“Awakening! Sweet or Rude” . . . and other poetic responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt
“I’d love to wake up to complete silence, white sheets, and the smell of crisp air and roses.” Eternal Youth
And it being Tuesday, here are the responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Awakening, August 7. Today our poets explore the ins, outs, pleasures and occasional weirdness of one of the most pivotal points of the day.
This collection is courtesy of bogpan (Bozhidar Pangelov), mm brazfield, Gary W. Bowers, Paul Brookes, Anjum Wasim Dar, Irma Do, Sheila Jacob, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Tamam Tracy Moncur, Pali Raj, and Clarissa Simmens.
Today we also warmly welcome Urmila Mahajan in her first appearance on this site. Urmila mentions a bulbul bird in her poem. I’d never heard of it. I had to look it up. The bulbul – pretty bird – doesn’t live in the Americas or in Europe.
Enjoy! and do join us for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt, which will post tomorrow morning.
Beginnings
I occupy a crevice
that night has burned and
day has not yet filled
where Earth is stilled until
the first bulbul chimes its
two-toned announcement
of another dawn
the ageing cat takes precedence
over frozen morning feet as I
hobble to touch a trembling purr
on bony flanks of fading flesh
to replenish a feeding bowl and
scrub flecks of meaty morsels
off the floor
to carefully strain a litter
by a single yellow lamp
and start the day with twosome
caring and a daydream
flickering in both minds of
many more such mornings
to come
we move on padded paws to keep
the brittle hush from snapping
and squinting without spectacles
I see the glowing crucialness
of beginnings
© 2019, Urmila Mahajan
URMILA MAHAJAN worked for over two decades as an English teacher in various schools. Passionate about drama she now works as a drama consultant for schools.
Her poetry has won several online prizes. She published her poetry book, Drops of Dew, with a foreword by Ruskin Bond, in 2005. Her more recent poems can currently be found at on her blog HERE.
Her full-length children’s novel, My Brother TooToo, was published in 2010. Around the same time, her articles on using English correctly were a regular feature in a youth magazine.
She lives in Hyderabad, India. Her hobbies include birdwatching, growing organic vegetables and of course, looking after her cat.
joy
to fall asleep
a book
with your reading glasses
(on a lamp)
the dawn is
blue
© 2019, bogpan (Bozhidar Pangelov)
bogpan’s site is: (bogpan – блог за авторска поезия блог за авторска поезия)
Zorya
there she is
bright bold with golden arms
the lady who comes to purify my blood
just 2 hours and 34 minutes in the past
did the moon with his mariachi suit
cry with me because he is a gentleman
we had clinked tequila glasses
while he kissed my hands
but with each step Zorya takes toward my window
i’ve come to prefer the strong espresso roast
dark heavy smoldering like your heart
you prefer to sleep
after quaking and quivering through my mounds
and when your eyes come open wide your armor
will cover you again
as i remain the faithful wench
in the china cup where to gold has chipped off
filled with mud and some manipulative tears
my cigarette will drown in sorrow
so i walk into the bathroom
to wash your sheep’s odor
off my she wolf fur
© 2019, mm brazfield
mm’s site is: Words Less Spoken
alarm
as i hack
through the unliving
with my broadsword
there suddenly comes
into my dream
tinkling cloying music
worse than zombies
for it snatches
me from glory
and its purpose
into the mundane
drab and dismal
day to day
© 2019, Gary W. Bowers (One With Clay)
Gary’s site is: One With Clay, Image and Text
As some of you know, Gary is multi-talented, combing visual art with poetry or prose narrative. He is also a potter. A sample of his work is pictured here. Gary’s pottery is available for purchase. Further details HERE. Note the business card. We appreciate Gary’s wry humor.
The Hyperbolic Poet Awakes
My eyelids open
are two worlds unfettered by cloud.
I splash the seven oceans
On the continents of my skin.
Rake the tombstones inside my mouth.
Tumble downstairs is scree down a mountain.
Open the wooden doors of delight,
Recover the pottery of ages,
Pour an avalanche of muesli
Farmed on sunny hillsides,
Crushed by the quern.
Grab the milk hosed out
By gargantuan herbivores,
Refined in their udders of heaven.
Wash and restacked pottery,
I stride over the open threshold
A veritable colossus.
