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“A Weather Bouquet” and other responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt


Here are the inspired responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, July 26, 2017, orange fires at daybreak. I know you’ll enjoy this collection featuring the work of poets: Gary Bowers, Renee Espiriu, Sonja Benskin Mesher and Paul Brookes.


A Weather Bouquet

Sunny days and dispositions,
Cloudy shower-stalls and skies,
Rainy reigns and piled munitions–
These make heartleaps, sadness, sighs.

Eddies, tiny or galactic,
Swirl our joy and fear and grief–
Posit: hailstorm prophylactic:
Yields some hail to the Chief.

© 2017, Gary W. Bowers (One with Clay)


. the weather man .

i said it were a lovely day, i did not mean the weather.

i talk about the feeling, the mood that did not change, all day,

little tasks that please. planting chives in treacle tins, ironing pyjama pants,

and cotton handkerchiefs.

he warned me the rain would come, and when it did

heavy, we tucked in tight here, enjoyed the darker

green.

soon, the rain will stop.

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

. weather man .

knows the wind will change,

the birds will fly.

while i know nothing.

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


The Divorce of Heaven And Hell

The excess of roads leads to the wisdom of palaces.
The wrath of tigers are wiser than the instruction of horses.

Multi gendered I hang wet washing
on the horse nebula. Iron 3d to 2d.

I have domestics with myself.
Air turns blue and galaxy neighbours
hear my gusty rant and rain rave

Bang on thin wall between
dimensions. Our star children

weep beneath my screams. Remind
myself never to drink and argue again.

Tell my other half it needs to pull
its weight. I can’t be aware of all

that happens or needs doing.
Neighbours are different sides to me.

Our star children turn from
wild blue things to yellow average kids
to red in the face before their fire dies.

I must stop falling out with myself,
as it is always me deals with the fallout.

I multi task a weather of constellations. I cope.
I’m multi versed. Too many different sides.

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

As Billpayer

Universe looks at the upkeep
of stars and planets,

heating and lighting costs,
orbital maintenance,

monitor of natural entropy
scratches its head, goes for a walk,

amongst birth and death, waits
for unexpected comet of a solution.

Tighten Orion’s Belt, slow down growth,
non interference, allow the inevitable.

Cosmic gusts are harsher in austerity.
It must calm the arrival of storms.

© 2017, Paul Brookes (Wombwell Rainbow)

The Lost Sock

The universe tries to find a lost sock.
Life is unbalanced with only one.

It is awkward over tiles, one foot cold,
the other warm, as if half in, half out the house.

Or in front of a fire, a part of you blisters,
a part freezes, a summer one side, winter the other.

How does one sock get lost in the wash?
Is it rammelled up in bedsheets?

No one else to blame when your not a multiverse.
Universe looks after itself in a bedsit of stars.

© 2017, Paul Brookes (Wombwell Rainbow)


Capricious Magician

Unpredictable
in ‘nature’ is she
dropping hints
with sun rays
peaking out
between
clouds

apparitions held
as fading shadows
become
cloudy
mirrors

and the next moment
a downpour of
rain filling gutters
a deluge
down
drain
spouts

a disappearing act
slight of hand
the earth drying
cracks in
hardened
clay

a capricious magician
prone to laughter
a comic relief
dancing
across a stage
of her own
making

© 2017 Renee Espriu (Renee Just Turtle Flight and Haibun, ART & Haiku)


ABOUT THE POET BY DAY

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

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

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

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


“Goodbye,” she said

It has been – interesting

But …

The time has come

Leaving is difficult

Death is permanent

I must go …

To find myself …

Staying will only lead to

Death …

Maybe mine …

Perhaps yours…

Death is not

My style

Not my future

The choice made

“Goodbye,” she said

Leaving to Live …

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

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

Forgiveness

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

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

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

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

He makes work
of her temper.

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

To her his help
is more hinder.

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

Vacuuming her dressing table …

Vacuuming her dressing table you, accidentally suck up an earring

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

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

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

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)


A Favor to a Friend

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

a blind date she never would

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

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

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

with the cousin

she tried to oblige remembering
he was to be shipped out

so she tried pleasantries
to no avail
none at all

he moved in closer and closer
too close for comfort really

the kissing began
going on and on
without end

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

he simply kept on kissing

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

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

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

but she tactfully found a way
to decline saying
absolutely
not

not another time

she needed air

© 2017, Renee Espriu (Renee Just Turtle Flight)


:: poet ::

it is just that some dislike

love poems, those that rhyme

all romantic. pretty though

they are.

some write of other

things, in a more

random fashion.

i like things private.

