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January 30, 2018January 29, 2018

“Corpse Watcher” … and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

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

Note: The Master = GIGurdjieff

(from my ‘The Recovery of Wonder’ 2013)

blue

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

Corpse Watcher

He tells me he watches corpses
and looks forward to mine.

Its the stillness, and sometimes
If you’re lucky the movement.

Only chemical but shocks.
I like the shocks.

Sunblaze

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.

Suddenly The

Sky opened and closed
Earth darkened and glowered.
Ocean frittered and wittered.
Air garnered and hoary.

Child across the earth.
Teenagers stretch clouds.
Adults narrow seascape.
Aged pinpoint gust.

Travellers are still.
Homely explore vastness.
Refugees carry home.
Ghosts are solid once more.

The Book

When born he opened
The Book Of Everything
that had all the questions.

It was too much so he skimmed
chapters that didn’t seem relevant
until much much later in the book.

Later in life he closed
The book of nothing
That had all the answers

because it was too much effort,
to find his glasses put somewhere safe.

#Lost My Blues #

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 —-

Silver Threads of Nature

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

Rites of passage

To you,earth,I leave my ashes.

To you,sky,my unfinished dreams.

To you, ocean, blown kisses.

And to you, wide world,
the very best of me
warm and alive.

Two daughters, one son,
already entrusted
when I birthed them years

ago into your light,
heard their first startled cries
on a March morning,

an August night, in May’s
early hours; watched
the midwife lift each

perfect body still plaited
to mine, gift-wrapped
and glistening with my blood.

. we too shall die .

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.

touched by the small things, softly, we drew

together

: side parting :

looking for a legacy

i find nothing / no words

no comfortable leavings

parting on the wrong side

can be painful

some hide secrets

i do not

we hope you will feel good

about pins

Light is neither matter nor myth

it is The Only Truth

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

illumination…

ABOUT THE POET BY DAY

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Beguine Again, regular contributor
Second Light Network of Women Poets, professional affiliation
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January 9, 2018January 9, 2018

“A Gift of Love” … and other responses to Wednesday Writing Prompt

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.

A Gift of Love

Without you,

Life is just existing.

With you,

Life is worth living.

You put a name on the

Songs, birds sing.

And, you bring the smell of flowers,

To a breezy spring.

You are my sun,

You are my moon,

You are in my heart,

Forever and a day.

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

everyone counting

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.

midnight:
the moon’s chimneypot
on the back lawn

Will is fuel

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.

End of the World (again)

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.

Too late for miracles

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.

Old Year

Celebrate the going of the new year
and the arrival of the old year.

At midnight on Old Year’s eve
sing of how it all ends,

make decisions to keep old habits
And not pander to new ones

that have outstayed their welcome.
Newness gives you wrinkles.

Stay with youthful decrepitude.
The fresh has lost its taste.

Welcome the old with fireworks.
Reold the world

We Must Avoid

doors that open too smoothly,
scissors that open too well,
doors slam in your face,
scissors cut you to strips.

Words that come too easily,
stories that come ready made,
success handed on a plate,
accolades sent too soon

poetry that slips off the tongue,
without hard work and sweat,
words that bother the reader,
with too much work to do,

poetry without music and rhythm,
complicated images and phrases,
not asking if it’s boring,
not being entertaining enough.

Buy More (From “Queue At World’s End)

food than we need.
Never want to join again

these endless queues.
The end of the world

is due so we’ve got to make sure
we have enough

of everything for two days
when the shops are closed.

Two days closed is an economic sanction,
an act of war we rush to counter

with extra rations, things we would not
normally buy. Just in case a battle

breaks out and we are bunkered
in our homes. Eat and be merry.

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. She Needs that Edge 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

::the year::

gently go forward, then gently back
recreating past deeds and misdemenours
you thought forgotten.

gently go forward knowing we are mostly
all the same, with motes not spoken of,
except disorder.

gently it passed behind you, seen
clearly while looking for god.

gently gather winter leaves to keep
in paper bags. these are the golden
days .

my friend.

ABOUT THE POET BY DAY

The Poet by Day, an information hub serving poets and writers
The BeZine, founding and managing editor
Beguine Again, regular contributor
Second Light Network of Women Poets, professional affiliation
Testimonials
Disclosure
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November 21, 2017November 20, 2017

“The Grand Scheme of Things” … and other responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

In these responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, November 15, gods of our making, you’ll find some moving and discerning views into the way we create false gods, stuggle with and spin the fabric of belief, sometimes to justify the unjustifiable, and the ways in which belief systems learned in youth may come up wanting in the face of common sense and the hard realities of adult life.

