Westron wynde, when wyll thow blow The smalle rayne downe can rayne? Cryst yf my love were in my armys, And I yn my bed agayne! – John Taverner (1490-1545)
The last Wednesday Writing Prompt, rain with love and blisses, May 22, 2019 was a call to write about the moods rain inspires. mm brazfield, Gary W. Bowers, Paul Brookes, Irma Do, Renee Espriu, deb y felio (Deb Felio), Jen Goldie, Shiela Jacob, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Bozhidar Pangelov (bogpan), Leela Soma and Anjum Wasim Dar, share their sorrow, pleasure, a sense of earthy connectedness and fascination as the case may be. Leela Soma has come out to play with us for the first time and is warmly welcomed.
Thanks to all these poets and special thanks to Irma, Renee, and Anjum for the added value of their illustrations. Anjum has also gifted us with a video.
Readers will note links to sites if available are included that you might visit these treasured poets. The links for contributors are always connected to their blogs or websites NOT to specific poems. If the poet doesn’t have a website, it’s likely you can connect with him or her via Facebook.
Enjoy this Tuesday collection and do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt, whether you are a beginning poet, emerging or pro. All are welcome – encouraged – to come out and play and to share your poems on theme.
Petrichor
The parched earth, fissures formed designs
on the burnt umber landscape. Seeds dying
of thirst, the harsh wind sweeping the dust over
skinny cattle, goats that foraged on scrub.
The rattle of the thunderstorm, the beauty
of the threatening molten sky, leaden with
moisture as the drops fall one by one, cool
on the skein of a leaf. The shiver of excitement as
petrichor arose, the olfactory senses heightened.
Hope for new life as the tiny rivulets traced new
patterns, muddy-brown wet lines. In a few days
sprouting seedlings, the circle of life begins.
LEELA SOMA (Leela Soma, Scottish Writer and Poet) was born in Madras, India and now lives in Glasgow. Her poems and short stories have been published in a number of anthologies, publications. She has published two novels and two collections of poetry.
She has served on the Scottish Writer’s Centre Committee and is now in East Dunbartonshire Arts & Culture Committee. Some of her work reflects her dual heritage of India and Scotland.
Twitter: glasgowlee
Suspense
when you fly through rain in an airplane the rain does not fall. it is horizontal. and if each drop could contain a human soul, from any place or time in history, most of the drops would be human-soulless.
but every raindrop has an aspect. if your lower legs are bare, and an early sprinkle splashes against your calf, it talks to you at the moment it ceases to be rain. it encounters you unignorably.
if you ingest a quantum of “magic mushrooms” and then run in t-shirt and shorts barefoot on a sidewalk through cool summer rain, you seem to form thousands of relationships.
that is all for now unless another headcloud bursts.
As some of you know, Gary is multi-talented, combing visual art with poetry or prose narrative. He is also a potter. A sample of his work is pictured here. Gary’s pottery is available for purchase. Further details HERE. Note the business card. We appreciate Gary’s wry humor.
Nocturna
shame nestled in my throat
as night’s soft charcoal gray skin
was wrapped with a lofty nimbostratus shroud
upon her moonlit shoulders
emitting sweet earthy odor
not sure of what i did
uncertainty about my heart
were my deeds the cause of it
like bullets from an ancient time
to kill the peace upon the paths
her tears fell down from heaven
now through the teachings of that lady night
and her dusky priestesses along with a few hard knocks
i’ve come to understand that it wasn’t me who made her cry
but that Nocturna was the mirror of my sorrows
And the Boss said to all the birds,
“Excavate all the hollows,
release water to make
seas, rivers and pools.”
All obeyed, except Pickatree.
who sat still, would not move,
or flitted between branches.
“It is dirty work. I can’t
soil this bright golden coat,
or silver shine of my legs.”
And the Boss replied,
“If that’s the case, from now on,
your coat is sooty black,
you’ll sup only rain,
and your yaffles only heard
afore downpours.”
FYI: Paul Brookes, a stalwart participant in The Poet by Day Wednesday Writing Prompt, is running an ongoing series on poets, Wombwell Rainbow Interviews. Connect with Paul if you’d like to be considered for an interview. Visit him, enjoy the interviews, get introduced to some poets who may be new to you, and learn a few things.
