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i know why poems are born, a prose poem

i hear the crack of dawn in the dense concrete of this building and
 imagine the wind sculptured glaciers melting before their time,
 the roars and whispers of the oceans protesting while parents tear and children 
hum songs of longing, hearts sundered ~
 in citrus layers of sunlight rising, the messages of earth are unbound,
 any soul can hear or sense them, even mine … and now i know, 
i know why poems are born . . .

© 2018, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved

ABOUT THE POET BY DAY

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wrapped in the midnight mist

last night, the stars compelled me to wrap myself in the midnight mist, to survive chill and gray and moon craters,to wait silently and with patience for the first sun

Bird in tree

© 2016, poem and photograph, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved

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noble delights …

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Though you were worn and blistered from rummaging for truth and meaning, still you searched for parables. You disinterred rhapsodies. You fractured the dictionary freeing every word for your odyssey. The dove’s lamenting spoke to you of ancient stories. The gusty wind taught you grammar. Dancing phonemes tantalized your ears and tickled your throat.

Finally, you found meaning neatly nestled between language and myth. You razed the walls that bound your soul and deftly breached the rubble with poetry. Celebrate the noble delights. Yours for your victory. Ours for the love of your lines.

“He who draws noble delights from sentiments of poetry is a true poet, though he has never written a line in all his life.” George Sand, (1804-1876), French novelist and memoirist, The Haunted Pool (1851)

© 2015, prose poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved; Photo courtesy of morgueFile

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No Time for Sleep

The future grows ever shorter while the book stacks grow high and disorderly alongside bed and chair. No time for sleep. The mind must use the hours to trawl the tomes and its faculties, feeding its hunger for the clarity and intimacy of fiction, the stark raving sanity of poetry. There are volumes of philosophy that flow like rivers as one book eases its way into the next. They reframe life and its perspectives. Occasionally I stop to listen to the music of my unread and untutored progenitors. They play their chalice-drums to ward off devils and tempt genii, but I face the ravages of the night by rustling pages. My survival is written in chapters, not notes. My sensibility is spun out of words.

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© 2013, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved, licensing for online publications is nonnegotiable and requires permission, attribution, link to this site, my copyright, no modification, noncommercial only and does not imply permission to include the work in the site’s printed collections or anthologies.
Photo courtesy of morgueFile