“Poetry is a life-cherishing force. For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.” Mary Oliver, A Poetry Handbook
Thank you to Paul Brookes, Renee Espiru, Debbie Felio, Sheila Jacob, Carol Mikoda, Anne G. Myles, Marta Pombo Sallés, Sonja Benskin Mesher and to newcomers DeWitt Clinton (whose new collection will be out soon), Vageesh Dwivedi (a novice showing much promise), and Taman Tracy Moncur (an activist poet and Brooklyn girl like me, I suspect). The work of these poets certainly enriches the day for all of us.
Contributor websites/blogs are added so that you may visit and get to know one another. I hope you do. Some don’t have sites but you can probably catch up with them on Facebook.
Enjoy! … and do join us tomorrow for the next The Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are welcome: novice, emerging and pro.
After Reading How Poets Often Die, I Do Hesitate to Read Ou Yang Hsiu’s “Reading the Poems of an Absent Friend”
Some old poet friends are not dead
Yet. One even lives exiled in far
Away Japan. Perhaps I’ll disappear
As I’m too old to be discovered
By any up and coming new
Lit clique. What part of friends
Stays in the sublime end of my
Old mind? Sometimes when I read
They’ve died I’d just as soon
Close the blinds and stay reclined.
Most all stayed up all night
Just to finish their new lines.
Now they’ve got their good books.
I do hate reading what they’ve
Spent their whole lives on
And I hate it that they’re gone.
Sometimes I have not written all
Year and when I do I know it’s
Nothing more than old oatmeal.
It’s incredible how long I’ve
Been drawn to this poetry life
And how often I can’t even
Find a word or two to make
Anew, and wonder, who turned
My brain into yummy worms?
Once I found an old Pole’s
Book of lines, left the day
For nothing else except to turn
More pages all the way to night.
I never am too keen to
Reread some old medieval
Gore but I could pick out
Any poem and think it’s
Something quite new. I wish
I knew what poets do.
Most men wouldn’t be caught
Dead writing with short lines
Would rather count the scores
Of grown men running plays.
I told my wife the other day
How long I’ve been devoted
To this quiet task of digging
Through what I already knew.
So if I could I’d just sit
Right here in our red room
And gaze outside to find
What brings such joy inside.
In fact I’d take my old dead
poet friends, and a few lines
made last night, catch the next
starry ride right out of here.
DeWitt tells us, “This poem is one of 114 I’ve adapted from Kenneth Rexroth’s One Hundred Poems from the Chinese and the entire collection is forthcoming from Michael Dickel’s is a rose press.
DeWitt Clinton
DeWITT CLINTON is Emeritus Professor of English at the University of Wisconsin–Whitewater, USA. Recent poems of his have appeared in the Santa Fe Literary Review, Verse-Virtual, Peacock Journal, Ekphrastic Review,Diaphanous Press, Meta/Phor(e)Play, and The Arabesques Review. He has a new collection forthcoming from Kelsay Books. He lives in Shorewood, Wisconsin.
Again
With bewitching beauty you walked again,
And the years of temperance, was all in vain.
The whisper’s melody was still the same,
And the longing ears ,were in heaven to acclaim.
Neither tequila nor the weed,
Your addictive eyes quenched the need.
Pattern of your long braided hair was well acquainted,
As if the steps were learned yesterday,that my fingers repeated.
It felt like the time stood still,
Unpacking each and every dimensions of my will.
And then came into play, My futile fate,
Rushing wildly through my window, as if it was in haste.
The breeze was soothing ,but brought the pain,
And my only lifeline was disconnected again,
Still didn’t open my eyes, struggling to connect again…
Vageesh writes, “Currently I’m doing B.tech from mechanical engineering. I like to write and express. I’m from Uttarpradesh, India.”