Sudden thunderstorm rain like
– The caterwauling kitty you forgot to feed
– The tenuous teen battering your heart, ears and the locked door with keep-way-but-still-love-me music
– The immigrant doctor cleaning toilets
– The spouse freed of burden but shackled with guilt
Steady spring rain like
– The laundry and dishes, laundry and dishes, laundry and dishes
– A movie marathon of Schindler’s List, The Boy in the Stripped Pajamas, and Life is Beautiful
– The thumping of sneakers around the track at a 15 minute mile pace in a black track suit in 80 degree weather
– Abdomen stretch marks, cascading down, erasing memories of “before”
Forecasted overnight rain like
– A crying newborn seeking a mother’s warm embrace and engorged breast
– Cookies and milk after school on Friday
– Karaoke in a private party booth
– This poet’s tears when her heart reads words that resonate
This Sei Shonagon style poem fit my thoughts on this topic. Sometimes I love rain and sometimes it makes me profoundly sad. Sometimes rain is the beat of my rage and sometimes it is the whisper of contentment. I love smelling rain in the air but I don’t love the weight of it wrapping around my chest. Rain is such a necessity in our world. This exercise made me truly appreciate the wet stuff!
The tall piece of bamboo sets in the corner
as though keeping the walls from colliding
with the aboriginal turtle in mustard yellow hues
keeping a silent vigil, a respite, as the rain
signals a force of nature outside my window
I am reminded that I am a creature of water
my molecular being silent within a human shell
the wonder of a million droplets from a cloud
forming a single raindrop is mind boggling
as they gather in rhythmic action
creating puddles, streams, rivers, waterfalls
cascading exponentially into vast oceans
a home for other water beings living
within a life-giving force
and I listen in amazement at the symphony
that brings life to the earth I live on
where brilliant colors of flowers bloom
in gardens tended and meadows flourish
on mountains
replete with nature’s abundance of creatures
beasts walking the land and flocks of birds
taking flight tenured with bird song
am I not enraptured to know my heart
still beats within its fluidic capsule embrace
of the water that holds me ensconced
in safe keeping
that when the rain thus ceases its’ melodic sounds
the bamboo stick awaits but my touch
yearning to recreate rain’s wondrous music
the timeless aboriginal turtle
warm beneath my hand
Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA paintings (This is her Facebook page, so you can connect with her there as well as view photographs of her colorful paintings.)
“POETRY PEACE and REFORM Go Together -Let Us All Strive for PEACE on EARTH for ALL -Let Us Make a Better World -WRITE To Make PEACE PREVAIL.” Anjum Wasim Dar
A homebound writer, poet, and former columnist and associate editor of a regional employment publication, my work has been featured in print and digital publications including: “Ramingo’s Porch,’ ‘Vita Brevis Literature,’ ‘Connotation Press,’ ‘The Bar None Group,’ ‘Salamander Cove,’ ‘I Am Not a Silent Poet,’ ‘The Compass Rose’ and ‘California Woman.’ I run The Poet by Day (jamiededes.com), an info hub for poets and writers. I am also the editor of a quarterly digital publication, ”The BeZine’ (thebezine.com).
Thank you for sharing your love of words. Comments will appear after moderation.
“Gender equality, equality between men and women, entails the concept that all human beings, both men and women, are free to develop their personal abilities and make choices without the limitations set by stereotypes, rigid gender roles and prejudices. Gender equality means that the different behaviour, aspirations and needs of women and men are considered, valued and favoured equally. It does not mean that women and men have to become the same, but that their rights, responsibilities and opportunities will not depend on whether they are born male or female. Gender equity means fairness of treatment for women and men, according to their respective needs. This may include equal treatment or treatment that is different but which is considered equivalent in terms of rights, benefits, obligations and opportunities.” ABC Of Women Worker’s Rights And Gender Equality, ILO, 2000. p. 48.
The last Wednesday Writing Prompt, I Am the Answer, May 15 was a call to write about the need for girls and women to be treated as fully human with the same rights, responsibilities, and opportunities as men. We have dramatic examples throughout the world of how whole families are pulled out of poverty when women are educated, treated with respect, and not forced into marriage and how boys and men benefit as well as girls.
mm brazfield, Paul Brookes, Irma Do, Renee Espriu, Jen Goldie, and Anjum Wasim Dar, share their observations, experiences, and pain. The ironies will not be lost on anyone, most profoundly so in mm brazfield’s poem only her and in Paul Brookes poem Liberty.
