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“. while in october .” … and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt


I’m delighted to host Kakali Dos Ghosh, Renee Espiru, Paul Brookes and Sonia Benskin Mesher today. Between them they have almost covered a year in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Portrait in February, September 6.  Read . . . enjoy . . . and please join in tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are welcome.


#Autumn’s blaze in September #

Ablaze is my hamlet ,
Sheeny it is with autumn ‘s color in September ,
Bounteous it is along azure blazing firmament
with dotted aerials ;
A ravishing secluded garden it is ,
with border less kash dandelions  in skyline ‘s shine ;
A whisper -levitating through ravines and deep gorges ,
An inkling creeping through the cerulean kiss -curls of the deep bay ,
smearing the mysterious realm of twilight and moonbeam ,
casting  a gentle kiss to a conch -cell in dormancy ,
on the glittering sand chest fondling a  golden rivulet ,
enunciates the inhalant of Devi Durga ;
Ample shiulis loving the hardes ,
The goggle of the stubborn kingfisher in the Eastern hills ,
The red specked butterflies ,
Clink of anklets of a maiden solitary ,
Everything -everything is just to light up ,
Its a durbar to love ,
to kiss ,
to  thrill ,
and to worship the Goddess the mother .

© 2017, Kakali Das Ghosh


December Passion

the Fall brought her to me warm and soft
with dark brown eyes and tiniest hands
reminding me nine months prior to the
month of December when passion ignited
fervor between cotton sheets and darkness
transforming cold into heated pleasure
where in the aftermath holidays came
filling the kitchen with baking of pies,
sweet sugary cookies warm from the oven
& the promise of love lasting a lifetime

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


April

1. Flo’s Day

Perhaps thas a thought I’m boss
only of fragile bunches, cocker;

but I also overlook tilled fields.
If crops have flowered well,
threshing-floor is stacked;

if the vines flowered well,
there’ll be wine; and fruit.

Once blossom nipped,
vetches and beans wither,
and thy lentils. Wines also bloom,

stored in great cellars in jars
a scum covers their surface.
Honey is my gift. I call bees,

to the violet, and clover,
and grey thyme.

I charge youthful years
to run riot with robust bodies.

Tha wears colourful togs, mucker, walk around with flower bouquets in thee fist,

your neck or hair wreathed in flowers. Tha scatter lupines, bean and vetch. Homes
scented by large purple Lilacs.

Go to races, or hunt deer, goats
and hare, enjoy bawdy plays and mimes.
Tha dance, sup and eat a feast
of roasted Lamb, homemade breads, fresh

and roasted spring vegetables, fruits, nuts, pastries. Give fresh cut flowers to tha neighbours, lay them on tha closest’s grave.

2. Victory’s Sacrifice

These are victories

fresh green shoots, leaves and flowers,
woodlands heady scent of wild garlic ,
bird song and bleating lambs

wild daffodils appear alongside the river
smaller and more delicate,
trumpet shaped flower a paler yellow.

kittiwakes, guillemots, razorbills, gannets, fulmar, shag and puffin return to seacliffs

blackthorn blossom a froth
of clustered white flowers
on thorny branches
before the leaves burst bud.

curlew’s soft, bubbling call,
Ring Ouzel’s a blackbird
with white bib blasting
out of the heather

emperor’s, orange and yellow
day-flying moths, eyespot patterns
on their four wings, struggle
from cocoons on the moors.

I sit and down a sacrifice of golden ale
sunglint on pint glass, a fine sup,
thankful another winter’s
deaths and distress worked through.

3. White Lady

Crowned white lady with flowing hair,
and fiery shoes, carries a spindle
and a three-cornered mirror
that foretells the future.

For nine nights before May Day,
chased by Wild Hunt Winter,
hounded from place to place,
she seeks refuge among villagers.

Folk leave their windows open
so she can find safety
behind cross-shaped panes.

Implores a farmer she meets to hide her
in a shock of grain. He does.
next morning his rye crop
is sprinkled with grains of gold.

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


. november.

describe the moment when walking

through the garden wind whips by.

look up the sky is full of leaves flying.

wonder and be joyful at all that there

is here.

do wet leaves blow as good as dry?