The Ultimate Transformation
Seniors captured by time
now prisoners in a body
no longer in sync with the mind…
A body transformed
through ages and stages
forming the persona that resides within…
That persona forever in search of new dominions
living out dreams and schemes
reaching heights of happiness
encompassed by depths of despair…
The body grows weary
eyesight becomes dim and bleary
days flee as hearing fades…
The bones no longer dancing
to the rhythm of the heart…
The bones captivated by a falling star
shoot through the galaxy
with a proclamation
announcing a new soul ready
for the ultimate transformation…
TAMAM TRACY MONCUR says, “I enjoy writing. I write for the sheer pleasure of writing. Writing helps me organize my world and express what matters to me at any given moment in time. I’ve been a Civil Rights activist, taught elementary school for twenty-five years, worked with my husband, Grachan Moncur III arranging musical compositions and performing. In 2008 I self-published a book entitled Diary of an Inner City Teacher, a project that was very close to my heart. I am now a retired teacher, a community activist, and a seasoned senior who still loves to write.”
The Gift
A small dark shape on kitchen tile
Stared at by our cat,
Move closer, it is a sparrow bairn,
Chest balloons out as my sigh releases.
Scooped up, as I take it out to the garden
It stands on the scoop.
Over the fence our neighbour stands hunched
in dark tears “My mam won’t be coming out of hospital”
Working with children is what I said I would do
Eight years of higher education said I was ready
Children from poverty, neglect, abuse
I’d create safety to help calm the unsteady
of their worlds where parents weren’t there –
out searching for something to calm their addictions
leaving the young ones abandoned and scared
easy to make that outcome prediction
I’ll work with the children and not the abusers –
the parents, their friends, whoever committed
these horrible acts – I am the accuser
and judge and jury – against them I’m pitted
’til I heard their stories of their own horror
and I realized abused children grow up
without anyone being their restorer
to sanity and filling their self worth cup
imitating was all they could know
trying to be different had no guide
resulting in return to the old ways, though
reassured them of something to hold on inside
so I’ll work with the children and just their families
but I can’t get involved in all the systems
that confuse and contribute their own brutalities
often retraumatizing rather than helping the victims
But who am I kidding when I say I will not
it’s all so related – system, child, family
there’s no way to separate it all out
that is what I’ve come to see
So whoever you are, whatever’s been done
I know there’s much to your history
No one has to go it alone
who can judge your journey – certainly not me.
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.)
Everything you are made of begins
in a gigantic transition
as universe explodes into being
stardust becomes everything
transformation begets you,
your sister, your cat, the bees,
the tree, stones, water,
so: stop. Cease all striving.
Stop all struggle. Breathe: in, out,
like a butterfly coming and going,
to this flower, that flower.
Rest. Stay in this tender space. Before
you know it, without aid of will or anxiety,
you arrive in a new place
the right place, just the right
place. No harm will come to you
as your divine self
slides gently into that personalized
pocket on the overalls
of The Universe of Now.
Because what can we do but laugh?
Because what can we do but laugh?
Because what can we do?
Because what?
Because?
Be.
At eighteen, I stepped into the other world,
the one that sounds fantastical but is not.
Drainage pond at the bottom of a hill on campus,
behind it a small straggle of winter woods,
beyond that, a path towards the sports fields.
Grass still green in the mild mid-Atlantic,
twiggy dried milkweed standing and fallen.
Plain as plain, just hidden, just waste.
An ordinary afternoon, and I felt surfeited with reading;
walking down the hill, I cast away my mind.
At the water’s edge I looked at the surface;
the water looked back at me. The world had eyes:
perceived me as I perceived it, all the same.
The bare treetops in the distance moved in my arms.
I felt the cawing of the crows that rose inside my chest.
But no crows there, no chest here, only that cawing,
that burning and empty annunciation
of how we too are the shine in the tufts of the cracked pods,
falling and lifted in the wind through everything.
All of this I could see, while I rubbed my eyes,
as if to dislodge a film that was not there.
This happened. I was a freshman, with no one to tell.
Why do we seek imagined worlds? We know nothing
of what is real, how wondrous and complete.
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.
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.”
Thank you for sharing your love of words. Comments will appear after moderation.
As always I am fascinated by how varied are the responses and interpretations of a given prompt, in this case Ms. Weary’s Blues, January 24. No newcomers took up the challenge this time round but we have engaging – even intriguing – responses from Colin Blundell, bogpan, Paul Brooks, Kakali Das Ghosh, Renee Espriu, Sheila Jacob, Sonia Benskin Mesher and Anjum Wasim Dar. Thanks to these intrepid and talented poets for coming out to play.