© 2019, Paul Brookes
Rain Is Awake
when it falls
hits the snuggled earth
with wet caresses
Conscious movement
rippled determination
to move forward
once a route is found,
knows it must find rest
a place to sleep
but other droplets insist
on movement forward
© 2019, Paul Brookes
Her Fur Elise
I awake to Beethoven as Mam taps the upright
piano downstairs in the through lounge
where morning light highlights dark brown dining table
and varnished coffee table both polished
with Pledge until you see yourself. Later
chemo will make her petite fingers fat,
Fur Elise break into fragments as disease progresses
and piano sold as her hands come to rest.
© 2019, Paul Brookes
A Tom Tit
Suddenly awake I hear
milk float electric whirr, his
bottles rattle in their baskets
the clink as milkman delivers.
“Fetch milk in”, mam sharts.
I open our snowed door to find
Blue Tom Tit has been at it
again, claws stood on the lip,
beak strips the silver foil top
for a sup and winter sip.
I am not a milksop
“Tit’s been at it again, mam!
© 2019, Paul Brookes
our god sleeps
with his gob open.
When he opens his gob
It could be dawn, noon or midday.
whenever we must awake
to work in the mountains.
The mountains of god’s tongue.
They shake and gust blows.
We must find
our balance.
Hunt for food
on the undulations.
Never know
when god will close his mouth
for night to fall, again.
Sometimes night is short.
Folk say there is life
over the mountains
in god’s teeth.
None have returned.
© 2019, Paul Brookes
The Owl Guide
As you lie on that hospital bed unconscious
in a maybe
What more can you do,
What more should you have done
As a young girl, excited and unaccustomed to city-ways, gallop your dads milk horse
away from your white home,
through downtown Sunderland streets
where this morning it trotted
Dads milkcart rattle on a milkround.
Folk scatter, run scared.
A bobby captures your reins.
Arrested and thrown in prison
with the rapists, killers and paedophiles.
sob yourself to sleep.
Shortly after midnight awake
to flap, flap flap near the door,
stood wide open. You softly
step out, closed the door behind you.
See an owl,
perched on a wooden fence,
who awaits your escape.
The owl flies in front of you,
guides you past bobbies,
through dark streets, till you came
to a saddled horse and a bundle of fresh clothes.
You mount, the owl pulls the horses head
Towards the white dairy farm
then leaves, as it must as the owl
In a maybe
Is your future daughter who dies before you do.
What more can you do?
What more should you have done?
From Paul’s collection Port of Souls (Alien Buddha Press, 2017)
© 2017, Paul Brookes
Servant
For a time I do bother
to polish the surfaces,
hoover, wash and iron.
If only for myself,
but then myself is not enough.
Dust piles, crumpled clothes dirty.
I fall asleep among dirty sheets,
empty crisp packets,
half eaten cold pizzas,
stink of mice piss.
Awake to freshly laundered sheets,
clean carpets, clothes washed, ironed.
Surfaces polished smell of Lavender.
How could this happen?
Again I fall asleep while tv on,
amongst discarded chocolate papers,
left over cake on plates,
half drunk cans of lager.
Awake to tv off, rubbish binned,
plates washed, dried put away,
Citrus not stale beer and rotting smell.
I’m intrigued. Curious.
It takes no effort to be a slob, again.
Spill crisps down sides of chairs,
dribble tea into carpet, crumbs.
Energy drinks ready I stay awake.
Energy sup is the biz. Make
Me hyper so I see these two tiny
Folk, man and woman, like regular
Nanites sorting my crap.
Like my old man never were
this one hoovers up crumbs,
packs his black bin bag with cans,
busies, polishes, scrubs to his bones.
His old woman like mam, I guess,
dusts, scours a whirlwind devil.
Part of me says they do as they must,
the other sees what they lack.
Next night I leave them a gift
of nothing to tidy, to put away.
They seem contented as I watch
surrogate mam and dad leave for good.
© 2019, Paul Brookes
FYI: Paul Brookes, a stalwart participant in The Poet by Day Wednesday Writing Prompt, is running an ongoing series on poets, Wombwell Rainbow Interviews. Connect with Paul if you’d like to be considered for an interview. Visit him, enjoy the interviews, get introduced to some poets who may be new to you, and learn a few things.
The Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: Jamie Dedes
More poems by Paul at Michael Dickel’s Meta/ Phore(e) /Play
Awakening! Sweet or Rude
In Lethe we stay
dipped drugged forgetful of life
seasons pass in time
childhood is a dream
fettered forced youth,innocent crime,
silver streaks,await
the promise in vain,
bent weak constantly in pain,
hope to rise again?
right guidance will come
love light peace freedom will shine,
to awaken me.