Thanks to all these poets and special thanks to Irma, Renee, and Anjum for the added value of their illustrations. Anjum has also gifted us with the poem Lament by the Indian Poet Sahir Ludhianvi via video in Urdu. You’ll find the English translation below the video.
Readers will note links to sites if available are included that you might visit these stellar poets. The links for contributors are always connected to their blogs or websites NOT to specific poems.
Do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt, whether you are a beginning poet, emerging or pro. All are welcome – encouraged – to come out and play and to share your poems on theme.
No longer cut
and shaped by knives.
between her legs
Her voice not silenced.
Her opinions not downplayed
as over emotional, unreasonable.
Sometimes she does not feel
in charge of her own body
as it changes, but reminds herself
she knows how to find the answer
to the questions her body asks.
the iron
over bedsheets, his shirts,
as she stands three hours
hot poker of pain
in the small of her back,
lists what else to do,
take down window nets,
wash and iron,
vax front room,
lug it upstairs for bedroom,
carpets,
hoover front room,
lug it upstairs for bedroom
carpets,
clean windows inside
to and fro,
to and fro
polish beneath knick knacks
bought on holiday,
to and fro
strip and remake beds,
make his tea,
always meat and two veg
He arrives home and says,
“What have you ever done for me?”
FYI: Paul Brookes, a stalwart participant in The Poet by Day Wednesday Writing Prompt, is running an ongoing series on poets, Wombwell Rainbow Interviews. Connect with Paul if you’d like to be considered for an interview. Visit him, enjoy the interviews, get introduced to some poets who may be new to you, and learn a few things.
Born into this female body
So sweet was my first cry
I should have screamed like a banshee
For no princess was I
It may not seem my role in life
But fate has lead me to this strife
It may not seem
It may not seem
My strength and persistence is rife
Born into this female body
But told it’s not my own
I primp and starve and stare blankly
And let your seed be sown
I know you think I chose this role
But I hate not having control
I know you think
I know you think
But you don’t know what’s in my soul
Born into this female body
I vote for my free will
I am more than breast, womb, booty
My voice is loud and shrill
Listen to me – I’ll not abide
It is your turn to be denied
Listen to me
Listen to me
I won’t let you push me aside
Jamie Dedes at The Poet By Day, inspired the topic for this Trijan Refrain. Her challenge was to write a poem about what it would be like if women and girls were seen everywhere as “being fully human”. I don’t know if I have fully captured the scope of this challenge. I do know that women are needed to use their voices and their votes to stop the reversal of rights and advances that our foremothers worked so hard to secure for us in the United States. I also believe, that around the world, uplifting women improves their lives as well as that of their families and communities.
I have often wondered what the world would be like if women did truly rule the world, on their terms, not those stipulated by our current patriarchal society. The role of women have been erased throughout history and today, women have been reduced to the role of hidden helper, silent supporter or thing-to-be-objectified. Is it because they are afraid if we regain our power, we will show how brightly we shine and fear getting burned with our brilliance?
Had you been boy we’d have called
you Jeff. I was sorry for the theft
that resulted in a nest, while her past
desires, the freedom, the joy, the
dancing, all arrested by not so gentle
a man’s theft, and repeatedly attested
to, while unpaid, unearned damages left,
a girl’s desire not to conspire to the same
mistakes, yet though a mark was left.
I am Woman, I am Strong, my mind
and body my own, lessons learned
from the nest. I harken, to my own drum,
unlike others like our mother’s, that we
will never forget, and that singularly
innocent, yet flippant remark,
“Had you been a boy.”
It’s a girl,
O’hurry put her beneath the sand
Oh, no one can stand or understand
this creature, soft and tender
I wonder why ?
when life is so grand.
Girls ,mothers daughters
sisters and wives,
Can life move on without these five?
The land of Faith The land of oil
Did they really bury their daughters
alive?
Girls are the lively spirits
of a home or castles at heights
girls are Goldilocks Cinderellas
and Snow Whites
They are Queens Ranis and First ladies
blacks or whites-
When girls are born moods are forlorn
bringing up a burden in a teacup , a storm,
Then sold tortured and finally given away
Where is a girl’s real home, to stay?
Born buried and barred,
are they really so bad
and scarred?
Girls are sweet loving and kind
I wish we would be soft tender
and caring for them in
our hearts and mind.