Please join us tomorrow for the next prompt. All are welcome no matter the status of career: novice, emerging or pro. It’s about showcasing your work, getting to know other poets and exercising the writing muscle. Meanwhile, enjoy these poems …
there’s one way
and another way
and a third way
of doing things; but it’s useful
to think of doing things
‘otherwise’ as the Master said in line with
what (gazing at the bridge of his nose)
his grandmother told him:
viz ‘in life never do as others do;
either do nothing—
just go to school—or do something
nobody else does’
when she promptly died…
this my children
and my children’s children
is what I would have you
take inside your uttermost being:
never go along with the herd;
never copy others; let your uprush
of learning be your very own
never dependent on others
and not to eternity the predefined will happen accidently
but to a cry
unheard and clear and the sermon that will BE
to shelter the torn off grains in the summer
the sunspots priest in the reflections
of the water
in blue
Sunblaze drinks thee pint as it were after doing thee a favour, stop thee brain box from wondering
an thy art beholden to it for doing so. Then mizzle sets on tummeling down, drizzles like it were making gourmet dish of the day with attractive swirls.
And ice cold thinks you owes it a living, serrates your bones like a decent knife sharp butcher
Who knows which cut hurts most and where to prolong the wound so it slowly bleeds out a sunset.
Blues ,my measly blues pursued me
Emerging from the bottom of that grave gorge
Surging from the waves of that deep ocean
Sprouting from the storm of that black forest
Blues ,those insistent blues
never waved to me a song ,a farewell song
And followed me unto rocky mountains and flowing rivulets
Chased me to red plateaus
and dusty desserts
Halted I -where golden beams reflected from a broken mirror
Where a phoenix arose from its ashes
Where pearly rains oozed from a misty cloud
And where a scarlet dandelion peeped from a rocky chest
And by my astonishment
I lost my blues ……….
Footsteps of my measly blues —-
I will leave you the peace in my soul
that will find you in the love of my heart
for I will leave you the memories shared
whether joyous dancing on the stage of life
or sadness fading in the shadows of day
for life has woven me a colorful garment
with silver threads of nature’s wisdom
that has hollowed out a place for you
where warm you will be in the sun’s embrace
followed by the path of a starlit moon
within which voices will sing in stardust
to lull you to sleep at the end of each day
where always you will wake to bird song
within which you will hear my voice true
giving you the peace within my soul
surrounded by the love within my heart
we have a memory or two. the world goes dark, we teach and learn, wait for light to appear
it is the way of things, while there are birds. while you read, you will not understand all words, that is the way of things.
it is natural, it is what they do, they live in the wild. . we have no power, they, no disgust that reels and kicks. yet while small birds live, they too will die. like us.
drift. in air, in words. symbols of poetry, cut and pasted. literally. naturally .
everyday tiny things sing.
when some small birds have failed and gone others sound just the same.
in moments when engulfed is the spirit
with warmth unseen, who makes existence
tremble and shiver? as beads moist appear
from nowhere, soon to transform
one to coolness…doors of sight
half shut, flipping up and down,
‘reach out, a voice calls
you hear, ‘help me, oh please, help,
I can’t see, it is so dark and
I am so weak, ‘heat ‘dark heat, go …
put on some Light’ O Light’
Light Upon Light’
blues surround as blackness shifts, is it
going to lift or grow less? am I awake ?
or sinking, or rising, ascending into
more darkness…darkness before being
and darkness after? I am not aware…
my being is being created, in fluids unseen
I have no voice, nor breath, it is not Death?
I float and swim, it is so dark…
put on some Light’ O Light’
Light Up The Light’
who do I call? who will hear?
Who will come near? who will bear
the pain and make me well again?
It is The Light The Truth The Unseen One
that is the Character, No Myth or Matter
Look up , it is day…it is full of Light
Look up, it is night, it is bejeweled with Light
Light Upon Light ‘ and The Book is Bright
and when I once was, in the blues
I did not know what would be
listless weak helpless was the spirit
in me, would I be? or would I be no more?
doors of sight dimly saw the “saline drip” bag
drop by drop, drip drip,dropped the drops
would it be dark soon? or ..as I lay…slowly
darkness flew away, brightness made its way
before I knew , brighter it grew till I
could bear no more
Light it was Light all over me, Light
Upon Light Upon Light, it did stay
till my heaviness was light and
my blues faded away, away far away
Light the Healer, Light is Blue, see the sky?
up high or see the sea below
layer upon layer, vast boundless in view
why blue is the color of peace?
