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“Wonderlust Rain Forest” … poems and other works by readers in response to Wednesday’s Writing Prompt

WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT April 26, 2017 ~ Climate change is on our minds these days – perhaps more than in the past given the regime – and we are feeling one with Mother Earth and all her creatures and gratitude for the people who marched on Saturday. What pictures come to mind when you think of our home? How do they make you feel or respond? Tell us in prose or poem . . . and several readers took the challange creating work that rewards your time spent.  Enjoy! … and do visit their sites. Get to them better and let them get to know you.


Costa Rican boat tour by Isadora DeLaVega

Wonderlust Rain Forest

Approaching fading blue skies, we wandered silently through the

Costa Rican Rainforest on our private boat tour. Reaching peaceful estuaries

quietly seeking the wildlife that inhabits this forest.

Silently listening to nature at play, we soon reached the end of our destination.

Unspoiled waters filled with hope for natures future.

2017©Isadora DeLaVega

Photographer, Artist,Writer, Isadora DeLa Vega

Isadora DeLa Vega is featured for the first time on The Poet by Day. Since I’ve enjoyed her creativity for years, I’m pleased to have her response to last Wednesday’s writing prompt.

Isadora blogs at Isadora Art and Photography, A Place for Visual Creativity. She began her career in her late thirties after raising her children. For twenty-eight years, Isadora created award-winning silversmith art jewelry. When she retired due to failing health, she knew that she still needed to be creative. She decided to explore photography because she is inspired by and passionate about luscious colors. She says, “They’re the manna that feeds my soul.”  Before long she realized that writing and poetry were good outlets as well for conveying her thoughts. Her long-term goal is to one day publish a book with her photography and quotes.


and

in the wobble & bulge
of the hurtling universe
I am the sound of blackbirds
and the flutter of a butterfly wing

the shifting shadow on the summer lawn
and the tall tree wind getting up;
all this fixes me for the moment
along with the ancient memory

of two maternal relatives we visited
in Wimbledon Park—it seemed quite often
though it might have been but once or twice…
their lawn turned into a pathway

round a herbaceous oblong
to follow which seemed a minor mystery—
one that transposed many mysteries
to lead to this moment now

darkening shadows and squawk of pheasant
and beeflies above the mouldering sundial

© Colin Bundell (colinbundell.comfrom Colin’s The Recovery of Wonder Hub Editions 2013 (Note: Wimbledon Park is a suburb of London.)


Tarnished Goods

The fox follows her along the byway to reach untouched forests
those forests unfettered by time and pristine oceans devoid of human touch
and each time always she passes freeways littered with a garbage landscape
the fox glances at bottles and fast food wrappers collecting
on roads under construction on a continuum of future whys
where the smell of black tar invades with stinging and burning
she should be accustomed but wrinkles her nose in disgust
as does the fox now her shadow trusting she will reach a destination
not concrete and black asphalt now covering the richness of earth
and does she still hope windows rolled and closed will be enough
enough to keep her safe or will they be unable to block
out the constant drone of the noise of a civilized world
a world that is one built impinging on nature’s habitat
one adding insult to injury and becoming a macabre graveyard
to endangered species & the fox wonders if he will be next
but he cannot bring himself to let himself be absorbed
into track homes swallowing up citrus groves as the raccoons have done
stealing into the night to rob garbage cans of their next meal
this becoming an unnatural habitat as it has for bears and possum
and he feels oddly fortunate that tigers and lions do not live here
but he can still hear them all screaming in pain underpinned with sorrow
and the fox listens as he follows and always the level of noise increases
increases exponentially with every tree cut down and concrete poured
and the fox feels his shadow growing less as theirs becomes more
where claustrophobic habitats are multiplying housing for a rising populace
and the need to reach the forest to be able to stare in awe at the ocean
propels them down the road and she knows she is like the fox
and that no amount of polish will shine and bring it all back
to bring it back to a time delegated to past histories before her
before the fox became her shadow on a journey to find survival
the only solution being the ability of technology to merge with nature
to be a part of the answer in preserving the beauty here long before us
long before becoming tarnished goods in the midst of climate change
long before the fox became her shadow and she became the fox’s shade

© 2017 Renee Espriu (Renee Just Turtle Flight)


. reimagine the world .

leave your ideas at home.
on the hatstand. forget all
that you have learned, things
may not be so.

all people have thoughts, so
yours is not so precious now,
elder.

she told me that even things
at home have changed.

looking round we see they have.

reimagine the world, forget
the learning, start again,
then we may understand, or not.

king david.

© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher
***

. stitch. search .

we will not have blankets, if there are none, take the old rags, layer , stitch and stitch by hand till fingers bleed.

work is steady, absorbtion as if the outside world is ended. looking up find it has not. stitching can be rhythmic, and never mind the capitals. other words confound. birds beat the window.

the questions came that i cannot answer here or ever. did not count this time only the final one. noticed the first ones are now undone. the wrong knots.

maybe we need to check our numbers at the end to see if one or more are missing. ? we need to count them carefully, one side then the other?

work along the coast with thread and diligence. gather wools, layer carefully, we shall have warmth this winter.

eight thirty till five. it could have been easy, yet there were issues of the electronic kind meaning wasting time with wires and connections.

cover the surface. it takes time.

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


Your Damned Anthropocene

“We are as gods and might as well get good at it.”

O, your presumption did not account
for the delicacy of flesh and bone,
the death wish of the human soul.

You had an impact on my future,
I’m not sure I forgive you.
There is your clear signature
in the fossil record , an observable
sudden decline
in the abundance and diversity of plant
and animal life. Perhaps we should
define your time from here.

Did it start when we traced your pulse
at the start of the Industrial Revolution?
Your carbon-dioxide pulse that underlay
what you thought was global warming.

O, your dreams to guide mankind towards global, sustainable, environmental management. How could you see
the juggernaut was unstoppable?

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow) From Paul’s forthcoming chapbook The Spermbot Blues, OpPress, Summer 2017


THE WORDPLAY SHOP: books, tools and supplies for poets, writers and readers


We continue with the current recommended read: On Tyranny: Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century by Timothy Snyder. Left, right or center – American or not – it’s a must read.

LESSON THIRTEEN: Practice Corporeal Politics  “Power wants your body softening in your chair and your emotions dissipating on the screen. Get outside. Put your body in unfamiliar places with unfamiliar people.  Make new friends and search with them. ” Prof. Snyder,  On Tyranny, Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century

“Parable of the Red Birds” and other poems by poets in response to last Wednesday’s Writing Prompt

Last Wednesday’s Writing Prompt (April 19,2017): “We’ve probably all been there and/or known someone who’s been there, thinking if they change where they live, who their married to, where they go to school, things will be better. Maybe they will, but probably not unless there are some internal changes. What’s your view or experience? Tell us in poem or prose.”

I think each of these poets did a fine job in responding. I enjoyed their work and know you will too.  Read on …

Parable of the Red Birds

The cardinals outside my window
Have two babies cuddled in the nest-
I peered in to see gray downy bundles
Rather ugly little fellows, mouths all agape.

Today, the fledglings are out of the nest.
The male cardinal has been vigilant,
Constantly flying to the little dears,
Dropping food in their open mouths.

While they flap clumsy tiny wings
The father flits about, devout in his care
Leaving me to wonder, where is Momma?
What is that Momma Cardinal up to?

After a little reading, I have discovered
No—she didn’t fly the coop with a lover-
She’s off to make her second nest of eggs.
The father is feeding her and the babies!

So what does this have to do with the grass
Looking greener over the fence? Nothing.
Sometimes everything is as it should be-
Your home is where your family assembles-

Either the family you’re been born with
Or the cackle of friends you’ve chosen
And gathered, dear one by dear one,
And it’s the place you build your wings.