Kudos to Mike Stone (new here and welcome), bogpan, Kakali Das Ghosh, Colin Blundell, Ginny Brannon, Renee Espriu, Anthony Carl and Paul Brookes for work that is engaging, honest, well considered and well written.

The Grand Scheme of Things

(Raanana, April 11, 2016)

The dark cloud squats heavily on the horizon
Undecided whether to drift slowly
Over our dusty fields with its fat bladder
Full of drought quenching rains
Or to drift up the coast a ways
To quench the thirst of our enemy’s fields.
O Lord, I know it makes no difference
In the grand scheme of things,
But I can’t help the fact
It would make all the difference in the world
To me.

Beliefs

(Raanana, December 4, 2016)

That I know what my wife is feeling,
That my love will be enough to protect her
From the lovelessness around her,
That my particular being might have some worth
In the eye of the Grand Schemer of Things,
That the sun will climb over the eastern mountains tomorrow,
That the ground on which I walk
Is as solid as any reality,
These are small beliefs I think
That won’t hurt anyone else,
At least I don’t believe so.
But there are grander beliefs
That grow stronger
With every man and woman who believes them,
That only the grandest edifices
Can house them,
These beliefs,
Like who’s a chosen people
And who’s a virgin, an only son, or a true prophet,
Beliefs that hurt those who don’t believe them.
These are the beliefs I don’t believe
Are any good for anything
That’s not a building.

A True Believer

(Raanana, February 10, 2017)

Although there is truth
I will never know it
Or be absolutely sure.
Although the world
And universe above and below
Do in fact exist
I will never perceive or conceive it.
Although all this is true
There is not enough evidence
To make of me a true believer
A skeptic or a cynic
An optimist or pessimist.
According to forensic science
Every criminal leaves a trail
Except for God and His magicians.
All this and less
As we move forward in our time.

Forsaken Children

(Raanana, September 23, 2017)

The child is taught
When there is no help
God is our help,
When there is no hope
God is our hope,
When there is no redemption
God is our redemption.
These are honeyed words
To hear on sabbath after new years,
They succor us until we need them to be true
And then they desert us
Just like God did long ago
And we cry out from our crosses
With our last breaths like His Son
Why have You forsaken Me?
The truth is it’s our beliefs that crucify us,
Better to die like a lion roaring
Against the jackals of death
Or an eagle falling silently
From the sky
Than like forsaken children
Waiting for redemption.

MIKE STONE Although this is Mike’s first time on Wednesday Writing Prompt, I think many of you know him from other venues. I do believe he has participated in every The BeZine 100TPC event as well. Mike was born in Columbus Ohio, USA, in 1947 and was graduated from Ohio State University with a BA in Psychology. He served in both the US Army and the Israeli Defense Forces. He’s been writing poetry since he was a student at OSU and supports his writing habit by working as a computer networking security consultant. He moved to Israel in 1978 and lives in Raanana. He is married and has three sons and three grandchildren.

(Have the life)

The wings are bending of a dead
wind.
Under the fallen papers with words
blank
not burnt cockroaches are running
back
and forth
making noise…
And the ocean dries up.
The death is whispering in eyes
every single while,
when you’re bent above the oars.
The oars are making after the hits
circles
and they’re expanding.
A twitch and the end.
But the tries are repeated.
It doesn’t matter.
They leave sweat and tears,
pieces of keels,
trails of activity,
grief.
Where are you going in the early afternoon,
When the twilight
Is lying on your shoulders?
(but love is a place sedentary).
Repent –
know-it-all.

Have the life!

they asked Bertrand Russell

how he would react
if when dead he found that God really did exist —
that he had been wrong all along…

what would he do when he arrived
at the Pearly Gates
to be welcomed by St Peter?

what would he say to God?

without hesitating Russell said:
I’d go up to him and I’d say
you didn’t give us enough evidence

(From my The Recovery of Wonder (2013)

Still Searching for Answers

I have lifted my eyes to the heavens to pray
trying to renew the faith I once felt;
coming to find at the end of the day
that life as I know it is centered on doubt.
How can God sanction such anger and hate,
the loss of a parent to such a young child;
the illness and pain that never abates…
too many questions left unreconciled.

We thank God for all of the good things that come,
but who takes the blame for the unanswered prayer?
Time intercedes until we’ve become numb—
stuck in this place between hope and despair.