® 2019, Anjum Wasim Dar
Anjum Ji’s sites are:
- Behance … artwork
- CER Professional Development
- Poetic Oceans poetry on WordPress
- Poetic Oceans poetry on Blogspot
- Anjum on Facebook
- Unsaid Words of Untold Stories…Prose writing
- ELT Work experience/educational service for the country
“POETRY PEACE and REFORM Go Together -Let Us All Strive for PEACE on EARTH for ALL -Let Us Make a Better World -WRITE To Make PEACE PREVAIL.” Anjum Wasim Dar
On Being Awakened
The joy of morning
Crowded out by small elbows
In my lower back
© 2019, Irma Do
Irma’s site is (I Do Run, And I do a few other things too . . .
Like The First Morning
Break, morning, and fly to me,
be my golden songbird.
Lift me from huddled sleep,
tuck me between your wing
and sun-dappled breast
and carry me over the rooftops.
Break, in all your new colours.
Wrap me in scarlet flame,
ease my bones and warm my heart
against your own as you soar
above mountains and pine trees
spooled with silver mist.
Break, morning, as though
you were the first to unveil
creation’s radiant face;
teach me your glory-unto-him
psalm of sunlit waking:
and breaking, from night’s heft.
© 2019, Sheila Jacob
Replacing The Empties
Woken by summer’s early light
I heard the chug of a milk- float
down the road. It rattled to a stop
outside our house, the milkman
unlatched our wooden gate
and bounded up the path.
A chime of glass and he’d replaced
the empties, left two full bottles
on the front step. Pasteurised
for my porridge or custard,
sterilised(long-lasting and thin)
for Mum and Dad’s tea.
The door opened and closed.
Mum had brought the milk inside-
time for me to yawn, stretch,
go back to sleep for another hour.
Downstairs, Mum brewed a pot
of tea for Dad’s work- flask.
She made sandwiches, wrapped
two slices of cakes in greaseproof
and packed them in his rucksack.
After he’d left, she topped up the pot
with fresh water, opened the stera.
and sipped the best cup of the day
© 2019, Sheila Jacob
To purchase this little gem of a volume, Through My Father’s Eyes (review, interview, and a sampling of poems HERE), contact Sheila directly at she1jac@yahoo.com
.upper rooms.
some mornings while drifting
i see the writing in my head
come patterned, neat lines balancing
dancing with the rain
at the window
on waking
yesterday we remembered blancmange
and jelly, ideal milk and water
pineapple that split cream
food that touched
yesterday we remembered our granmas
our mothers
bundles of cotton with colours
required for mending always
yesterday she explained to sew
the four holes in synchronicity
tight
on linen
yesterday the words came easily with labels
and names
today on brightening
forget
© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher
.touch the surface.
i slept a darker paint,
a place of nowhere,
no marks, no texture,
clarity.
waking, touch the surface.
© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher
. the theory .
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.
it is a fine line we walk, gently avoiding peptides, only just a theory, yet used independently, alongside honest work
reading how the body works, you will have a better understanding, yet they do not teach of this
at school. they teach of clever yoghurt in adverts, i did not know microbes fancy food, move our choices.
the play continues, some of the old cast, new actors oblige, ideas on lack of addictive ways. simple days without receptors. singing under breath, numbers.
have you been to the counting?
lines ruled to stop
vertigo setting in.
two
three
four
five
two
three
it is a fine line we walk, gently avoiding peptides, only just a theory, yet used independently, alongside honest work.
© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher
Sonja’s sites are:
- sonja-benskin-mesher.net
- 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.)
- Sonja on Twitter
- sonja-benskin-mesher.co.uk
- Sonja’s daily blog (WordPress) is HERE.
Angels Singing Hallelujah
Angels singing hallelujah pull the sun up from behind the horizon splashing the colors of dawn across the sky calling for the spirit of life to arise in God’s radiance.
Sleeping flowers perk up preparing to unfold in their resilience and in their brilliance.
The rolling green hills in the distance framed by cumulus clouds stand firm in their resolve to praise God.
The birds twitter and tweet good morning to the universe then take wing and sing to the inhabitants of earth.
Gentle sounds emitting from a cell phone alarm roam through the air at that moment penetrating the dark silence of a deep sleep in another world…in another place…in another space.