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

.. somethings cannot ..

some things cannot be put to word.

i try. hard. you lay there cold.

i stumble stutter say sounds backwards.

think i know? i thought i knew

you know.

there is silence. some socks

will not fit the drawer.

some things need tidying.

regularly.

some things.

there were bits of cabbage in the water,

now they are down the sink.

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

294.

it all shows through
the other side
and backwards,
said

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

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

is this love
or captivity?

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


your innocence

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

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

forgiveness is an arrogant intrusion
into somebody else’s life

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

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

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

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

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

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

at a railway station

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

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

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

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

© Colin Blundell (Colin Blundell, All and Everything)


ABOUT THE POET BY DAY

“A Siren Wailing for No Reason” … and other poetic responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

The last Wednesday Writing Prompt July 12, 2017– The cold war: there was so much revealed by the singularity of that time. What crazy quirks do you remember or have you heard about from those you know who lived through it?

Here are responses from poets: Renee Espriu, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Paul Brookes and poet and writer, Dan Roberson.  Bravo! 🙂


A Siren Wailing for No Reason

The sun had risen high in the blue sky
over rolling hills of farm country
causing a dry heat much as the roiling
heat of the home of her childhood
produced in waves upon asphalt streets

she knew the howl of a siren near by in
the close distance as she sat visiting
with her son her terrier mix at her feet
and he saw her puzzled look asking why
to glean the meaning of that sound now

for she recalled a time years past
in the elementary school days now gone
the drills that came, of getting down
upon the floor to hide beneath her desk
with her hands upon her head to wait

but as the memory flashed upon her face
her son smiled to say the neighbor
who lives not far likes to hear the siren
wailing as it does for not a reason
but he hears it every afternoon of a day

so she smiles with him to recall those
drills of her youth and hoping as she did
that her desk might shield her from harm
for it might come with her eyes shut tight
the all clear was given & she breathed a sigh

© 2017, Renee Espriu (Renee Just Turtle Flight and Haibun, ART & Haiku)


More Than a Cold War

It was easy to see a war
In someone else’s back yard,
But the cold war brought ideas
Of destruction to my street
And to places where my feet
Touched the ground.
I thought often about homes
Made of concrete buried deep,
So how could I sleep?
My thoughts were of the aftermath
Of a crazy war with nuclear blasts
Bringing a nuclear winter.
Safe in a shelter but outside nothing alive.
The fifties were a time when our land
Was divided by race
Separate but equal
As long as the white equal was more.
I remember small things,
A prize I won at age twelve
For having an answer to
Name the governor who blocked the door
Against black people who wanted more.
They wanted equality.
I saw street signs that said no blacks
After 6 p.m. in several towns.
The cold war was not somewhere else
But also a civil war within our own country.
I saw the war never ending
As long as we continued bending
Defining people by culture, language, or color
Or whatever differences are around.
We built shelters far underground,
And never to be found.
But someday we will want to breathe
The same air, feel the sun, hear music
And then the walls might come down,
Ending the cold war, ending the barriers,
Becoming the planet of the wise
Without a disguise.
Working and living together.
No cold wars, no hot wars, not even rumors of wars.
That’s my dream.

© 2017, Dan Roberson (My Blog)

The Cold War was a time of Self-Destruction

The cold war was not your usual war. World War II was over and soldiers were home straightening out their finances, their lives, and learning to laugh again. It was a time of flexing military muscle, USA vs. USSR. It was a time of threatened security and talks about spies. It was an era of hidden ICBM missiles, tucked away in secret places, a time of country pride. The fifties was stifling, no laughter in the hallways, no mini skirts, no flowers in the fields. After several years of exuberant laughter, the world prepared for war, prepared to hide everything under its wings, and everything good seemed suspect. The Soviet Union displayed its might in parades. The USA pointed fingers at suspected communist sympathizers and tapped phone lines. But the worst effects of the cold war were the squashed dreams and ugly suspicions, the kind of things that tore families apart and ruined friendships.

The fifties were nightmares waiting to happen. I remember a camping trip into the wilds. A friend and I drove hours looking for a deserted campground. We drove until dark, put out cots and listened to crickets and other insects singing. Just after three a.m. the ground began shaking and we leaped off our cots and prepared to fight.

