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“Vacuuming her dressing table, you accidentally suck up her earring” and other responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

The poems published today are responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, July 19 – “because love poems are elegies.” As always, it’s so interesting to see how the perspectives differ.

Enjoy this wonderful little collection. Be sure to comment by way of encouraging the poets.

Thanks to Annie, Renee, Paul, Sonja and Colin for coming out to play this week.  Bravo!

“Goodbye,” she said

It has been – interesting

But …

The time has come

Leaving is difficult

Death is permanent

I must go …

To find myself …

Staying will only lead to

Death …

Maybe mine …

Perhaps yours…

Death is not

My style

Not my future

The choice made

“Goodbye,” she said

Leaving to Live …

© 2017, Annie Original Poetry (Annie’s Muse)

  • This is Annie’s first time here, so I’ll include her bio as is tradition, but it will be added in later today. Meanwhile, you can visit Annie’s blog and I hope you will and that you’ll visit the blogs of the other poets as well. J.D.

Forgiveness

is
more work for her.
Always afterwards she
strips the bed,
changes the blossom of linen sheets,

puts stained sheets
in the wash, hangs
them on the line or horse.

On ferries or in hotels
his jewellery catches
on hers, hours disentangling
earings, repairing necklaces.

His sweat drips on her,
not like a veil,
too soon, fat not muscle
flops over her.

He makes work
of her temper.

Takes too much time
to find sheet corners
that are never pulled
tight enough.

To her his help
is more hinder.

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

Vacuuming her dressing table …

Vacuuming her dressing table you, accidentally suck up an earring

and spend most of the day
your finger up the thin hole

of the bag until it drops out,
and you are covered in dust,

empty peanut shells, feathers,
cat fur and damn your OCD.

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

A Favor to a Friend

He was on leave her friend said
could she double date with her

a blind date she never would

but her friend’s cousin
was being shipped out
she said

so it was decided she was dating
a handsome young fellow
& she dating the cousin

a drive-in movie they went to
her friend in the front seat
& her in the back

with the cousin

she tried to oblige remembering
he was to be shipped out

so she tried pleasantries
to no avail
none at all

he moved in closer and closer
too close for comfort really

the kissing began
going on and on
without end

what was the movie on the screen
she didn’t remember seeing

he simply kept on kissing

did he ever come up for air
but he was on leave
wasn’t he

she was glad when the evening
closed and the movie was done
so she could go home

her friend the next day called to say
her cousin wanted to know
could he see her again
upon his return

but she tactfully found a way
to decline saying
absolutely
not

not another time

she needed air

© 2017, Renee Espriu (Renee Just Turtle Flight)

:: poet ::

it is just that some dislike

love poems, those that rhyme

all romantic. pretty though

they are.

some write of other

things, in a more

random fashion.

i like things private.

© Sonja Benskin Mesher (Sonja Benskin Mesher, R.C.A.)

.. somethings cannot ..

some things cannot be put to word.

i try. hard. you lay there cold.

i stumble stutter say sounds backwards.

think i know? i thought i knew

you know.

there is silence. some socks

will not fit the drawer.

some things need tidying.

regularly.

some things.

there were bits of cabbage in the water,

now they are down the sink.

© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher (Sonja Benskin Mesher, R.C.A.)

294.

it all shows through
the other side
and backwards,
said

we the warriors
try to hold our own
under chaos
and scrutiny

invade the private place
at peril
you will kiss us,
kill us

is this love
or captivity?

© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher (Sonja Benskin Mesher, R.C.A.)

your innocence

I forgive you –
the essential being
I am in love with
that looked down at little flowers
and took up whims with passion;
you are innocent in thinking that
you yourself deserve forgiving

well then I forgive the innocence
but nothing else:
perhaps there is nothing else to forgive
it being all your secret
and therefore nothing to do with me

forgiveness is an arrogant intrusion
into somebody else’s life

when I say it was
an elaborate charade
I do not mean you deliberately
tricked me rather I acknowledge
that I believed my own
solution to the discrete acts
you put on for me
to suggest the whole world was ours –
person place and thing

this fool
blinded by spot-light
entered into the spirit of the game
you’re so relieved to quit

one more day
to endure
(this I think you think)
of living where I fit
quite comfortably

our life ends
the day after tomorrow;
our brief life once
so promising
and I can see
you are excited –
something I might once have loved –
like a little kid at the start
of the summer holidays

