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


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

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

Thanks to all who came out to play.

EXPLAINING A PEACE-SIGN TO A TODDLER

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

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

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

© 2017, S. E. Ingram

on a hill

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

such a long remorseful soul-drift
between then & now

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

The Star Second to the Right

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

© 2017, Renee Espriu (Renee Just Turtle Flight)

.reflect.

it is an older mirror,
speckled with time.

liquid memories,

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

our work. our souls
are in our chests.

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

the way is barred now,
the time is past.

things have become misshapen.

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

that feeling, that .

arrives unexpected from darkness, some winters’ mornings,

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

track four repeated. that

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

arises with perfume, an uncertain memory.

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

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

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

while music plays. that feeling. that.

syrup stings my tongue.

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

We Stop Decay

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

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

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

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

Laugh.

© 2017 Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

Rob Time

of it’s place.

Early morning await vintage diesel train
to Great Yarmouth.

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

complementary tea and coffee and Chelsea bun.

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

Green and golden fields.

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

Sun shining. Expecting rain at the coast.

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

Inhale Dappled , A Perfumed Air,

step through cast
illuminated windows
of tree crowns,

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

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

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

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rain)

ABOUT THE POET BY DAY

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“the wild rumpus will now begin” … reader-poets respond to last Wednesday’s writing prompt

WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT, June 7, 2017 Remember “Let the wild rumpus start!” in Maurice Sendak, Where the Wild Things Are? Such a wonderful book and that exclamation has stayed with me – probably you as well – and I always wanted to do something with it. This poem is what came from that inspiration. So, my challenge to you this week, is to use “wild rumpus” in a poem.

Thanks to Paul Brookes, Gary Bowers, Sonja Bensken Mesher and Renee Espriu for coming out to play.  Poem on…

He Was Pandemonium

He caused such a noise, such outcry, such a racket
from the time he crawled, had words & was walking
& with every sibling that arrived within our midst
there was discord between them and between us
from a knock on the door with unfortunate news
of the fact that a boy was perched upon the roof
to his sisters upset as they walked into a bedroom
to see the scurry of a frog causing a commotion
to the neighbor stating your son is in the alley
ought not to be experimenting with matches ought he
to the surprise knock of the police at the door
with a number of hood ornaments in his possession
to the night of upheaval he came home quite sodden
that as I thought in dismay of all the pandemonium
of the day he was born with strawberry blond hair
never I thought ‘the wild rumpus will now begin’ and it did

© June 2017, Renee Espriu (Renee Just Turtle Flight)

‘the shelter’

I will
quite like a wild rumpus here some time,
a make shift band, a straggled procession
down the lane, chanting, scaring the neighbours.

it is often quiet here, though Kenny’s voice
carries.

there will be four of us, costumes and laughing,
happy knowing who we are, comfort in skin.

we used to push you in the toy pram, your legs
spilling out, our selves the show.

it is often quiet here now, you have grown, this
is not your area.

we walk the district quietly.
wait in the shelter.

I will
quite like a wild rumpus here some time.

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

jumperwear

my child a sump is
the coming of plumbing
and mycroft a plump whiz
and speeches undumbing.

but times lately jump us
we show unpreparedness
and fate may then trump us
unto our assbaredness,

so let us don jumpers
to join the wild rumpus
our rumps warm as dumpsters
our bumpers full bumptious.

© 2017, Gary Bowers (One With Clay)

This Psychonaturalist Notes

reedflare flamereed flickerflicker emberkernels lap air, conflagration without heat

in the lap of the grain as it breaks against gust
wild rumpus
amongst reedsway, cootcall, waveruffle, barkgangsign, trunksundials

amongst Geese and Seagull echoes perfect reflections under a halfmoon and quiet blue

evensong of last bell before eyeshorizon darkens and thought
sinks into eyes well to fetch waters reverie into light.

winter colours layered weather bittercoldflares inside skin, cloudsputter sharpcinder ice crackles faces.

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

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“Seasons of Becoming” and other poems in response to last Wednesday’s writing prompt

Last Wednesday’s writing prompt, May 31, 2017: Tell us in prose or poem and in terms of the seasons where you used to be in life and where you are now.