We stood there for a few minutes waiting for a German tank to come crashing through the brush. It never came. We were duped by our own fears and nightmares. The Cold War created a false reality. My friend had seen tanks in action and they became part of his dreams. I dreamed of the future where families would have to fight their way out of nightmares and fears. The Cold War was filled with tension and waiting, a time that people talked about eating their own young to save them from the wars to end all wars.

© 2017, Dan Roberson (My Blog)


::cold war::

dampflight.

it will be today, and the plants are growing.

so they found a russian

yesterday

with codes and dvds

and while on holiday

fought and sat in trees.

while all is changing round us,

all is changing.

listen ,someone upstairs,

ready for tea

and appropriate bun,

and never mind the hour,

and the rain.

a thin mist,

damp coating

of the air,

and a snail in the garden.

we must not mind how it is,

we must make the best of things.

politics make not an ounce

of difference here, we are black and white,

and back before.
** (notes and cuttings)

with the new scissors………………

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

..cooler morning..

she said it was a cold war, an iron curtain.

it seemed warm to me that summer, we listened

to the radio.

a lot.

we had patterened curtains, she did not like nets.

drawn if it was raining, drawn against the sun.

i could not imagine them metal.

i rarely draw my curtains here.

i live in the country.

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

. fox hole.

colder in russia, that picture

shows soldiers froze

to death.

after the end

of that war.

second world war

there was that #coldwar.

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


That M. A. D.

I recall CND.
Their sign that seemed
To a ten year old
three legs of the Isle Of Man
cut off at the ankles.

Cold war was parents divorcing.
Mutual agreement to keep the balance.

A wall is thought to help not hinder
with barbed wire, gun emplacements
watchtowers and divided lovers.

Berlin is always black and white,
divided into zones and checkpoints,
negotiating passages for spies,

and dark electronica where musicians,
poets and novelists
work out their nightmares.

Divorce is mutually assured destruction.
And Donna Summer sings “I will survive”.

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

The Dominoes

will fall into the evil empire.
Able Archer practices
War. How to tell it’s only

make believe? These black
doors with white dots
are an iron curtain

between supermarkets
bloated with items unobtainable
except through a black market

on streets steeped in austerity.
Act as if more material goods
improve life while other folk

say “We appreciated life more
when we were poor.” Keep

dominos from fall. Keep all upright
and correct and buying.

Material goods are freedom
from the tyranny of enforced poverty.

Rarity brings value and hope.
The fall of the wall of dominoes.

This was not imaginary.
Pieces of the wall are bought and sold.

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

Keep Off (A World Where 2)

Balance.

All must be unequal.
Walk one leg shorter
than the other. One eye

bigger, one ear lower.
A work/life imbalance brings harmony.
Male different from female.

Unsteady, ever keenly aware
ground uneven underfoot,
Steps up and steps down.
Heights varied keep you focussed.

A balanced life is unreal.
Accept un and imbalance
as necessary and needed

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

Note: Apologies to Renee, Dan, Sonja and Paul for the late posting.  It was just that kind of day.


ABOUT THE POET BY DAY

“Explaining a Peace Sign to a Toddler” …. responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt



THE LAST WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT June 21: Times and places of peace leave no scars to jog our memories and stoke the fires of our hope. Remember peace or imagine it: What would a world at peace look like?

My own poem that accompanied the prompt was about re-imagining a war torn place – Syria – into peace. Some have taken the prompt and pointed it at inner peace or the personal experience of a peaceful moment, both of which would be the everyday norms of a peaceful world. S.E. Ingram writes about explaining peace to a child … and it is peace to that child when he and his brother stop hitting one another. And so it is with the world at large.

Thanks to all who came out to play.


EXPLAINING A PEACE-SIGN TO A TODDLER

It never occurred to me how impossible
it might be to describe a concept to a child
An innocent whose frame of reference
doesn’t yet extend to encompass such
atrocities as war
So how to explain the need for peace

I give him a teddy-bear that is tie-dyed,
a souvenir from a trip to New Orleans;
I don’t notice until he’s holding it that
the bear is sporting a peace sign on its
miniature T-shirt, and naturally the 2 year
old wants to know what it “says”

He understands the hexagonal red road
signs mean “stop”, and the inverted yellow
triangles mean “wait” (yield actually, but
it’s a word still beyond him)
But peace? I try to explain about fighting
and then no fighting
He nods wisely, asks me if it’s like when he
and his brother “hit” and then get into
trouble
Is it “peace” when they both stop hitting
In a way, I tell him, in a way…