© 2017, Colin Blundell (Colin Blundell, All and Everything)

The following poem from Colin is in response to the prompt on Wednesday, June 28

at a railway station

a black & white handsome dog
stands in an apparently patient manner
by his master while he fiddles around
with his bag on a seat on the platform

the dog looks at me
drinking coffee from a plastic cup
through the window
of the train waiting for departure

in an apparently beseeching manner –
when I smile he looks away as though

he can no longer bear human emotions
or confront the unknown or the untravelled –
in an arcane manner of speaking

© Colin Blundell (Colin Blundell, All and Everything)

ABOUT THE POET BY DAY

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Because love poems are elegies … and your Wednesday Writing Prompt

wine-and-fruitHangover

at the grocery ~
Meeting accidentally in the wine section
you sip me shyly with gentle conversation
and read the label on my selection,
your hand brushes mine, a sensual appeal
It’s for drunken pasta! I explain,
you laugh and say you’d rather drink than eat it
your eyes are Wedgwood blue and hold a wistful smile
you imagine I’m something fine, a vintage port
you’re flushed with the fancied sweetness
I could drink you too, a sturdy Bordeaux
but I no longer deal well with hangovers

Crane_frog4

To the Frog at the Door

if you kiss a frog, so I’ve been told
there’s a chance he’ll turn into a prince
a frog prince, which means you have
you absolutely have to love him
and i’ve loved a few frogs, at least
i think i have, they never became princes
nor did their love morph me into a princess
i’m still a cranky old crow, we are what we are,
loving frogs and crows isn’t transformative
….why should it be?
one woman’s frog is another woman’s prince

…….as for this old crow

………….she loves flying solo

…….not that you asked

© 2013, poems, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved; Illustration ~ Wine and fruit photo courtesy of Jean Boufort, Public Domain Pictures. net and The Frog Prince by Walter Crane (1845-1915), U.S. Public Domain

WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT

Because love poems are elegies (if you don’t agree, pretend you do for the sake of the exercise), write an unRomantic poem.

If you feel comfortable doing so, leave your work or a link to in the comments section. Responses to Wednesday prompts are published on this site on the following Tuesday.

ABOUT THE POET BY DAY

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“Goose Summer” … and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

The last Wednesday Writing Prompt (June 5, 2017) was about autumn and its promises. “How does the wind and the promise of rain and crunchy leaves underfoot make you feel?” Here are poems in response to the prompt. Read on and enjoy …

Goose Summer

When a plump late November goose
down day, warm and dry,

becomes over years
a filmy substance

a ballooned thread,
fly fish cast into a void,

a winter veil
nets your face

in the garden
or down the lane,

dew bling breath
in stubbled glazed fields,

a warm murmured spell of spiders
among the ice.

A strange movement
of language from

goose summer
to gossamer,

as if it has lost weight,
a cloud into contrail,

under plumage,
thinned with the years,

beggared
into one word,

to soft filaments,
blown on a breeze,

the decomposed dead,
spider thread.

© 2017, Paul Brookes, (The Wombwell Rainbow)

My Regreened Trees

Leaves on a tree wear a green mask.
Autumn as they die the mask falls
And we see their true self
Red, yellow or orange

Without sunlight
a tree can no longer mask a leaf.
When it is too cold leaves turn brown.
When a leaf dies we see it’s true self.

The tree takes water from the graves
Replenishes tree
Replenishes with memory in water
The tree is the dead
Regreened leaves applaud life

The regreened leaf is a hand
Reattached to a limb
Tree feeds the hands of its canopy
Hears their clapping
Shaking

I hear the special hand clap
of my late mother in the canopy
Of the applauding trees
And my hands want to clap too.

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

An Abundance

brought for the winter
down from Summer’s high warmth.
Abundance stored as welcome wealth
rests ready for the darkening.

Brought from hedgerows,
woods an abundance of wild damsons,
sloes, rosehips, elderberries,
blackberries, hawthorn berries.
Fruit is the seed carrier.

What is this ghost of a leaf?
Where is the pattern it makes?
How does the pattern of a leaf
become a ghost of its tree?