Celeste Marion is painted in this hue’
tis holy and sacred and true’
To have hope is good to pray is best
chose the good blue, but be not in the blues’
Light Upon Light is the Ultimate Truth
Turn towards it to be out of darkness
Be Guided, out of fear, out of all ‘fright’
what I leave behind and what I may take
the good deeds I do the joy I make
the help I give the needs I fulfill and all
what for the Lord I share…for Life is a test
and to be grateful is the rest
I will go for ‘life is a journey not
a destination’ …from darkness to
These are the responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, January 17, Dancing Toward Infinity. It garnered a neat collection of responses, including work by three poets new to these pages: Carolstar286, Pamela Ireland Duffy, and Pleasant Street. Welcome to all! Back for this round and in stellar form are: Paul Brooks, Renee Espriu, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Mike Stone and Anjum Wasim Dar. Enjoy! And do join us tomorrow for the next prompt.
Sonnet of State Secrets
As I told the State the other day, I rarely
dance but when I do I dance some Latin
sort of thing, like a salsa, in which one seems
never to stop moving, which makes it more difficult to pin
me down. My hips sometimes get tired so I have
to stop; two days later I ache but I am that much
closer to the goal, the infinite, the end-that-is-not-
the-end. The State is very goal-oriented,
hence the two questions that must be asked
of everyone with only four possible answers.
I almost always want to invent my own
responses but there you have it: no other
possibilities. Frustration ensues. Occasionally
I have thoughts of threats, murder, assassination.
The solution is to look up, to contemplate clouds, or stars
that look like lively souls in their dance to infinity.
Not much music
at the end of the line
in this half-world
of might-have-beens
and time run out
but still she dances
on iridescent water
oil spillage not dreams
but still she dreams
of other universes
other lives
of endless possibilities
where words change worlds
and her grandchildrens’ laughter
is real
and she is dancing in her sleep
daring to dream
of somewhere
where the music
never stops.
PAMELA IRELAND DUFFY is interested in Qi Gong, reading/lecture, writing/écriture, poetry/poésie. Pamela is also published on on “I am not a silent poet” and in “L’Inventoire”, She studied at the University of Leeds and at Larkhill House School, Preston, Lancashire. She currently lives in Périgny, Poitou-Charentes, France and is originally from Macclesfield.
‘Do you fear the fire’
(for my mother, 1940-1997)
Walking through the woods
my mother spoke of fire–
of course I had noticed it
a lack of green, and the scent
of the foray of pitiless flames
in a matter of months
and the ashes beneath our feet
Was it a dream? Perhaps–
upon opening my eyes
seeing her feet, immaculate
walking amongst the flames
in a frantic dance for life–
and afterward, the renovation–
her attempt to cover it up
with a smile and a flower
Overjoyed to see something
colorful and blooming
my jaw went slack, while the flower fell
from where she had taped it
to the scorched vine, fooling me
with the comfort of red petals
amongst the endless black.
‘But black is your color.’
Black had been the color
of cool and calm, during a time
when I could not settle myself–
tailor-made for me, the crisp lines
of white cotton over black silk
were enough to blur the vision
of soot smudges
on her cheek and forehead
I had not been there for her.
I wanted to stay.
And, bending to grab at the rose
I moved too quickly
a thorn piercing my finger–
‘You have blood on your
shirt”, she said
‘you have work still to be done–
wake up.’
PLEASANT STREET is a mother, baker, and poet. She has been writing poetry since fourth grade. Now she is writing a neo-noir thriller and a collection of poems about the seasons of life and God’s abundant and ever-changing earth. She thinks too hard and feels too deeply, and appears to be stuck in 1948. She is still dreaming up a way to use baked goods as legal tender.
