrilling moments … or contemplative
of a thriving, muddy, salty, riverine universe of life
waiting for you to draw the pelagic
covers repeatedly over the fruits of sustenance.

A force of nature, fully formed
yet so much smaller than the mother of your birth,
you hold sway, in countless ways
you touch our lives and drive us through our days.
Humble, unassuming, even unnoticed
by those who hurtle, mindlessly, and make no time
for the wisdom of our insignificance
or feel the difference between our age and yours.

As necessity tramples over truth
most days, we hide in fear of the darkening,
of the madness that ensues.
Does not the hunter choose your waning dark
to spike the nervous memory,
and remind us of the untamed Wolfpack?
We may not ever tame you
but your mother is dying a slow and painful death.

Oh super blood blue moon,
does not your God and our God sing the same tune?

© 2018, John Anstie (My Poetry Library and 42 … Of Life, the Universe and Everything)

JOHN ANSTIE is a poet, musician, renaissance man, The Bardo Group Beguines core team member, and editor of and contributor to Petrichor Rising (eBook and paperback), a delightful 2013 poetry collection of The Grass Roots Poetry Group. The proceeds from sales go to UNICEF.

I dislike using the word “accessible.”  It’s usually code for a lack of intricacy or profundity. The work here is comprehensible but still complex. The poems move from nostalgia to appreciation, from the beauty of nature to the frailties of humanity, from sorrow to hope. From Craig Morris’ Introduction, which sets the mood, to Joe Hesch’s theme poem Petrichor, which closes the book, it’s a joy. Well organized with the weather metaphor as the through line, the sections are The Drought, Gathering Storm, and The Rain.

For more about Pretrichor Rise, John Anstie and The Grass Roots Poetry Group, read Pretrichor Rising and how the Twitterverse birthed friendships and that in turn birthed a poetry collection.

Two dancing white butterflies have no idea
how dark the world is today—
fires and floods, ethnic cleansing,
wars in deserts and in words—
nor the brown spider who just lowered herself
from the red and purple fuchsia blossom
to the green basil glowing in the September sun.
Those lives go on, still, as does mine,
part of a greater web, gossamer threads, tensile strength.

The neighborhood is noisy with construction equipment
moving earth for seven new houses. Seven.
People need a place to live,
though the trees are gone, crashing to earth,
once homes to birds, insects, mosses, squirrels.
And though I’m tucked away in my own private paradise
I know school buses are lining up
to carry young ones home.

We’d go for rides when he was very small
searching for construction equipment so he could name them—
front-end loader, grader, the double-dump. He knew them all.
The big machines, the small boy, the love bursting from my heart,
pink flush on his cheeks when he spied a big scoop,
Mary Ann, Mike Mulligan’s steam shovel, in the flesh.

He turned over rocks on the beach
to touch tiny crabs
before they skittered to safety,
oblivious, like the butterflies and the spider,
of their near-death experience at the hands of a toddler,
or the suffering of the huge world,
still with us these many years.

The apples are turning redder every day.
I made a pot of soup yesterday.
Apples and pears in golden crust,
juices oozing warm cinnamon and ginger breath
to my eager nose, salivating mouth,
hedging my heart against the misery of so many
struggling mightily to survive.
The butterflies dance down the yard,
untamed,
as they must,
lighting my wild love, again.

© 2018, Lisa Ashley  (www.lisaashleyspiritualdirector.com)


a lion hunt

begins with the hypothesis of lion:
a roar in the night; a boy gone missing
or a bullock; an enormous spoor
in the path where the women walk;
a fur-net caught in the thorn bushes
speculatively examined by the old men

so it is with the pursuit of poetry:
one assumes that there is
something called poetry to be found –
but compared with hunting a lion…
well you can know in advance
what lion will look like
when you catch up with him
while the whole purpose
of the pursuit of poetry us to discover
by running it down just what a poem is

the pursuit must begin more or less
where it hopes to end – with a report
of the rather dubious quarry; if you start
with the wrong report you will end up with
the wrong phoenix or the wrong unicorn –
or whatever the fabulous creature
turns out to be

what one needs is a reliable scout
– somebody who was there at the end and
(against all odds) managed the journey back
– then you become the scout

*

From my ‘Years Later’ (2016)

*

© 2016, Colin Blundell  (Colin Blundell, All and Everything)


Return to innocence

The hand that caresses the wave.
The mouth that hardly opens –
breathes in the fresh wind of the stone-pines.
To speak to the stars,
to write out signs –
that can be learnt.
It is known by the astrologers, magi,
illusionists, newspapermen.
All this can be learnt.
To be in conformity
with the expectance.
That is the art
of the skilful ones, the thought of the blind men.
People who sing in the boat
that has sailed off, do they know?
Does the sand remember other steps
but those of the children?

