“Awakening! Sweet or Rude” . . . and other poetic responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

“I’d love to wake up to complete silence, white sheets, and the smell of crisp air and roses.” Maria Elena, Eternal Youth



And it being Tuesday, here are the responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Awakening, August 7. Today our poets explore the ins, outs, pleasures and occasional weirdness of one of the most pivotal points of the day.

Brown-eared Bulbul shared under CC BY-SA 2.0 license

This collection is courtesy of bogpan (Bozhidar Pangelov), mm brazfield, Gary W. Bowers, Paul Brookes, Anjum Wasim Dar, Irma Do, Sheila Jacob, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Tamam Tracy Moncur, Pali Raj, and Clarissa Simmens.

Today we also warmly welcome Urmila Mahajan in her first appearance on this site. Urmila mentions a bulbul bird in her poem.  I’d never heard of it. I had to look it up. The bulbul – pretty bird – doesn’t live in the Americas or in Europe.

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


Beginnings

I occupy a crevice
that night has burned and
day has not yet filled
where Earth is stilled until
the first bulbul chimes its
two-toned announcement
of another dawn

the ageing cat takes precedence
over frozen morning feet as I
hobble to touch a trembling purr
on bony flanks of fading flesh
to replenish a feeding bowl and
scrub flecks of meaty morsels
off the floor

to carefully strain a litter
by a single yellow lamp
and start the day with twosome
caring and a daydream
flickering in both minds of
many more such mornings
to come

we move on padded paws to keep
the brittle hush from snapping
and squinting without spectacles
I see the glowing crucialness
of beginnings

© 2019, Urmila Mahajan

Urmila Mahajan

URMILA MAHAJAN worked for over two decades as an English teacher in various schools. Passionate about drama she now works as a drama consultant for schools.

Her poetry has won several online prizes. She published her poetry book, Drops of Dew, with a foreword by Ruskin Bond, in 2005. Her more recent poems can currently be found at on her blog HERE.

Her full-length children’s novel, My Brother TooToo, was published in 2010. Around the same time, her articles on using English correctly were a regular feature in a youth magazine.

She lives in Hyderabad, India. Her hobbies include birdwatching, growing organic vegetables and of course, looking after her cat.


joy

to fall asleep
a book
with your reading glasses
(on a lamp)
the dawn is
blue

© 2019, bogpan (Bozhidar Pangelov)

bogpan’s site is:  (bogpan – блог за авторска поезия  блог за авторска поезия)


Zorya

there she is
bright bold with golden arms
the lady who comes to purify my blood
just 2 hours and 34 minutes in the past
did the moon with his mariachi suit
cry with me because he is a gentleman
we had clinked tequila glasses
while he kissed my hands
but with each step Zorya takes toward my window
i’ve come to prefer the strong espresso roast
dark heavy smoldering like your heart
you prefer to sleep
after quaking and quivering through my mounds
and when your eyes come open wide your armor
will cover you again
as i remain the faithful wench
in the china cup where to gold has chipped off
filled with mud and some manipulative tears
my cigarette will drown in sorrow
so i walk into the bathroom
to wash your sheep’s odor
off my she wolf fur

© 2019, mm brazfield

mm’s site is: Words Less Spoken


alarm

as i hack
through the unliving
with my broadsword
there suddenly comes
into my dream
tinkling cloying music
worse than zombies
for it snatches
me from glory
and its purpose
into the mundane
drab and dismal
day to day

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

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

As some of you know, Gary is multi-talented, combing visual art with poetry or prose narrative.  He is also a potter. A sample of his work is pictured here. Gary’s pottery is available for purchase.  Further details HERE. Note the business card. We appreciate Gary’s wry humor.


The Hyperbolic Poet Awakes

My eyelids open
are two worlds unfettered by cloud.

I splash the seven oceans
On the continents of my skin.

Rake the tombstones inside my mouth.
Tumble downstairs is scree down a mountain.

Open the wooden doors of delight,
Recover the pottery of ages,

Pour an avalanche of muesli
Farmed on sunny hillsides,

Crushed by the quern.
Grab the milk hosed out

By gargantuan herbivores,
Refined in their udders of heaven.

Wash and restacked pottery,
I stride over the open threshold
A veritable colossus.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

Rain Is Awake

when it falls
hits the snuggled earth
with wet caresses

Conscious movement
rippled determination
to move forward
once a route is found,

knows it must find rest
a place to sleep
but other droplets insist
on movement forward

© 2019, Paul Brookes

Her Fur Elise

I awake to Beethoven as Mam taps the upright
piano downstairs in the through lounge

where morning light highlights dark brown dining table
and varnished coffee table both polished

with Pledge until you see yourself. Later
chemo will make her petite fingers fat,

Fur Elise break into fragments as disease progresses
and piano sold as her hands come to rest.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

A Tom Tit

Suddenly awake I hear
milk float electric whirr, his
bottles rattle in their baskets
the clink as milkman delivers.

“Fetch milk in”, mam sharts.
I open our snowed door to find
Blue Tom Tit has been at it
again, claws stood on the lip,
beak strips the silver foil top
for a sup and winter sip.
I am not a milksop
“Tit’s been at it again, mam!

© 2019, Paul Brookes

our god sleeps

with his gob open.
When he opens his gob
It could be dawn, noon or midday.
whenever we must awake
to work in the mountains.
The mountains of god’s tongue.

They shake and gust blows.
We must find
our balance.
Hunt for food
on the undulations.

Never know
when god will close his mouth
for night to fall, again.

Sometimes night is short.

Folk say there is life
over the mountains
in god’s teeth.

None have returned.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

The Owl Guide

As you lie on that hospital bed unconscious
in a maybe
What more can you do,
What more should you have done

As a young girl, excited and unaccustomed to city-ways, gallop your dads milk horse
away from your white home,
through downtown Sunderland streets
where this morning it trotted
Dads milkcart rattle on a milkround.

Folk scatter, run scared.
A bobby captures your reins.
Arrested and thrown in prison
with the rapists, killers and paedophiles.

sob yourself to sleep.
Shortly after midnight awake
to flap, flap flap near the door,

stood wide open. You softly
step out, closed the door behind you.

See an owl,
perched on a wooden fence,

who awaits your escape.
The owl flies in front of you,
guides you past bobbies,

through dark streets, till you came
to a saddled horse and a bundle of fresh clothes.

You mount, the owl pulls the horses head
Towards the white dairy farm

then leaves, as it must as the owl
In a maybe
Is your future daughter who dies before you do.
What more can you do?
What more should you have done?

From Paul’s collection Port of Souls (Alien Buddha Press, 2017)

© 2017, Paul Brookes

Servant

For a time I do bother
to polish the surfaces,
hoover, wash and iron.

If only for myself,
but then myself is not enough.
Dust piles, crumpled clothes dirty.

I fall asleep among dirty sheets,
empty crisp packets,
half eaten cold pizzas,
stink of mice piss.

Awake to freshly laundered sheets,
clean carpets, clothes washed, ironed.
Surfaces polished smell of Lavender.
How could this happen?

Again I fall asleep while tv on,
amongst discarded chocolate papers,
left over cake on plates,
half drunk cans of lager.

Awake to tv off, rubbish binned,
plates washed, dried put away,
Citrus not stale beer and rotting smell.
I’m intrigued. Curious.

It takes no effort to be a slob, again.
Spill crisps down sides of chairs,
dribble tea into carpet, crumbs.
Energy drinks ready I stay awake.

