Page 21 of 25

Posted on

“The Waters of Life” and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

Wonderful responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, August 30, your wise owl eyes. I’m delighted with these works from Kakali, Sonja, Paul, Iulia and Mark and know you will be as well. Enjoy, like, comment and encourage these intrepid and imaginative poets. Visit their sites and get to know them better.

This week Mark Lanesbury has joined in with a profoundly lovely piece and as always with those new here, I’ve included a short bio by way of introduction.

Another prompt will post tomorrow and you are invited to come out and play.

The Waters of Life

Life and all its hardships, the rivers we do dare
Traveling dangerous waters, captaining its glare
The mastering of the winds, the swells of our pride
The holding of our tiller, for there is nowhere else to hide
But if I could but show, the beauty that dwells within
The reality in this path, built from where we’ve been
We see so much in our wake, but only through our fear
All the while on lookout, glancing to the rear
So grab that tiller firmer, know through this gale we go
That the sails of this journey, need this truth to blow
Find the hearts compass, point it as a guide
Hold it with gratitude, for in there you know you’ve tried
So seek out all your glory, venture to every port above
For within that travel far and wide, is a journey full of love

© 2017, Mark Lanesbury (Healing Your Heart, a manual of life from within)

MARK LANESBURY: My search for meaning in life. Going through the ups and downs in life trying to come to terms with that ongoing question that we all have…’is this it?’. And the process I took to finally understand that I’m a package and most of my life I had been playing with the wrapping, not realising that further in was this incredible present just waiting to be held, felt, listened to, understood and integrated into who I was to become. After recognising this part of myself, spirit asked that I put what I had learned somewhere that others may gain from it and help their journey just as I had also been helped to find that present within.

# Resurrected Quietude #

Scintilla of firewood I had kindled last year in your fireplace,
Celebrated its return last night to my destiny;
My fuzzy keekers,
My languid -feverish corpus,
My throbbing toes;
Were in most spectacular finds for thou,
In the dale of eclipse;
Unguarding my state
essence of my wise owl eyes,
Resurrected years after,
From the cinder of my mystical conjecture;
Like a phoenix;
The most spirited one -the Almighty resounded through my crinkled bosom;
Leaving abaft a lingering instant;
Immersing me beneath the rear of his wavy quietude.

© 2017, Kakali Das Ghosh

Once Them Lasses Start To Spin

with distaff and spindle whorl,
another year of sweat and effort
to break the stubborn sod
in the fields begins, so lads,
this day only, play the fool,
burn their flax and tow,
and lasses, while we laugh,
scurry round with water,
dousing our flames.

Virgin, mam, and crone, and present,
fate, and future, and spinner, alloter,
and unturnable are the stick
that holds flux of the flax,
delicate web of their clothes,
spin their unspun blood, breath,
bone and sinew and event
in a thread from underground.

Their spindle is a wooden rounded rod,
that tapers toward each end,
twists into thread, story,
fibres it pulls from
the distaff, the imagination.

The whorl is a stone weight,
fitted onto the spindle
to increase and maintain
the speed of the spin,
pace of the story,
twist of the imagination.

Spindle and whorl
spinner controls
suspended from the thread
that is being spun.

Worlds and stars spin,
use force and gravity,
to “turn” one thing,
into another.

Spindle and whorl
create through movement,
spinner at the centre
of be and become.

Once the lasses start to spin
with distaff and spindle whorl,
another year of sweat and effort
to break the stubborn sod,
while the threads twist.

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

The Sky Is Food

The sky is food.

Above iridescent coral canopy of trees
let us throw nets of birds
to catch the fish of clouds
the spider balloons
aeroplankton

aphids in the currents and eddies
cross the atmospheric bridges of gusts,
dead cells in clouds and ice
morsels for migrants in the swim
through rivers and waterfalls of air

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

..grey..

I wish to say that I do not mind the grey,

dark over lakes, morning mists, my hills,

my window shows graves, the quiet ones

**

the colour comes later, in the studio.

the land reclaimed, is bolder now,

energy splashes in orange.

colour comes, from friends in conversation,

music and sounds, and i eat them

with hunger.

© 2017, Sofia Benskin Mesher  (Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA and Sonja’s Drawings)

..illness..

is a short word in varying degrees.

a slight one, can be alleviated with
unecessary treats, parfum , curling
round in soft places.

lift the spirits with little things, be
glad it is not a more serious form
of the word.

i drove the road yesterday, it
is such a pretty place.