کویؑ مسکراہٹ نہ رہی باقی چہرے مردہ خاموشی سے تکنے لگے
لڑکا نہیں لڑکی ھے کیوں کویؑ خوشی نہ رہی باقی
چھپا دو کہیں بھی ان نفرتوں کے ڈھیر کو
پیار کیا کرنے کو اب کچھ محبت ہی نہ رہی باقی
زات عقیدہ رنگ و نسل کے فرق کی باتنہیں اب تو خواہش اولاد ہی نہ رہی باقی
اک سر جو راگ سے کٹ گیا نغمہ فزا میں بکھر گیا گیت بنے گا کیسے کہ دھن ہی نہ رہی باقی
انصاف نہیں غفلت و تشدد و دامن داغدار رھے جینا ایسے تو کیا جینا جینے کی تمنہ ہی نہ رہی باقی
بچپن رک گیا بڑھاپے سے زبردستی جڑ گیا اینٹیں اٹھاوؑ گھاس کاٹو اپنا گھر اپنی باغبانی ہی نہ رہی باقی
کس کی چاہت کیسی عزت کیسی رکھوالی زنجیر ہی پڑے گی پاوؑں میں غلامی لکھی ھے آ زادی نہ رہی باقی
کون کاٹے گا یہ نفرت کی بیڑیاں سب کچھ تو جل گیا الاہ کا قانون یاد نہیں کوؑلہ بنی ھے ، چمک ہی نہ رہی باقی
سوال ہیہ ھے ،یہ ظلم کیوں گناہ کیوں عزت کیوں نہیں ماں بیٹی بہن بیوی کا مقدس رشتہ کہاں ؟ عقیدت ہی نہ رہی باقی
Lament
Woman gave birth to men
And men gave her the marketplace
To crush and trample at will
To reject and cast off at will
Woman gave birth to men…
She is weighed somewhere in dinars
And sold somewhere in bazaars
She is made to dance naked
In the courts of the debauched
She is that dishonored creature
Who is shared out between the honorable
Woman gave birth to men…..)
For men, every torment is acceptable
For a woman, even weeping is a crime
For men, there are a million beds
For a woman, there is just one pyre
For men, there is a right to every depravity
For a woman, even to live is a punishment
Woman gave birth to men……)
The customs that men created
Were given the name of rights
The burning alive of a woman
Was decreed to be sacrifice
In return for purity she was given bread
And even that was called a favour
Woman gave birth to men…..)
Woman is the destiny of the world
But she is still the one abased by fate
She bears reincarnations and prophets
But she is still the Devil’s daughter
Woman gave birth to men…..)
Poet and writer, I am a former columnist and associate editor of a regional employment publication. Currently, I run this site, The Poet by Day, an information hub for poets and writers. I am the managing editor of The BeZine published by The Bardo Group Beguines (originally The Bardo Group), a virtual arts collective I founded. I am a weekly contributor to Beguine Again, a site showcasing spiritual writers. My work is featured in a variety of publications and on sites, including: Levure littéraure, Ramingo’s Porch, Vita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation Press, The Bar None Group, Salamander Cove, Second Light, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman. My poetry was recently read byNorthern California actor Richard Lingua for Poetry Woodshed, Belfast Community Radio. I was featured in a lengthy interview on the Creative Nexus Radio Show where I was dubbed “Poetry Champion.”
“What if our religion was each other. If our practice was our life. If prayer, our words. What if the temple was the Earth. If forests were our church. If holy water–the rivers, lakes, and ocean. What if meditation was our relationships. If the teacher was life. If wisdom was self-knowledge. If love was the center of our being.” Ganga White, teacher and exponent of Yoga and founder of White Lotus, a Yoga center and retreat house in Santa Barbara, CA
“Every pair of eyes facing you has probably experienced something you could not endure.” Lucille Clifton
Thank you for sharing your love of words. Comments will appear after moderation.
“We sit and talk, quietly, with long lapses of silence and I am aware of the stream that has no language, coursing beneath the quiet heaven of your eyes which has no speech” – William Carlos Williams, Paterson
Kudos and thanks to Renee Espiru, Frank McMahon, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Marta Pombo Sallés, Mike Stone and Anjum Wasim Dar. A very warm welcome to Christi Moon. I’ve been reading her work on Facebook for some years and am delighted to have the opportunity to include her here today.
