“Gust Is Deaf, Hills Are Blind”. . . and other responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

“It’s that magnificent interlude in New York between winter and spring, when you feel the warmth stirring, and you remember that the dreadful naked trees will inevitably sprout tiny green buds, soon. Everyone rushes into the parks, the streets–and you even forget that, very soon , summer will come scorchingly, dropping from the sky like a blanket of steam…”  John Rechy, City of Night

In response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Another Kind of Beauty, February 20, 2019, poets Paul Brooks, Cubby (Sonya Annita Song), Irma Do, Jen Goldie, Frank McMahn, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Marta Pombo Sallés, Anjum Wasim Dar share the joy and inspiration they find in nature. Special thanks to Irma and Anjum for the added pleasure of their photographs and to Anjum for her artwork. Nicely done.

Readers will note that links to sites are included when they are available so that you can visit. If there’s no site, it’s likely you can catch up with the poet on Facebook.

Enjoy this nature collection and do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt.

Gust Is Deaf, Hills Are Blind

trees can’t walk properly,
Flowers twitch haphazardly.

Grass is mute, rivers are dumb.
Nature is differently abled.

Mountains are too tall,
struggle to talk when they can’t

bend a knee, get down to those smaller
who are in awe when all mountains need

is to speak face to face , dispel their myth.
Same with water that rushes by,

no time to stand and stare, moments pass
before they have time to fully comprehend.

Flux needs a still moment but has to go on.
Still waters wish they could rush.

All hankers after what it Is not,
Cannot accept their place as their lot.

© 2019, Paul Brookes (Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration. History. Imagination.)

Let Me Pass Through

city walls
that bind all your threads together,

walk through this wood,
let your cityself take same walk, see
buildings as lone trees,
homeless hostel
is an oak, butchers
a willow that bends
down over the stream
where jammed traffic swims.

A dead bird breathes
animated by flies
is a man in the corner who sings
the blues to passers.

That fall of a leaf
tickertape homecoming parade.

Your pavement footfall
echoes in my forest.

© 2019, Paul Brookes (Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration. History. Imagination.)

Riverbrain, Rivermind. Riverwives

synaptic rivulets
neuron canals
sacred water

riverbrain flows in my head
fountainbrain channels my ideas
lakebrain plays the fey

electric rivulets move earth
inside my head

waterskin neural net
circumnavigates damage
fruited hemispheres
replenish, restore, reimagine

senses water roots
springwaters in my head
well in my head.


her flaps of the water
bride of the waveskin
her inner lips of the river,
spring and waterfalls,
fermented honey drip
not dragonfly laced stained glass

lamina moist make out

fragile weirs into lust

tongue kindly these guardians

 Excerpt from The Headpoke And Firewedding (Alien Buddha Press, 2017)

© 2019, Paul Brookes (Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration. History. Imagination.)

Grovemind, Groovemind

synaptic branches
neuron tipped limbs
sacred grove recovery

oakbrain opens doors in my head
ashbrain spears my ideas
elmbrain plays the fey

electric gust moves limbs
inside my head

barkskin neural net
circumnavigates damage
fruited hemispheres
replenish, restore, reimagine

senses water roots
grove in my head
grooves in my head

between oaklimbs
between ashlimbs

her flaps of the wood
bride of the barkskin
her inner lips of the forest
fermented honey drip
not butterfly laced stained glass

lamina mulch make out

fragile doors into lust

tongue kindly these guardians.

Excerpt from The Headpoke And Firewedding {Alien Buddha Press, 2017)

© 2019, Paul Brookes (Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration. History. Imagination.)

Prolific Yorkshire Poet, 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

  • Paul’s Amazon Page U.S. HERE
  • Paul’s Amazon Page U.K. HERE

More poems by Paul at Michael Dickel’s Meta/ Phore(e) /Play

When Galaxies Cry

When galaxies cry,
The tears that they shed
Are showers of light
We see overhead
That leave us in awe
As we touch our cheeks,
Speechless but listening
When radiance speaks.

So gaze at the sky
When stars shoot above
And hear as they make
Their statements of love,
For they long to be heard
In the vacuum of space,
Stardrops streaming down
A celestial face.

© 2019, Cubby (Reowr, Poetry that purrs. It’s reowr because the cat said so.)