© 2017, Sharon Frye (The Poetry of Sharon Frye)

Sharon is new to this exercise but not new to this site.  She was featured here as American She-Poet (12). Her new collection, Blue Lamentations (Cold River Press, 2017), is now available.


quite often these days

I focus on a moment from the past
identify strongly with it
and very soon find myself back there
pursuing a path that leads
from that moment into other moments
that just might have been

so that I am lost in passageways
I never took—corridors of time
I maybe only half-explored; it’s an effort
to wrench myself away back here
where all’s strange and unaccountable
& forlorn with a sense of great loss

so it was when I discovered (used as
a bookmark) a letter I never answered
asking me if I was happy now
I had left her and gone my own way—
if I could let her know (she said) she’d
rest content so I disappear into her

missing me and start wondering how
to reply—the letter is fifty-five years old
for god’s sake but as I said I’m prone
to follow up these distant naked leads
fully expecting the characters I bring to life
to make a response to me as I do to them

©Colin Blundell (colinbludell.com),  From The Recovery of Wonder published in 2013 under Colin’s Hub Editions imprint)


and…..

:: when ::

when small boys wake early,

when the journey is long,

the other disturbing the night

until all around is tired,

no real work done.

breaking backs.

have you really lost your arm,

have you really changed your life,

have you lost your sun glasses

in paradise?

do you know the people here,

who think i have sold my house,

who look after the dead,

© Sonja Benskin Mesher (Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA)


FLIGHT OF A FASHION

She traveled north
with her husband she chose
based on society’s mores
his decision accepted based
on her need to fly

trading asphalt and concrete
for a similar landscape
peppered with evergreens

leaving behind her self
melting in the heat of day
preparing for a rain cleansing
her of tainted memories

she traded her self-identity
with the prospect of years
rearing children alone
in unfamiliar landscape
needing to fly

always tethered & wings clipped
by a ritual of custom
her wings a rainbow

coloring her inside and out
brightened by the sun
dampened by the rain
her self conflicted interests

birds fly home to roost and nest
innate to their very being
so each time she returned to
her place of birth she
fell into memories

coming to know her colored feathers
of self would always remain
inside no matter
the need to fly

© 2017, Renee Espriu (Renee Just Turtle Flight)


1.) Picked Apple Falls Hard On Him

Him On Her

agápē
apples, little earths
of laughtered kisses

of words that tickle
of giggle flesh,

deep red and green
or change in colour

from one to the other
windfall
or pick one.

Your apricots, peaches
and nectarines

a predatory sweetness
invites the unwary

as you feel slightly soft
and pull away easily

blackcurrant berries
swell to full size and turn

a shiny blue-black
incise deep past

the mantel to core
molten with sweet
juice oozes

over your tongue
out of the flesh

out of the month
through holes in the bones
life agape

Picked Apple, woodbride,
you tend gardens with skill,

devoted to orchards’ care,
love fields and branches

laden with ripe apples,
carry a curved pruning knife,

cut back scraggy growth,
lop limbs spread too far,

split bark, insert a graft,
provide sap from different stock
for trees bairns.

Will not suffer them being parched, waters twining tendrils o’ their thirsty

root. This is your love, your passion,
no need of lust. Workaholic, close

yourself off in an orchard, post a notice, ” No Men Allowed”.

2.) Her On Him

glance and you’re a scraggy girl darkened in denim,

a bespectacled man in a ballooned jumper, honeyed farmer, shy hunter,

mollusced fisherman.
I wake up to a tupped shepherd,

come back to a wick carjacker.
You’re everyone else, but yourself.

can’t pin you down,
my turning year,

first grape that darkens
on purpling bunch,

spiky corn-ear that swells
with milky grain; near my toes

you’re sweet cherries, autumn plums and a mulberry redder

in summer,
a change in the weather,

a new set of clothes,
an alteration in the air,
and I love you.

3.) My Seduction

A challenge. Never impress
you as myself.

Too young, no prospects.
Men have to invent

themselves to get anywhere.
I want to see you all the time.

So I turns up at your door
a rude farmer,

brought you a basket
filled with ears of barley.