I’ve included links to blogs or websites where available. I hope you’ll visit these poets and get to know their work better. It is likely you can catch up with others via Facebook.
Enjoy! … and do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt.
Arrivals
(foreword)
I want to write about a man beside a train.
A year later and I’m still looking for the words.
The palm of that strong hand-
balm on small of my lower back;
always, pulling.
I’m getting closer.
Arrivals
I’ve only taken a few steps
when my legs stop responding
to the signals from my brain
my vision locked
on an image
you’re running
beside the train
your green hat folded
in your hand
five hundred thousand minutes
careen
into this
one
my feet can’t feel the ground
airy echoes
of your name
far away and
thrumming
she sounds like me
in s l o w m o t i o n
cinematography
we are captured
in these frames
in front of the lens
behind the lens
we are the lens
CHRISTI MOON grew up in a small coastal town in California and currently resides in rural southeastern, Pennsylvania. Her poetry has been published in the journalBrush Strokes and Ink Spots, an Anthology of Poetry and Art ~ The River Journal, Nomos Review edition 3 ~ Women on War and Conflict,Meat For Tea ~ The Valley Review Vol 8, Need Change, Poets Against War, andTwisted Tungzart & literature magazine, and online onCombustus, VerseWrights,The Creative Nexus,Solstice Initiative ~ Aqueous, and The River Journal. When not writing poetry, her personal interests also include; photography, yoga, and exploring local nature trails. She also facilitates poetry workshops for local cancer patients.
Flourishes & Whorls
When I first made your acquaintance
my hand wrapped ’round you
and found warmth & light
even though a tiny fragment of cedar
I minded not the lustrous feel of
your soft black carbon
within
as I grasped you time & time again
my muse trembled in anticipation
as she watched gradations of lines
forming
creating magic with loops curving
in every direction
to give life to every breath I
inhaled & exhaled
giving substance to the wind
to the very universe of which
the rotating earth is
contained
with each flourish & curve
you became as putty in my hand
as burning fuel for my muse
whereupon the light of day
merged with the dark of night
transforming sunrises
sunsets
igniting the embers in my soul
within my heart
into a flame
I have kept you close since
that crucial moment
the dawning of
a single
letter
It takes a big leap of the imagination
to see the line of descent from dinosaur to
blackbird, until you view the fossil record. But
you still can’t quite collapse fifty million years into
an hour’s time-frame. Think then instead about falling
in love and being in love. Falling, but more
crucially, being caught in passion’s net, held or trapped
depending. Two tyros learning their moves on high-wire
or trapeze, diving earthwards, hands outstretched. Maybe
love really begins when they both discard the net.
This poem was first published in England in The Cannon’s Mouth.
Some millions of years ago two stars collided,
creating cosmic dust of platignum and gold.
Seven shillings: your nuptial ring, signifying
the conjunction of orbits,love’s trajectory,
not like Cassini, all mapped out. Some few details
clear, the rest to be discovered in those early
starlight days; trial and error, error and trial; flesh and
blood, proud children, losses, carefree days and friends,
small frustrations and winter days
yet love lacing a necklace of stars
round deepening inner space, new elements
re-fashioning our Periodic Table.
Frank McMahon’sfirst radio play was broadcast last week. It concerns the last two years in the life of William Tyndale, the priest and scholar who translated much of the Bible into English and was convicted of heresy for so doing. If you want to hear it, then go to: http://www.CoriniumRadio.co.uk, follow the link to Listen Again and look for Somewhere Else Writers Present ” A death in Flanders.” Bravo! and Kudos! to Frank.
Tyndale, before being strangled and burned at the stake in Vilvoorde, cries out, “Lord, open the King of England’s eyes”. Within four years, four English translations of the Bible were published in England at the King’s behest, including Henry’s official Great Bible. All were based on Tyndale’s work. Woodcut from Foxe’s Book of Martyrs (1563) / Public Domain.
.love . the numbers.
he kindness that is. glass reflecting. slowly it starts. maybe we need to check our numbers?
irregular, you came, your best clothes shining. never mind. the first tune hit the mind, patterns and mathematics. the kindness that is.
he said. machine you see. glass reflecting. slowly it starts repeating. the walls of differing colours. we have the dvds. on and on repeating on and on repeating on and on repeating.
back to the counting, how many have there been, how many are left still standing. an issue for some, yet we amend the figures here and move on. lucky ones, maths divides and decimates others.
Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA paintings (This is her Facebook page, so you can connect with her there as well as view photographs of her colorful paintings.)
The night is speaking like a cascade.
She’s knitting filigreed lights and shadows.
Sunk in the deep sea
of Sargasso eyes
I stay quiet and don’t find words.
And the scars on your hand
are fading, in order to burn
in my heart.
Oh, sailboats after a long trip
with all the winds in the sails –
sand is calling you.
But it isn’t death!
Oh, it isn’t the end too!
The hand
is going to knock up a hut for you
and in the wide garden
it smells with magnolia and manuscripts…
A long time ago
I got used to living with
My open wounds,
The last withered while
I was staring at the sunset
In the middle of the fog.
Yes, you told me so many times About your suffering, How your heart shrunk Fisted in bleeding red While your eyes tasted The salt of the ocean waves And cristal pearls were running Down your cheeks.
On that plane you felt The freezing coldness Where just one thing Would not freeze: The fountain of your tears.
Yes, indeed I remember
All the pain on that plane.
You sent me back to the
Land of rejection.
Yet I am a resilient rock
With my withered wounds
That I carry since ancient times
On this eroded earth.
But to exist is to resist
And so I dwell in human hearts
Who care for each other.
And may I receive your boasting waves
Crashing on my shores
Those hearts will restore me again
For I am silent love and not vain.
“Your lines (and prompt), “your darkness my light” caused an explosion of thoughts in my mind. I thought about the latest scientific speculation about the composition of the universe, that most of it is composed of dark matter and dark energy that don’t interact with the matter and energy that we sense. I thought about how we focus on the sources of light and its reflections, the things that exist, the presences, but gloss over the sources of darkness, dismissing it as merely the absence of light, rarely able to sense the absence of things that once were, or that never were. Our world is filled with those things, words that were never spoken, or were spoken and unheard, or forgotten. I will try to come up with a poem that embodies these thoughts before the prompt is due, but I do have one poem that is more-or-less on theme. [Dark Matter – below]
“… and of course there’s the idea of somebody composed of dark matter falling in love with somebody composed of “normal” (baryonic) matter, although current laws of physics declare that impossible. Dark matter is not anti-matter. Anti-matter and matter interact by destroying each other. Dark matter and regular matter are just ships passing (through each other) in the night.” Mike Stone (Uncollected Works)
“A Dark Matter”
(Raanana, October 4, 2018)
I see you everywhere I go
You follow me even into the bedroom
And crawl into bed beside me
Entering my dreams.
You are the dark sun shining your dark photons,
Your shadows are my only light.
You are every age you’ve ever been,
You are the idea of you
Just after I discovered I was pregnant,
You are this thing growing in my belly
Now, this homunculus bursting from my womb
Suckling my breast,
And suddenly you are human,
Helpless, still inchoate, primal.
Then you see me seeing you and you smile,
You crawl, you stand unsteadily on your feet
And then you start to run.
You hold my hand, going to the nursery
And won’t let go.
Suddenly you’re holding her hand
Going to the Homecoming
In our car.
Then you come home
From the place you can’t talk about,
Your uniform full of grease and stench
Which I wash and iron throughout the night,
Then they knock on the door
And tell us you can’t come home,
That we can’t see your body
Because there’s nothing left to see.
When you were alive,
You were just a single person
In just one place, nowhere else.
Now that you are dead,
All of you,
The idea of you, the homunculus,
The primal human,
The little boy holding my hand,
The young man holding her hand,
The soldier coming home,
The soldier never coming home again,
Are everywhere, all the time.
You are my darkness,
I want no other light.
Your absence is so palpable to me
I don’t think I could live without it.
Here they call it dimdumim
But you call it twilight,
Still light when the orange sun
Sinks behind the distant trees
Or the purple sea under the far horizon
And the colors of the things around you,
The whites, the browns, and the greens,
The grass and trees, even the faces of people,
Bleed into gray, move farther away than before,
Not yet dark, yes, darkening perhaps,
But not quite dark. Suddenly the air
Through which you wade cools slightly,
Is easier to breathe, making you almost weightless,
Waiting for the absolute darkness of night.
In its obscurity possibilities hide,
Almost anything can happen
In the cool darkness
And the obscurity takes any shape
That thoughts can touch.