I Long to Climb

I long to climb into the sky
On steps of wisp and smoke;
I long to feel the sweet caress
Of heaven’s velvet cloak.
I long to greet the newborn dawn,
Blushing in its youth;
I long to shoo the honeyed rays
From shadow’s hungry tooth.
I long to hear the faeries sing
Conducted by the moon;
I long to dance with dimpled winds
In Eden’s fair lagoon.
I long to stroke a comet’s tail
Impetuous in flight;
I long to whisper in the dark
Of dreams beyond the night.
I long for things I cannot have
And I will not deny,
For beauty’s sake is why I long
To climb into the sky.

© 2019, Cubby (Reowr, Poetry that purrs. It’s reowr because the cat said so.)

Sonya Annita Song’s (a.k.a. Cubby) Amazon page is HERE.

March Madness – A Haibun

It is March and I am Mad. The sky is a vibrant electric blue. The clouds are soft cotton pillows. The sun is bright but not warm enough to melt the recent snow. It is a fake spring.

But when a gentle wind blows, soothing my brow with the feel of soft yellow daffodils and hot magenta tulips, I release the anger and betrayal.

Disappointment healed

By springs flowers marching on

The promise of hope

Another coming together of prompts! Merrill at dVerse requested a Haibun about “March Madness” while Jamie Dedes’ Wednesday Writing Prompt asked: How does nature inspire joy in you, inspire your creativity and perhaps even your sense of peace? For me, the symptoms of spring sparks joy however where I am now, spring has been a tease – snowing one day then 60 degree temperatures the next. It is enough to drive one mad!

© 2019, Irma Do (I Do Run … And I do a few other things too …)

The Trees are making music

The trees
Are making music
To the sky today,
In apology for
Yesterday’s silence.

With crystal bells
Of questions,
Hanging on the limbs,

© 2019, Jen E. Goldie (Starlight and Moonbeams and the occasional cat)





































© 2019, Jen E. Goldie (Starlight and Moonbeams and the occasional cat)


Letters inscribed in air; branches
write the seasons and their fickle
variations, shredding coherence
as they thresh and whine, blasts and rants
of leaves and barren seeds.

Gift of the wasp’s gall: indelible
tales from the oak’s heart and hearing;
grand hotel and shelter, shade for
transient languor.Acorn fall.
Sap retreats slow to reticence.

Meditation under rimed sky,
the hermit’s calligraphy spread
across the crystal sheet, utterance
of promise laid in autumn’s scatter.

The year turns; dew-varnished beech glints
with angled light. Decipher the forest’s
library: curlicues unfurling
on spring-dancing branches, stickiness
and insect hum, in April’s breeze
the Book of Kells unscrolling.

© 2019, Frank McMahon

.turkey island.

they say it is too cold there. cold as icebergs

none came the year the storm broke, breached

the shingle bank

decisions were made

i hear

to not repair

now there is salt marsh where samphire grows

some eat it

i don’t

i like turkey island

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

.clean water.

we left early to visit

clear pools of water,

the mountain sloped.

here we wandered,

among sheep.

watched the bug

glide the water,

sucked down

the fish leap.

storm past, this

was a day of sunshine.

we are good friends.

we got better.

so it goes.

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

I just met a turtle

I just met a turtle in the park.

It was on the way

Not where its mates

Usually are,

Near the lake


It was solitary.

I figured out it spoke

To me.

Told me to slow down.

And so I sat

As words began to dance

In flight

Carrying a smell of pine trees,

Rosemary and lavender.

Like butterfly wings

Fluttering in the wind

They intertwined

And slowly began

To land on my paper

One by one.

I pulled my thread,

Took the needle

And began to sow

One after the other.

A word weaver

Just like my friend


And all the others.

I just met a turtle.

© 2017 Marta Pombo Sallés (Moments)

The Park

Trees and blue sky,
sweet lavender and rosemary
not knowing why
a few lines I could invent.
Soft wind caressing my face
and the birds singing distant
feeling this nature’s embrace
longing to hold.
So much there is now at stake
sunbeams crossing through tree leaves,
peaceful water of the lake
sensing all, what nature presents.
Let us go on rowing
together on our humble boat
even though not knowing
how long to keep it afloat.

© 2016, Marta Pombo Sallés (Moments)

Out of the Shell

Out of the shell!
the tortoise said
out of that hell!
the price was paid.
Now I am cold
but not in vain
as I am told
I won the pain!
I can walk free
did nothing wrong
there is no tree
but I stay strong.