© 2017, Sofia Benskin Mesher  (Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA and Sonja’s Drawings)

:: the pool of tears ::

from where comes the love,

comes the pool of fear,

the fright of interrogation,

guilt,

i hear.

from where comes the mourning,

late afternoon,

and evening,

comes the spirit,

and singing,

dancing, ringing.

i hear the bells,

the crows,

the chaffinch,

and it shows,

my hearing.

from where comes the whistling,

comes the pool of tears,

the laughter we hear.

here.

© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher  (Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA and Sonja’s Drawings)

The dual nature of clouds

A sponge to filter light and wash the pavement
A hammer to bang my head
And rise my blood into my ears
So I could see thunders and lighting shows before my eyes
A preview of the storm to come

The dual nature of the clouds
The dual nature of the light
The multiple nature of the human beings
An artist work of art
A dual nature artist
Both God and Flesh
Just a matter of perspective
A free will down to the subatomic level
And up to the clouds

© 2017, Iulia Gherghei (Sky Under Construction)

ABOUT THE POET BY DAY

Posted on

“We ring her door bell” …. and other responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

Mangos and gardens, smiles and doorbells, all factor into the responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, August 23, Neighbors by poets and writers sharing their talent, perspective and stories. Enjoy! … and join us tomorrow for the next prompt. All are invited to take part and share their responses, which are always published here on the following Tuesday. Poem on …

His Catapult

Neighbour’s lad gets a grin out of pot shots at birdlife in my garden. Thinks

I can’t see him between slats of broken fence. Dead birds litter my lawn. I’ve told

his mam, Alice who says he thinks he’s in Jurassic World to kill dinosaurs. I wish

he weren’t so wick and could see these dinosaurs don’t bite. I’ll fetch him round

to bury his dead, and have a quiet word.

© 2017, Paul Brookes  (The Wombwell Rainbow)

Why Move?

To be closer to us, Mam
so we can be there for you.

chorus son and daughter in law.
Bert next door on his way out

always asks whether I need anything.
Sally over the way enquires after me,

Even with all she’s got on, her mam’s
Cancer and little ones severe ADHD.

Need a gardener only to do odds
and sods as I get tired quick. Bert volunteered

but he’s all on with his granddaughter’s
while daughter has hospital appointments.

These folk are here for me. I don’t need
To move away to strangers and elsewhere.

© 2017, Paul Brookes  (The Wombwell Rainbow)

We ring her door bell

Holiday slowly conquers my joints
My knee, my thumb
Little knife stubs
Brown spots, coffin spots
As my eighty years old neighbour
Says laughing
Her laugh healed her from cancer
She lost a breast but this year
She visited the Spanish Riviera

When I am down
When my spine is numb
When all my ships are sinking
We ring her door bell…

So the Black Sea is in her best mood
The holiday makes time insignificant
We move around the pole
Hunting the shadow
A solar clock
The kid spends hours in the greenish liquid
Our skins darker and darker by the minute
Soon to be the only sign that we ever been
Away from home
Where first thing first
We’ll ring her door bell

When I am numb
When my spine is down
When all the ships have sunk
We’ll ring her door bell to borrow a smile

© 2017, Iulia Gherghei (Sky Under Construction)

Persuaded by a Smile

I never knew her name and remembrance
of her face has faded from memory
but her kindness still remains steadfast
within the warmth of my beating heart

where upon I still see the upright grand
dusty and in need of repair standing
proudly in the living room of a house
I only encroached drawn by its’ beauty

for she saw I was smitten by its’ presence
and invited me to play for even though
not a lesson had I the music seemed to
pass without pause to my finger tips

as I came to knock each day upon the door
to see the beauty of her smile and knew
that she no longer played but entreated
me to sit once more at the upright grand

© 2017 Renee Espriu (Just Turtle Flight and Inspiration, Imagination & Creativity with Wings, Haibun, ART & Haiku)

.gas..

we live rural.i have an immersion for hot water,

and for work. along side research and hot baths

keeps the days flowing.

there is a gas pipeline crossing near us, yet not with

us.next door neighbour is the gas man yet not required

locally.he has bottled stuff while i have not.

mary was stuck behind a lorry delivering the latter

so was later arriving here. today.

i switch it on each morning then evening though they

do say it can be economical to leave it on all day. i have

not tried that.

yet.

© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher  (Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA and Sonja’s Drawings)

#walking 4

it really is very early, still the radio plays

softly not to wake the neighbour. he is

a quiet man. a farmer.

reckon it was four miles up over the hill

in a summer dress. settled that evening

to watch the war

of the worlds.

slept early,

woke early.

it is raining today.

© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher  (Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA and Sonja’s Drawings)

.. bara brith..

quiet day, plenty to do,

workwise. no home brew

involved, yet he came to

my door smiling.

holding

a bara brith.

to share, he said,

cut it in half,

I shan’t come in,

my boots are quite muddy.

there is a fete in the

village, sue won’t eat it,

so I thought I will spoil

you.

they soak the fruit in tea,

and alcoholic drinks

if they have any.

isn’t it heavy?

© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher  (Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA and Sonja’s Drawings)

Mangfera Indica Inflorescence

#Mrs . Brown :My Next Door Neighbour#

My little garden was the envy of my neighbours. My father liked to enjoy his favourite pastime of gardening. Variant greenery of our little garden soothed eyes of every pedestrian passing by our beautiful grove. Ours was a street of Alloy Steel quarters assembled gracefully. As we lived at one end of the street my father could rehash gardening acquiring a lot of space with a temporary boundary of wires. Our small garden was a lavish decoration with flowers of varied colours like rose, hibiscus, lily, petunia etc. Adjacent to the flower garden we had a little orchard too with fruits like mango ,pear, jackfruit etc. All day long chirruping of colorful birds echoed through our garden as well as little orchard inflicting vigorous pleasure flooding our heart and mind .

The event took place long long ago. In one summer evening Mrs. Katrina Brown stepped in our street as our fresh neighbour. It was the first time I encountered such a gorgeous Christian lady. To our great amazement she became our next door neighbour.
My parents were also happy getting their new charming neighbour. Everything was going alright for the first few days. It was the time of great amusement while I used to play Ha-do-do with Diana, the sweet daughter of Mrs . Brown with the proximity of my age.

Mrs Brown was an instrumentalist and till today I recall an intricate melody on her piano. She had a habit to attend a nearby church every Sunday along with Diana and her husband, Mr Brown, as each inhabitant of our street used to call him. One or two times I accompanied them and noticed how heartily – how profoundly that beautiful lady engaged herself to the prayer of the Almighty and at that very moment I kept a fixed look on her face entangled with a heavenly light of piousness, but I had yet to experience the other face of the coin.

In one early summer evening a heavy downpour commenced a new era of relationship between the two families – the Das and the Brown family. The rainfall was really ponderous along with strong blowing wind coming from the Arabian sea. Almost all the buds and verdant mangoes of a special mango tree were spread out everywhere of the courtyard of Mrs .Brown as that mango tree of our orchard tilted towards the portico of the Brown family with its clinging fruits yet to be ripened. Next morning I awakened with an agitated blast of words from Mrs. Brown’s mouth .She was telling to my mother -“Mrs Das -you have to cut down this mango tree. It has been tilted more towards my courtyard due to the storm that swept through the place yesterday and if it is kept being unshorn then the roof of my home as well as my courtyard would have to face scattered buds, shedded leaves and unripe mangoes each day onwards making my whole area dirty.

”That was our favourite tree as it bore the sweetest fruits among all the mango trees in the orchard. Moreover my father treated each tree of the orchard as his own child. Therefore my mother answered,”I understand your problem, Mrs. Brown, but the tree is like our child. Every year it bears the sweetest fruits. Please don’t make us compelled to cut it. The harvesting time is coming nearer and during the ripening time you may take all of its fruits but let the tree be survived.”

“Most of its flowers and fruits have been exuded -Mrs. Das .”-Mrs Brown said.

My mother said, ”Some fruits are still clinging to the tree and I request you to taste the ripened fruits this season. Moreover -all the fruits are yours -this year.”

Though Mrs Brown had some grudge against the tree but perhaps she agreed to my mother’s condition and departed without saying more.

In that ripening season she tasted all the sweet mangoes except ten as she fixed to be allocated to us.”The tree not only bears delicious fruits but also makes shady my terrace in these days receiving scorching heat of the sun. You were right Mrs. Das, the tree should not be cut down.I have now begun to love this tree. I would not ever mind to sweep its shedded leaves and next time we would share half of its fruits.” We were really happy as afterall she could realize the value of the tree. Thereafter she never told us to cut the tree though at every turn we used to hear that she was scolding the tree for shedding so many leaves on her terrace .

That year passed. Then it was the turn for the next mango season. The two families were awaiting for the sweetest mangoes of that very tree. Again a violent storm swept through our place.The storm was so fierce that it uprooted most of our trees, damaged electric poles and changed the course of the river at our place. Alloy Steel authority took decision to cut down the big trees touching the electric wires and they settled upon that the very mango tree of our orchard with the sweetest fruits to be trimmed as it touched the wires coming from the main electric pole of the area holding danger of an electric shock at any moment. Both my father and Mr. Brown requested the Maintenance Department under Alloy Steel Plant not to cut the tree but they paid no heed to them.

