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“Identical with a Twig” … and other responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

I shed more than one tear when reading these responses to Our Small Beginnings, the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, April 11. May you be touched and inspired.

Thank you to bogpan (Bozhidar Pangelov), Paul Brookes, Frank McMahan, and Sonja Benskin Mesher for coming out to play. Of special note, Sonja has once again shared her art along with her poetry. Paul has created an ekphrastic poetry challenge for himself in honor of  National Poetry Month. Visit his blog to see what he’s been up to.  Worth your time.

Do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt.

New Soft

nervous she does
what she knows
pushes a pram
cuddles a baby

moves others’
toys that get
in her way

chews her toast,
sups her juice
asks where mummy is.
where her sisters are.

sobs at a boy
in a Spiderman mask,
rough and tumble
older boys.
wants her comfort cloth

climbs, head over heels
explores a soft world

© 2018, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

Cuddled Sobs Cradled

hawk back shudder
at vacuum absence
of hugwarm.

Gutempty, boneneed
heartgripe ache
for those once close
now ashed in earth.

in my arms she sobs
for her mam’s voice,
and my heartsob
for my late mam’s voice.

Rhythm of her grief
as she nods on my chest
almost lulls me to sleep.

She shudders awake
heaves herself to the floor
as her mam, only on an errand
walks a smile through the door.

© 2018, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

Fixes It

As a parent you believe
you can fix everything.

when they’re in pain,
regrow bones, restore lost

blood, a pillow for their head,
neck hugged in bright,

playcentre foam
while enquiries are made,

you cry hugfulls,
then, you drive

as fast as you can,
imagine their absence as the worst

now, you make them laugh
warm their cold hands

push their hair away from their eyes
hold it, together

hold it …..together
hold it together

I can’t have

dogshit on surfaces,

settee and chairs,
kids in mucky diapers.

hold it together

but I have.

hold it together

but I have.

© 2018, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

Identical with a Twig

At some unnamed night,
and it will be bright,
I’ll go away.

The door I will never
close
the flowers will keep
fragrance.
My children will have fallen asleep
the most deeply
covered and caressed
and somebody will cant to them again
a cradle song.
It will be light like in a temple
and clear like a voice
in mountains.
Then I’ll leave
forgotten all the words…

A branch in the white snow.

© 2018, bogpan (bogpan – блог за авторска поезия, блог за авторска поезия)

GROWING PAINS

Silence was your fortress. Sometimes you would

venture  to whisper through its narrow slits,

granting entry to very few across

the drawbridge, nursing your tenderness while

watching for wolves prowling from the forest.

 

Time and the winds brought seeds, sun, soft  rain.

Now kingcups fill the moat, campion the keep.

Briony and rose are capturing the walls;

swallows return  to their niches every year

and  in the valley, blackbirds sing your songs.

© 2018, Frank McMahan

CURIOSITY

You would converse with otters if you could,

count the bubbles as they break the river’s

sheen, your mind a submarine to follow

them wherever they and the waters run;

surface then to roll amongst the meadow

-sweet  and thyme, newest of their brood.

 

You would take a felucca on the Nile,

cresting its yearly flood, turning back time

to  etch hieroglyphs on the temples’ walls, grind

corn in a quern, dine at the High Priest’s

table, look up as the Pharoah passes.

© 2018, Frank McMahan

THE ETERNAL CHILD.

We were all ready, our homes and our

imagined worlds, waiting to give you,

day by day and year on year, the best

of our  imperfect selves, to watch you

climb the branches of our love

and catch the world’s excitement.

But you were overwhelmed.

Our earth-bound pathways have diverged.

Yet you will voyage with us, there

in every season,in the dappled sunlight

of our days, learning all the steps

of your childhood’s dance.

© 2018, Frank McMahan

.. boy ..

 

some shops

sell fairy dust in                 small bottles,

various shades of pastel.                 cork

stoppers, a wee note inside at just £1.99.

 

i bought you      one,

to treasure. to place

on your bedroom shelf,

in case.

of emergencies.

© 2018, poem and illustration, Sonja Benskin Mesher  (sonja-benskin-mesher.net; Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA paintings; sonja-benskin-mesher.co.uk)

.. driving past woods..

oh you are a beauty, showing your legs,                dress swinging.

 

in rhythm. in photos , little gifs,                                      to share.

 

how can we  look the same?                   i think i look different

 

now. now that i have grown,                          watched you grow.

 

now. now.