I’m a bit old
and just need love
I’ll be a bit bold
and play the dove.
I found a girl
on a dating site
oh, how I swirl
to her I write.
She’s just too young
or I’m too old
but I’ve begun
and now I’m sold.

My name is Frank
and she’s Nicole
I’m not a prank
yet she’s my goal.
Told her the truth
what will she do?
she’s in her youth
and I feel blue.
Difference in age
is not so good
it is a cage
you think I should?

© 2019. Marta Pombo Sallés (Moments)

Poem inspired by poet Newton Ranaweera’s post: See, we’re free!!: , and by chapter 6 of Mario Savioni’s novel Pickles and Tarts.

Jewels of Joy

Raindrops in heat,
showered  jewels of joy,
a backdrop white dark and grey,
of infinite mercy, yet warning
thunder, of a power beyond –
what joy I felt, as the sun I found
hiding behind a rainbow –

adorned, in grace crowned
unaware yet cautious, masked thorn,
protection visible, smile on the side
why so quiet in repose, love embodied
profound, yet in complete solitude,
few moments in time,when no words formed,
sweet sounds of love’s intense symphony
in two souls, silently merged, a
rose plucked, surrendered to the hand
that controlled, in colorful scent, that
its joyful destiny, meant,in complete
fragrant beauty, drowned-
Nature’s eternal joy in spirit, replete

© 2019, poem (English and Urdu below), photograph and artwork, Anjum Wasim Dar (Poetic Oceans)


                             قدرتی حسن کی دلکشی

یہ بارش کی بوندیں  خوشی کے ہی موتی  
ھیں رحمت  کے قطرے  ھے  بخشش برستی

یہ  قدرت کی طاقت  ھے   سب   سے   بڑی 
   خوشی و راحت ملی ، قوس و قزح پہ نظر جو

پڑیدلکش گلاب  محتاط  مسکراھٹ بکھیرتا  ھوا 
وقت کے خطرات سے انجان چند لمہوں میں 

محبت کے ہاتھوں میں مغلوب ،خشبو میں نہایا

ھوا ، کسی چاہنے والے کی خوشی کے لیے 

قربان ھوا، ،کہ قدرت نے اسی لیے ؑبنایا اسے
روح کی گہرایوں میں  اتر کر  خوشی مکمل  ملے

“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


“up, up and awry”a poem . . . and other responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prom


“This is my simple religion. There is no need for temples; no need for complicated philosophy. Our own brain, our own heart is our temple; the philosophy is kindness.” Dalai Lama XIV, The Dalai Lama: A Policy of Kindness: An Anthology of Writings By and About the Dalai Lama [recommended]

These are responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Swallowed Whole, December 5, in which I asked folks to write about values gone awry.  Kudos and thanks for coming out to play with such extraodinary grace: Gary W. Bowers, Irma Do, Deb y Felio (Debbie Felio), Jen E. Golden, Sonja Benskin Mesher, and Anjum Wasim Dar.

In addition to their words and illustrations, I’ve included links to blogs or websites where available. I hope you’ll visit these poets and get to know their work better. It is likely you can catch up with others via Facebook.

Enjoy! … and do come out to play tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are encouraged to participate: beginning, emerging and pro. You are also invited to submit poems in languages other than English if they include a translation into English. See you tomorrow! 🙂

up up and awry

when a man is hacked to pieces
while still alive and
the murder was suborned
by a royal
and small fry are arrested
and the big shot walks
and another big shot says
in effect
and the world takes five minutes’
and shrugs–

decency has taken a powder
ethics is in A locked chest in the attic
and kindly is an uncomfortable party guest
who gets hints to leave
from the big boy host

© 2018, Gary W. Bowers (One with Clay, Image and Text)

A Peaceful Goodbye

My eyes were parched, yet I kept them open, watching you as I did when you walked to the school bus. It seemed like such a long way for you to walk with your little legs. I told you not to look back, that looking back would make it harder, and I wanted us to have a “peaceful goodbye”. Peace was the September “virtue of the month” and it helped those first days when being apart wasn’t normal.

My throat closed up, as if I could cry, choking the words I wanted to call out – I love you! I’m proud of you! But you didn’t need to hear that – your humility and compassion allowed you to understand more than your 4 year old self should.

My heart slowed, a molasses drip, wondering what you were thinking as your tiny feet plodded on. Perseverance and courage might as well be etched on your retreating back. But the little wrinkles on your forehead would spell curiosity – we had that common. I wanted to help you, but you respectfully said you would go alone and that I should stay. I would have held you back, you honestly said. You knew I wouldn’t want that. Oh, how wise you had become!