Pleasant lives on a tree-lined street where nothing seems to happen on the outside, but she is certain many thrillers are contained behind closed doors. She is often carried away by flights of fancy, but that suits her very well.
once such night black
was a chance to gather strength
for the coming day; to invade
the stars in order to appropriate
their pinprick energy;
now its curious restless oblivion
is merely a rehearsal for the long sleep
that’s to come – the living out
of trillions of years
with nothing to think about
it tosses & turns and sometimes
dreams of swimming again amongst
those stars so often gleaming
through the apple trees of youth
come spring and I suppose
I will contrive to fling the curtains
wide once more to greet the sun
for the beginning of time once more
but now I hardly dare to wake
into this familiar night black
I want tha soul.” Devil gobsmacked
replies “I have no soul
of my own. Only souls of others.”
“Then gi me those.” answers
lad and I’ll do whatever tha hankers for .”
Devil hands him a mobile.
“This phone contains all my souls.”
“There is a woman who
would have your tongue. I ask
you visit her and take hers.”
“God didn’t sleep with me.
He chose that cow Mary.”
Devil put you on to me,
Young un’ tell you I need
Your tongue and you need
To take mine.
“I offer you hunger,
wrinkles, short life
and disease, and me
as an ugly bitch.
Except
on Saturdays when
I look like a model
and you have eternal life,
youth and health.
Manage your expectations.”
Young chuff replied
“To me you’re beautiful
for six days. Only a monster
on Saturdays when you’re a serpent
from waist down. Accept this mobile.
It contains all Devil’s souls.”
And young man returned
To Devil with her stories
“Accept the Sibyl’s tongue.”
He said and Devil scowled
at this young buck’s cleverness.
A symbiotic relationship in
a universe stretching infinite
where stars are like angels
their wings as chariots
taking flight becoming
a safe harbor for the soul
now desolate with grief
now hungry for peace
now joyous in its’ vision
however brief that it too
will be immersed
in that infinity
“A Poem about Nothing”
(Raanana, October 24, 2015)
This is a poem about nothing
How it happened that
Today nothing happened.
I didn’t turn on the radio
Well maybe I did for a moment or two
But then I turned it off again
Before something happened.
I slipped on some jeans and
Took Daisy for a walk
She still had a slight limp
From the night before
And I said a silent prayer
To the One who Barks at Infinity
That she’s not getting old on me
Remembering her shivering
First time I held her to my heart.
Then I thought about Dad
For no good reason on this earth
When I’d laid him gently down into the ground
How all the prayers we say
Were meant to send him on his way
But all I wanted was to call him back
Some prayers will never pass my lips.
“Walking to the Moon”
(Raanana, September 1, 2012)
Sometimes you have to walk a poem
To see the shadows of it go in front of you
And then behind you,
A funny kind of locomotion
Walking crablike, orthogonally.
It’s been so long since I’ve written,
You must have thought I’d forgotten,
If you thought about me at all.
No, I hadn’t. Couldn’t. Ever.
These were the dimensions of your loveliness,
The smell of sunlight on a field of wheat in your hair,
The cool touch of my rough hand on your soft thigh,
The vibrations of your voice as your meaning danced across it,
But the publicity of your smile
For all around you to see,
Not just for me,
Meant the sunlight soft vibrations of you
Might as well be like walking to the moon.
When a poet wakes up in the morn
He puts his pants on
One leg then another,
And when he buys his milk and wants to pay
He stands in line between
The woman with her screaming kids
And the foreign workers,
But when the poet looks up at clouds
Or the night-time constellations,
Orion’s scabbard or Cassiopeia’s tilted throne,
He sees encyclopedias never writ nor read
By the likes of you or me,
And when he loves,
It’s Trojan Paris
Who’s faced ten thousand ships
And went to war for naught but one.
Hello Orion my old friend
I’ve come to battle you again
Though your sword is in its scabbard
You hold above my head the tides of time
And bury me under the horizons of eternity
But I’ll defeat you with love’s clarion call
And life’s cold eye on death.