Next, my forehead bound with freshly cut hay, as I might have been tossing new-mown grass.

“Sorry. No men. Busy.”

Another day I lumped horses
bridle in my stiff hand,

so you’d swear I’d unyoked
a weary team.

“No stables. Goodbye!”

With knife I were a female dresser
and pruner of vines:
“No vines here. I’m busy.”

Sometimes I’d carry ladder
and bucket a Window cleaner.

“No windows here. Goodbye.”

A scraggy girl darkened in denim,
beg a bunch of wildflowers
for her mam and you say
“Nothing wild in this garden, girl.
Sorry, mowed them all down”

A bespectacled man in a ballooned jumper, honeyed farmer, shy hunter,
mollusced fisherman.

“Sorry. Read the notice. No men allowed.”

4.) The Old Lass

I wrap my head with a coloured scarf,
lean on a staff, sprout grey hair, wrinkled

as a decaying fruit, caved in hollows,
thin skin, fungus faced, moles, brown

blotches, sour breath, stink of stale piss lingers, and a small spiky moustache.

She lets me in her well-tended garden,
to admire fruit and fruit of her

She a Pear’s sweetness
salves a searching tongue,

a Peach’s blush like sunrise
a Plum’s scent entices, smooth and laughing,

a Cherry’s scarlet lips rain sodden
a blossoming branch
makes bees dance

a secret orchard
‘You are so much more lovely’,

I snog her.
Then apologise.

Sit on flattened grass,
look at branches bend weighed
down with fruit.

Vine and Tree
There is an elm opposite,

gleaming bunches of grapes.
I tell her
“Remarkable tree, and its entwining vine.
But, if that tree stood there, unmated,

without its vine, it wouldn’t be sought after for more than its leaves, and vine

also, joined to and rests on the elm,
will lie on the ground,

if it were not married to it, and leaning on it.’

You reply “It is a tree. Marriage means nothing to me.”

“A thousand men want you,
you shun them, turn away.”

But, if you are wise,
if you want to marry well,

listen to me, an old lass,
as loves you more than you think,

more than them all, reject others
and choose Change to share your bed!

You have my pledge as well:
he’s not better known to himself

than he is to me: he does not wander
hither and thither, lives by himself

and he doesn’t love latest girl he’s seen.
You’ll be his first love, and his last.

He’ll devote his life only to you.
He’s young, blessed with natural charm,

can take on a fitting appearance, if needs be. Whatever you want,

though you ask for all of it,
he will do.

He doesn’t want fruit of your trees,
or sweet juice of your herbs:

he needs nothing but you.
Take pity on his ardour,

and believe that he,
who seeks you,

is begging you,
in person, through my gob.

I’ll tell you the tale
of Stone Lass

“Spunk sees Cruel lass from afar
gobsmacked by her looks
he gets smitten hard
and determines she’ll be hooked

Asks her mates for her mobile number,
and all her social media pages,
scours internet for details,
winds himself up in rages.

Gets his message through once
or twice but she mocks him
” Fancy me. You do right. I’m gorgeous”
and promptly blocks him.

Finds her home and knocks
and her Dad answers and says
“She don’t want to know, son.
Thinks your a stalker. Away!”

Writes his first letter and posts
it personally through her door,
it tells her she’s won and he’ll be gone
she can celebrate and more

she can see him lose his life
which is all he has left for her.
Cruel scoffs at this but goes along
for the crack and laughter.

She sees him throw a rope
already knotted around a beam
put his neck in the noose
and let out a scarifying scream.

Then she feels herself harden
stone thoughts
stone mouth
stone neck
stone chest
stone limbs
stone heart
calcified flesh and bone
she is a statue.”

Picked Apple has no reaction.
Change thinks stuff it

and becomes himself
young, virile and fresh.
Picked Apple falls hard for him.

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)


THE WORDPLAY SHOP: books, tools and supplies for poets, writers and readers


We continue with the current recommended read: On Tyranny: Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century by Timothy Snyder. Left, right or center – American or not – it’s a must read.