My breath hitched and I was afraid – afraid you wouldn’t find the joy that I knew you deserved. But you didn’t look back and when you started to run – that’s when I knew:

You were going to where you truly belonged.

This short story is in response to Hélène Viallant’s “What do you see?” Picture prompt. There were so many ways to respond to this picture that Hélène posted – it could be scary or exciting or sad. It could have elements of science fiction or fantasy. Or a metaphor. My story is a little bit of all that. The back story could be that the world is coming to an end, the mother left behind to perish watching the sole survivor, her child, walking towards the unknown. Is it hopeful? Or ominous?

I also incorporated several virtues (or values) from Montessori education to fulfill Jamie Dedes’ Wednesday Writing Prompt request to “tell us about values gone awry”. My children attend a Montessori school and these virtues are lessons that are incorporated in the classroom and that I also try to utilize and exemplify at home. This whole child viewpoint of teaching is one of the reasons I love Montessori education.

While I’m not sure my story is one of values gone wrong, it does remind me of the saying “good guys finish last”. But do they really? If they believe their behavior, their sacrifice is for a noble cause, are they finishing last or being the first hero?

© 2018, Irma Do (I Do Run, And I do a few other things too …)


What are the lessons mothers taught
when what they said was not for nought

“Family is important, Charlie” was Mrs Manson’s word

“You are what you eat,” is what Jeffrey Dahmer heard

“Find a nice girl,” Ted Bundy’s mom said,
“You’ve got the looks to knock ‘em dead.”

“Don’t play alone”, said Virginia to Billy
Play the her – monica, and watch your willy.”

“Work you body and open up more,”
Mrs.Weinstein said to Harvey as he went out the door

Mrs Crosby said,“Share your Jello, Bill,”
“And accept some help from oblivious Camille.”

“Don’t listen to others’ opinions,” Mary Anne told Donnie
“Your voice trumps them all even when you sound funny.”

So much wisdom distorted, misused
History is only very old news.

So mothers be careful, what comes from your mouth
You never know when it could all go south.

© 2018, deb y felio (writer’s journey)

Spelling Bee…..

Please spell AWRY.
: not straight or neat
: not working correctly
: not happening in the expected way
: off the correct or expected course
: in a turned or twisted position or direction

AWRY:a sentence?
“If one or another part of this progression goes awry,
there are sufficient compensating processes
in the average social environment”.
“Because each assumption requires extra tests,
fewer assumptions mean a smaller probability
that the assumptions go awry.”
AWRY: A- W- R- I
WRONG! be seated.

© 2018, Jen E. Goldie (Jen E. Goldie)

Change comes quickly

Sweet melodies,
Obsessive love,

all around awry

warnings not taken
deaths, tragedies,
horrors, starvation
clouding our vision,

Peggy Lee singing,
“Is that all there is.”

of love and war
cancelling each other
regrets to late
to regret
no time to run.
Its done.

© 2018, Jen E. Goldie (Jen E. Goldie)

.moving on.

moving on from the last verse of girly looking

after girly, we stopped at the jeweller’s window.

the assistant, neat looked bore & very clean. the

rings were three thousands and more.

enough to take her home and more.

“yes sir you may buy the ring, for a
thousand pounds, or choose to save
her life”

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher


so we panned the work, stitches.
while before they panned
for gold.

all much the same.

peoples’ values.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

.the prize.

the prize came as unexpected

a big building enough to house

the poor, the homeless the dis

possessed. it was tea and

i felt sick

i will rather give the money away

the added value of the food. ritz.

crackers. that bread can cost so much

spread with regular stuff cut thin

the waiter smiled ; i noted his shoes

an honest worker like me

alongside they enjoyed the moment

without the anxiety of my chest where

reparation fails. this is the promise

the outcome of a difficult day

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Manufactured Mankind or …

He asked, ‘What kind of man?
why of Mankind ‘ he said,

‘of patience bereft, of agitation disposed,
not so eloquent nor with knowledge
or apprehensive  of   consequences
No, he fears none but mosquitoes

No, he fears none, no one

what language, or words of wisdom ?
‘none,sire  but a stare baleful, of rage
a chaos in cape carries he, chosen
but outcast, a clever archimage,

No, he fears none, no one

manufactured, of  lustful desire,
embroidered with adventure
en-robed with possession
of dark deceit, half concealed

No he fears none, no one

mankind today, lost astray,
oblivious of truth, a symbol
of hate, a killer without motive,
a killer for cash and pay-

No he fears no one-

mankind today, siding with evil,
a terrorist, beguiler kidnapper
Oh, where is the mystagogue?
fettered in a dungeon, I may

I may write an apologue !