 

now that i helped  when you were sick.                   now.now.

 

now i am older and watched you die.                          all of you.

 

i say goodnight to some and remember                       all of you.

 

how can i look the same.                                                  now. now.

 

remember all that has been done.                                           how

can i look the same?

 

you are still a beauty.

 

dress swinging.

© 2018, poem and illustration, Sonja Benskin Mesher  (sonja-benskin-mesher.net; Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA paintings; sonja-benskin-mesher.co.uk)

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“enough, Enough, ENOUGH!” … and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

The responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, April 4, Where is the will of the cup to overcome the sword?, are marked by compassion, concern, insight, and sadness. A collection of heartfelt works by three poets new to Wednesday Writing Prompt (June G. Paul, Frank McMahon, Siobhan Tibbs – bios included by way of introduction) and by three of our dear regulars (Paul Brookes, Sonja Benson Mesher, and Mike Stone).  As a part of her response, Sonja has treated us to some of her artwork this week.

Thanks to all six poets for generously sharing their work and coming out to play. We hope you’ll join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are welcome – encouraged – novice, emerging or pro.

The Golden Shovel Poem

The bar brawl began after midnight, blood and wine splattered where
she was sitting and asking herself, Has everyone gone out of their mind? Tell me if this is
real? Is it true that some people still do not believe that the holocaust has happened?  The
ignorance and denial of people, the erasing of and rewriting, of the history of mankind will
certainly be the cause of the end of
us all. And will the end of the world come before the end of all time? The
woman wondered, as she leaned over to pick up the cup
he had dropped during during the brawl. Standing there with the empty cup she opened her mouth to
speak, quietly asking him in whispers, Why is it so hard for you to overcome
your past, your addiction to alcohol and fighting about the weapons of warfare when it was the
Word of God, who spoke before and on the cross, offering peace with his two edged sword?
“Where is the will of the cup to overcome the Sword?”*
 
© 2018, June G. Paul
* line in the poem:  time for the temple whores to sleep with insanity, and take the war from it,   (c), 2017 by Jamie Dedes
*
enough, Enough, ENOUGH!
*
We drink the cup of the new covenant without
taking in its meaning, for God’s sake
Jesus Christ
turned water, into wine, into blood.
The blood of the Passover lambs replaced with
the wine in the Passover cup he called the blood of the new covenant.
There is wine to be shed, wine to be poured out at the altar
instead of blood being shed all over this earth.  Enough!
Enough drinking from this cup without living into its meaning,
without remembering Jesus Christ and his will for us – Peace.
Enough! Overcome the sword, wake up, stay, and pray, save yourselves.
Enough of the drunken soldiers drinking, trying to forget, and crying over
the blood shed from all the wars they’ve fought on this earth, Enough!
Enough! Drink, all of you, the cup of the new covenant and remember
Jesus Christ
lifted the cup in his hands while speaking his will for it and for all –
Drink, all of you, it will be shed for the forgiveness of sin.
He poured out his life of prayer for us, remember Jesus,
Remember his will for us – Peace.
It’s time we sacrifice our sin for Him, to overcome the sword,
for our own sakes and for God’s sake, to save ourselves from
the hell we’ve been causing on this earth – Nuclear blasts and bombs
bursting over and under and into the air, the land and the sea
we’re polluting ourselves and our own eternity.
enough, Enough, ENOUGH!
Now is the time to cease our fighting, now is the time to bring an end to war.
enough, Enough, ENOUGH! the battle cry of peacemakers,
Kings and Queens and Princes of Peace on earth are crying out.
Now is the time to call out and bring out the peacemakers
Those who believe in the will of the cup and the new covenant
will overcome the will to draw their swords, setting world at ease
There is time, Today, time to fill and bless the cup and lift it up
There is time, Today, time enough to be forgiven of sin,
There is time, Today, time enough for us all to sacrifice our sins and live
There is time, Today, for us to live in peace with all nations.
Now is the time to set the nations at ease instead of keeping them on edge
Now is the time for the will of the cup to overcome the sword and the world.
In peace, let the people of the earth, heal and forgive,
In peace, let us all find joy in co-creating Heaven on earth,
for that and therein is where the will of the cup is found.
*
(c) 2018, June G. Paul
*
June G. Paul

JUNE G. PAUL is an aspiring poet, wife and grandmother who enjoys creativity.  She and her husband live in Portage WI.  She recently scheduled a series of monthly poetry readings with featured poets and open mic time.  June is currently working on several different writing and art projects.  She has self-published two books and will be soon coming out with her first Chapbook which she is titling, My Poems: Chapped not Trapped.