It is the season of the open door.
It is the reason of half day of light.
It is the reason of half day of dark .

We stand between days, colder,
on that eve of halves
when we go disguised
from old ghosts, new ghosts
cold door to warm door
in hope of gifts and a smile.

The Bearded Nut In A Hat

Soon the wise bearded ones with hats
and saw-toothed hands will fall
for us to collect their wisdom
in woven baskets.

Filbert or cobnut,
crack the hard exterior,
strip the paper thin skin,
nosh on the rich, sweet
nutmeat of wisdom,
that is head, heart
and baby inside the womb.

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

:: falling days ::

songs come via friends,
the books we read,
the place we breathe,
songs of the fading,of life
**
the words hit our hearts,
and sink in to stay, to pledge
another stage set,
small life
**
driving the land, the songs,
carry us along, to our place,
the constant places,
we think don’t change,

**
the song of love, spinning,
dizzying, head and mind,
words of the books,
black and white
**
so the falling days,
end today, winter waits,
and the songs, and words,
tunes are all to warm us,
and hold us safe

© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher (Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA)

::sweet oak::

irregular, you came, your best clothes

shining.

never mind. the first tune hit the mind,

patterns and mathematics.

the kindness that is, mixes

with dampened autumn air, and your woodsmoke.

sweet oak.

all that there is. here.

© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher (Sonjia Benskin Mesher, RCA)

Leafy Boughs of Finery

When the air turns crisp and
harbors promises of cold nights
requiring the layering of clothes
to provide warmth the chill of
autumn dresses for the season
with leafy boughs that become
a finery of golds, yellows, reds
lining the street a fall runway
they bend ever so slightly to see
through the glass eyes of homes
where pumpkin pies are baking
and hot cider is brewing

© 2017, Renee Espiru (Renee Just Turtle Flight)

And here to cloase is a belated response to the prompt fro Wednesday Writing Prompt June 28, “tell us about your morning coffee …. or tea.”  

ALL IN A DAY’S WORK (as shared over coffee)

I was late for work on Tuesday
And I took off in a flash,
Unfortunately my coffee cup tipped over
And drenched me with a splash,
My white shirt caught every brown drop.
Front and center of the shirt were splattered
I should have found the time to stop.
Those coffee spots looked like politicians twisted in a spiral,
How was I supposed to know that psychiatrists
Were waiting for the picture to go viral?
I was already marked as a careless man.
Women avoided me, I didn’t understand.
As a result I didn’t notice the hot dog vendor
Who was counting out his cash,
I’ve been told the noise of the impact,
Drew first responders and lawyers quickly to the crash.
The ketchup from the hot dogs added color, just a dash.
It was the brown shirt that made people turn and look at me,
All the attention, the crowds, even the President came to see.
I’m not saying that I’m famous because of my brown speckled shirt,
Neither did I gain some fame when I didn’t show for work.
It could have been those dirt splotches and the things people saw,
Or it could have been my imagination when I fell and hurt my jaw.
But I opened a coffee shop over on Fifth and Main,
And every day from dawn to dusk cars are there sure as rain.
I’m happy that I’m helping others, or maybe it’s just fate,
It seems If I’m kind to others, it won’t matter if I’m late.
The geese are flying south again, coffee prices are on the rise,
Meet me for a special exotic blend called MY CLUMSY SUNRISE.
It’s the one that got me started, and I don’t know if it will end,
Come and join our poetry group, the ones we call our friends.
Write about anything until you squeeze the last words out.
We encourage all who share, and those with fears and doubts,
Drink my coffee and let the words splash straight from your heart,
The end result is less important than the journey we all make,
We strive to improve the world, one coffee, or a story,
It’s a step we all take.

© 2017, Dan Roberson (My Blog)

ABOUT THE POET BY DAY

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“Cravings …” and other fabulous coffee poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt … grab a cuppa joe and join us

A selection of Bialetti moka pots at Koffiebranderij BOON in The Hague, by Takeaway under CC BY-SA 4.0

Coming soon from The Poet by Day: Coffee, Tea and Poetry – bookmark it now, debut to be announced

Thanks to all the poets who came out to play last week for Wednesday Writing Prompt June 28, “tell us about your morning coffee …. or tea.”  