O mankind your spirit is good, turn,
a repentant forgiver grateful person,be
turn, turn, towards the right travelogue’
so that the Light of Truth ye may see

before it is too late, for you and me-

© 2018, poem in English and Urdu (below) and artwork below) Anjum Wasim Dar (Poetic Oceans)

manufactured mankind

ٰٓاج  کا  انسان ٓ

ٓاج  کا  انسان  کچھ  بھی در گزر  کرتا نہین  ھے
ٓاج کا  انسان  اللاہ سے نہین  مچھروں سے ڈرتا ھے

استاد  کی  زباں  پے وہ اقوال زرین نہین ھین
ٓاج کا  استاد کیا  لکھتا   ھے  کیا  پرکھتا  ھے

ٓاج    کا   انسان    پیار  کا    بھوکا    ھے
ھر نظر پر نظر  ھر  ھاتھ  پر ھاتھ  رکھتا ھے

ھر غریب بے کار  ھر امیر دوست  لگتا ھے
اج کا  انسان  کیا  اپناتا ھے  کیا  پرکھتا ھے

دوستی   نرمی    صبر    و   برداشت  کہاں
سب کو گرم غصے  کا  بخار  چڑھتا  ھے

ٓاج     کا     انسان     طیش     کا     سامان
ٓٓاج  کا  انساں   شیطان  کی ھمدردی کرتا ھے

ٓاج     کا     انسان     دھشت       گرد
ٓاج  کا  انسان   پیسے  کے  لیے   مرتا   ھے

اے    لوگو    دل  و روح  کے  اچھے  ھو   زرا
سوچو  سیدھی  راہ   تلاش  کرو  سیدھی راہ چلو

“Let us all strive for peace on Earth for all. Let us make a better world. Write to make peace prevail.”  Anjum Wasim Dar, Pakistani poet, writer, artist, educator, and parent.






Poet and writer, I was once columnist and associate editor of a regional employment publication. I currently run this site, The Poet by Day, an information hub for poets and writers. I am the managing editor of The BeZine published by The Bardo Group Beguines (originally The Bardo Group), a virtual arts collective I founded.  I am a weekly contributor to Beguine Again, a site showcasing spiritual writers. My work is featured in a variety of publications and on sites, including: Levure littéraure, Ramingo’s PorchVita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation PressThe Bar None GroupSalamander CoveSecond LightI Am Not a Silent PoetMeta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman. My poetry was recently read by Northern California actor Richard Lingua for Poetry Woodshed, Belfast Community Radio. I was featured in a lengthy interview on the Creative Nexus Radio Show where I was dubbed “Poetry Champion.”

 The BeZine: Waging the Peace, An Interfaith Exploration featuring Fr. Daniel Sormani, Rev. Benjamin Meyers, and the Venerable Bhikkhu Bodhi among others

“What if our religion was each other. If our practice was our life. If prayer, our words. What if the temple was the Earth. If forests were our church. If holy water–the rivers, lakes, and ocean. What if meditation was our relationships. If the teacher was life. If wisdom was self-knowledge. If love was the center of our being.” Ganga White, teacher and exponent of Yoga and founder of White Lotus, a Yoga center and retreat house in Santa Barbara, CA

“Every pair of eyes facing you has probably experienced something you could not endure.” Lucille Clifton

“bud and lieu”. . . and other responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt


“Your days are numbered. Use them to throw open the windows of your soul to the sun. If you do not, the sun will soon set, and you with it.”  Marcus Aurelius, The Emperor’s Handbook

These responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, In Lieu of Flowers (re: legacy and/or eulogy), October 17, 2018 variously prove a sense of humor, a spiritual leaning, and/or a practical perspective on the inevitable for all of us. Kudos and thanks to Gary W. Bowers, Paul Brookes, Deb y Felio (Debbie Felio), Tamam Tracy Moncur, Carol Mikoda, Sonja Benskin Mesher, and Anjum Wasim Dar. Special thanks and welcome to Jen Goldie, joining us for the first time.  Well done, poets.