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

.september.

i did not want to get involved, nor be noticed.

particularly, nor impress.

yet you said you loved me, never mind the diagnosis,

mirror image.

so that was done.

dusted.

they came in differing aspects, by now I did not

want to get involved, nor did i.

remember I told you that I do not fall

in love?

we were in the garden.

this is not a mystery, just reality.

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

. while in october .

stand back to spite the craving,

look on as from afar.

leaves fall.

people, some write hymns & mantra

others watch tv, not the news.

oh no not the news, the truth is too

depressing, a bit near the mark.

good to live gentle, bites of reality

to flavour your safeness.

leaves fall.

with gratitude. the bakers has

closed as has the dress shop.

a side table will be convenient.

while children are in hell , Aleppo.

leaves fall.

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


ABOUT THE POET BY DAY

“as you take the road to Paradise” … and other poems by reader poets in response to last Wednesday’s prompt

WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT May 24, 2017: Tell us in poem or prose what it feels like to be you on your best day.

It’s always interesting to see how different are the responses to the same prompt. Bravo, poets!  Enjoy, readers! J.D.


as you take the road to Paradise 

about half-way there
you come to an inn
which even as inns go is admirable

you go into the garden of it
and see the great trees and the wall
of Box Hill* shrouding you all round

it is beautiful enough (in all conscience)
to arrest you without the need of history
or any admixture of pride of place

but as you sit in a seat in the garden
you are sitting where Nelson sat
when he said goodbye to Emma;

if you move a yard or two you will be
where Keats sat biting his pen
thinking out some new line of poem

  • Box Hill is in Surrey, England. It is my ‘soul home.’

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


Glistening Bits of Gold

On a day where time stands still she sees
each quintessential increment of time
like the sun hitting tiny seed pods that
have fallen on the street glistening as
tiny bits of gold sparkling as jewels
that offset the black asphalt street
turning the harsh landscape of tar into
that of a black silken cape waiting
to be garnered by nature’s queen as
she strolls the avenue bending only
momentarily to gaze lovingly at all that
she has made from the beauty of flowers
orange as the poppy to that of the shrubs
close to the ground shading tiny insects
to the majesty of towering evergreens
she becomes entwined in the moment and
she is ensconced and feels content

©2017, Renee Espriu (Renee Just Turtle Flight)


::these days ::

are longer now, i feel younger now,

i am older. we do so many things.

we are no longer afraid.

make the best of summer days,

winter follows.

he remarked that it was

good enough for the

chelsea flower show.

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

27 May ( another day in paradise )

we walked the stone,

he kept the place special, closed a while,

is open now . as the sky clears

through willow arches, white calves

and butterflies.

he cuts the shrubs, hedges, and rakes the path tidy.

it is arthur’s stone.

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


My Summer Town zoom

Zoom in to gold world,
on green metal celebratory gate
in centre of town between the shops

Look at it’s green metal pictures.
an old pump, miners lamp,
glass bottles, cricket/tennis bats,
canal boat navigates nothing

Rain constellations bus window,
cars backwash tarmac,
droplets break tension ripples natural birdbath.

Squashed plastic blue pen,
empty grey fag packet,
lobbed lottery ticket
middle of road
revelation.

Empty black/red polystyrene
Coke Zero cup circles
street middle black/white fat cat
waddles across road life design.

After nimbus drops
inhale moss
like marine pool kelp
after wave sea breeze fresh glowing Wombwell by the sea.

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.

backyard, eye swag silver,
two joy, pica pica purplish-blue
iridescent sheen
wing feather green gloss tail.

On train squeal chatter,
vivid, green, blue, beavers,
cubs, scouts, ventures
anarchy in uniform.

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

Bright cemetery leaves
behind dark,

bakers window 6 loaves,
one burnt,
nurse boards bus,
‘I was miles away’

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

Patient silver hubcap
rests under stone cemetery wall
behind blue bus stop halo,
full moon fall: day waits.

Shadows pass over bus
as if it is stop motion animated.
I get on the animation.
Hand held camera
glare work journey.