A cup of java, a Danish, and thou. What could possibly be better in a world gone mad? Enjoy …

The View Over Morning Coffee

I’ve yet to tire of the view
refined by changes over time
the tiny shafts of morning light
brighten landscape till it shines.

And on the grass the morning dew
reflects like diamonds on each blade
dampness slow to dissipate
it lingers under oaken shade

The shadows shift, the seasons pass
a single constant still remains:
I see the young man I once knew
despite the years, he hasn‘t changed.

How do you know if love will last,
as decades pass will it remain?
If face that greets you in the morn
in ages hence will still sustain?

I’ve yet to tire of your face
familiar as my mirrored own…
your smile lines, your silver threads;
our stories etched on skin and bone.

As morning breaks we pour a cup
and through the steam we greet the day,
again I’m taken with the view:
your smile takes my breath away.

© Ginny Brannan 2017 (Inside Out Poetry)

Cravings…

I long to be craved for
in the wee hours before
darkness melts into dawn;
I long to be the first thought
that enters your mind each day…
I long to be savored,
sweet and moist upon your lips
as morning rays slip the blinds
casting stripes on linen sheets.
I long to feel your soft breath
as you inhale the scent of me;
feel your pulse quicken
as my warmth teases your tongue
I long to arouse your senses
satisfy your thirst…
I long to be …

… coffee

© Ginny Brannan 2017 (Inside Out Poetry)

(c) Ginny Brannon

GINNY BRANNAN (Inside Out Poetry) resides in Massachusetts with her husband, son and three cats. Drawing inspiration from life, nature, and the human condition, her poetry has been published in four poetry collections including The d’Verse Anthology: Voices of Contemporary World Poetry, and three anthologies from Journey of the Heart: Women’s Spiritual Poetry.

Over My Morning Coffee

Over my morning coffee I read
About love between john and a red
Haired lady. I saw the pleas for
World peace and love between jamie
And all who follow her. And the names of
Frank, Linda, and those who travel and explore
food bloggers, bloaters, poets, dragons, two eyed kings
without any cards. And more for the readers who search
for the keys and treasures that rust and stay hidden and wait to be bidden
to search beyond the stars. Over my morning coffee I saw the world in a new light.
I saw a world of promise for those who are willing to stand up and fight.

© 2017, Dan Roberson (My Blog)

The King and I, Morning Coffee Contemplation

I’m not a king who has the power
To tweet insults every hour
Nor do I desire to be heard
And claim the truth is in all my words.
If the king were to treat me nice
Or ask for my advice
I would not take a chance
Under any circumstance
To believe him as he raves and rants.
He’s not the kind of guy
Who’ll even try to see eye to eye.
He does what he wants to do,
No matter what might ensue.
He’s a doer, not a thinker,
I won’t swallow his yarns
Hook, line, and sinker.
He’s a king without social skill,
Bullying, badgering, from the Hill.
Rather than a model of decorum
For all the world to see,
He seems bent on dragging down,
The office that represents you and me.
To exchange barbed words from the throne,
Destroys the boundaries between right and wrong.
Those in power have offices to represent,
Not used to get even with those they resent.

© 2017, Dan Roberson (My Blog)

My Morning Coffee ( added @ 04/04/2017, 4:14 p.m.)
On a crisp morning before the sun wakes,
Wanting to become instantly awake
I have my first cup of coffee,
I consider very important questions,
How much cream will it take?
Will coffee bring out the best of me?
I soon decide the world is in slow motion,
As i wake, one eye at a time,
All atrocities are to be dealt with later,
I enter my quiet moments of meditation,
Sipping slowly, shaking away yesterday,
Thinking about the beauty of today.
But not all is right with the world.
Russia and china are partnering,
Telling the United States to calm down,
Hold off on defensive missiles, wait until dark
When the world can sleep and dream
Of the perfect cup of coffee.

© 2017, Dan Roberson (My Blog)

(c) Dan Roberson

DAN ROBERTSON (My Blog) didn’t send me a bio and photo (or, maybe I forgot ask for one) but I’ve known him long enough to write a little something off the top of my head. Dan is a former teacher (high school I believe) and a father. One daughter is an accomplished artist. He’s a natural-born storyteller with one – maybe two – collections of short stories that were published some time ago. Dan’s been sharing stories and poetry on WordPress since November 2010. He is also the former owner of an online shop. Dan’s gentle spirit and strong intuitive sense is revealed in all his work. He studied journalism and communication at Cal State Sacramento. J.D.