*

FIND me WORDS

Find me words to stop the slaughter.
Find me words which will be heard
and  not just heard but taken up,
amplified and echoed. But not

just  voiced by millions or painted
onto banners. Find me words which
will pierce concrete walls and steel-clad
minds, find me words which will stop.

Find me powers to lay across
their desks and war-room floors broken
bones and flesh, find me powers to
make them cradle in their arms

the headless child, to salve her mother’s
napalm-shredded skin, unclog
the students’ gas-filled lungs, prise out
the shards of shrapnel while they order

more assaults. If they will not desist,
then give me power to move them
to the cellars, the shattered streets
and farms and make them wait alone
while we decide their future. What
can they offer to atone? The dead
and maimed must speak, pronounce. Find
them words to write the final page.

© 2018, Frank McMahon, originally published on Reuben Woolley’s I am not a silent poet

FRANK McMAHON is a professional social worker in the UK and includes work with the Red Cross. He’s written several plays and more recently had a creative burst writing poems. His publications include I am not a silent poet, The Cannon’s Mouth, and Cirencester Scene. Frank lives in Cirencester. He’s had two more poems to appear later this year in other journals and is also a member of a local writer’s group.

 

a few help the others, while the others suffer

 

there was a picture of a bomb   in blaenau, next

to a drawing of a dick, and a passage from the bible.

hash tag.

deuteronomy.

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::wonderland:: . . . and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

The last Wednesday Writing Prompt, March 28, invited poets to write about place. Here are the interesting, intriguing, and sometimes poignant responses from poets: Gary W. Bowers, Paul Brooks, Kakali Das Ghosh, and Sonja Benskin Mesher. I’m touched though not surprised that home inspired a few of the poems featured today.

For some writers poetry may be a primary form of artistic expression but it is not the only one. You’ll note, I always include links to contributors blogs when they have them. I hope you’ll visit and get to know them or connect with them on Facebook. Gary, Sonja (an award-winning artist, so many I can’t keep up) and Kakali are stellar artists, very different in style but rewarding.  Paul (who often writes in regional dialet), Gary and Sonja are also photographers. Given Paul’s knowledge and love of art, he has distinguished himself with some very fine ekphrastic poetry.

Gary is sharp, original and unique. He honored me with one of his sketches. Thanks again, Gary!

jamie-dedes-02222017

I’m pleased beyond all the words with which we play to present these remarkably talented folks to you here, one of the gratifications of a “connected world.”  I hope you’ll share your own work with us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt.

the phoenix and phoenix

phoenix arizona lies
asprawl across the valley of the sun,
and that sun in summer stuns one
who is wise to heads indoors,

but the winters, mild and tasty,
bid a million phoenicians rise
and form a wing-flexing phoenix
of basking and bonhomie
and renewal.

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

the phoenix and phoenix

phoenix arizona lies
asprawl across the valley of the sun,
and that sun in summer stuns one
who is wise to heads indoors,

but the winters, mild and tasty,
give a million phoeni

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

Our Wombwell

sunbreaking brought bling jewels from overnight
rain, droplet tiaras/earrings trees, lampposts ankle bracelets.

On bus glimpse un netted/unblinded windows massive TVs window on window on corporate images: ogle goggle boxed.

Fresh grass laundered, barbeque wafts, rounding white clouds sky ablaze: Natural delights

cat trots downhill to bike shop. Black stringtied purse roadside. Folded bus pass at bus stop: ways home

© 2018, Paul Brookes (Wombwell Rainbow)

My Black Spot

A treasure island mark on a palm
for which mam says she has blankets
in the airing cupboard.

For any metal crashes
we might hear from
the busy A one.

A grey metal bridge
over the spot
I trundle my Raleigh bike

to meet with crystal set Duncan,
bright as the guards
on his new bike.

An overgrown cottage
with walls like broken teeth
and shattered windscreen glass

meets me at the footbridge bottom.
There is no blood,
only what’s left after the event.

On return footbridge
is now flyover, black spot removed.
Folk fly by too fast.

My old home is a turn off.
into village quiet.
A place folk glance at
on the way to elsewhere.

