“Blessed Are the Sacred Folk” and other poetic r esponses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

These are the responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, August 2, Hot August Nights. Enjoy and be sure to support and encourage these intrepid poets by liking, commenting and visiting their blogs. Thank you for joining us. Tomorrow another prompt will post and you are invited to come out and play and share your own prose or poetry.  All work shared will be featured in The Poet by Day the following Tuesday.


The Honeymoon’s Over

Spring’s promise of high summer
has passed, the lush greens gone,
and now less vibrant. Parched.
Stale somehow. Disappointing.

The promise so much sweeter
than reality; the heady warmth;
sun filled days and mirage haze
the balmy heat, hot naked nights.

We should enjoy this time, by rights
but if it brings us closer to the fall;
the Autumn of our life, if that is all
then can we not enjoy the cooling

promised winter chill, another world,
its yielding to the blacks and whites
mysterious greys, the icy haze,
the freezing hibernation, preserving.

But no. An earlier Spring, that comes
too soon, and sooner still the melting
Arctic ice. One day, there’ll be no more
dreaming of a summer honeymoon.

© 2017, John Anstie (My Poetry Library and FortyTwo)


29 days .

he came early today. screaming round the garden.

a gentle feel, all chill and autumn mist already,
with us only mid august, yet we know the signs the feel,
the smell of the tide in the air, here.

we panic as the small boy grows, as times passes.

they say quicker now, yet i am not so sure.

i went to town yesterday, saw the signs of another
world. stood in the bank some time, only one
assistant these days.

the sun colours the clouds with empathy.

© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher (Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCS – Fine Art and Illustration) and (Sonja’s Drawings)

. 107 just a summers day ..

it is like loving a ghastly child

she said.

looked down,

noticed her puffy

ankles

in the heat.

© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher ((Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCS – Fine Art and Illustration and Sonja’s Drawings)


Ghost Holiday

Briefly open the earth gate into your head dark,
allow your kindly dead through the gate to be with
you, the living, let them sup ale in their old pubs,
if the places are not boarded up, demolished,

allow them to enter their old homes. Their rooms left
as they
were when they died, or find their goods given to
charity, sold, some kept, their homes lived in now

by strangers, who chase them off, crash pots and pans too
loud for the dead. So they wander streets as homeless,

uncared, they find your home and photos of themselves,
relieved that someone still treasures their memory.

Soon, respite done, they return by the earth gate to
your head dark, until their next holiday among
the living, to see, again how time has moved on.

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

Blessed Are the Sacred Folk

who plough
who prepare the earth
who plough with a wide furrow to bring water from the river
who plant seeds
who trace the first ploughing, reploughing as first did not work
who harrow
who dig
who weed
who reap
who carry the grain
who store the grain
who share the grain
who share their good fortune with us, the dead

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

Open the Grain Store Between Your Thighs

world of
dark in your underworld
full of your dead ancestors
warm food for the cold times
riches kept snug
allow a kiss
allow a lick
I should not let the dark out
for long
I shall plug it
so after winter you can give birth to heat
bring out small bawling heat to help

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

Gather Harvest

offering

rain to earth
hard labour harvests
first fruits for winter

counsel

uncut grain holds earth
in secret counsel as seas
do not hold sea floor

conversation

scythe interrupts grain’s
conversation with its earth,
ears no longer hear

ruin

ruin oversees cornfields
must be placated with fires
in field, hearth and head

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


The Heat of Hot August Nights

The longing for warmer weather and sunny days
falls somewhere between Winter rain
and Spring flowers beginning to petal

but it all has given way to a heat so heavy
that it settles upon her August nights
as though weighted a substantial burden

it permeates every living thing and even
insects take refuge long for cooling air
causing the synergy of habitats once again

for the fine line between longing and needing
takes her back to the petals of flowers and green
days with a cool breeze a paramour of the sun

© 2017,  Renee Espriu (Renee Just Turtle Flight and Inspiration, Mimagination & Creativity with Wings, Haiku Halburn and Art)


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“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)


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