I believe there are angels who wander among us:
in the friend who just senses when you need to talk;
in the kindness of strangers when we are in crisis,
who lift and support us when we cannot walk.

Life lessons learned have hardened this heart;
still God bless the ones who can truly believe.
Blind faith without proof is really an art;
it’s through love and kindness I’ll find my reprieve.

I still ponder the words that we heard in our youth:
to pray, to have faith that our voice will heard;
but have come to acknowledge this as my truth—
my Divinity’s found helping those here on earth.

Gods Like A Twining Snake

Gods cloaked as inner fears
grounded in DNA
like a twining snake
posed to lunge
to strike

waiting within a tired mind
weariness a braided chain
harnessing movement

reality sinking into quicksand
bogs of memory calling
burning names
taunting

Gods of money and loving guns
meaningless possessions
of nameless masses

when the use of words like arrows
taken from the quiver
can be weaponry
to fight

dueling with engines
created of cells
stinging like bees

identified as expectations
masked as perfection
a straight line
blue chalk
do not cross

we try to let go, let be
erase illogical revenue
nothing money
can buy

for these Gods leave
no purchase
are grounded
on a slippery
slope

quickly buried by mud slides
that alter belief in self
confidence askew
in the remnants
of time

#Falsehood of legendary Gods#

Swimming through their tears I live
Shedded leaves let out a deep sigh
The fiscous sky leaves a black smile
Howl of funous thunder
Heehaw of rampant lightning
tear apart hearts
A lorn’s cry for mom
A beggar’s bowl beside a temple
A street child’s furious search for a wrapper
A destitute aback a flash flood
Casts the falsehood of legendary Gods
Towards galaxies
Towards constellations
Towards this whole universe.

alma mater

the machine believes money
is love. honor and prestige
parade through the town

with cash clenched tightly
in their hands. they build
monuments to honor sport

while souls are crushed
under the clamor of their
self-congratulatory speech.

ii.

the hallowed halls
ring hollow with words,
reeking of self-preservation.

indeed if ghosts
still pass through these walls,
the living do all the haunting.

Godfather Life

I am born dead.
My father weeps
as he has nowt
and hopes for best.

He holds us out
in middle of our road
and offer as whoever
says they want me

can be my godfather.
God turns up first
and says as he can give me
eternal life in heaven.

Dad tells him to bugger off
as I’ll still be dead
and he’ll still be bereft.
Devil arrives next,

and says he can give me
all riches and principalities
in world at cost of my father’s
blood and soul.

Dad tells him to bugger off
as riches are in other things
and he don’t want me
without a father.

Then Life turns up
and says he will make me
a miracle worker and bring
other folk to life. Dad agrees.

When I’m of age
Life says to me
“I’ve given you breath
of life you can gi to others.

When you see me not there
it means as they shunt
have it. Don’t make me smile.
You won’t like it.

If I laugh it will be at you
not with you. You’ll have
disobeyed me, so I must
take away your gift.”

Then my wife drowns suddenly.
I think surely life
won’t mind, but
it isn’t there. I kiss

her lips till they redden.
And there was Life
at the foot of the bed,
and it’s smiling.

It tells “Well done.
Pleased to see such progress.
You have challenged me.
I like your spirit. Let

it go this once. Your wife
needs a hug.” Then my dad
dies of asphyxiation
in a car accident.

As I’m about to give
Dad my breath
Life pulls me away
with a “I know you

want the best for him.”
I reply “If you take
my gift give it to him.”
Life takes my breath away.

A Sea God

“Don’t let it get away!”
my sister shouts as my Dad’s hot air
wrapped in rubber flaps up
over the ocean in a cross gust.

We both climb in to steady it.
“We’re going out too far!
“I can’t see mum and dad.”
She shouts clambering back out.

She grasps the rope to pull
it forward but gust is too strong.
She lets rope go. “I’m going
back.” she shouts and swims away.

I paddle but gust is against me.
I get out, grab the rope, try to haul,
the current against me. I climb
back in. Watch beach and mam

and dad disappear, till there is only
the gusted, grey green waves.
It is cold. In my trunks I curl
into a question mark
in the rubber dinghy.

Suddenly, a shout. A huge hand
gathers me and dinghy up.
I rise into air. Lifted
into a smelly fishing boat.

“Thought tha wa lost their lad.”
the sea god says.

Editorial Note: I just finished reading Paul’s newest collection, She Needs That Edge, which is scheduled for publication shortly. Look for the alert on Paul’s site or here in Sunday Announcements. It’s another fabulous read by this indefatigable Yorkshire poet. In this collection Paul combines his singular style with acute insight into the human condition. He takes us through five stories, pictures of the great and small ironies of life. 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. She Needs that Edge will be well worth your time and pennies.