In addition to their words, I’ve included links to blogs or websites where available. I hope you’ll visit these poets and get to know their work better. It is likely you can catch up with others via Facebook.

Enjoy! … and do come out to play tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt.

Unknown to Us

She left a legacy.
A legacy of love.
That’s all it was,
Simple and pure of spirit.

She left a legacy,
A legacy of hope.
That’s all it was,
Simple and pure of heart.

She left a legacy.
A legacy of caring.
That’s all it was,
Simple and pure of mind.

She left a legacy.

© 2018, J.E.Goldie

Don’t Miss Me

Take our times together
and apart
as memories to savor
or not.

Don’t miss me
Take challenges for me,
Be my eyes,
Be my voice,
Be my heart,

And remember this.
We’ll never be apart

© 2018, J.E.Goldie

J.E. GOLDIE (Jen) tells us: The more I learn..the more I realize how little I know about myself….and others. I continue to learn.I’ve reached an age where knowledge exceeds impetuosity And where wisdom allows freedom, An age where unreasonable demands without question become irreconcileable. I give you this wisdom and take mine, as you go through the current demands of your life be sure this is your course, because if the course is not yours and is demanded of you, Be sure you want to accept the regret since You will change the lives and times of others. Are you ready? Unreasonable demands without question are irreconcileable. The atmosphere will be extremely stressfull for you if the course is not yours. .

What your head knows, your heart doesn’t always remember…..

An old/new friend showed this quote to me. It brought tears to my eyes.

“Never let success hide its emptiness from you, achievement its nothingness, toil its desolation. And so…keep alive the incentive to push on further, that pain in the soul which drives us beyond ourselves…Do not look back. And do not dream about the future, either. It will neither give you back the past, nor satisfy your other daydreams. Your duty, your reward—your destiny—are here and now.” Dag Hammarskjöld (1905–1961), Swedish statesman and diplomat, 1961.

bud and lieu

in lieu of flowers
have a beer
or soda water
sparkled clear
or pinetop freshness
golly gosh
or kiss enmeshness
(use mouth; wash)

for when i’ve died
and journey ends
i’ll be relaxing
with my friends
who went before
and saved a seat
or barstool where
we toast, complete;

so ixnay tears
omit that flower
and raise your glass:
it’s Happy Hour.

© 2018, Gary W. Bowers (One With Clay, Image and Text)


wears piles of shoes and bags
new white shirts never opened

charity irons
creases out of the forgotten

sometimes a relative

gives a story
in feel of used cloth

weighs time in threads
how a story continues

nothing is possessed
If you never heard

a previous owner

only shoes have tongues
fail to speak of their wearer

except in wear

© 2018, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration. History. Imagination)

O, Lady Of The Breath (Six Vacanas)

1. You Rise

from my forest and leave
out of the gob and earth falls.

It shivers renewed,

welcomes a similar you
into my gob.

You excite my spring buds,
allow the earth to rise, again.

2. Can’t Let

you stay long in the dark,
or the earth will rot.

I can’t let you out for long,
or the earth will rot.

Let’s follow this pattern.
I’ll briefly allow you into my dark wood,

But please don’t take woodsmoke, car fumes,
coal dust, iron filings, water in with you,

else I’ll hack you out. These companions
quicken the rot.

3. Help With The

tasting snake in my cave
form the words I need to say.

Take my words out into air
loud enough for others to hear.

Please don’t say you are weak
and can’t carry such a weight.

Please don’t say I failed to welcome
enough of you into the forest.

4. My Dad Let You

in with pungent watercolours on his back,
stink of Clwyd cowpats and fresh mountain air,

but when he scraped boilers you secretly
took into his forest asbestosis strands

that speed his rot and ruin. I can’t understand
your thought in all of this

5. My Sister Threw You

out over her steering wheel,
her forest crushed by molded plastic.

She tried to welcome you back
but the wood was gone,

so you gust over her grave
under an overseeing tree.

O, my lady of the breath.
I welcome your coming and going.

6. Your Cheyne Stokes

delay before my unconscious Nanna
let you in.

I waited a minute, a 10-20
second episode of
stopped breath

suddenly her welcome
let you in

deeper and again
deeper in and out.

then delay

then delay

then delay

her welcome of you
and delay I watched seven days

until she refused your entry for good.

Gave me a legacy of breath.