When night does come
You never see just when
The dimdumim disappears.
No one has ever written a poem about a poem unwritten
Of the many virtues of such a poem
The perfect meter of noambic nometer
The clarity and minimalism leave
Even haiku silent with envy.
The language of silence is universal
Requiring no translation.
It will be unread by billions!
It’s amazing that no one has thought of it,
No one and I.
What does a poem look like
Before it is written?
Just like a lover looks
Before you have met her
Or an infant looks
Before it is conceived
Like a soul looks
Whenever you look
Like potential,
Pregnant but barren,
Like the blank page of a notebook
But more than that
More than nothing
But undefinable
Waiting in the dark
To collect itself
To be.
Bemused is Mike Stone’s third book of poetry, covering the years from 2016 to 2017. The title means “perplexed” but Mike intended a more literal meaning: “in thrall to the Muse”. Mike has been in the Muse’s thrall for most of his seventy years. This collection shows his maturity as a writer and his courage in facing the dilemmas of life’s endgame without fear or delusion.
This is Anjum’s poem in Urdu. Unfortunately, I was unable to get the breaks right for which I apologize to Anjum and to any readers who speak/read Urdu. At least we have this, another example of how our poetry crosses borders.
مسکراؤں تو کس کے لئے آنکھوں کو چمکاؤں تو کس کے لئے غم کو بھول جاؤں تو کس کے لئے کوئی اپنا تو ہو کیوں دنیا ایسی لگے کیوں اپنے بوجھ بڑھیں کیوں اپنے غیر لگیں کیوں میں غیر بنوں میں بے وفا تو نہین چمکتی ہوں سب کے لئے رات بھر ٹمٹماتی ہوں خاموش کس کے لئے کوئی اپنا کہنے والا نہ ایگا کبھی انجم دل کا دروازہ کھلا رکھنا ، محبت انجن جگہ پانے گی
Poet and writer, I was once columnist and the associate editor of a regional employment publication. Currently I run this site, The Poet by Day, an information hub for poets and writers. I am the managing editor of The BeZine published by The Bardo Group Beguines (originally The Bardo Group), a virtual arts collective I founded. I am a weekly contributor to Beguine Again, a site showcasing spiritual writers.
My work is featured in a variety of publications and on sites, including: Levure littéraure, Ramingo’s Porch, Vita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation Press, The River Journal,The Bar None Group, Salamander Cove, Second Light, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman.
Thank you for sharing your love of words. Comments will appear after moderation.
“It’s ironic that poets use words to convey what lies beyond words, that poetry becomes most powerful where simple language fails, allowing one to bridge the conscious and unconscious.” – Diane Ackerman, poet and writer
These responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt on parenting and being parented (yes! I coined an ackward word), September 12 are likely to bring you to tears, to awaken forgotten memories or validate ones that are vivid in mind. Thanks to Gary W. Bowers, Paul Brookes, Irma Do, Renee Espriu, deb y fell (Debbie Felio), Sonja Benskin Mesher, Tamam Tracy Moncur, and bogpan (Bozhidar Pangelov) and a warm welcome to Jennifer Collins. Brave, wise and wonderful poets all.
Read on and do join us for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt tomorrow. All are encourage: novice, emerging and pro.
The long road home
The umbilical cord between us,
Invisible to the naked eye,
Has a life of its own.
No matter how hard I try,
To pull away, even at my age,
It has an elastic snap
And cuts me short, then bounces
Me back to you.
I wonder how long it spans,
Even as you get carted away,
Across highways,
Somewhere upstate,
I know I will feel the internal tug,
Pull and tug and pull,
Till the pain brings tears to my eyes
And I run to the kitchen to grab hold
Of the scissors to cut and cut and cut
Me away from you.
But no matter how hard I try,
The damn thing finds its way back
And re-attaches itself to my heart,
To my gut- to your beating belly center
From which it was born.
JENNIFER COLLINS: I’m a writer, yoga instructor, social worker, wife and mom. I live on long Island. Writing for me has always been an outlet and a way to navigate and understand the world and my experiences. It is my compass, guiding me through the rough and quiet waters of my life.
toughish love
dad had a note he would send
one of the three of us brothers
to the store with: “please sell my son
2 packs of pall malls”
i didn’t like to do it
i never liked to do it
one day i refused.
i had to not lie.