spiral galaxy in Constellation, Coma Berenices, 60 million light years from Earth
waltzing on the melodious
music, feather like, rising
gliding, embraced by light-
the Earth is All Bed
Sky all dome, a roof
shining in the day
glittering at night-
to show us the way
Boundless infinity oceanic
no end in sight,timeless,
and we mortals in oblivion
think about being en-gloved,
encircled we dance immersed
in perpetual meditation
we shall, in cool shadows be
with obedience and charity
for good we did, in year past
what good we do now, to last,
our hearts, swirling constellation
a nucleus smooth, unfurled silk
in time dissolved, myriads to
dust, rising spiraling merging
with countless orchestras in
harmonic symphonies of the
milky way, unknown infinity
like the never ending sea in oceans
cycling fresh blessings in motion
warming steam to vapors, floating
to infinity in dancing drops in
rotation, creating revolution
from sky to sand, and we say
rain falling, cooling drowning
and I say Blessed, drenched in
peace like the circling dervish
one with nature,in stillness bent
‘in my beginning is my end’
Light makes me light,boundless
flight, I say I am embraced…
Embraced in Eternal Heavenly Light
Here are the responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, January 3, Too Late for Miracles, which asked poets to share what’s on their minds as we move into the new year.
Welcome to newcomers: Isadora De La Vega, Miquel Escobar, Sheila Jacob, Elaine Reardon and Anjum Wasim Dar. As is custom for new poets, their bios are included by way of intro.
Thanks to Colin Blundel, Paul Brookes, Denise Aileen DeVries, Renee Espriu and Sonja Benskin Mesher for coming out to play again.
Together these poets have given voice to joys and concerns that we all share and they’ve done so beautifully from their diverse perspectives.
Anyone who would like to join in tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt is welcome to do so no matter the status of career: beginning, emerging or pro. All work shared on theme will be posted in the next collection on the following Tuesday. If you are sharing work for the first time, please send your bio and a photograph to me at thepoetyday@gmail.com. Meanwhile, enjoy these poems. I hope they delight you as they do me.
ISADORA DE LA VEGA, my homegirl (we’re both from New York) is: “Intriguing, sensitive, mysterious, loving, artistic and crackling with excitement for life is a pretty good description of who I am. I’m retired from the art world where I sold my Artfully Designed Handmade Jewelry for 28 years. Art will always be a part of who I am no matter what venue I choose to express it. I’m always dreamin’ of ways to touch the hearts of those who visit me in far greater ways then before they happened upon my blog. ”
Everyone Counting
a lost year
just gone by
just gone
just
oh hell
one argues as much there
lost as hope wants to bubble
up ahead uncreated
winter
— built-in grace period up
until thawing
the real bear the lost was —
is in hibernation
the carryover is pure genius
the straddling
the picture
sitting on the fence
absence of go-go dancers
ultimately
ten weeks in the grand
scheme of things
means
there is no good answer
to the question
yet
while the northern
axis observes
this tilt
can we
respect metaphorical roots
as much as continue to use them as
excuses
After a long career in software technology that is in its last few years, MIGUEL ESCOBAR is newly living alone and channeling what he calls his other Self from bygone years: poet, musician, songwriter, aspiring editor, appreciator and sometimes critic of the Arts. He shared regularly on social media off and on in 2007-2008 and now again since 2015. He’s had a small number of poems published with Luciole Press, and Diaphanous Press and looks forward to a future of defining, developing and evolving a personal Art life that right now feels almost like a religious calling.
As the old year ends
Days and nights
bring silver moons
and tangerine sunlight
melting snow
from the mountains;
tell of a rose bush
bearing crumpled flowers
and branches scarred
by summers long gone,
summers to come.
SHEILA JACOB was born and raised in Birmingham, England and now lives in North Wales with her husband. She has three children and five grandchildren. She resumed writing poetry in 2013 after a long absence. Since then her work has been published in various U.K. magazines and websites. Her ambition is to have a collection of her poems published before her seventieth birthday in three years.
New Year
The cold.
Unrelenting.
Pushes through each
thin crack by frigid wind
I greet the two degree temperature
happily. It’s climbing! Housebound,
I walk the stairs between the woodpile
and couch, hot water bottle ready.
I aim the heater to the back of the cabinet,
so it warms the pipes on the outside wall.
I cut my compost into small pieces,
lay them on the snow to feed the hungry
driven to my front door in the full moon’s light.
The radio on is on for company, against
the all day quiet. I hear about North Korea first,
then President Trump’s bigger button. Is this his
New Year’s address? I remember us all
crouching beneath our desks at school drills,
head tucked in, dog tag on, when I was a kid.
Was that the Bay of Pigs? Maybe there is some
hope, if we now send cruise ships to Havana.
Maybe one day NorthKorea will welcome cruise ships, too.