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

light quality early noon
than morning, 3 patient
full brown potato bags
by grocers,
cloud dispersal pend

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)


Jamie’s THE WORDPLAY SHOP: books, tools and supplies for poets, writers and readers

 

“the doctrine” and other poems in response to the most recent Wednesday Writing Pompt


The last Wednesday Writing Prompt, May 10: Words have power to hurt, heal, fool, free or nourish. They have weight. Sometimes a word – worthy in its way – is just not right for an occasion or circumstance … or for your latest poem or story. It doesn’t meet the test of your vision; but you believe  the right word will come to you. You work at it, play with it and sometimes wait quietly, as an invitation of sorts, until the perfect word arrives and speaks to you, the word that you know will speak to others as well.

What are the stale words – the inadequate words – you hear used to describe something you value? What words are better or best? Tell us in prose or poem.


. words needed .

alongside gestures of despair,

may communicate thought

better. or worse?

so lets be singular

enjoy our own space,

and be friends, forever.

she says that you

cannot see some people’s souls,

perhaps we need to look harder.

there is a lot going on.

© 2017, sbm.

:: those words again ::

rather a lot of words were said in friendship.

yesterday.

good words.

#writing for jamie.

words on health and well

being.

recovered, we admired

the socks, little boots.

she knew who i meant, a small

description. the bluebells are down

the road she told us.

kind words come in memory and subjected

elements.

some folk cannot connect other than eyes

while some utter such kind words; honey

and furry bears.

© 2017, sbm (Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA)


the doctrine 

of inevitable progress –
the present the highpoint
of cultural and personal development –
the ancestors treated with condescension
the thinkers ignored unread
(those who told it how it really is) –

the present (so they say – the powerful ones
in their powerful ignorance) is
the threshold to a Golden Age –
provided you accept our
version of events…

tissues of false imagery
& abstraction

progress is the ghost
of a big black dog
cocking its leg against the lamp-posts
of infinite dark streets –
a convenient construct;
an unsubtle trick of the imagination;
a laying of eggs
in a basket that does not exist

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

“This comes from my collection The Recovery of Wonder (2013)
I focused on ‘words that fool’ and remembered this one. There are many words that fool, especially abstractions. The way to recognise an abstraction is to wonder whether you could put whatever the word is supposed to represent into a wheelbarrow. You could put a pound of apples in a wheelbarrow but what about ‘justice’, ‘beauty’, ‘love’, ‘democracy’, and in this case ‘progress’?” Colin


Being Unpolished and Knowing

Like strands of pearls uncultured, unconnected
they lie strewn at your feet tantamount to words
discarded and useless unable to be linked as one
until something more refined comes along

she knows this every moment of every day speaking
is broken by hesitation, pauses and frustration
like diamonds rough from nature not yet expertly cut
by the jeweler’s hand in minuscule sharp detail

something like disparate but not really the same
just as peculiar is not exactly being self-serving
for who can say she is not the bowels of that same venue
as she compiles opinions based on incomplete knowing

she ultimately sees herself on the fringe of everything
and anything but peculiar touting her uniqueness as
that of shrewdly knowing but like that of the pearls
as that of the diamond she too can be unpolished

© 2017, Renee Espiru (Renee Just Turtle Flight)


No Words

Like Light On A Needle

light shivers on a cobweb strand
between curved lace frills
of a woven white table cloth
in a spring front room.

Glare of harsh words
incandescent behind watery eyes
focus on insignificant details
as each of us folds our legs
away from the other

in the silence
below the radio songs
below the doppler
of cars and people outside
waves break up sunglint
on a pebbled shore

Don’t Read

this sentence.

Don’t understand this meaning.
Don’t interpret this link between words.

Don’t interrogate each word
as having a separate existence
from this context.

Don’t recall where you first heard,
or read these words as they
have no history.

They have not been written before.
They are new born, awaiting meaning.
They need maturity to fit in correctly.

Will have their wild times in places
where they shouldn’t be, next to words
they will be embarrassed to recall.

Second Fiddle

Always the presence
never in the presence of…

Always carries the coat,
never owns the coat.