“dad. i’m not going to do this
any more.”
i looked at him
and made my eyes say You
Want Me To Help Kill You.
in his eyes
was a question.
Do I Let You Defy Me?
Then there was an answer:
Ah, Well,
It’s Because He Loves Me.
dad said, “okay,”
and i never bought him cigarettes again.
i was twelve,
he was thirty-three,
but i was the parent that day.
My sons eyes are cold.
I have seen this look before.
He lugs my dog Sheba by her mane,
hauls her along the floor
a piece of meat, slopping over gunnels
in an abattoir, blood down the drains.
Her paws scratch and scrape
he dumps her at my feet.
“Bite its ear!”
I shake my head.
“If it’s done wrong, and it has
bite its ear.” I shake my head
mumble
“Done nothing wrong.”
“Eh! Speak up woman!”
“It ‘aint done nothing wrong. Jack!”
Fine rain falls through grey skies
in the pub yard, and a yellow
fluid flows out from under the dog.
“Dirty bitch!”
He kicks Sheba in her side.
She whimpers, puts her head
pleadingly on the black shiny
surface of my court shoes.
“I’ll do it then!”
Snatches her up
by the scruff
“Getting a dog
and not bringing it up right.
Stupid cow!”
He snaps at the silk of her ear.
She yelps. I cry.
“Stupid sodding cow!”
He slaps me hard
across my face. I feel
his gold rings on my cheek.
“Stop whimpering!”
Pushes me up against
the wet wall. His cold eyes
up close make me shiver.
One hand on my throat,
the other points at her. I mumble.
“Not again Jack. Please!”
My legs have gone.
“Treat the bitch right
and it’ll treat you right.”
Sheba inches against the wall,
low and hung back like the grey clouds.
Jack lets me fall. The pub door slams
Sheba, up on her legs again,
licks my face, lays down by my side
puts her head on my black court shoes.
Her neck is warm. My back hurts.
They call the rain the “Tears of God”
Originally published in Degenerate Literature, Domestic Violence Edition, Weasel Press
Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA paintings (This is her Facebook page, so you can connect with her there as well as view photographs of her colorful paintings.)
Substances infuse the brain
No pain
Worries…anxieties flee
Mocking reality
Illusions of joy
Permeate the atmosphere
No fear
Confidence in abundance
Eradicates the twins
Insecurity and timidity
Crack cocaine dances with heroin
Down opioid lane
The life of the party has been born
Sworn in only to begin
The cycle over and over again
The belle of the ball
Begins to fall
Tumbling…tumbling…tumbling
Into the depths of despair
Where even love-starved children
Cannot pierce the fierce
Grasp of addiction
Brokenhearted families
Succumb to the numbness
Of a devastating madness
Found in pipes…pills…powders
In the streets…prescriptions
over the counters
living death destroying
the fabric of love…
Is that the season?
The leaves are hitting the silent windows
and some roots of trees are creaking,
but I am a dream.
I do not recognize the colors,
when the sun of that town
without time shelters me like Mum.
Which flowers shall I gift to you?
I am not a saint – I cannot revive you.
I cannot even grieve
Poet and writer, I was once columnist and associate editor of a regional employment publication. Currently I run this site, The Poet by Day, an information hub for poets and writers. I am the managing editor of The BeZine published by The Bardo Group Beguines (originally The Bardo Group), a virtual arts collective I founded. I am a weekly contributor to Beguine Again, a site showcasing spiritual writers.
My work is featured in a variety of publications and on sites, including: Levure littéraure, Ramingo’s Porch, Vita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation Press, The Bar None Group, Salamander Cove, Second Light, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman.
Thank you for sharing your love of words. Comments will appear after moderation.
LEELA SOMA (
As some of you know, Gary is multi-talented, combing visual art with poetry or prose narrative. He is also a potter. A sample of his work is pictured here. Gary’s pottery is available for purchase. Further details 
© 2019, poem and illustration (taken from Public Domain Pictures and Created as Art) Renee Espriu (
A homebound writer, poet, and former columnist and associate editor of a regional employment publication, my work has been featured in print and digital publications including: “Ramingo’s Porch,’ ‘Vita Brevis Literature,’ ‘Connotation Press,’ ‘The Bar None Group,’ ‘Salamander Cove,’ ‘I Am Not a Silent Poet,’ ‘The Compass Rose’ and ‘California Woman.’ I run The Poet by Day (