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October 24, 2017October 23, 2017

“Snowball Wars” and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

Last Wednesday’s Writing Prompt, The Scent of Ma’amoul, October 18 was to write about favorite winter memories and these poems are mostly just that. All are well done. Welcome to Anthony Carl and Lisa Ashley, newcomers to Wednesday Writing Prompt. A warm welcome back to Renee Espiru, Kakali Das Gosh, Colin Blundell, Paul Brookes, Sonja Benskin Mesher and Ginny Brannon. Enjoy this weeks collection and visit the poets at their blogs as well. Join us tomorrow for the next prompt. Everyone are welcome to share their work, no matter the stage of career: beginning, emerging or experience.

winter offering

the first frozen
day and my whole
world is swallowed
in snow. quiet air
chills my bones
as i draw each breath.

exhale.

every grey puff
is winter’s sacred
meditation chime,
an invocation
of gratitude as time
fades quickly away.

ANTHONY CARL majored in English Literature and has worked in the financial services industry for twenty years. Poetry is his outlet for creativity and staying sane. He is the author of one collection of poetry, Awaiting the Images, and his work appears in publications such as Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Panoply, and Empirical Magazine.

Snowball Wars

Red rubber boots, unlined and stiff, crackling with the cold,
stuffed with small round snowballs at days’ end,
attached to our snowpant cuffs
like the thistle burrs in summer to our socks,
we seven heedlessly dumped it all out on the kitchen linoleum,
pulling off those puffy clown pants,
draping wet woolen mittens, grandma knit,
over the wooden rack in the corner.
The mittens and hats never dried between forays
into that foot-deep,
knee-deep white stuff,
yet back on they went, wet and clammy next day
our enthusiasm warming the wet threads.

We never tired of building the snow forts
creating our cover, our barricade for attacking the neighbor kids,
defending our clan against them all,
my job to form the balls,
keep the pyramid pile stacked
so my brothers could jump up and fire them
over the top of the u-shaped fort.
I cowered from the enemy’s rock-hard snow bullets,
happy to make the ammunition behind the front line.
Were we catching a sense of what a war would be like,
years before my brother was sent to Vietnam?
I tried hard to follow directions,
pack the snow hard,
slapping the balls together in my smaller hands.

They were older, my brothers, like savages sometimes,
so maybe that’s why they invented the ice ball—
snow dipped in a bucket of water,
then surrounded with more snow—
so dangerous when they connected.
Perhaps our padded clothing kept us safe,
the ice ball dipping the source of their soaked mittens.
Gram had hot chocolate on the stove sometimes
when we came inside in the twilight
on the best winter days.
And no, my balls never measured up to theirs.

A Long Winter’s Sleep

The dash says 53 today,
not bad for January.
I glance across the street
into the opening of his tent
pitched there
on the sidewalk
under the overpass.
What tethers his tent there?
His body? His belongings?
He’s a white man, balding.
I can’t stop looking at him.
I check the light.
I invade his tent again.
He’s putting on his shoes, I think,
his tent flap rolled up
to catch the morning light.
Cars move through the intersection
rolling by one after the other.
It’s my turn to go.

Winter’s cut crystal breath
blasts concrete city
and clement countryside alike
as darkness drops down.
We live mostly inside these days.
Some live outside,
connected without choice
to nature’s moods and rhythms.
Gelid wind rushes ‘round corners
down brick and steel canyons,
sneaks beneath crackling tarps
pitched in peril
on grass-barren ground.
Mean homes huddled together,
snugged up behind a stone pole,
the metal dumpster,
a frigid freeway barricade
in hopes of blocking sleety rain.

Who blows on numb hands
inside these rimed plastic walls?
He lies on back-breaking sidewalks
night after night,
hears stiff tarps snapping
with the same indifference
as the taps of sharp-soled boots
skirting his home.

It’s colder than a witch’s tit out there,
we tell each other
over a drink at the bar
while hundreds
hunker down
that frozen-in-time night,
shivering,
waiting for morning
when the tent flap can roll up.

LISA ASHLEY, MDiv, Spiritual Director, Chaplain with incarcerated teens at the King County Detention Center, story-catcher and emerging poet, lives on Bainbridge Island, WA, where she meets with clients, writes and blogs at www.lisaashleyspiritualdirector.com She has also written for The BeZine.