On a day fixed previously two choppers came to our house. As soon as they had stepped into our orchard with their motive to cut down the tree Mrs .Brown rushed there like an arrow from a bow and embracing the tree like her own baby requested them again and again to be refrain from cutting the tree, but it was an order from the higher authority. They were helpless. The giant tree was cut down before our bleary watery eyes. Mrs. Brown began to cry as like as a baby. A gloomy surrounding engulfed in all parts of our orchard when the last part of the tree trunk was chopped. Thereafter the health of Mrs .Brown suffered a steep decline. Many a days we didn’t follow her fingers on her favourite piano.

Then it was the turn for the rainy season. In one rainy morning we came out of our home hearkening an extremely melodious tune flowing out of her piano. It was really astonishing when our mindedness went to a sapling of mango that had sprouted out in that very place from where the giant tree was rooted out. Perhaps one of that lost mango tree‘s degenerated seed took that place and the first shower of the rainy season provided it the chance to germinate with its two tiny leaves.

Mrs. Brown first noticed it and with a reflection of getting back her lost mango tree, which she treated like her own baby. She placed her fingers again on her piano originating a new celestial melody enchanting the neighboring. Everyday she spent a lot of time to serve the sapling awaiting for the day when it would flourish with its unfurled branches with juicy, delicious fruits as well as soothing, tranquil shade. In the meantime my father got a transfer order and we had to leave the place. I don’t know how is Mrs. Brown for the time being or if she is on this earth till now but my innermost spirit throws its earnest glance today from a far away place at Mrs Brown‘s lovely tree, which may have remained standing in my nostalgic orchard still now bearing the dream and fancy of that fairy lady.

© 2017, Kakali Das Ghosh

Photo credit: Mango Flowers by Gihan Jayaweera under CC BY-SA 3.0 license.

ABOUT THE POET BY DAY

Posted on

“not of war” and other responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

These are the responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, August 8, do not make war. Enjoy and be sure to support and encourage these intrepid poets by liking, commenting and visiting their blogs. Thank you for joining us. Tomorrow another prompt will post and you are invited to come out and play and share your own prose or poetry.  All work shared will be featured in The Poet by Day the following Tuesday.

not of war, it …

not of war, it is peaceful here.

I have heard such dreadful stories

of casualties, these days

and before. senseless.

I would screw my words

if it would help.

I can help this one,

a victim of the

hot and dandy night.

I will show you his photograph.

I took her into the woods, the grass was

too long, though cooler there,

she was too small.

© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher (Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA and Sonja’s Drawings)

.white feathers.

i dream i dream of porcupines.

white feathers dipped in blood.

bloody mess wars,

bodies rotting there. there

are thoughts while stitching that

this could save the world.

a quiet thing. no injuries, the blood

comes small in useful drops.

drops down, meditative sound.

white feathers fall.

porcupines.

© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher (Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA and Sonja’s Drawings)

The Open Shop At War

As robust earth tumbles to an end
Whilst delivering value
I need an extra jumper.

As robust war is inevitable
whilst delivering value
I need a warmer coat.

As robust discussions are futile
whilst you deliver effective service solutions
I need to upgrade my phone.

As robust cease fires are temporary business models that deliver value
I need an extra pair of socks

All is end to end
Earth to end,
War continues.

Sharpen your core business
in a controlled manner,
grow your operations.
People must shop.

Open shops are a sign of peace
whilst buildings fall around them.

Open shops are a sign of calm
when dead people lie in the street.

Open Shops are a sign of order
amidst bomb craters, bullet holes
Open shops let people go on.

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

I’m Just About

managing between the barricades.
My kids play between sniper targets.

I fetch the shop through broken
buildings perforated by gunshot,

past cars jammed across streets.

I’m just about managing between regimes.

https://www.theguardian.com/politics/2016/nov/20/just-about-managing-families-to-be-2500-a-year-worse-off-by-2020-study?CMP=share_btn_tw

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

An Infinity of Stars Woven

Within the landscape of time are
the shadows of war residing
casting doubts of fear
over hope filled integrity

for if I could but ease the pain
& erase the memory of horror
that slices through hearts
once laden with joy
I would

but there will always be those
who seek righteousness loaded
with weapons of destruction
their efforts devoid
of compassion

and soldiers who participate
on the battlefields of wars
whether at home or across seas
will carry scars always

and if it were possible within
me as a wordsmith to pen a poem
of salve and healing
I would

so that children may once again play
on peaceful soil under watchful eyes
of mothers and fathers
who can rest assured
of a tomorrow

filled with the spirit of love
& that fireworks will be celebration
& not the deafening voices
of bombs falling

for my soul cannot rest within me
until the vision of the universe
is the essence of peace shining
like an infinity of stars

the threads of woven fabric
like none that has ever been made
containing naught of the shadows of war
but a humanity of peacemakers
the gardeners sowing
seeds for the
future