LESSON ELEVEN: INVESTIGATE. “Figure things out for yurself. Spend more time with long articles.  Subsidize investigative journalism by subscribing to print media. Realize that some of what is on the internet is there to harm you.  Learn about sites that investigate propaganda campaigns (some of which come from abroad). Take responsibility for what you communicate with others.” Prof. Snyder,  On Tyranny, Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century


Go to art, not war.

Poem on …

“One of My Tomorrows” and other poems in response Wednesday Writing Prompts

WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT, April 12, 2017 (1) Vacations: Well, this one is akin to the first composition assignment on returning to school after summer vacation: Tell us about your most fondly remembered vacations. Perhaps you enjoyed it because it involved family and childhood. Perhaps it was a dream vacation come true. Or, maybe it was an unexpected adventure. Or, perhaps your best vacation is the one you are planning now.

To Italy

you never expected this
we touch Florentine great black hog’s ringed cold snout
a ritual au revoir

taste best bitter coffee on the TGV
see snowed peaks of lower Apennine mountains
out of warm train windows

enter massive
Milan train Station
nine days coach trip
poke me in the side
when coach pace nods me off

stroll spiral down to medieval streets and a tilted horse race square

walk Rome’s cobbles amphitheatre
marvel at Vatican mosaics
we thought paintings
want to stroke cordoned vast
marble muscles

lilt up Venetian canals
wonder why when renovating buildings at home
builders don’t have picture tarpaulins
of the building beneath

you never expected this
for my fortieth
expected Wales or Scotland
then I request you order
a passport,
and live nine days
out of a suitcase

and thank your late father
our invisible companion
who made this possible

© 2017, Paul Brookes


White Flags Flying

Excitement palpable within me
butterflies dancing
fluttering wings beating
against my stomach

every year the very same
each time I am dreaming of
tall pines, pine cones
needles making

a blanket beneath the tent
heavy and green smelling
of musty canvas
and flags

waving on a line strung across
our site by dad
clean diapers drying
marking the spot

where the tent is pitched
a Coleman stove sets
ready to cook a meal
a lantern lit

lighting branches a reflection
a glow of campfire
the sky filled with stars
happiness overflowing

© April 2017 Renee Espriu (Renee Just Turtle Flight)


there was a time

when one bottle of wine
seemed as if it was going to last forever;
the one I’m thinking of (purchased
one dinnertime in summer at 7/6d)
occupied a space in my life
a mile high and spanned the gap
all the way to Tibet; as you drank a glass
that dinnertime it seemed to refill itself
from the dregs of love

when one kiss would last
as long as the Rachmaninov cello sonata
whenever you put the record
on the turntable and let the needle fall –
obliterated in the so well-known cadences
which I could have been whistling
had my lips not been squashed against hers

when a bicycle ride would construct a day
down to the sea and back
across the long valley and over the downs –
magic ride often repeated –
I fill it from these dregs of memory

© 2017, Colin Blundell (Colin Blundell)

Colin recently did quite a wonderful guest blog: Antidotes to Tyranny and Concentration Camps of the Mind


. again, the small things.

it is the little things that excite, even
in the height of summer, low look
for seeds, small flowers studded
in hedgerows, dry stone walls here.

our lane remains dusty, unmade, plans
delayed a while to update. developers have
bought the big house, a nice place for holidays
and rabbits.

the stone lion is gone, due to health
and saftey, wobbly.

there is a small pool, to look
in for blessings , a reflection
on the day .

seeds
for the future.

© Sonja Benskin Mesher (Sonja Benskin Mesher RCA)


WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT, April 12, 2017 (2) Memories of those lost. Have there been people in your life that you don’t loose no matter what? Perhaps people like parents who are so much a part of you, you seem to sense their presence even after they have died.  How good is that? Or, maybe you don’t think it is. Tell us about it in poem or prose.