#None keeps promise #

That scarlet evening beside Shilabati is still sleepless
That earthen road through which we did wayfaring
is still waiting for you
That deck bridge across the river
is abiding still now just for you
Some wintry leaves are flying on its chest agonized
On that severe brumal evening
lights of sideway poles were reflecting from the crystalline rivulet
After a long walk we settled on a giant pebble
Grasses -sedges and bamboos were grown most for their foliage
Remains of some aquatic plants were kissing our mortal feet
Divers waterbirds were peeping through hydrilla
You uttered softly witnessing the pole star
,”Jhimli -we will come here again during the next fall of dew .”
and touch the last pole
Now it is a wintry evening anew
I’m tramping again restless and lonely here
Tears rolling down my cheeks are amalgamating with crystalline water of the rivulet
You haven’t kept your words
The mild bridge is calling me
saying -“Don’t wait anymore -none would come –
none would wipe your tears -none keeps promise .”…..

..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.

..twigs again..

it has always been the same,

water going down hill,

thick frost of winter’s morning.

now the birds song at 4 am,

bad news soften by dreams,

new days. it has usually

been the same.

something there is

that now perceives a full moon in darkness
slightly hazy behind the thinnest of cloud coverings
behind the stark grasp of wintered branches –

a something – but in reality an absolute nothing
dreaming inconsequentially that it’s a something
by reason of the idea that it guides the scudding pen

across the page in the way it learned long ago to do
to produce a modicum of words – just sufficient
to say that there’s a something that perceives…

and so on and on; there will come other occasions
when it will choose to allow itself to be beguiled
into imagining that grand & conspicuous heaps

and heaps of words make some kind of sense –
all the stout metaphors and the dancing images
circumlocutions qualifications periphrastics…

but in these bold moments before this winter dawn
it has a sudden understanding that between words
– whatever words you so carefully choose –

and the infinite scintillations of externality there are
gross mucky swamps and dire deserts monstrous
mountains & galaxies that can never ever be traversed

Magic and a Mystery

The rusted tool chest on wheels now
a silent reminder of childhood wonder
when in mystery it did appear as

the night spread before us and sleep
a distant presence wrapped
in the excitement of holiday magic

we were sent to bed you and I
to await the morning’s sunrise
but I was vigilant and
so were you

as I listened to laughter seeping
beneath the door I smelled the
familiar scent of cigarette smoke
unfurling

from the neighbor who often was seen
visiting but it was late at night….and

I knew something or someone was about
as I saw you quietly push the door
to opening

I wanted to know if the gossip was true
that there was no Santa or St Nicholas
who would magically appear for
wishes come true

as we peeked carefully into the living room
it was mother who busied herself there
with the wonder of
holiday gifts
and fare

a shiny red tool box on wheels she moved
beside the tree as she smiled
with care

Mile Markers

Gray chalk hills fade one behind another
until they dissolve into oyster sky.
Ice crystals dance on gelid air,
glisten highway’s edge, and settle
in the crooks of sleeping maples.
Evergreens bend with the weight
of their thick winter shawls.
In spite of its bleakness, we are taken by
the stark frost-coated beauty of it all.

Northbound…

my core senses those timeworn mountains
long before my eyes discern them.
Yet, it is not these ancient mounds
that draw me back, but the folks therein
I long to see—those I love who wait for me.

With each mile passed, the years begin to dissipate;
like those hills now veiled by mist and gloam;
my pulse beats faster as this heart anticpates
that final stretch of road that leads me home.

Comfort Zone

A sudden snow shower,
flakes fly past the panes,
we watch in silence
mugs in hand; steam rising.
You turn on an old movie—
one seen a dozen times,
maybe more…
we laugh in unison,
quoting favorite lines,
echoing off each other,
anticipating what comes next…
as the steam rises

This Winter Tercet

Cold snuffles wound round lean naked limbs.
Wet wends beneath sinew, soaks into blind bone.
Ice builds crystal by crystal simple net of things.

A cracked miniscus mirrors low sun’s sharp moan.
A fallen ocean blinks between blood red bricks.
As gust raises bare barkskin, snaps rendered stone.

Nudd Offered

At bottom of this Winter ale
had a word about end of the world
with Nudd, Lord of the Underworld

Nudd says “Your wife and kids are dead
and gone with the other Lord
pustuled and poxed, ill fed

come with me below
to the lake beneath the mountain
never age never hunger never ail
meet your wife and kids again

I agree, get up to go
lift the latch
trip and fall in snow.

ABOUT THE POET BY DAY

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