© 2017, S. E. Ingram


on a hill

above a bay containing a quiet sea
not quite knowing
so many years ago
the drift of my soul
or the even more alien drift of the soul
of that other now just
a sometimes voice on the telephone—
this single event
comes back to me now
when I could very well do without it:
it was a moment before going back for hotel teatime
on a hill complete with sensation of slipping down & off
above a bay containing such a quiet sea

such a long remorseful soul-drift
between then & now

and that is all you’ll know of it
except that you’ll compare it
with that small event that drifts
in & out of your own recollection
particle & wave depending on your angle
(both together when you look away
from what’s held in place
by time & space maybe something like
a hill… a bay… a sea quietly moving there
stuck like a tune on an old record)

my self the zero coordinate
(emergent uprising)
held in place momentarily by
the elements that constitute
a State of Being:

walker & path walked;
dreamer & dream-journey;
thinker & web of thought

*

This was a moment of peace that may seem like some kind of scar but my own quiet state now is a ‘zero coordinate’, unifying all, which is a rather larger moment of peace still warmly linked to that hill above a bay… I feel myself there right now nearly sixty years ago!

The poem comes from my The Recovery of Wonder (Hub Editions, 2013)

© 2013, Colin Blundell (Colin Blundell, All & Everything)


The Star Second to the Right

In a time primordial when first life began
unimaginative of the harsh realities of wars
when sunrises and sunsets were ethereal
she can only imagine stepping into dreams
of discovering an unblemished world of those
dreams made of translucent skies so that
much like Peter all she has to do is to go
to the star second to the right and straight
on till morning or perhaps like Alice she
should eat but a small bit of cake to become
just the right size to enter the garden
there upon discovering a different world
for in seeing forever is the powerful force
where oceans teeming with life are no longer
a graveyard of war ships but only coral reefs
a delightful dance of colors and creatures
and where gardens floral are wondrous delights
for children playing for hate is not a word
so cannot invade her dreams that will always
be pristine as newly fallen snow in Winter
with skies so clear she can revel to see them all
from anywhere to blissfully fly to the star second
to the right and straight on till morning

© 2017, Renee Espriu (Renee Just Turtle Flight)


.reflect.

it is an older mirror,
speckled with time.

liquid memories,

we make a place of safety
with our thoughts and habits.

our work. our souls
are in our chests.

look here, she said.
please, do not touch
the ladies bed,
with lavender and velvet pillow.

the way is barred now,
the time is past.

things have become misshapen.

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

that feeling, that .

arrives unexpected from darkness, some winters’ mornings,

opening the door to the sound of one black bran bird calling.

track four repeated. that

comes on waking finding peace and comfort bound in clean
linen.

arises with perfume, an uncertain memory.

it may be chemicals, peptides in the brain as love, what
ever the germ or warfare

I find no word to describe, no random feather nor dust on
my plate. pass a finger.

that feeling of trimmed nails upon the keys pounding
words and silences.

while music plays. that feeling. that.

syrup stings my tongue.

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


We Stop Decay

devote lives to prevent decay
of wood, breath, bone, brick,
gardens of our minds,
faculties of our hearts

Each day we weed, we resow,
rework, rebuild
the wood, breath, bone, brick,
gardens of our hearts,
faculties of our minds.

Laugh to heal the stench
of rot, worm eaten
brick, bone, breath, wood
landscape of flesh
fresh produce of light.

Born to decay in decay
heal the ever opening wound
brick, bone, breath, wood
flesh of landscape
light produce of flesh.

Laugh.

© 2017 Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

Rob Time

of it’s place.

Early morning await vintage diesel train
to Great Yarmouth.

One off First Class Pullman name on backs of armchairs, table light, upturned China tea cups and side plates for

complementary tea and coffee and Chelsea bun.

Pass Manvers Industrial Estate where I used to work and Rotherham where she used to work.

Green and golden fields.

We brought a pack up. Dining Experience too expensive. Pringles and Pound Shop Special Toffee.

Sun shining. Expecting rain at the coast.

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

Inhale Dappled , A Perfumed Air,

step through cast
illuminated windows
of tree crowns,

birdsong lilts blossom fall.
Key all senses keener.
See claw hunt feather.

Feathered mams rescue bairns
from hungry talons. Bigger birds
snatch fluffy kids from nests

to feed their young. Beetles battle
over territory. All fend, forage
in this vision of quiet.

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rain)


ABOUT THE POET BY DAY