Always opens the door to…
never for whom it is opened.

Always the ghost…
never the blood and sinew.

Always mouths other’s words
never mouth’ own.

Always imitative
never innovative.

Always derivative
never different enough….

First Fiddle

never in the presence…
Always the presence

never carries the coat,
Always owns the coat

never opens the door to…
Always for whom it is opened

never the ghost…
Always the blood and sinew

never mouths others words
Always mouths own

never imitative
Always innovative

never derivative
Always different enough….

Finding

Chat to the motor museum curator
at his post behind the counter.

“Have to bring my wife. She was into bikes, and can remember every…”

He looks at me.

“every…”

I am an idiot.

“Those things with numbers and letters on the front of cars?”

“Number plates”.

He replies with sharp sarcasm,
and no smile.

The older I get
what were once obvious words arrive less
and less when and where I need them.

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)


From Mike Stone (Uncollected Works) via comment)

“I’m reading an excellent book, “To the End of the Land” by Israeli author David Grossman. I just came across a review of the book that does good justice to Grossman’s latest novel (http://www.tikkun.org/nextgen/a-wayward-eulogy), but I wanted to mention just one of the many pearls in his book: “… Do you mean these paths speak Hebrew? Are you saying language springeth out of the earth? …” I loved the idea that our languages spring from the land that our forefathers and descendants live and die in, that Hebrew and Arabic have exactly the right sounds to onomatopoeicly express the realities of the Middle East. Of course the English poems I write about Israel can never really capture the essence of this land, unfortunately for me. My ears were formed by the backwoods of Ohio and Indiana. I feel like Moses standing on Nebo Peak seeing Israel from afar, but unable to enter it. I am in Israel, but in some other dimension of it.”


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“Wonderlust Rain Forest” … poems and other works by readers in response to Wednesday’s Writing Prompt

WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT April 26, 2017 ~ Climate change is on our minds these days – perhaps more than in the past given the regime – and we are feeling one with Mother Earth and all her creatures and gratitude for the people who marched on Saturday. What pictures come to mind when you think of our home? How do they make you feel or respond? Tell us in prose or poem . . . and several readers took the challange creating work that rewards your time spent.  Enjoy! … and do visit their sites. Get to them better and let them get to know you.


Costa Rican boat tour by Isadora DeLaVega

Wonderlust Rain Forest

Approaching fading blue skies, we wandered silently through the

Costa Rican Rainforest on our private boat tour. Reaching peaceful estuaries

quietly seeking the wildlife that inhabits this forest.

Silently listening to nature at play, we soon reached the end of our destination.

Unspoiled waters filled with hope for natures future.

2017©Isadora DeLaVega

Photographer, Artist,Writer, Isadora DeLa Vega

Isadora DeLa Vega is featured for the first time on The Poet by Day. Since I’ve enjoyed her creativity for years, I’m pleased to have her response to last Wednesday’s writing prompt.

Isadora blogs at Isadora Art and Photography, A Place for Visual Creativity. She began her career in her late thirties after raising her children. For twenty-eight years, Isadora created award-winning silversmith art jewelry. When she retired due to failing health, she knew that she still needed to be creative. She decided to explore photography because she is inspired by and passionate about luscious colors. She says, “They’re the manna that feeds my soul.”  Before long she realized that writing and poetry were good outlets as well for conveying her thoughts. Her long-term goal is to one day publish a book with her photography and quotes.


and

in the wobble & bulge
of the hurtling universe
I am the sound of blackbirds
and the flutter of a butterfly wing

the shifting shadow on the summer lawn
and the tall tree wind getting up;
all this fixes me for the moment
along with the ancient memory

of two maternal relatives we visited
in Wimbledon Park—it seemed quite often
though it might have been but once or twice…
their lawn turned into a pathway

round a herbaceous oblong
to follow which seemed a minor mystery—
one that transposed many mysteries
to lead to this moment now

darkening shadows and squawk of pheasant
and beeflies above the mouldering sundial

© Colin Bundell (colinbundell.comfrom Colin’s The Recovery of Wonder Hub Editions 2013 (Note: Wimbledon Park is a suburb of London.)