Energy sup is the biz. Make
Me hyper so I see these two tiny
Folk, man and woman, like regular
Nanites sorting my crap.

Like my old man never were
this one hoovers up crumbs,
packs his black bin bag with cans,
busies, polishes, scrubs to his bones.

His old woman like mam, I guess,
dusts, scours a whirlwind devil.
Part of me says they do as they must,
the other sees what they lack.

Next night I leave them a gift
of nothing to tidy, to put away.
They seem contented as I watch
surrogate mam and dad leave for good.

© 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


Awakening! Sweet or Rude

In Lethe we stay
dipped drugged forgetful of life
seasons pass in time

childhood is a dream
fettered forced youth,innocent crime,
silver streaks,await

the promise in vain,
bent weak constantly in pain,
hope to rise again?

right guidance will come
love light peace freedom will shine,
to awaken me.

® 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


On Being Awakened

The joy of morning
Crowded out by small elbows
In my lower back

© 2019, Irma Do

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


Like The First Morning

Break, morning, and fly to me,
be my golden songbird.
Lift me from huddled sleep,
tuck me between your wing
and sun-dappled breast
and carry me over the rooftops.

Break, in all your new colours.
Wrap me in scarlet flame,
ease my bones and warm my heart
against your own as you soar
above mountains and pine trees
spooled with silver mist.

Break, morning, as though
you were the first to unveil
creation’s radiant face;
teach me your glory-unto-him
psalm of sunlit waking:
and breaking, from night’s heft.

© 2019, Sheila Jacob

Replacing The Empties

Woken by summer’s early light
I heard the chug of a milk- float
down the road. It rattled to a stop
outside our house, the milkman
unlatched our wooden gate
and bounded up the path.

A chime of glass and he’d replaced
the empties, left two full bottles
on the front step. Pasteurised
for my porridge or custard,
sterilised(long-lasting and thin)
for Mum and Dad’s tea.

The door opened and closed.
Mum had brought the milk inside-
time for me to yawn, stretch,
go back to sleep for another hour.
Downstairs, Mum brewed a pot
of tea for Dad’s work- flask.

She made sandwiches, wrapped
two slices of cakes in greaseproof
and packed them in his rucksack.
After he’d left, she topped up the pot
with fresh water, opened the stera.
and sipped the best cup of the day

© 2019, Sheila Jacob

To purchase this 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


.upper rooms.

some mornings while drifting

i see the writing in my head

come patterned, neat lines balancing

dancing with the rain

at the window

on waking

yesterday we remembered blancmange

and jelly, ideal milk and water

pineapple that split cream

food that touched

yesterday we remembered our granmas

our mothers

bundles of cotton with colours

required for mending always

yesterday she explained to sew

the four holes in synchronicity

tight

on linen

yesterday the words came easily with labels

and names

today on brightening

forget

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

.touch the surface.

i slept a darker paint,

a place of nowhere,

no marks, no texture,

clarity.

waking, touch the surface.

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

. the theory .

that feeling, that . arrives unexpected from darkness, some winters’ mornings, opening the door to the sound of one black bran bird calling. track four repeated. that comes on waking finding peace and comfort bound.

it is a fine line we walk, gently avoiding peptides, only just a theory, yet used independently, alongside honest work

reading how the body works, you will have a better understanding, yet they do not teach of this

at school. they teach of clever yoghurt in adverts, i did not know microbes fancy food, move our choices.

the play continues, some of the old cast, new actors oblige, ideas on lack of addictive ways. simple days without receptors. singing under breath, numbers.

have you been to the counting?

lines ruled to stop

vertigo setting in.

two

three

four

five

two

three

it is a fine line we walk, gently avoiding peptides, only just a theory, yet used independently, alongside honest work.

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Sonja’s sites are:


Angels Singing Hallelujah

Angels singing hallelujah pull the sun up from behind the horizon splashing the colors of dawn across the sky calling for the spirit of life to arise in God’s radiance.

Sleeping flowers perk up preparing to unfold in their resilience and in their brilliance.

The rolling green hills in the distance framed by cumulus clouds stand firm in their resolve to praise God.

The birds twitter and tweet good morning to the universe then take wing and sing to the inhabitants of earth.

Gentle sounds emitting from a cell phone alarm roam through the air at that moment penetrating the dark silence of a deep sleep in another world…in another place…in another space.

Scripture settles a sleepy soul sweeping away cobwebs of confusion and illusions lighting the way to the manifestation of a new day.

“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me” ….

Conscious mind awakes collecting bits and pieces of memory fragmented by the divide between reverie and reality then places them back into the puzzle of existence…the new day begins.

© 2019, 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 Moncurexposes 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.


Can a love, you don’t name
Can be love
On awakening, a poem ask
Answer me, if you have to die
How can I quit eating
‘over salted pie’

I feel happy, and dead
(On awakening) I visit your profile when

Go, look at your profile views ….yeah
I find myself on a porn 😭 when
I tap on link to know more 🤔
Answer me
Can a love, you don’t name
Can be love

I feel happy, and dead
(On awakening) I visit your profile when

I am an effeminate ….yeah
At night late *so what*
I visit your profile
You are a vamp …..yeah
I find myself on a porn 😭 when
I tap on link to know more 🤔

I feel happy, and dead
(On awakening) I visit your profile when

Can a love, you don’t name
Can be love
Look at my photo then
Answer me, if you have to die
How can I quit eating
‘over salted pie’

© 2019, Pali Raj

On Awakening

Betrayal!
Don’t like to sleep
But actually slept
For a few hours
No hypnagogic images
No dreams
Just … nothing
Two dogs snuggled in
Trying to take over
My pillow
My place on the mattress
I leap from the bed
(Well, an aging woman’s leap)
Dash into the kitchen
Grind the coffee
Swallow the BP meds
And this Morning Aries
Tugs open the sliding glass door,
Joining the joyful dogs
Noses to the ground
Following the scent of
The wascally wabbit
Impossible possum
Wrecking my palm tree
While the early birds
Peck at the feeder
Too lazy to find the worm
While the feral cat
Safe from the dogs
On the other side of the fence
Yowls to be fed
And I say
Thank you to the Cosmos
For giving me another day…

© 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

Recent in digital publications: 
* Five by Jamie Dedes, Spirit of Nature, Opa Anthology of Poetry, 2019
* From the Small Beginning, Entropy Magazine (Enclave, #Final Poems)(July 2019)
* The Damask Garden, In a Woman’s Voice (August 11, 2019) / This short story is dedicated to the world’s refugees, one in every 113 people.

A busy though bed-bound poet, writer, former columnist and the former associate editor of a regional employment newspaper, my work has been featured widely in print and digital publications including: Levure littéraireRamingo’s Porch, Vita Brevis Literature, HerStry, Connotation Press, The Bar None Group, Salamander CoveI Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta/ Phor(e) /Play, Woven Tale PressThe Compass Rose and California Woman. I run The Poet by Day, a curated info hub for poets and writers. I founded The Bardo Group / Beguines, pushers of The BeZine of which I am managing editor. Email me at thepoetbyday@gmail.com for permissions or commissions.

“The New Narcissist” … and other poetic responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

“It was hitting me now, really for the first time, how being fucked up can turn into a form of narcissism. So that I barely acknowledged that others might need something from me.”  Koethi Zan, The Follower



And it being Tuesday, here are the responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Narcissism Rising, July 24. We are all narcissists to one degree or another. Thankfully, we’re not all pathologically so.  A thought provoking collection here with our poets’ explorations of narcissism in its many manifestations.