One of My Tomorrows

for Celia

Our last goodbye was casual
as if I would see you again
on one of my tomorrows

I touched your arm
you flinched. In pain.
I felt persistent guilt

Born of carelessness
only nervous uncertainty
could freely demonstrate

Born of habitual presumption
that you were in charge
you weren’t. Not really.

You never were, save
your own sense of duty
to boss, nay care for everyone

Too much on small shoulders
that weren’t as strong as the
force of that inner being

the force that stopped being
that was someone once
whom I loved and miss

Some time after we’d helped you
to meet your God, one starlit night
I heard your voice as clear as the sky

O lamb of God, who takes away
the sins of the world, have mercy
and grant us peace. I swear

this was not my voice!

© 2017, John Anstie (My Poetry Library), All rights reserved

English musician and poet, John Anstie

John is not new to this site, but he is new in the context of Wednesday Writing Prompt. He is a part of the core team – a sort of editorial board – for The BeZine. John’s interest in the arts is quite catholic but he is most enamoured of music. Along with the members of the Grass Roots Poetry Group, he published a collection,  Petrichor Rising (eBook and paperback), the profits from which go to charity.  You can read more about John and his projects at: Petrichor Rising and how the Twitterverse birthed friendships that in turn birthed a poetry collection.

 

 


Friendship

beacon
anchor
mirror
prop
my “you can do it”
and my trusted counsel: “stop!”

mi casa es su casa
as like family, you know you are

we share
we dare
we fight
we cry
we laugh
we scamp
we stride into the world
as lamps

and, whether it’s together
or by miles apart
always
the love of friendship is
a gift of courage
to the mind and in the heart

– Juli (Juxtaposed, (Subject to Change)


Lantern

Lantern swinging down path —
I wonder if it is really there,
if that is you, or just some accident
of moonlight and wind.

How is it possible for the night
to be so black that no adjective
makes sense? Just black-black,
with shadows hovering and the wild phlox
lopped over reflecting greywhite back up.

No lantern, but there might as well be,
my heart lighting every moment,
bringing you back through memory
to stroll ahead telling me that story
I promised to never forget.

© 2017, Jennifer Cartland (Poems from Between)

This is the first time Jennifer Cartland is featured on The Poet by Day. . She says of herself simply, “In between meetings, in between errands, seat cushions, and ‘oms’, I try to nab those little guys flying though my noggin’ and shake them up a bit, turn them into something humans can understand.  Sometimes it works, sometimes not.  Sometimes they are happy I did, sometimes they aren’t.” 


Lavender & Whippoorwills

nasturtiums growing
in hollyhock fields
smelling of lavender
& blue whippoorwills

whose song bids me
follow the spirit
of you
entwined as we are
in consummate truth

i see you dancing
beneath the elm tree
with boughs your
dance partner
forever & free

as you slip transparent
from my view
the music plays softly
as it is never adieu

from the lemon bush
filtering meringue
soft dreams
to the orange orchard
citrus scenes

i knew you loved me
before i became a whisper
& held me near
before the dance…
taste of cinnamon cinders

nasturtiums growing
in hollyhock fields
smelling of lavender
& blue whippoorwills

© 2017, Renee Espriu (Renee Just Turtle Flight)


. haunted .

a meditation on thread,

mediation of red, i dream

of you.

clearly your clothes remain

the same, worn, washed,

pressed.

your ideas come different, you

talk of immersion,

and security, nothing was

further from my mind.

the moon came early

a different window.

this does not mean i

have time,

i will be sewing.

i have made notes and numbers,

pinned it to the wall.

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


My Late Mam Still Spring Clean

“I couldn’t live at your mam’s
It’s like a show house. Spotless.”
One of my girlfriends says.

And the gusts over mam’s grave,
brush the winter debris away,

quick sprays of spring rain
coat her surface as dead leaf

and blown bud dusters polish
the Yorkshire stone black letters

to a shine, feed the vase of flowers
whose heads move towards the sun.

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)


Well, such wonderful responses to Wednesday Writing Prompts. I think it makes rather a lovely collection, which I hope you enjoy.  I hope you’ll also visit these poets at their blogs and get to know them better.  Look for another Wednesday Writing Prompt tomorrow.