Thanks to those intrepid poets who came out to play. Enjoy the seasons everyone … Read on …

Static Cycles

Summer is my favorite
I can’t wait for Fall
Something ’bout Winter magic
Spring is best of all

Summer is my favorite
I can’t wait for Fall
Something ’bout Winter magic
Spring is best of all

Summer is my favorite
I can’t wait for Fall
Something ’bout Winter m

© 2017, Christopher Troy

(c) Christopher Troy

This is Christopher’s debut with us, so … introducing CHRISTOPHER TROY: Born in Chicago, Illinois in 1978 to a middle class family in an immigrant neighborhood on the city’s north side, Christopher Troy left for Paris in 1996 to study philosophy and political science at the Sorbonne. He spent the next nine years living there, where he was introduced to the arts and Paris’ infamous nightlife. He returned to America after his studies and began a successful decade-long career in politics, until deciding to walk away from it and become a writer. “I’d rather have people applaud me for my lies than be appalled by them,” he said to a friend on the day he left Washington, D.C. He is currently living in Greece and working on his first novel. Examples of his prose and poetry can be found at Christopher Troy Stories.

Four Haiku

Spring

anguish of sunlight
when the people you wait for
don’t turn up on time

Summer

the train stops nowhere
under clear blue morning skies
in total silence

Autumn

yesterdays’ bonfire
drifts into my dreams
– woodpigeon dawn

Winter

plane leaf & puddle
at the grey end of the year
puddle & plane leaf

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

Born Old

coddled in wool blanket drifts
Sun sears baby eyes through bright windows,
hospital paths cleared tall walls
of snow either side. I howled

a gust down shop aisles, on street
to the dentists. Crowds frowned.
Summer bike rides in country lanes
Spring divorced winter.

Summer was another dialect. Coarser,
to play was to laik, sweets were spice.
Wide games in a silver wood, ventured
into cold huts. Fun with sausages and custard.

Hull hunkered in Christian winter, relieved by Summer gamelan and hope for a vocation
to last manual work and taking the pillock.
It didn’t. Winter of closing pits.

Bristol summered in performance
Classes on interview technique, teach
Teenagers how to think into a job.
beyond unemployment benefit office screens

Spout words over dripped lager louts,
Back in summered day buzz of words clapped,
then winter cancered into debt
and prodigal return. No fatted calf

only steroid fatted bald mam and chores
in garden until I met my future wife
for a bet in breaks between admin.
Summered teach adults write and history.

A winter that lasted twelve years headset
yoked ears bent to abuse from wronged
Customers and peddled official lines.
Summer came with an unwanted death,

A years enjoyment of travel and delight.
Summer comes in to autumn with cash gone.
Life a priority. Bills must be paid. Work
only part time, buzz when I help customers.

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

The Season of Becoming

Is this the Winter of her discontent as with
Shakespeare the world around might seem one
that is indifferent to her sadness that age
has besieged her but no it is not so harsh
as the icy cold winds and snow harboring
a breath that will not seek to warm her skin
for it has become like the Season of Summer
where the warming rays of the sun stretches wide
to cover the new growth from Spring that offers
new bright green leaves that will be transformed
into variations of darker greens providing shade
to all of nature’s life beneath boughs of trees
who watch as life is born from tiny tadpoles
becoming frogs to the larvae of dragonflies to
a multitude of birds peering from the safety of eggs
to all beginning a journey of grand proportions
where Fall will see a quiet settling in to harvest
and rest amidst the beauty of all that has become
for stepping into the Winter of her life she now sees
her discontent not as a sadness but as one of observing
all that has come before, all that has become who she is
for it is another beginning and one of transformations
that will show her all the brilliance of her colors
enabling doors to naught hidden as opening to reveal

© 2017 Renee Espriu (reneejustturtleflight)

. for seasons .

frozen, the code will not work, nor will the counting with interruptions, all things moved about. there is a discount, on top the discount, so a discussion ensued on buttons.

now there is an understanding. the season of it all fits, the picture is made the pieces are in place. left on the tray, photographed for all to see.

talked in numbers and rhythms. a train passed, gulls flew the heat haze. on return, no one spoke.

i have written of them before, now in sign and symbol, i regard, that ‘again’ brings a sense of permanence, that familiarity does not always mean contempt , yet continuity.

spring comes round, and we keep the little things, again.

© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher (Sonja Benskin Mesher RCA

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“as you take the road to Paradise” … and other poems by reader poets in response to last Wednesday’s prompt

WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT May 24, 2017: Tell us in poem or prose what it feels like to be you on your best day.

It’s always interesting to see how different are the responses to the same prompt. Bravo, poets!  Enjoy, readers! J.D.

as you take the road to Paradise 

about half-way there
you come to an inn
which even as inns go is admirable

you go into the garden of it
and see the great trees and the wall
of Box Hill* shrouding you all round

it is beautiful enough (in all conscience)
to arrest you without the need of history
or any admixture of pride of place

but as you sit in a seat in the garden
you are sitting where Nelson sat
when he said goodbye to Emma;

if you move a yard or two you will be
where Keats sat biting his pen
thinking out some new line of poem

  • Box Hill is in Surrey, England. It is my ‘soul home.’

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

Glistening Bits of Gold

On a day where time stands still she sees
each quintessential increment of time
like the sun hitting tiny seed pods that
have fallen on the street glistening as
tiny bits of gold sparkling as jewels
that offset the black asphalt street
turning the harsh landscape of tar into
that of a black silken cape waiting
to be garnered by nature’s queen as
she strolls the avenue bending only
momentarily to gaze lovingly at all that
she has made from the beauty of flowers
orange as the poppy to that of the shrubs
close to the ground shading tiny insects
to the majesty of towering evergreens
she becomes entwined in the moment and
she is ensconced and feels content

©2017, Renee Espriu (Renee Just Turtle Flight)

::these days ::

are longer now, i feel younger now,

i am older. we do so many things.

we are no longer afraid.

make the best of summer days,

winter follows.

he remarked that it was

good enough for the

chelsea flower show.

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

♥

27 May ( another day in paradise )

we walked the stone,

he kept the place special, closed a while,

is open now . as the sky clears

through willow arches, white calves

and butterflies.

he cuts the shrubs, hedges, and rakes the path tidy.

it is arthur’s stone.

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

My Summer Town zoom

Zoom in to gold world,
on green metal celebratory gate
in centre of town between the shops

Look at it’s green metal pictures.
an old pump, miners lamp,
glass bottles, cricket/tennis bats,
canal boat navigates nothing

Rain constellations bus window,
cars backwash tarmac,
droplets break tension ripples natural birdbath.

Squashed plastic blue pen,
empty grey fag packet,
lobbed lottery ticket
middle of road
revelation.

Empty black/red polystyrene
Coke Zero cup circles
street middle black/white fat cat
waddles across road life design.

After nimbus drops
inhale moss
like marine pool kelp
after wave sea breeze fresh glowing Wombwell by the sea.

Pigeons, spuggys
shadow puppetry streets, houses.
Tarmac warm shivers.
Radiant windows flash mirror
passing traffic.

Evening spitting,
growling, flaming,
fluid lads/lasses on heat,
short shirts tempers.
This is the barbecue.

backyard, eye swag silver,
two joy, pica pica purplish-blue
iridescent sheen
wing feather green gloss tail.

On train squeal chatter,
vivid, green, blue, beavers,
cubs, scouts, ventures
anarchy in uniform.

Unshaven bald man,
open green raincoat,
brown leather shoes,
hauls local paper
packed lime green trolley.

Old folk bench gab,
mothers stroll babies
down funeral paths
eye gambolling squirrel,
cemetery a parkland.

Blackbird gob skyward
atop Victorian six pointed
terracotta Crown top
chimney pot
trills red brick streets

bright yellow sharp
edged box hedge sun
cracked pavements
yellow metal skip
blocks alleyway
All sun snogged

Bright cemetery leaves
behind dark,

bakers window 6 loaves,
one burnt,
nurse boards bus,
‘I was miles away’

Sunstruck leaf bunch
drips bright molten
green glass, other leaves
luminescent silver stars
in green matter, shade cut.

Patient silver hubcap
rests under stone cemetery wall
behind blue bus stop halo,
full moon fall: day waits.

Shadows pass over bus
as if it is stop motion animated.
I get on the animation.
Hand held camera
glare work journey.

Town a small canvas tent
unzipped tied back crowcall,
fragrant grass, earth close,
sun blue. Is on holiday

light quality early noon
than morning, 3 patient
full brown potato bags
by grocers,
cloud dispersal pend

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

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