Over My Morning Coffee

A sweetner and a hearty dose of creamer
await in a favorite mug,
for the hot medium roast,
not too strong.
The purple porch swing awaits
in the cool morning air
as the eastern sun flickers through
the tops of distant trees.

I swing gently, cradling the mug,
enjoying the warmth and
the ritual a bit more
than the coffee.
Contemplating the miracle of
the flow and ebb of life
as flowers bloom and die
in the perennial bed below.

© 2017, Pat Bailey (A New Day: Living Life Almost Gracefully , Photography and Thoughts About Life and Aging)

(c) Pat Bailey

PAT BAILEY, mulitalented and in retirement, publishes stunning photographs on her site, mainly of discoveries made on travel adventures with her husband. These are accompanied with savvy reflections and keen observations on life, relationships and aging. Pat worked at Spring Arbor University before her retirement. She studied psychology at Fielding Institute of Graduate Studies. She has an MSW (social work) and a Ph.D. (clinical psychology), which led to professional employment that she appears to have found gratifying. The meditations Pat posts on her blog reveal the perspectives gained from her work and the insights of a truly decent person. J.D.

::coffee::

can you make coffee, make
it last two hours? can you

talk?

when there is solitary, when
thoughts are enough to blend,
when all you thought you needed
was supplied, it takes encouragement
to talk.

hear yourself chat on and on
about nothing in particular,
or is it something, i can’t remember.

i am not sure that talking says anything.

really.

learn to care.

© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher (Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA)

::coffee been ::

i wished it had bean
an orange cup, i wish
there had bean beans,

yet all were ground and
brewed, and i have
not bean so good
at this one, so

you do not need
to like, then i will
not need to thank
thee.

i feel like i bean an has
bean, in today’s
challenge.

© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher (Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA)

:: these trees ::

harrogate in the rain.

cheap umbrella broke,

a delightful shade of pink,

abandoned.

abandoned the street

for the parlour, the crown.

mourned my shoes, wet

and ripping.

dripping

white nubuck.

watched the trees,

falling leaves.

good coffee

opposite

the pumproom.

harrogate.

© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher (Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA)

The Gift

Evening. Friends arrive with cake.
All have coffee.

They come to see part feral kitten
abandoned by their new home’s

owner they brought to us. She lolls
on the bed in our spare room.

TV is on. Candles in Berlin.
We swap gifts. Latte glasses

for them, cake for us.
Laughter. Cinnamon pastry

and walnut Christmas cake.

TV is on. Berlin flickers in the dark.
Time for leaving.

Hugs and best wishes.

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

Decided

She has decided everything
must have a flat surface else it will fall

and make a mess, small red trays for tea and coffee, big white trays for meals in

front of the t.v., and puts vase containing his ashes above the false fireplace

beside the clock their friends gave them for their sixtieth anniversary, below

the picture of tumbling river aglow with pink of coming storm.

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

My Must

a cup of tea first thing with breakfast.
Later a mug of coffee. Lifts eyelids.

Liquid brain boost. List today’s tasks.
Mam had a cup of tea before bed, too.

Not for me. Sleep disturbed enough.
Earl Grey or Chai tea. Once had a bud

in a glass cup that bloomed and infused.
Petals gently exploded flavour stop motion

underwater smoke spiralled below.
Expensive but glorious wake up call.

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

Pots of Coffee Brewing

Morning coffee reminds her of years gone by
when she hustled to clean & tidy up the house
so untidy with five children running about
so she would be in readiness for parents
knowing that several pots would brew of a day
to give her the energy to persevere, strength
to be patient while her mother scrutinized,
criticized and ultimately laughed with her
but she knew as their car left the driveway
she would settle into a comfy spot dozing as
her caffeine high evaporated, energy waned
leaving her thinking of only the one cup
setting before her swirling, inviting to
remind her the pots of coffee that brewed
are but a memory no longer required, no
longer needed to get through parents visits

© 2017, Renee Espriu (Renee Just Turtle Flight)

ABOUT THE POET BY DAY