Scripture settles a sleepy soul sweeping away cobwebs of confusion and illusions lighting the way to the manifestation of a new day.
“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me” ….
Conscious mind awakes collecting bits and pieces of memory fragmented by the divide between reverie and reality then places them back into the puzzle of existence…the new day begins.
© 2019, Tamam Tracy Moncur
Diary of an Inner City Teacher is a probe into the reality of teaching in our inner city school systems as seen from the front line. Over two decades in the trenches, educator Tamam Tracy Moncurexposes through her personal journal the plights, the highlights, the sadness, and the joys she has experienced as a teacher. Come to understand why the United States Department of Education and the various state departments of education must realize the teaching of academics cannot be divorced from the social issues that confront the students. Let s be innovative together and design new millennium schools that address the educational needs of the inner city students before it s too late! Our children s very existence is at stake! Laugh, cry, and become informed as you embrace the accounts of an inner city teacher.
Can a love, you don’t name
Can be love
On awakening, a poem ask
Answer me, if you have to die
How can I quit eating
‘over salted pie’
I feel happy, and dead
(On awakening) I visit your profile when
Go, look at your profile views ….yeah
I find myself on a porn 😭 when
I tap on link to know more 🤔
Answer me
Can a love, you don’t name
Can be love
I feel happy, and dead
(On awakening) I visit your profile when
I am an effeminate ….yeah
At night late *so what*
I visit your profile
You are a vamp …..yeah
I find myself on a porn 😭 when
I tap on link to know more 🤔
I feel happy, and dead
(On awakening) I visit your profile when
Can a love, you don’t name
Can be love
Look at my photo then
Answer me, if you have to die
How can I quit eating
‘over salted pie’
© 2019, Pali Raj
On Awakening
Betrayal!
Don’t like to sleep
But actually slept
For a few hours
No hypnagogic images
No dreams
Just … nothing
Two dogs snuggled in
Trying to take over
My pillow
My place on the mattress
I leap from the bed
(Well, an aging woman’s leap)
Dash into the kitchen
Grind the coffee
Swallow the BP meds
And this Morning Aries
Tugs open the sliding glass door,
Joining the joyful dogs
Noses to the ground
Following the scent of
The wascally wabbit
Impossible possum
Wrecking my palm tree
While the early birds
Peck at the feeder
Too lazy to find the worm
While the feral cat
Safe from the dogs
On the other side of the fence
Yowls to be fed
And I say
Thank you to the Cosmos
For giving me another day…
© 2019, Clarissa Simmens
Find Clarissa on her Amazon’s Author Page, on her blog, and on Facebook HERE; Clarissa’s books include: Chording the Cards & Other Poems, Plastic Lawn Flamingos & Other Poems, and Blogetressa, Shambolic Poetry.
ABOUT
Recent in digital publications:
* Five by Jamie Dedes, Spirit of Nature, Opa Anthology of Poetry, 2019
* From the Small Beginning, Entropy Magazine (Enclave, #Final Poems)(July 2019)
* The Damask Garden, In a Woman’s Voice (August 11, 2019) / This short story is dedicated to the world’s refugees, one in every 113 people.
A busy though bed-bound poet, writer, former columnist and the former associate editor of a regional employment newspaper, my work has been featured widely in print and digital publications including: Levure littéraire, Ramingo’s Porch, Vita Brevis Literature, HerStry, Connotation Press, The Bar None Group, Salamander Cove, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Meta/ Phor(e) /Play, Woven Tale Press, The Compass Rose and California Woman. I run The Poet by Day, a curated info hub for poets and writers. I founded The Bardo Group / Beguines, pushers of The BeZine of which I am managing editor. Email me at thepoetbyday@gmail.com for permissions or commissions.
MELTING NEURONS resides in Wenatchee, WA where he lives with his wife, dog and stuffed owl. They hail from Bend, OR originally, except the dog, who’s a Texan death row survivor. He has lived in more than 75 cities across the country at various points including B
SHEILA JACOB was born and raised in Birmingham, England and lives with her husband in Wrexham, on the Welsh border. Her poetry has been published in several U.K. magazines and webzines. She recently self-published her short collection of poems that form a memoir to her father who died in 1965. Sheila finds her 1950s childhood and family background a source of inspiration for many of her poems. You can connect with Sheila by email: she1jac@yahoo.com
Jamie Dedes' THE POET BY DAY Webzine 