© 2017, Renee Espriu (Renee Just Turtle Flight and Haibun,  ART & Haiku)

ABOUT THE POET BY DAY

Posted on

“Blessed Are the Sacred Folk” and other poetic r esponses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

These are the responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, August 2, Hot August Nights. Enjoy and be sure to support and encourage these intrepid poets by liking, commenting and visiting their blogs. Thank you for joining us. Tomorrow another prompt will post and you are invited to come out and play and share your own prose or poetry.  All work shared will be featured in The Poet by Day the following Tuesday.

The Honeymoon’s Over

Spring’s promise of high summer
has passed, the lush greens gone,
and now less vibrant. Parched.
Stale somehow. Disappointing.

The promise so much sweeter
than reality; the heady warmth;
sun filled days and mirage haze
the balmy heat, hot naked nights.

We should enjoy this time, by rights
but if it brings us closer to the fall;
the Autumn of our life, if that is all
then can we not enjoy the cooling

promised winter chill, another world,
its yielding to the blacks and whites
mysterious greys, the icy haze,
the freezing hibernation, preserving.

But no. An earlier Spring, that comes
too soon, and sooner still the melting
Arctic ice. One day, there’ll be no more
dreaming of a summer honeymoon.

© 2017, John Anstie (My Poetry Library and FortyTwo)

29 days .

he came early today. screaming round the garden.

a gentle feel, all chill and autumn mist already,
with us only mid august, yet we know the signs the feel,
the smell of the tide in the air, here.

we panic as the small boy grows, as times passes.

they say quicker now, yet i am not so sure.

i went to town yesterday, saw the signs of another
world. stood in the bank some time, only one
assistant these days.

the sun colours the clouds with empathy.

© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher (Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCS – Fine Art and Illustration) and (Sonja’s Drawings)

. 107 just a summers day ..

it is like loving a ghastly child

she said.

looked down,

noticed her puffy

ankles

in the heat.

© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher ((Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCS – Fine Art and Illustration and Sonja’s Drawings)

Ghost Holiday

Briefly open the earth gate into your head dark,
allow your kindly dead through the gate to be with
you, the living, let them sup ale in their old pubs,
if the places are not boarded up, demolished,

allow them to enter their old homes. Their rooms left
as they
were when they died, or find their goods given to
charity, sold, some kept, their homes lived in now

by strangers, who chase them off, crash pots and pans too
loud for the dead. So they wander streets as homeless,

uncared, they find your home and photos of themselves,
relieved that someone still treasures their memory.

Soon, respite done, they return by the earth gate to
your head dark, until their next holiday among
the living, to see, again how time has moved on.

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

Blessed Are the Sacred Folk

who plough
who prepare the earth
who plough with a wide furrow to bring water from the river
who plant seeds
who trace the first ploughing, reploughing as first did not work
who harrow
who dig
who weed
who reap
who carry the grain
who store the grain
who share the grain
who share their good fortune with us, the dead

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

Open the Grain Store Between Your Thighs

world of
dark in your underworld
full of your dead ancestors
warm food for the cold times
riches kept snug
allow a kiss
allow a lick
I should not let the dark out
for long
I shall plug it
so after winter you can give birth to heat
bring out small bawling heat to help

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

Gather Harvest

offering

rain to earth
hard labour harvests
first fruits for winter

counsel

uncut grain holds earth
in secret counsel as seas
do not hold sea floor

conversation

scythe interrupts grain’s
conversation with its earth,
ears no longer hear

ruin

ruin oversees cornfields
must be placated with fires
in field, hearth and head

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

The Heat of Hot August Nights

The longing for warmer weather and sunny days
falls somewhere between Winter rain
and Spring flowers beginning to petal

but it all has given way to a heat so heavy
that it settles upon her August nights
as though weighted a substantial burden

it permeates every living thing and even
insects take refuge long for cooling air
causing the synergy of habitats once again

for the fine line between longing and needing
takes her back to the petals of flowers and green
days with a cool breeze a paramour of the sun

© 2017,  Renee Espriu (Renee Just Turtle Flight and Inspiration, Mimagination & Creativity with Wings, Haiku Halburn and Art)

ABOUT THE POET BY DAY