This collection is courtesy of Paul Brookes, Anjum Wasim Dar, Irma Do, Deb y Felio, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Pali Raj, and Mike Stone. Today we also warmly welcome Shaun Jax and Kelly Miller and the poems they share.

Enjoy! And do join us for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt, which will be posted on August 7th.  I’m taking some time off from The Poet by Day to get caught up with other writing but I look forward to see you back here within a week.  Meanwhile, poem on …


The New Narcissus

Got my Prada
Got my Gucci
Got drama like Susan Lucci
I’m a TMZ All Star
Killin’ the Game
So check my follower count –
‘Cause everyone knows my name
And y’all, I’ll do anything
If it gets me noticed
Got those tabloid scandals
Like my name was POTUS
And I really don’t care
‘Bout no kids at the border
Trophy wife like Bugatti y’all
I had to import her
Now I wear her on my arm
Like a gold Rolex
‘Til she gets a little older
Then it’s “thank you, next!”
Just like DJ Khaled
All I do is win
And y’all actin’ so offended
But you keep tunin’ in
‘Cause this is Hadleyburg
Everybody knows it
All it took were some pieces
Of gold to expose it
So keep my name trendin’
Y’all, give it a boost
But don’t act so surprised
That I’ve come home to roost

© 2019, Shaun Jex

SHAUN JEX is the publisher and editor of the Citizens’ Advocate newspaper. In addition to his poetry and journalistic work, he writes frequently about pop culture history. To read more of his poetry, visit https://stoopkid.home.blog/


The #1 Narcissist

I know how the #1 Narcissist operates
His ego we’ve learned to defend and tolerate
Ask for what He wants and He’ll grant it
With the quickness
Ask for what you want and He’ll ignore it
Like it’s bullshit
His Will is vapid and discriminatory
So know that you’re on your own my darling
He gives freely what you must earn
By toiling for nothing
And then He names it “blessing”
As you force yourself to appreciate
Thinking…knowing, “This isn’t for me.”
One-sided, selfish, and jealous
He full well knows that if He always comes first
There will be nothing left
And there will always be
An abrupt ending to your happiness
Before He recognizes all you’ve sacrificed for Him
And His unrealized promises
You will give out completely
Before you have realized your own dreams
Trying to live under the threat of the most righteous smite
Forbidden to, and anyway no energy left
To fight for your personal rights
Always feeling as innocently guilty
And highly undeserving as He says you should be
Yes, this is what you must deal with
As a subject of the #1 Narcissist
So just know that you’re on your own in all this
Precious Princess

From Kelly’s third book of poetry, The Riddle and the Dedication II

© 2014, Kelly Miller

KELLY MILLER is a fine artist and creative writer. Her art concentration is painting and her favorite writing genre is poetry. Kelly has been a professional artist since 2008 and an author since 2015. Her work can be found on Goodreads.com, Wix.com, and Instagram.com. She’s have written three books entitled The Riddle and the Dedication, The Green Maze, and The Riddle and the Dedication II. Kelly says, ” I am excited to become a part of your creative community and share my poetry with you.”


Frame It

in high definition people take photos,
paint pictures of emptiness.

Ensure the image is pin sharp,
Every detail of blank space captured.

Many pixelled selfie. A landscape
without land. A panorama of stillness.

It has the highest click rate online,
a million likes and shares.

People wish to buy it, blow it up
for their walls, print the image on mugs.

It becomes a meme, an emoji.
Nothing is celebrated.
Frame It (A World Where 2)

in high definition people take photos,
paint pictures of emptiness.

Ensure the image is pin sharp,
Every detail of blank space captured.

Many pixelled selfie. A landscape
without land. A panorama of stillness.

It has the highest click rate online,
a million likes and shares.

People wish to buy it, blow it up
for their walls, print the image on mugs.

It becomes a meme, an emoji.
Nothing is celebrated.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

Our Insanity

is healthy. Hurt others,
hurt yourself. Hospitals

widen wounds. Firemen
are firestarters. Doctors

avidly spread disease.
Dementia is encouraged.

Helpfulness and reasoned action
is criminal. Thought for others

will get you referred to a psychiatrist.
Multiple personality is encouraged.

Not knowing who you are is wellbeing.
Celebrate murder, envy, greed, selfishness.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

I Borrow

distortions. I want to look
like her or him, so I can be

her or him. I buy their perfume,
their makeup to look a million dollars.

I want to be distorted into them.
Only by doing this can I be true

to myself, and who I am. Plastic
surgery would make me feel better.

I could be younger, fresher more vibrant.
Adverts tell me this, because I’m not.

Adverts tell you how to distort yourself
into who you are. Are you with me?

© 2019, Paul Brookes

Must Be Shiny (A World Where 2)

This apple, your skin.
This car, this screen.

See yourself in them.
All buffed into mirrors.

These windows. This door.
Folk wear sunglasses always.

Brightness means brand new.
Eyes must sparkle.

Coffins burnished. Wars
between levels of bright.

Highly polished means highly skilled,
means sharp as glass, witty as stainless.

Born bright, live bright, die bright.
Gloom is dullness is ignorant.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

Her Tongue

licks
an unbroken red apple.

She rubs it on her inner thigh
till it gleams into a mirror.

Inspects her reflection
in the apple mirror.

Hungry she breaks the mirror
with her teeth. Sweetness

In her mouth makes her smile.
Her reflection is not poisonous.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

Are Complete

We had our time to be made
whole, and perhaps thought we were
only part of what we could be,

find an image of what we could be,
and ignore the scary one that looks
back from the mirror because

it is all we don’t want to see,
so drape a silk scarf, or cardboard
over it, make it a partial likeness.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

Soil Is A Mirror

we plant our needs in
we can see ourselves
in its grains
as it feeds the want
of our mouths

we admire ourselves
in its smooth curves
the way it flatters
our aging shapes
smooths wrinkles

as we tumble
on its glassy surface
shafts of light pierce
its dark skin
and we see ourselves
as shadows that play

upon grains of sand
fused into mystery.

© 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


Every time she took a step towards him, he took two away
‘stay at a distance’ the silent message cut across flat space
every time she lost grace but ‘Man is Master’ He commands
‘he has been taught to’, not obey nor cooperate nor guide

the new car, first day on road, hit a child, blood on the bonnet
and shirt cuff, then continuously hit other objects till the top
went from cherry to white, ‘I know how to drive,it’s the other
person’s fault’ running across the road without looking,head in air

‘Bring me my mirror’ tell me how best I look at this age too
no feeling of infirmity,I can sing and dance and eat and drink
‘who says I had the quad bypass’ see I can getup without support
and walk a mile and throw the ball and lift the box full to the brim

this is my room, this, my car, this my flower vase, this my cupboard
I always order chicken for my meals, usually with kebabs and ‘naan’
‘bread?it gets stuck in my throat’, and my timings for eating are regular
why, it is my dinner time and you people are having tea at 7.p.m.’ Uh’

the heat behind her head grew stronger, the spell like ‘mantra woke her up
‘he was praying’ ‘go out go out’ a voice warned, ‘I am with my God’ as I wish’
he said pushing the heater closer, ‘God is One and we all pray to Him, He hears
Alas’ man does not,’not listening is the thing that hurts’ not listening with a sneer’

The eyes, his eyes, fill his needs, all day, ‘pull the shirt down a bit
that is better, I like them longer, cover not the head, looks odd-

and so she became deaf and dumb and heartless and blind and thoughtless
drifting into another world of colorful music countless letters words and lines
what are needs ? what is company? Who needs them anyways, who indeed
see the blue sky, watch the birds fly, mind is the place , to walk between the pines.