© 2018, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration. History. Imagination)

The Afterthoughts

When this brain Is medically dead . will I pray I locked the door?

or made presentable by morticians knife fret I left the Box plugged in;

then lowered so others cast first soil or flame-grilled to fine urn ash tell myself I left the oven on;

(From my first chapbook”The Fabulous Invention Of Barnsley”)

or gladly leave this legacy a real reminder how I used to be.

© 2018, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow / Inspiration. History. Imagination)


I leave to each and all of you

in equal and careful measure

my love everlasting, ever new

it is my only treasure

that and hearty laughter

shared in close and distant quarter

may you hear it long after

my ashes settle in the water

when in the best of times

with family and friends

hear me in your laughing

bringing hope that knows no end

and when the time for sadness

comes into your lonely days

may the mystery of love once planted

help you navigate the waves

nothing more have I to offer

life itself could only know

those times of love and laughter

and how it made a family grow.

© 2018, Deb y Felio

..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

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

..the book..

is discussed at length,
the book is bound for

nightmares. it starts
early evening. retiring
to the upper rooms

the rags are torn ready
to close, to bind his
book in definitely.

it is an inheritance.
he talked about wills,
put his head under the cover,

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

The Last Symphony

The melodious singing of the church choir intensifies emotions replacing tears with a melancholy joy. I am on the outside peering in the dimension I vacated a week ago. In walks the bass striding to the beat of distant drums. My reasonably long life has come to an end as I prepare to make my transition. Piano lines racing and spacing…fingers flying… harmonic overtones filling in what was. I can hear the accolades,in lieu of flowers, the resolutions that say when I took Jesus in my heart was the start of new beginnings for me. Trombone sounds announce a life supreme…the tambourine marks time. I become the wife…the mother…the grandmother I should be. I am the teacher that cares for her students working diligently to enable them to succeed. I give back to the community…working to ameliorate poverty. Blue tones…chords dissonant…syncopated rhythms inspire my march against hatred…enabling me to poetically protest ignorance…racism…fanaticism…sexism and economic discrimination in the world’s richest nation. Last message to My Country Tis of Thee…choose God not money…choose God not money…choose God not money. God is LOVE! The bass takes my hand…stepping high. A crescendo of symphonic tones fills the atmosphere for God is near. Jazz stands on the horizon beckoning. The coffin is now closed on my life.

© 2018, 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 Moncur exposes 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.

Tamam Tracy Moncur

“Tamam Tracy Moncur was born in Oakland, California. She attended elementary school in Oakland, and attended middle and high school in Berkeley. She was a civil rights activist in San Francisco prior to relocating to the East Coast. She met her husband, renowned jazz musician Grachan Moncur III in New York City. They were burned out of their apartment in Harlem, and eventually her husband s grandmother was able to secure an apartment for them in Newark, New Jersey, in one of the high rise projects that existed at that time. Tamam in the past has worked with her husband arranging musical compositions and performing. In her spare time, she has self published several poetry booklets, co-produced a CD of music and poetry, and collaborated with her family to produce a play that her mother wrote. She also has written short stories and a novel, but this project, Diary of an Inner City Teacher, is very close to her heart. She invites you to walk with her on her personal journey so you can perceive the classroom experience from a different perspective and become an advocate for change in the development of innovative schools for the future.”

Tamam’s Diary of an Inner City Teacher is available HERE. I just got the Kindle version and look forward to reading it. / J.D.

Smile at Fear

for everything
to flow in this direction.
It’s not
a competition.
Wind and water may
want to rush past
but not when
I have created
a meandering path to draw them
around corners,
into nooks,
leaving traces of

In lieu of flowers,
please sing:
gather many
ensembles to set
the air
v i b r a t i n g.

Smile at Death
Remember me
in melody.

© 2018, Carol Mikoda

Leaving Love as a Precious Gage

(in Urdu and English)