© 2018, Paul Brookes (Wombwell Rainbow)

Flinch At Cold, Cold,

sticky touch
of scaffold pole steel,
in the sunblaze,

negotiate unlashed wooden
planks of a half built brick house
opposite my Mam and Dad’s,

miss my foothold, bang my knees,
graze my elbows, dazed, brickdust gob,
lightblinded

see behind closed eyes, few years earlier,
another bright, warm summer,
my fall

fifteen feet from a branch
in a tall forest, to sharp earth,
concussed, bruised, rip

my jeans, leaf litter gob,
so mate John,
who I’ve played with

for months takes
me, where I’ve never been,
over the massive quiet

of the cricket pitch of a cut lawn
his dad’s garden,
crunch pristine, white gravel

to his big sandstone Hall,
John says “Take them off.”,
as he takes his shoes off,

I take off my forested sneakers,
through white barndoor
of a front door, smell fried onions,

pad over red tiled hallway,
into a bright, high frontroom,
bigger than our village school

assembly hall,
to a vast leather settee
and first colour tv I’ve ever seen,

looks small in the centre
of this space,
asks me to sit while his mam

fetches a warm
cup of tea in a china cup,
and asks if I want her

to fetch my mam or dad.
I say “It’s kind of you to say,
but, no. I’m ok.”

And sunblinded, sore,
bloody again, on the scaffold,
reluctant,

as mam said, “And don’t let me
catch you clambering over
that building site!”

© 2018, Paul Brookes (Wombwell Rainbow)

#It Was The First Time #

It was the first time
I was there
It was the first time
I felt his touch on my shoulders
Bay of Bengal :gazed at me with its profound look
With its stories untold for years immemorial
With its beach bathing under April sun
With its wavy dance dashing over boulders carving relics
It was the first time a heavenly child on a horse threw a celestial smile at me while passing through rocks
It was the first time he rehashed me
a statue spellbound
And it was the first time that tamarisk wood in the skyline
swayed each corner of my heart
My courage unfolded to say you -“I’m yours -just yours .”

© 2018, Kakali Das Ghosh

:: wonder land ::

it was a long winter

spring came, and i went to

wonderland

finished work, drove the hill,

there before me, misted,

pink polaroid,

pointy trees,

i could not breathe

for wondering.

plas newydd, the house

of lady friends

who flew from family

to nest in looking

glass.

a world away.

breathe came,

all there was in the

whole world was this place

yesterday.

pin pointed, pinhole,

and mindfulness.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher (sonja-benskin-mesher.net; Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA paintings; sonja-benskin-mesher.co.uk)

.home.

to live in this place,

walk down to see fish,

waterboat men, dimpling

miniscus.

rest amongst bird

song, tapping the wood.

know you have

a piece of mind,

however fleeting.

to be in this place.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher (sonja-benskin-mesher.net; Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA paintings; sonja-benskin-mesher.co.uk)

.this place.

enjoyed waiting with you, leaning on the fence.

quietly remember you who made this place. special.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher (sonja-benskin-mesher.net; Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA paintings; sonja-benskin-mesher.co.uk)

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“Our Takeaway”…. and other responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

 

My apologies to all those who shared poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt. I didn’t realize today was Tuesday and time to post your wonderful work for all to see. The reason – not excuse, as they say – is I am totally in airhead mode with this relocation. So, here we go … still Tuesday by me but I know for some of you it’s already a new day …

The last prompt, Wednesday, March 21, after the injera, the way, the niter kibby: tell us about a take away from your travels or vacation garnered us these lovelies. Thank you to Kakali Das Gosh, Pleasant Street, Paul Brookes, Sonja Benskin Mesher, and Reena Presad. Enjoy! 

Our Takeaway

always on a Friday. A menu
taken out of the kitchen drawer,

unfolded. Dad scribbles what everyone
wants. I choose egg fried rice.

Using phone on the phone table
in hallway Dad rings order through.

Sister and I chorus:
“Can I come when you go, Dad?”

After days of school meals,
meat and two veg. at home,

takeaway is exotic. In the car
usual casual joke “egg flied lice.”

Inhale fragrance of garlic,
soy and foreign voices far above

as we join the queue, Dad collects
a thin white plastic bag that bulges

with sharp edged foil cartons
on kitchen side carefully

extracts each box, bends back lips
releases plumes of spicy heat

to put on already warmed plates,
carried through to front room.

Empty cartons are placed back in white bag
rushed out to a bin so smell does not linger.

© 2018, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

I A Glede

dark wraith,
elegant, rangy,
float russet and goldflash,
above winter’s woodland,

street cleaner,
snatch roadkill from gutters,
pavements, lobbed pizzas, chips,
knickers, jackets, teddy bears,
odd shoes, toy giraffes
rest with my feathered young,
decorate my nest.