© 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


The Influencer’s Lament

I click a pic to show the world
 The cute outfit that shows my abs
10,000 likes and 100 retweets
It’s confirmed, I’m just so fab!
I send a tweet to show support
 For cleaning up the ocean
300 likes – I hit delete – wtf?
Not enough commotion
I try again, a sassy tweet 
No substance behind my stance
100K likes! A Kim K retweet!
Going viral – here’s my chance!
I know I’m great – I see my stats 
And now I’m getting money
Yet when I turn the iPhone off
My tummy just feels funny
And so I Insta, Tweet and Vlog
 My soul and body baring
50,000 friends like me, me, me
Yet still, I keep despairing…

© 2019, Irma Do

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


Thoughtful-less

In my garden there is a reflection pool
surrounded by narcissus
I spend admiring time there
contemplating the me in us.

I do want to know your thoughts
about me and what I think
and if you’re hungry or thirsty
and if you’d make for me a drink

What are your plans for the future
before you answer, here are mine
I hope you don’t mind I canceled
the reservations at that new place to dine

I knew there’d be distraction
you wouldn’t focus on yours truly
and what’s the use of spending the money
when we could stay home and be unruly

You’re such a trooper to understand
and always put me first
which of course is where I belong
otherwise it would a curse

to live with someone thinking less of himself
pretending humility
remember there’s no I in us
and also no YOU in ME.

© 2019, Deb y Felio

Deb’s site is: Writer’s Journey


. type of love .

was hoping to garden yesterday, clear the ground,
it was a challenge, with all that rain. so we
mended things, with love and string.

it is a challenge, 52 , to even think and google
meanings.

many types, immeasurable, not three nor for all
of us. yet those of us who do, may trust blindly,
childishly love our toys, cherish home, hold
memory.

i looked up, that does not mean i love you.

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

. letter to a friend . eight .

it has been a while since we spoke.

even now, you will not receive this letter,
along with others not sent.

some went away to exhibition, while others remain in my head.

it is the rule, no contact. today is cooler, we change the clocks soon.

i suppose you are nearly retired, yet i have lost track.

even so, i reflect on what i have done, i ask, what have i done?

it lingers in the past with no judgement here, they are good friends.
we may ask what have you done, yet it does not matter now.

all things pass.

i shall occasionally write, and never send.

no contact.

narcissus.

narcissus.

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

~ winter food ~

there was no fanfare,
no procession, no proclamation,
as i hit the button, no exclaimation
as i changed my life. as if no one
noticed, and if i am right, they
probably didn’t.

didn’t see as i drove the valley,
didn’t protest, or speak in tongues,
did not see the little things.

we bought winter food.

narcissus.

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

13.1.

did you notice the different weaves,
the names, the celtic not. have you

heard the language, problems arising,
too long spent driving. two of them
work well, one is new paper
that will not ash the flame.

will you remember them, narcussus,
small people who suffer?

i will send their photograph.

This is great. This is fantastic.
A distance up the beach
There are us
Shouting in the waves, ‘me-me’
And I feel someone grab my hand
Narcissism rising, a poem want to swim,
Then how could I stop loving you? YEAH
I don’t want you to think I am imagining a world without you.

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Sonja’s sites are:


This is great. This is fantastic.
A distance up the beach
There are us
Shouting in the waves, ‘me-me’
And I feel someone grab my hand
Narcissism rising, a poem want to swim,
Then how could I stop loving you? YEAH
I don’t want you to think I am imagining a world without you.

© 2019, Pali Raj


Narcissus

Raanana, December 7, 2017

Back in the days when metaphors were taken literally
And myths were news hot off the minstrel’s breast
It was sung that Narcissus was transfixed
By the beauty of his reflection in a pond
And fell in, drowning
But the truth was that he wrote a poem
That drew a tear from the cheek of a young maiden
And was enamored with his reflection in her tear,
Then the skies became grey and bloated, letting go
Their raindrops which poor Narcissus saw his image
In each and every one,
Then he saw himself in every poem he read
(Everyone knows there’s more poems
Than raindrops in the sky)
He went crazy chasing every poem ever written
As well as those are yet to be,
And everyone knows that going crazy
Is far worse than drowning.

from Mike’s third book of poetry, Bemused

(c) 2017, 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.


ABOUT

Recent in digital publications: 
* 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)
Upcoming in digital publications:
* The Damask Garden, In a Woman’s Voice (August 2019)

A busy though bed-bound poet, writer, former columnist and the former associate editor of a regional employment newspaper, my work has been featured widely in print and digital publications including: Levure littéraireRamingo’s Porch, Vita Brevis Literature, HerStry, Connotation Press, The Bar None Group, Salamander CoveI Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta/ Phor(e) /Play, Woven Tale PressThe Compass Rose and California Woman.

I run The Poet by Day, a curated info hub for poets and writers. I founded The Bardo Group/Beguines, a virtual literary community and publisher of The BeZine of which I am the founding and managing editor. Among others, I’ve been featured on The MethoBlog, on the Plumb Tree’s Wednesday Poet’s Corner, and several times as Second Light Live featured poet.

Email me at thepoetbyday@gmail.com for permissions or commissions.

“Ambiguous Spring” . . . and other poetic responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

Union Cemetery, Redwood City, CA

This morning
The first drops of winter …
excerpt Call of the Whipporwill, Mike Stone



And it being Tuesday, here are the responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Gone the Winter Gods for Those of Spring, July 17, which asked poets to write about a season or the seasons and so they do.  From spring in Bulgaria to spring in India, from a pensive visit to a cafe in Los Angeles during a humid July to feast of seasons in South Yorkshire, from the sun in Côte d’Azur to rain in Dartmoor, from the promise of spring in San Jose (CA) to the seasons as metaphor and memory in Pakistan, the yearly devisions are weighted with sensual pleasures, rituals, reminders, and symbols.

This week’s collection is courtesy of bogpan, mm brazfield, Paul Brookes, Anjum Wasim Dar, Irma Do, Sheila Jacob, Dick Jones, Frank McMahon, Sonja Benskin Mesher, and Pali Raj.

Enjoy! And do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are welcome. To those who’ve written to ask how to be published on The Poet by Day, participation in Wednesday Writing Prompt is the best way to introduce yourselves.  


green green

ah, you won’t remember the sweet October when amber juice drips from the vines
and where does the little grape picker go on that greenest afternoon

ah, the sea got stormy today

little girl, shrink midst the swollen grapes quickly
because the goats’ hooves sing, ah, a joyful god and his dusty entourage,
and a green coluber in the sea of green

ah, you won’t remember the sweet October when you take a sip of juice

© 2019, bogpan (Bozhidar Pangelov)

bogpan’s site is:  (bogpan – блог за авторска поезия  блог за авторска поезия )


moment of clarity

july evening warm humidly noisy
in the city i sit between Spring and Broadway streets
at a mall downtown where i’d like to fantasize Bradbury
could be found drinking coffee
looking to my left there are the kids joshing and cussing
rolling on skateboards zephyrs with iphones
to my right hipsters with credit cards today green means something else
micro chips smart chips designer chips vegan chips
i smile Mona L style and sip my Vietnamese coffee straight up
pigeons coo me out seductively with the waffle sound
of their aged wings dusty with the history of my time
here in this old new modern city
a tiny crack on the wall
by the fire department’s emergency pipe
holds my attention but i knit by brows
dainty lilac flowers
offered up to the most attentive student
the teacher dark green weed shows the little creatures
exquisite tiny intricate jewels luring in the bees
another universe within my urban home
i don’t like hot weather
sweat panting and stickiness
should only be for sex
but if the retiring sun hadn’t drawn me out
for the night i would have missed the buzzing of life
and random thoughts of HST soul madness and did JD really
shoot his ashes out of a canon
crazy kids at times trapped by the freedom of the mind
i’m working on an espresso now looking around
twirling my ankle like a cat’s tail
am i happy today i must be
today i’m not running
as much

© 2019, mm brazfield

mm’s site is: Words Less Spoken


Our Home

where the linnet calls
it breaks big white back
of winter; craggs out
grey veins dry stone walls
of territory.