کہتے ہیں چاہت اندھی  ہوتی ہے 
یہ دل اور روح  کا لطیف  رشتہ 
اس میں کیا پرکھنا کیا   عمر کا  تقاضا  کرنا  
  جب کوئی  خوشبو   چپکے  سے روح  میں  سما  جا نے
تو کسی  سے  کیا  شکوہ  یا  شکوہ یا شکایت  کرنا 
بس یہ کرنا کے  کہ کسی کو دکھی نہ کرنا 
احترم ن  آخری  بار  پکارا  پھول  آپکو 
اب  آداب  باغے شاہی  تو  سیکھ  لو  پہلے 
پھر کسی  گل  و  شہزادی  کو چاہنے  کی  جرات  کرنا 
دنیا سے چلے جاؤگے  انجم  
کچھ  اپنی  چمکتی  خوشبو 
یھاں  چھوڑ  دینا
پھر  آسمان  پر  جا کر 
سکوں  بھری  چاندنی 
نچھاور کرنا 
love is blind and so we say,it
 finds to the heart and soul –its way-
so why think about age 
why judge  the clayey cage
when  sweet fragrance engulfs
the spirit then lament not, nor
pity thyself nor cry, for 
love is a precious gage
so grieve no heart on Earth
nor make bleak a life
you will soon be away
from struggle trial and strife
before I cease to be I called you
 a flower  a tender rose petal
and now I must learn the laws
of the garden’, accept the nettle 
maybe in time I may find
 the  true bright light, till
then on the high night sky
will be to shine , and sigh
so I leave behind some love
some  effulgent fragrance with 
 perpetual  radiance ,remember,
peace is- only with complacence
© 2018, Anjum Wasim Dar (Poetic Oceans)


Poet and writer, I was once columnist and the associate editor of a regional employment publication. Currently I run this site, The Poet by Day, an information hub for poets and writers. I am the managing editor of The BeZine published by The Bardo Group Beguines (originally The Bardo Group), a virtual arts collective I founded.  I am a weekly contributor to Beguine Again, a site showcasing spiritual writers.

My work is featured in a variety of publications and on sites, including: Levure littéraure, Ramingo’s PorchVita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation Press, The River Journal, The Bar None GroupSalamander CoveSecond LightI Am Not a Silent PoetMeta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman

::i too shall die:: . . . and other responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

“And anyway, it’s not as though I’ll never see Mum again, is it?” J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

A modest but rather fabulous collection garnered from the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, near death experience, September 26. Sonja Benskin Mesher, Carol Mikada and Bozhidar Pangelov (bogpan) rose to the occasion with insight, passion and even a certain verve. Read on … Enjoy! … and do join in tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt.

. 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

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.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

:: i 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

we cannot delete things we do not like

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Last Words

In the style of Dali and Zappa,
fittingly obtuse, I say to you:
We exist only collectively.
We are all one force,
one consciousness.
It is all Love.
There is no I.
I will enter nothingness
so as worldly experiences are concerned.
I will move on to pure energy.
This is all a dream, graded gold,
burst in black light,
thinking of God, as God with God.
Nothingness and omnipresence
are one and the same.

Take my art. Take my writing.
It is all yours now.
Love my son, the best,
the best of all I have done.

In the end, there are no words.
Be grateful, as I am, for our time together.
Be grateful, each day, for life.
Be present, in each day, each hour, each moment
as if you were sure that
the present moment is all that’s certain.

© 2018, Carol Mikoda (At the Yellow Table)

Exploring the Memory

A light day…

My granny was a little
She loved to speak in other
Italian, French and

And in the Grannies language for their grandchildren:
“my pretty”.
She didn’t get pension (that was
the time) and
our home was thronged with pupils. Surely because of this I learnt
neither one. Or with the guests who
dropped in
often (we lived in the downtown by the tail
of the horse* – they used
to say so), for having a cup of black coffee.
The coffee
was special – for fortune-telling. She
“was telling fortune” and they
were telling us. A lot of stories. Surely
because of this I
know neither one.
Then she started getting less and less and
One night my mother told me,
“Go to see her…”
A thin, transparent leaf.

Now surely she’s telling the fortune and
is speaking only in the Grannies language
for their grandchildren:
“my pretty”.
*”the tail of the horse” is slang for the Historical Monument Tsar Osvoboditel (tsar liberator) that indicates the downtown of Sofia; more on the monument can be read here:

© 2018, Bozhidar Pangelov (bogpan – блог за авторска поезия  блог за авторска поезия )


Poet and writer, I was once columnist and associate editor of a regional employment publication. Currently I run this site, The Poet by Day, an information hub for poets and writers. I am the managing editor of The BeZine published by The Bardo Group Beguines (originally The Bardo Group), a virtual arts collective I founded.  I am a weekly contributor to Beguine Again, a site showcasing spiritual writers.

My work is featured in a variety of publications and on sites, including: Levure littéraure, Ramingo’s PorchVita Brevis Literature,Compass Rose, Connotation PressThe Bar None GroupSalamander CoveSecond LightI Am Not a Silent PoetMeta / Phor(e) /Play, and California Woman.