Tarnished Goods

The fox follows her along the byway to reach untouched forests
those forests unfettered by time and pristine oceans devoid of human touch
and each time always she passes freeways littered with a garbage landscape
the fox glances at bottles and fast food wrappers collecting
on roads under construction on a continuum of future whys
where the smell of black tar invades with stinging and burning
she should be accustomed but wrinkles her nose in disgust
as does the fox now her shadow trusting she will reach a destination
not concrete and black asphalt now covering the richness of earth
and does she still hope windows rolled and closed will be enough
enough to keep her safe or will they be unable to block
out the constant drone of the noise of a civilized world
a world that is one built impinging on nature’s habitat
one adding insult to injury and becoming a macabre graveyard
to endangered species & the fox wonders if he will be next
but he cannot bring himself to let himself be absorbed
into track homes swallowing up citrus groves as the raccoons have done
stealing into the night to rob garbage cans of their next meal
this becoming an unnatural habitat as it has for bears and possum
and he feels oddly fortunate that tigers and lions do not live here
but he can still hear them all screaming in pain underpinned with sorrow
and the fox listens as he follows and always the level of noise increases
increases exponentially with every tree cut down and concrete poured
and the fox feels his shadow growing less as theirs becomes more
where claustrophobic habitats are multiplying housing for a rising populace
and the need to reach the forest to be able to stare in awe at the ocean
propels them down the road and she knows she is like the fox
and that no amount of polish will shine and bring it all back
to bring it back to a time delegated to past histories before her
before the fox became her shadow on a journey to find survival
the only solution being the ability of technology to merge with nature
to be a part of the answer in preserving the beauty here long before us
long before becoming tarnished goods in the midst of climate change
long before the fox became her shadow and she became the fox’s shade

© 2017 Renee Espriu (Renee Just Turtle Flight)


. reimagine the world .

leave your ideas at home.
on the hatstand. forget all
that you have learned, things
may not be so.

all people have thoughts, so
yours is not so precious now,
elder.

she told me that even things
at home have changed.

looking round we see they have.

reimagine the world, forget
the learning, start again,
then we may understand, or not.

king david.

© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher
***

. stitch. search .

we will not have blankets, if there are none, take the old rags, layer , stitch and stitch by hand till fingers bleed.

work is steady, absorbtion as if the outside world is ended. looking up find it has not. stitching can be rhythmic, and never mind the capitals. other words confound. birds beat the window.

the questions came that i cannot answer here or ever. did not count this time only the final one. noticed the first ones are now undone. the wrong knots.

maybe we need to check our numbers at the end to see if one or more are missing. ? we need to count them carefully, one side then the other?

work along the coast with thread and diligence. gather wools, layer carefully, we shall have warmth this winter.

eight thirty till five. it could have been easy, yet there were issues of the electronic kind meaning wasting time with wires and connections.

cover the surface. it takes time.

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


Your Damned Anthropocene

“We are as gods and might as well get good at it.”

O, your presumption did not account
for the delicacy of flesh and bone,
the death wish of the human soul.

You had an impact on my future,
I’m not sure I forgive you.
There is your clear signature
in the fossil record , an observable
sudden decline
in the abundance and diversity of plant
and animal life. Perhaps we should
define your time from here.

Did it start when we traced your pulse
at the start of the Industrial Revolution?
Your carbon-dioxide pulse that underlay
what you thought was global warming.

O, your dreams to guide mankind towards global, sustainable, environmental management. How could you see
the juggernaut was unstoppable?

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow) From Paul’s forthcoming chapbook The Spermbot Blues, OpPress, Summer 2017


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We continue with the current recommended read: On Tyranny: Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century by Timothy Snyder. Left, right or center – American or not – it’s a must read.

LESSON THIRTEEN: Practice Corporeal Politics  “Power wants your body softening in your chair and your emotions dissipating on the screen. Get outside. Put your body in unfamiliar places with unfamiliar people.  Make new friends and search with them. ” Prof. Snyder,  On Tyranny, Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century