Male Ring Ouzel calls,
cock Lapwings tumble,
Short Eared Owls hunt
wasteland: incomers.
birds swoop upstream bones
moved by these false springs.

Then the Curlew calls.
Spring staggers from brok
en white shells, tubers
unsteady or sharp
suck out hill’s feathered
underside.

There the Golden Plover
takes fledglings across
warming ice: snow broth
whispers down to crack
the river’s quiet
hibernating voice.

Published in South West broadsheet 1993, featured in Paul’s as yet unpublished chapbook about birds “Feather”

© 1993, Paul Brookes

A Winter

My oak skin believes
it is spring, electric rhythm
pushes out long
yellow catkins
and small female flowers,
purple hairstreak
butterfly caterpillar food
A false spring in dendrites
in my wintered head.

My leaf-burst happens
next mid-May
not this end of December.

Watch my hawthorn buds blink,
new fresh green leaves cum creamy white flowers, Queen bumblebees pierce
nectar and pollen from my Spring flowers,
frogspawn wobble in my ponds, ditches.
Bluebells confetti my woodland
hear Chiffchaffs arrival ‘chiff chaff’
tops of my trees and Cuckoos, swallows,
house martins and swifts feathered return.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

Sweetness So

late in the season,

I ask the tree,
“Please can I take some

of your fruit?”,
the easy pleasure

my hand reaches out,
amongst the almost naked,

gnarled limbs,
my fingers round

the full luscious belly
of a hard green pear,

and gently twist to snap
the umbilical cord,

and place it in the basket.
And say “Thankyou.”

On the ground gnawed
and sucked broken skins

rest on mown grass,
sweetness oozes into cold air.

Soon the aroma of apple
and pear crumble inhabits

the fresh rooms of our house,
the heat in the pastry,

the knife’s blade cuts
a portion.

“Blow on the spoon, love.
I need to know

if the pears are soft enough.”
says my wife as she ushers

bubbling fruit and crumble
to my quivering tongue.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

Wombwell Summered

Big animal heat corrugates
radiates, illuminates
dirty windows building flaws
bounds over rooftops
primal veracity.

Pigeons, spuggys
shadow puppetry streets, houses.
Tarmac warm shivers.
Radiant windows flash mirror
passing traffic.

Evening spitting,
growling, flaming,
fluid lads/lasses on heat,
short shirts tempers.
This is the barbecue.

Unshaven bald man,
open green raincoat,
brown leather shoes,
hauls local paper
packed lime green trolley.

Old folk bench gab,
mothers stroll babies
down funeral paths
eye gambolling squirrel,
cemetery a parkland.

Blackbird gob skyward
atop Victorian six pointed
terracotta Crown top
chimney pot
trills red brick streets.

Bright yellow sharp
edged box hedge sun
cracked pavements
yellow metal skip
blocks alleyway
All sun snogged

Sunstruck leaf bunch
drips bright molten
green glass, other leaves
luminescent silver stars
in green matter, shade cut.

Shadows pass over bus
as if it is stop motion animated.
I get on the animation.

Town a small canvas tent
unzipped tied back crowcall,
fragrant grass, earth close,
sun blue. Is on holiday.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

Wombwell Autumned

cheapskate jewellers inlaid
caught raindrops set them
with garnet and ruby placed
their gleam in window trays
diamond

golden leafed pot pouri lines
road and path mulches
in downpour.
Smell wet forest on the street.

Woman: ‘Bus is a horse and cart.
Knocking us to and fro.’ As it made
way up Packhorse Road down
which salt was brought.

A crocodile of Canada geese
across yellow glow clouds.
Two parts of broken iron
bath loaded in a van
goodbyes.

Blown remains of burnt out
abandoned leaves left
by summer’s joy riding trees
eyesore streets.
Some always stay green

Town is vivid grey,
but yellow shines
out of closed pound shop,
open butchers, grocers,
mini market
early risers.

Bus stop lad, snapback cap
red American football shirt,
‘Billy’ tattooed neck, says
‘xbox3 fixed by hairdryer. Sorted’

© 2019, Paul Brookes

Wombwell Wintered

Circular torquoise baby
traveller leans against wall
beside blue & green recycling bins
outgrown its use

Young man, pink card factory
bag massive metallic blue
balloon gets bus in soaking wet
everyone smiles

Parkered Cemetery Openers
toy Yorkshire Terrier tartan
coated in downpour trots beside her
only watter

On wooden garden table/bench,
nest terracotta/black plastic
plant pots,
behind bakers glass bread sheen

white wooden door atop
rammed yellow skip,
blue mattress, wardrobe,
table, worn tires
broken world portal

internal curved mirror
raindrop stores light
in a bucket corona
crown wet siles down
prompting reflection

After rain tiny drainbound
streams bubble broken
rubbish down causey edge
urban streamfront property

Streets wet week, Sodden &
Gomorrah, entryways shelter,
windows pebbledashed
towns grieves for a laugh

Please Use Other Door
arrow points up High St.
large To Be Let, For Sale on pole
signs of redirection.

Wet pavements dry world
mercator maps estuaries
coastlines islands cloud animals
imaginations silhouettes

like morning summer broken
dries wintered leaf blasts
blue cloud pummels spring breath
out autumnal still.

Atop Green bin green eyed
ginger cat paws folded under
On white wash line mid travel
cable car raindrops.

High Street man, black frizzy
wig, pink wrapped flowers,
pink, white, purple balloons
adjusts rucksack.

Rainpools broadcasting
light unresolved
mirror restless refraction
image holds brief seconds
undecided reflection

© 2019, Paul Brookes

Wombwell Springed

Small pair of step ladders
roped together
pink bucket
childs yellow chair
stood outside terrace
window await instruction

washing strung out
between red brick
terrace walls
and wooden fence lats
signs of spring

street bottom cold mist
like over grainy movie
photographic fault
greys out background
like floating

detached house
stands to one side
observes
with a disinterested point of view

not like our terrace
where neighbours hear through walls
or in entryway
our oven fan
flaps through boisterous
kids play football,
humpbreathed lovers at night
a gunning motorbike

follow bitumen
pavement trails
pipework underground
odd bitumen patches
road potholes filled
highway maintenance

beneath billows of surf clouds
walk against tide
in dappled sunlight
over tarmac sea floor
pass ash maple fronds
where marine call centre
talks bubbles

© 2019, Paul Brookes

Paul Brookes, prolific Yorkshire poet

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


Too Kind Seasons

Oh seasons warm and cool
you are good as a rule
sometimes harsh in hail
and heat when humans fail

to defeat pearly drops on the
brow, when comes the fall
trees become bare, silence
covers all, like friends far away

unseen unknown like seasons,
change with time, making sadness
in cold, and joy in the Spring
life is made of tender things

© 2019, Anjum Wasim Dar

Hark Listen Think Celebrate

in cold, grief snow bound encapsulated
crushed fallen swept foliage separated
branches heaving moaning sighing
I , like the brave trunk stiff,contemplated

December’s last days, ending or drifting
to new beginnings, dreary evenings
what is to be celebrated, one is thinking
it is a time of gathering and blessing…

bloodshed blasts, death blows through
North East North West North South North
does not stop- by benumbing weather
death knows not barbed wire or border

why celebrate the coming of Peace when
peace is not belief,when strafe and strife
is here there and everywhere, then, do
do we really love or care for human life “?