ELAINE REARDON is a poet, herbalist, educator, and member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers & Illustrators. Her chapbook, The Heart is a Nursery For Hope, published September 2016, won first honors from Flutter press as the top seller of the year. Her writing includes featured poet in the January 2017 issue of stanzaicstylings.com ezine,Bella,Three Drops from a Cauldron Journal and yearly anthology, poetrysuperhighway.com, naturewriting. com, And MA Poet of the Moment. Elaine also published global curriculum through University of Massachusetts Press. She lives tucked into hillside forest in Western Massachusetts.
Who Knows What Life May Have in Store
The year ends,
leaving gifts joys and blessings
reunions , joining relationships
for some the time is joyful
for some full of pain
as days of sorrow and parting
come back again
this year I feel peace and joy
yet sorrow and fear move along
for life manifests hungry poverty
threats to security and liberty
enemies restless firing bullets
innocent killing goes on…
some enjoy the snow and play
for them cold snow is a game
some lie shivering,no name
some build bonfires the same
sing dance and be merry
for tomorrow is,no blame
will come to shine and light
my heart says forgive more
make happiness and space
for others to share, spend less
save more, war looms ahead
who knows what life may have
in store,
work work and work
make life meaningful and easy
for others,help them if you can
smile smile smile
be grateful for all the blessings
look around there are miles
and miles and miles of them
ANJUM WASIM DAR says she is Srinagar born and Kashmiri educated at St. Anne’s presentation Convent High School Rawalpindi. She has a Masters Degree in English & History and is a professional ELT /TEFL teacher and trainer. Anjum is dedicated to serving the cause of education and English Language Training in Pakistan.
Impulse is potential.
Emotion without mind is violence.
The mind without heart is sterile.
The unfiltered will is scattered.
The untethered will is impotent.
Harmony is passion and reason,
refined and anchored, to perfect,
that conscience may be as leaven
in Humanity, to honour and express
the Beauty of the cosmic sum.
The heart beats. The mind’s job is to justify its rhythm to the soul.
It was the year of air raid drills,
learning to crouch under desks
in the third grade classroom.
Little did we know, the world had ended the year before.
By my high school graduation,
I had survived five annihilation
predictions, not counting
my personal teenage tragedies.
After four more apocalypse dates,
I finished college, married,
moved closer to ground zero.
The world ended six more times
and my first child was born,
a sign of hope in a hopeless world.
Four more Armageddons passed
and I gave birth twice, still hopeful.
Twenty-three holocausts later,
my last child was born. Life
persisted. The world
has not ended, despite predictions
and even our heartfelt wishes.
I have stopped counting cataclysms.
It’s time to do the dishes.
Little miracles happen every night in life.
That’s what the old blind man told me, leaning against the rugged bench in the park. And at this point, a ladybug shone in front of my eyes. He saw – he smiled at me – it was the mother of the seven-color arc.
He smiled again
and
went over the rainbow.
Paul’s most recent collection, She Needs That Edge (Nixes Mate Books, 2018) is available now from Amazon US HERE and Amazon UK HERE. Another fabulous read by this indefatigable Yorkshire poet. This time with his singular style and and acute insight into the human condition, Paul takes us through five stories, pictures of the great and small ironies of life drawn as we observe the daily routines, rituals and reactions in lives where birds have jam sessions on rooftops, mausoleums live on fridge doors, the memory of a touch stays with the skin; lives where hands are telling and people hunger, give what’s not wanted and take what’s not given. In short, Life with all its pathos and ethos. SheNeedsthatEdge is well worth your time and pennies.
Dreams of Flight
Closing my eyes dream like synapses
coalesce images of youthful fears
tainted by mountain high and
valley lows of emotions
feathered wings in flight I fancied
releasing me from my humble dawning
with the smell of lemons and lilacs
growing against a backdrop of cement
tainted with the odors of asphalt
on the other side of town peppered
with factory workers, shop owners
life ached for gleaming upscale as
housewives tended children crying
dutiful lives of status quo
but only dreams took me flying
into the darkness of night
smelling of sweet honeysuckle
scaling walls of rising freedom
as now all dreams of tender youth
have left me I no longer fear
nor struggle from whence I came
for the spring of my soul
bubbles forth a peace within
Jamie Dedes' THE POET BY DAY Webzine 