The hand that caresses the wave.
The mouth breathes in – the fresh wind
of the stone-pines.

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


Optical Illusions, Dreams, and Delusions

We watch as moon ascends in eastern sky,
a massive disc now peaking over fence—
an optical illusion on the rise,
appearing ever larger to our eyes
than any image captured through a lens.

And what we see and what the mind imprints
border between concrete and surreal;
we tuck away to pull out and reprise,
but should we find delusion has dispensed
we search to understand what was revealed.

Same could be said for all the pain we feel,
whether it is caused by physical distress
or mental anguish covert and disguised—
setting off alarms and raising shields,
then leaving us despondent and depressed.

‘Hope’ rises like the moon in pale nightdress
her whisper carried soft among the stars—
and even earthen mother can surmise
that if trials and tribulations are the test;
then blessings and endowments are our prize.

© 2017, Ginny Brannan (Inside Out Poetry)


Believe

I don’t believe folk who are honest.
I were brought up with lies.
I’m happy with dishonesty.

It’s more real. Tell me porkies.
Elaborate. I take my wife, my kids,
government with a pinch of salt.

If anybody tells you you’re good
You can see their eyes twinkle.
Same if they tell you you’re rubbish.

Tongues forked or straight
wind you up. I smile sweetly

when you say I’m handsome,
talented. Always I say, “O, aye!”

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

The Need

for your inattention.
Don’t compare and copy me.

My life is not an example.
Don’t follow my words.

Don’t try to match your skills
and attitude to mine.

All these sites ask for followers
and likers. My popularity

is not measured in clicks.
A comment is not a vaiidation.

A share is not a support.
You are not mimetic.

Do not find yourself in others.
You’re not hollow.

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

History (A World Where 2)

is only ever now.
Events marked as then

can be dismissed as unreliable
personal testimony.

All records are falsifiable,
vague and without substance.

Numbers and dates are prone
to change with new evidence.

The past is uncertain.
Only the now is trustworthy.

Memories are full of doubt,
false and fake images.

Have faith in the eternal present.
It can’t be held onto.

Whatever can’t be grasped
has our hope, faith and trust.

I love you now. Whatever happened
is subject to conjecture.

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


In the garden with Caius

I follow him across puddles,
his yellow wellies twinkling.
He climbs onto a tree stump,
points to water-logged grass.

“Now look,Gran,look,
this is the floor,
down,
and this”
-gesturing upwards-
“is the sky.”

He stretches out his arms,
raises them, leaps,
lands and cheers.

“You do it, Gran”
and I do it,
his face
the unruffled lake
where I run
clear as moonlight,

balance perfectly
on damp, sawn wood.

We take turns, root
beneath the garden’s
green memory,
our hands brown leaves
cupping the breath
of early autumn.

© 2018, Sheila Jacob


::you say such nice things, sir::

one dot.

not two?

you say such nice things sir, while you are one in many,

many

disagree.

some struggle with the work each day, yet carry on, what

else can be done?

working in the field is good & honest.

quiet day with bread, purposeful baking, folding and pleating.

tomorrow is the run of the mill type daily.

as before, this is no metaphor.

where is the self worth sir, when we look full long in the mirror, see

darkly the things of youth, darkly those ideas & happenings not

written of here.

no guardian review.

it has not been the

experience we hoped for. we shall wear pyjamas. the book remains

tied.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher (sonja-benskin-mesher.net; Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA paintings; Sonjia’s daily blog (WordPress) is HERE.)

.he wanted a garden.

have you collected seeds of many years, packed, labelled, dated.

have you died, and left the table unprepared. i have them now in boxes, a gift.

from those who love. they will bring me work, joy, an independent air.

seeds need water.

sun stays later.

i have imposter syndrome, never diagnosed yet googled when heard on radio live .

there may be too many additives these days not enough honesty grown.

she said i should have something new in the greenhouse.

i have, i said, and thought of you who

planted the seeds.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher (sonja-benskin-mesher.net; Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA paintings; Sonja’s daily blog (WordPress) is HERE.)



Anjum wrote the following poem in resonse to Poet Takes a Stand Against Gun Violence in the United States

If Guns Were Flowers

if guns were flowers they would be colorful

beautiful, appealing and smell so nice

they would be light to carry, would carry love

and powder of affection rather than affliction

if guns were flowers there would be gardens

more and graves less, joy more, sadness less

would soothe comfort please and caress

friends favorites fans more,enemies less

if guns were flowers I would plant them

then gather the seeds to share for PEACE

then gather some more, go to the shore

sail the seas on ancient ship,to get more

Anjum Wasim Dar

Pakistan

CER Copyright 2018


ABOUT THE POET BY DAY