Celebrate with joy in white and red
white is a shroud and blood is red
spirits rise, bodies lie, darkened sky
players play with arms’ held high-

I seek Peace and Holy Peace will come!
we pray and decorate honor and wait’
‘O People do not stop to Celebrate’ the
Gift of Life, let the Bells Ring, anticipate

bury the hate for black or white
world is a rainbow ‘ day or night
think stop think no one is winning’
Hark, I feel, Someone Blessed is Coming’

Know now the reason the time, not, is late’
Time to Be Happy Time to Celebrate , Celebrate

© 2019, Anjum Wasim Dar

An Icy Embrace

the moment we stepped
outside the glass door
Lo we met , face to face

an icy embrace

sending shivers deep inside
coat collar rolled up,tight
pushed back against the tide

an icy embrace

we kept walking slowly
unseen force engulfed
pulled controlled coldly

an icy embrace

someone cried ‘O Jesus’
and I knew how cold he
felt, as he bowed and knelt

to the icy embrace

O Aeolus thou wast kind
but sleep conquered mind
Greed left All Good behind

an icy embrace

man must know this
is the best unseen gift
Nature’s Power to uplift

Life in an icy embrace

cold or warm it is good
wind it is, as understood
fly sail breathe,no falsehood

though it may be

an icy embrace

© 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


Thoughts on January 6

A Quadrille

My summer island beckons me
When the sun hides behind
Winter clouds. Her waves, trapped
In whispering shallows, softly request
My return. Her rocky shoreline
Curved in a waiting embrace.
Her salty scent of carefree
Days warming the frigid air.
Only 6 more months.

© 2019, Irma Do

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


Remember Remember The Fifth Of November

We gathered branches
from overgrown trees,
wove them into a wigwam
and lit plugs of paper.

The woodpile blazed,
filled the night air
with a tangy crackle
of bark and rose-thorns.

Rockets flew
towards the moon.
Roman candles flared,
hissed into gold cascades.

Catherine wheels
sizzled and shone,
spun out their lives
on our garden fence.

We waved sparklers
like magic wands
and watched
the old year burn.

© 2019, Sheila Jacob

To purchase this 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


SUN AND RAIN

La Croix-Valmer, Côte d’Azur.

By day we burn into our own
shadows. Crash-landed
on white sand, scoured

by salt, we rust and wither,
Once we were flesh,
now we are part terra cotta,

part dead leaves, all oven
dust. That birthright
certainty, cool water

falling, belongs to legend
lodged in rumour. Rising,
rising, the sun yells

in a blue room and
we drown inside
each other’s steam.

By night we slip
between cool covers
and we dream in green.

:::

Fernworthy Reservoir, Dartmoor.

Inside the gold-green heart
of rain we move like figures
in each other’s memory.

Directionless, we’ve lost
the certainty of standing water,
under a moiling sky, splayed

face down across the moor.
Now mighty blades of rain
have chopped the logic

of the hills into broken
language and we can’t read
the meaning of this world

without horizons. Taproot boots
are sucked between tussocks
and we stand, motionless,

mouths open, doomed beneath
our packs, bog men dissolving
back to salt and sinew.

© 2019, Dick Jones

Dick’s collection Ancient Lights is available through Amazon HERE.


AMBIGUOUS SPRING

The colours were returning: pathfinder celandine,
yellow as rich as butter freshly-churned,
pale infantry of hellebore and crocus,
racy flights of blackthorn, early bees.

A pelt of snow has caped the distant hills;
milk-white ice conceals. Now wind shrives skin,
uncorks a furl of rooks to larrick
in the heady draughts while buzzards
rise, their plangent calls ringing through the air
above the trees, at ease in their hunting spirals
or jousting, perhaps, in early season foreplay.

How will they fare tomorrow
when gales will drum and thump
and a waterfall sweeps downwards from the sky?
I will sow seeds, drink tea, wait until the storms
have clawed their way beyond,
judge the wisest moment to emerge,
to steep my hands in earth’s true wealth,
when sun and water have balanced
what the winds have weathered,
to sample,grit under finger nails, palms
dark-stained or smeared blue with clay,
to fondle the webbèd texture,
test, grain by grain, its tilth, sniff aromas
of leaf and loam, praise the work of worm
and microbe, frost and air, declare,
to no one in particular, that the land is ready.

© 2019, Frank McMahon


.fail in the cold.

the days of heaven gold

are coming to its end.

are we the children

of the fall, those of us

who dance in the leaves,

who fail in the cold or the

brashness of summer

**

read about the courage of others,

about the closing of doors,

against the rain and the wind

blowing.

read about the loss of brothers,

about the moving of house

escaping pain,and remember

these golden days of autumn.

going

**

read about the perfection

that never is, the quality that fades

in time, with crosses,

people’s minds.

read about the rain in the cwm,

that blinds and blinds,

and loses paths and footings

**

read about the days

in the old house

the days that are, and were,

and may come with dreams,

and fortitude.

read about it all, and i ask,

why do you read

here?

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

..winter song..

winter bare her soul.

medieval trees reach up

for solstice and better days.

sing in silence and simplicity.

sing for those in remembrance .

dark winter bares the soul, those

that believe. sing in silence.

one voice breaks.

dark winter.

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Sonja’s sites are:


Blossoms and promise
Spring begins
Hopeful heart, who would now spoil a day
Winter is dead.
Sure, you can snuggle up *with*
a cup of tea and read
*I ain’t a bad guy*
What is it like?
Gone the Winter Gods for Those of Spring, a poem make an escape….yeah
I ain’t this year and I ain’t your fault.
Blossoms and promise
Spring begins ….

© 2019, Pali Raj


ABOUT

Recent in digital publications: 
* Four poemsI Am Not a Silent Poet
* Five by Jamie Dedes, 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)
Upcoming in digital publications:
* The Damask Garden, In a Woman’s Voice (August 2019)

A busy though bed-bound poet, writer, former columnist and the former associate editor of a regional employment newspaper, my work has been featured widely in print and digital publications including: Levure littéraireRamingo’s Porch, Vita Brevis Literature, HerStry, Connotation Press, The Bar None Group, Salamander CoveI Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta/ Phor(e) /Play, Woven Tale PressThe Compass Rose and California Woman. I run The Poet by Day, a curated info hub for poets and writers. I founded The Bardo Group/Beguines, a virtual literary community and publisher of The BeZine of which I am the founding and managing editor. Among others, I’ve been featured on The MethoBlog, on the Plumb Tree’s Wednesday Poet’s Corner, and several times as Second Light Live featured poet.