© 2018, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

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.

© 2018, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

I’m Man Enough

18 in 1980 week afore starting uni,
lads night out and your dressed
in Burton’s bright yellow like a canary,
socks, shoes, shirt, jacket, because it’s cool.

Lads boast they down 11/12 pints
of John Smiths bitter a night,
shag a lass then do same next night.
You’ve never done neither.

Follow lads round like fresh meat,
loud and brash, they talk of shagging
bints, fast cars, live bands you’ve
never seen coddled by your mam and dad.

Four pints in and your eyelids droop,
bitter makes you fall asleep, lasses
in short skirts with intentions nuzzle
up but loud music means you can’t listen

to what they’re saying and wouldn’t know
what to say. Lads jostle you. “We’re off
to neet club. A tha cumming?”. I shout
an apology. “Got to be in by 11.”

They get off. I leave the pub, buy
a pizza and pissed walk home uphill
chomping on greasy slices, cardboard
box too big, one side of road to another.

© 2018, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

# I’d depart this land #

His visage is still vivid in this misty evening
Those eyes
Those pink hands
Those lips
Those jowls
Those days in Kashmir
still call me in this lonely evening
That crystal lake
That stream
Those golden apples
Those flower boats
Those diamond peaks
Are playing in my weepy eyes
His words
His kisses
His smile
His last touch
Perhaps still have retained a token of our fancy
In the last cherry tree of that garden
I’d depart -I’d depart this land
To searh for those flying hairs
Those heavenly fingers
Embracing me
in that florid houseboat…

© 2018, Kakali Das Ghosh

. it is a holiday .

they say, and close the stores.

it is complicated, to do with floor space and employees rights.

we had chocolate eggs, worked hard, let our arms loose.

warmer now, the sun shone, people came, visited,

smiled, fondled the wool, spoke of age and weaving.

he said there were many looms in his day.

he is eighty eight, he told me many times.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher (sonja-benskin-mesher.net; Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA paintings; sonja-benskin-mesher.co.uk)

. permanent traveller .

having had a few days off, no not from honest work,

yet writing, rests the mind, i find that everyday

things, mote well on my behalf.

i heard the cock crow early,

looked for swallow flight, seeing none,

cleaned, tidied, then came to write.

it has been a pleasant morning.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher (sonja-benskin-mesher.net; Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA paintings; sonja-benskin-mesher.co.uk)

You Do The Math

(what I wrote while traveling
back to the town we met in and fell
in love, and back again)

dancing tall in my living room
to George and Elton
(does it really happen
if no-one sees it
like that tree in the forest)
he says sometimes I never go out
(could tell him stories about 1985
when I lived ten years in 12 months)
and I dance and dance

my head full of 1990
(wonderwall,hammer,hit me baby)
one more time–let’s dance as one
I’ll lead this time–you follow
if you still have that notion
that 1+1=1
and 2+1=no end of joy

perhaps we will find
a new kind of happy-
ness, wrapped in understanding
and lessons learned
(old flames, new rites of passage)
let’s not forget, and dance to now
(rhianna, poison, blended with
the Beatles, Eagles, and 21
pilots, shaken and stirred)

once I thought it was most crucial
to fly without a net
but I believe
the trick
is
to not let go

© 2018, Pleasant Street (are you thrilled)

AESTIVATION

The road is an arid breath
wheezing through barren boughs

I unpacked you on the green bed
My hair flying wild
Bees humming about silken valleys

We left together to explore the trail
of a dust-swept summer
Drunk bees still buzzed in hordes
till a flycatcher caught up with us

Your summer, a mirage
A shimmering wall of sorrow
Dry-eyed, I listened to its howl
They lamented in Nizwa and Sohar
yet you held your sorrow in
waiting for Khareef

The Hajar mountains twisted to get
a glimpse of tourists
fooled by bursts of paper blooms

Parched, we returned
A white eye of a flycatcher followed us
The wall wept then at my infecundity

But in my rucksac, carefully preserved roots lived
To soak in tap water at leisure
and bring forth a trail of sprouting greens

I smelt then
the base notes of a buried south-westerly monsoon
feeling buds of earthy love
from this land of hidden green
burst open beneath dry skin

© Reena Prasad (Butterflies of Time – A Canvas of Poetry)
originally published in GloMag May 2016

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