THE WORDPLAY SHOP: books, tools and supplies for poets, writers and readers


We continue with the current recommended read: On Tyranny: Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century by Timothy Snyder. Left, right or center – American or not – it’s a must read.

LESSON NINE: Be kind to our languge. “Avoid pronouncing the phrases everyone else does.  Think up your own ways of speaking, even if only to convey that thing you think everyone is saying.  Make an effort to separate yourself from the Internet. Read books.”  Prof. Snyder,  On Tyranny, Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century

Dreaming of the Moon … poets respond to last Wednesday’s Writing Prompt

LAST WEDNESDAYS WRITING PROMPT: What would be your fantasy about the moon? Tells us in poem or prose and share the link to the piece in the comments section below if you are comfortable doing so that we all might read it. This is light one. Enjoy!


Renee Espiru (Renee Just Turtle Flight) said this prompt was timeley for her. She’s now a great-grandmother.  Congratulations, Renee and family. She writes about that experience with this poem.

I DREAMT OF THE MOON

I dreamt that I met you smiling
long before you were born

that I told you in sweet loving
to the moon and back we’ll go

that we held hands briefly soaring
seeking the beauteous moonscape

we traversed stars in the milky way
in meteorite showers of gold we played

we walked along dazzling moon beams
silken threads our carpets in space

too soon you left me in wonderment
life’s cord cut a spiraling empty place

& you sped quickly down to earth
faster even than Halley’s comet

that day I finally saw your birth
I remembered our dance among stars

marveled at so much of me in you
that your hands held stardust imbued

© Renee Espriu


And from Paul Brooks (The Wombwell Rainbow). Among other things, Paul says he does the things he does because ” I want to make sense of who I am, where I came from and where I live. An impossible but engrossing job.” Poetry can certainly be self-revealing.

The Moon

in the man
is transgender.

born of a collision
of bodies revolves
about its mam

tied by gravity’s apron strings
though mam does not wear aprons
as they’re not hip

pulls at her tides,
waxes on and off
wanes off and on

stepped on in pools,
admires our longing
sickles into plumpness

slight to fat as if pregnant,
gives a cheesy smile.

© Paul Brooks


From Sonja Benskin Mesher. Sonja tells us, “My studio is in a medieval longhouse in Llanelltyd, North Wales surrounded by mountains, lakes and rivers, and also very near to the sea. I moved here in 1993 to change the quality and direction of my life. This ancient place affects work profoundly, with its space, peace and sense of freedom.”

It was here that the work started, and I have worked full time as a visual artist since 1999, after an initial period of study of Art & Design.

dance under the moon

shall we place our heads together
and hum,
shall we twine our arms
and drift.
shall we lean together,
and hold each other up.

shall we slowly
dance under the moon
quivering in the frost
and starlight

shall we live the moment
forgetting time,
and opinions,
our choice, no reason.

or shall we slowly
bleed and die?

© Sonja Benskin Mesher

Kudos Sonja, Paul and Renee, intrepid poets.  Well done. Thanks for participating and sharing. ♥


The recommended read for this week is A Little Book on Form: An Exploration into Formal Imagination of Poetry by Robert Hass (b. 1941), an American poet who was our Poet Laureate of the United States from 1995 to 1997. He won the 2007 National Book Awardand shared the 2008 Pulitzer Prize for the collection Time and Materials: Poems 1997-2005. In 2014 he was awarded the Wallace Stevens Award from the Academy of American Poets.

In A Little Book on Form: An Exploration into Formal Imagination of Poetry Hass brings to bear the same senisbility that marks his poetry with force, clarity and eloquence. From Rome in the time of Caesar to the Renaissance and our own times, Hass breaks down poetry, examining its components from a postmodern perspective. The book is ranging and intense. It’s over four-hundred pages – informed, witty, erudite – something we can go back to again and again.  Never a boring moment. It’s all about love.


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