Email me at thepoetbyday@gmail.com for permissions, reprint rights, or comissions.


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

 

“The Endless” . . . and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“What, if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: ‘This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more’ … Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus? Or, have you once experienced a tremendous moment when you would have answered him: ‘You are a god and never have I heard anything more divine.”  Friedrich Nietzsche, The Joyful Wisdom



When I posted the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Elusive Soul, July 10, I wasn’t sure anyone would want to come out to talk about death and reincarnation. But lo! Here we are. We have a poetry feast, sometimes surprized by humor and quirkiness, but mostly fed by experience, observation, intuition, and the sacred. Prepare for a few laughs, a lot to think about, and maybe inspiration for a poem of your own.

Today’s feast is brought to us courtesy of mm brazfield, Gary W. Bowers, Paul Brookes, Anjum Wasim Dar, Irma Do, Deb y Felio, Irene Emanuel, Sheila Jacob, Elena Lacy, Bozhidar Pangelov, Sonja Benskin Mesher, and Pali Raj. New to our poetry family this week and warmly welcome: Bhaha d’Auroville and Melting Neurons. I didn’t have a bio from Bhaha, so I pieced one together and hope, Bhaha, that it works for you. Since Bhaga’s bio tangentially introduces Sri Aurobindo, I’ve included a photo and a poem by him, theme related.

Enjoy! and do join us for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. It is open to beginning, emerging, and pro poets. Don’t be shy. Join us tomorrow for a prompt that I hope you’ll like though it won’t be as stimulating as this one. Unfortunately, I don’t have time to swap it out for something more challenging. It’s late as I put a wrap on this post and tomorrow is a big day for me. You’d be surprized how busy a homebound writer can be.


Tempting Topic

For once I thought ‘It’s Wednesday,
Let’s see what today’s prompting is…’
And couldn’t believe what it was!
What to write, if I don’t believe
In reincarnation, but live
With it since I was a newborn?
And how can I write about it
‘Just from my imagination’,
When memories are flooding me
From so many places and times
Which I have known and have known me?
Oh, I do feel universal,
Old soul with yet another face
On top of another body
Whose cells still hunger for the food
They used to live by long ago
And still act upon the old vows
That I pronounced, meaning well,
In so many monasteries
Of so many dire religions
All over the entire planet,
Imprisoning myself in them!
Or other vows claiming Freedom
Without knowing quite what it was…
Yet in this life it all came back
As a whole harvest of lifetimes
Leading to this one’s turning-point
In the true Light at last of Love
For myself and for all ‘others’:
Unconditional Love at last,
Healing all with its strong Delight…
Shall I try to express all that?
It is such a tempting topic…

© 2019, Bhaga d’Auroville

My Very First Memory

My very first memory?
Deep sadness.
Deep sadness within me at knowing, and telling myself:
“Here I am again,
having to pretend being a separate person again,
instead of a blissful part of the loving Whole… ”
Sadness like a huge sigh in my being,
in the Soul that I was
since ever
for ever.
The feeling of going at it once again,
out of a sense,
not of obligation,
but of accepted duty.
Like shouldering up again a burden
that has to be carried
to its destination,
whatever time it may take.
This was when I was supposed to be a tiny baby
just newborn,
arriving back into this difficult physical world
of planet Earth.

© 2019, Bhaga d’Auroville

copyright Bhaga

BHAGA d’AUROVILLE lives in Auroville, a conscious community in Puducherry in South India. Auroville is also, I believe, a United Nations supported site for sustainable agriculture and global human uniity. This self-contained diversely-populated community is dedicated to the vision of Sri Aurobindo (1872-1950), an Indian poet, yogi, guru, and philosopher. Sri Aurobindo was a nationalist who joined the Indian movement for independence from British colonization. He was also a spritual reformer who held a vision of human progress through spiritual evolution. Some Americans may remember that Woodrow Wilson’s daughter Magaret was a follower.  In the spirit of her community, Bhaga’s blog is Lab of Evolution, For Research on Conscious Evolution.  She writes,”Conscious Evolution is for you and me. It is for the whole planet. It is the Next Step which is simply the logical, to be expected continuation of all that Evolution has already made happen upon this little Earth over the eons past. The difference is that now the human species is there, and we human beings can consciously participate in our own gradual transformation into a more evolved species. Any progress in that direction, by any of us, will help accelerate the overall progress for the whole Earth and all its inhabitants. It is happening. Will you help?’



Sri Aurobindo / public domain photo

Life and Death

Life, death, – death, life; the words have led for ages
Our thought and consciousness and firmly seemed
Two opposites; but now long-hidden pages
Are opened, liberating truths undreamed.
Life only is, or death is life disguised, –
Life a short death until by Life we are surprised.

– Sri Aurobindo



The Endless

I’d ravage The Endless back into a savagely peaceful state,
where the darkness ceased against the ripping of sunlight
and flesh was made to stagger under new form and structure.
I’d break down amidst the ferocity of nerves completely aflame,
blazing mysterious life back in a rictus of fresh birthed anguish
that would howl up and out a throat misshapen to memory.
I’d rest my pained eyes on reflective surface and cast out,
cast out into the recesses of my mind to search for recognition,
failing and withering beneath the harsh gasp of true newness.
So I would be reborn, brought about by misguided hope,
faithfully preserved in the belief that housed in a new sanctuary
madness and sanity would restore to a natural balance
leaving me aware of a change, but aching with the loss.

© 2019, Melting Neurons

MELTING NEURONS resides in Wenatchee, WA where he lives with his wife, dog and stuffed owl. They hail from Bend, OR originally, except the dog, who’s a Texan death row survivor. He has lived in more than 75 cities across the country at various points including Boston and New Bedford, MA. His writing centers around a lifetime filled with adventures in schizoaffective bipolar, addiction, and the dichotomy of being everything from a corporate executive to homeless on the streets for years. He is a member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective and enrolled in Wenatchee Valley College studying English and Creative Non-Fiction. His blog is HERE.


plished

as a young dad he formed the
habit of when leaving the house
of telling his young wife and tod
dler with mock-solemn drama:
“i am going on a mission…
from which…
i may never return.”
he did that 218 times.
there was a thirty-five year
gap
between #217 and #218,
which was on his deathbed,
staring lovingly
into his daughter’s
tear-swimming eyes.

she laughed a little, then hiccup-
sobbed. but he ska-sneezed
her hand
and said “mission accom–”
and died.

in this life
i suddenly remembered.
and so i say
“plished.”

© 2019, Gary W. Bowers

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

As some of you know, Gary is multi-talented, combing visual art with poetry or prose narrative.  He is also a potter. A sample of his work is pictured here. Gary’s pottery is available for purchase.  Further details HERE. Note the business card. We appreciate Gary’s wry humor.


RSVP

hi
Rabbi
i’m that girl
this Eden is
very beautiful
i’ve crawled on my belly
since the time of the Pharaohs
and i’m feeling deeply tired
today i make the case that gifting
me free will does not compare to heaven
when i close my eyes the cries of Mary
still echo in my ears while Martha’s
brother slumbers wrapped in linens
and the taste of chocolate
melting joy on my tongue
careless angels send
Your blessed signs
however
i am
done

© 2019, mm brazfiled

mm’s site is: Words Less Spoken


Knowing

Gone to ground
he sharply sees far below the hole
he crouches in,

his fellows hop and thump,
gust in his wings as he dives,
break of bone and fur,
bloodseep
of his daughters limp body
as he takes her to his perch
to feed hungry beaks.

Aware he did this once.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

This Soul Nonsense

Writers use the word without thought.
Expect readers to know what they mean.

Never define the word in their work.
A throw away word to mean something deep.

Used without care a word out of place
repeated so often it is meaningless.

Air, ether, fire or light once thought
incorporeal. If air perhaps our breath

actions at a distance. Breathe in spirit.
Perhaps we refer to our emotions.

Endeavour to give them gravity.
Don’t throw away, pick carefully.

From Paul’s collection Port of Souls (Alien Buddha Press, 2018)

© 2018, Paul Brookes

I See Daylight

when the blade
opens a gash in his skin,
a valley I can walk through.
The sharp edge
narrowly misses me.

I step out of his wound,
his valley.
Reborn.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

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’s collection Port of Souls (Alien Buddha Press, 2018)

© 2018, Paul Brookes

Traffic

I watch the traffic lights
consider a walk this way or
a green man allows me
to avoid bloodied bone

my mouth and ears
thresholds and doors
full of oaklimbs and leaves

reborn I stretch down
to deep dark moist

I stretch up to cloudlight
barkskin palmtouched
I let others breathe
shelter and endure.

© 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


A Star from Afar

I believe I am an eight pointed star incarnate
I once orbited the central celestial dark space
where I was a reflector of pure light and peace
and was circling on duty on an invisible plate

many light years ago a new planet was born
and a twinkling dome was set as a guide, I
was transferred to move and shine, to pray
and light the way for those who would seek

for many more light years I remained suspended
and guided many lost sea and desert travelers
til some enemies down below started shooting
and one day I broke and lost my invisible footing

I am quite sure that I am in my third life now
from a star and a guide and in pure light, I
am in a different form called female, and in
a meteor shower mixup,got the spirit of a male.

and now my name though means a star
but am still in a state of confused war
many a times in lists and divisions I find
that my seat or chair is in the boys bar

the worst is when the organizers look me
up and down and refuse to believe that I
am a she and not a he’ as they had thought
shake their heads and reluctantly let me pass

so who is to blame if incarnation takes place
not according to what one wished or desired
or wished to be a prince or a princess royal-
when reality strikes you find, Oh, the change misfired

© 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


Nirvana Knows 

a Pantoum

Redo my life please
I paid good money for that paper on the wall
It glares at me with disapproving rage
As I struggle with my final breath

I paid good money for that paper on the wall
A professional path to fame and fortune
As I struggle with my final breath
I think, “Regrets.”

A professional path to fame and fortune
Bartered for super tight hugs and sticky kisses
I think, “Regrets?
No, I am dying happy.”

We tried to barter super tight hugs and sticky kisses
But the cancer still clutched my breasts
Now, I am dying happy
Nirvana knows I made the right exchange

The cancer that clutched my breasts
Glares at me with disapproving rage
Nirvana knows I made the right exchange
Redo my life? No, thank you!

© 2019, Irma Do

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


Another Life

Once I was a worshipped cat,
I’m absolutely sure of that.
Whisker greys adorn my face,
which are the basis for my case.
At ease with every cat I meet,
without a cat, I’m not complete.
We greet and speak by sight and touch
and though that really isn’t much,
I swear the cats know who I was
when formally, I was their boss.
So when a cat is scared and hisses,
I shower him with gentle kisses,
until the present is the past
and he knows who I am at last.

© 2019, Irene Emanuel


ha!

in the fifties there was war
and hatred of those people
in the sixties there was war
and the hatred of those people
in then eighties, nineties, the same
then a new century came
no different now
war and hate
why would anyone
want to reincarnate
to be the hater or the hated
you lose either way
I’ll just stick
with Groundhog Day

© 2019, deb y felio


Second Time Around

Inspired by Joy Harjo

Let a roan mare house my soul.
Let her coat be blue.
Let her name be Ocean.
Let her spine be strong.
Let her mane flow unplaited.
Let her ears twitch at the growl of thunder.
Let her face be winsome and her eyes gentle.

Let her tail swish to the hush of the tide.
Let her be free from bridle, saddle and bit.
Let her run in the company of other horses.
Let her chase the wind across green fields.
Let her travel country lanes and city streets
and mountain paths dusted with pine cones.
Let her follow the river and reach the valley.

Let her drink from clear streams.
Let her graze under the stars.
Let her gallop across sand and shingle
and the sea’s frothing hem.
Let her whinnying breath scatter the clouds.
Let her dance on the beach at sundown
and trace the moon’s halo with silver-tipped hooves.

© 2019, Sheila Jacob


What if …

Waking up after centuries of silence
Old memories still linger, but their meanings are elusive.
My Self, woven deliriously at the intersection of the old world neuroses,
Is trying to reach out for mirrors
Searching for familiar worries and joys
Suspended and in need of direction.
And, all of a sudden, that need for change feels familiar.
Life is flooding my existence once again…

© 2019, Elena Lacy

Elena’s site is Hyperimage’s Blog


. reincarnationˌriːɪnkɑːrˈneɪʃn .

coming home can be.

frightful, in snow or heavy rain,

dark the days are, the evenings darker.

forecasts bring gloom and panic, then are cancelled

minutes later, the phone kicks off.

ice is predicted, mountains white

i may be reborn in this valley….

now there is a story, meanwhile

arriving home to candlelight, fire the same

and hopefully all will be well a while.

the mouse, the bear,

are quiet ones.

the word count is 62, the years are 8,

and i dreamed it was 2 months ; longer

than all the other numbers.

i may be a long time coming home.

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Sonja’s sites are:


In the sunny mantle

In the sunny mantle
the souls fall asleep
They are returning to Earth
forever
(to calm the fast time)
And if ever
on the green hill
surrounded
from a clean river
someone woke you up
stretch your hands
with your palms up
and you will feel
streams of golden sparks –
the soul of the sun

© 2019, Bozhidar Pangelov

© Bozhidar Pengelov (bogpan – блог за авторска поезия блог за авторска поезия)


wish I wish I were born too stunned.
my mom must have sensed my presence.
don’t look at me as though I have grown another head.
what if, I can feel your nerves bubbling up?
elusive soul, a poem make a stand ….yeah
I shake my head smiling.
I smile a small smile.
p.s. it’s difficult to me to show outward affection.

© 2019, Pali Raj


ABOUT

Recent in digital publications: 
* Four poemsI Am Not a Silent Poet
* From the Small Beginning, Entropy Magazine (Enclave, #Final Poems)(July 2019)
* Over His Morning Coffee, Front Porch Review (July 2019)
Upcoming in digital publications:
* The Damask Garden, In a Woman’s Voice (August 2019)

A busy though bed-bound poet, writer, former columnist and the former associate editor of a regional employment newspaper, my work has been featured widely in print and digital publications including: Levure littéraireRamingo’s Porch, Vita Brevis Literature, HerStry, Connotation Press, The Bar None Group, Salamander CoveI Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta/ Phor(e) /Play, Woven Tale PressThe Compass Rose and California Woman. I run The Poet by Day, a curated info hub for poets and writers. I founded The Bardo Group/Beguines, a virtual literary community and publisher of The BeZine of which I am the founding and managing editor. Among others, I’ve been featured on The MethoBlog, on the Plumb Tree’s Wednesday Poet’s Corner, and several times as Second Light Live featured poet.

Email me at thepoetbyday@gmail.com for permissions, reprint rights, or comissions.


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