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Surrender. . . and other responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

Image courtesy of Simon Matzinger, Unsplash

“Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there.” Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

Depending on where in the world you live, it’s already Wednesday. Here in Northern California it’s still Tuesday, though a late hour for this weekly post, an indication of the weight of the day’s deadlines and editorial responsibilities. Here now are poems that face the reality of living with dying, as we all ultimately do. These poems were inspired or shared in response to the last poem and prompt, Almost Time, May 6. Enjoy the lyric wisdom of mm brazfield, Anjum Wasim Dar, Irma Do, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Tamam Tracy Moncur, Nancy Ndeke, Clarissa Simmens, Adrian Slonaker, and Mike Stone.

Do join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are welcome: beginning, emerging, and pro poets.

my trip with Azrael

you know the time is nigh
you won’t need anything
would you agree
yes i’m prepared
while we travel can i tell you
how i loved the cool walks
the strong espressos and
the smell of fresh baked croissants over at Figaros
and when i was young
i loved the life that was
fast hard strong and brutal
was that when you felt invincible
Azrael asked
i suppose i didnt really feel anything
can i tell you about all of the beautiful people
dressed in all the colors and walk
step by step
and the children
they the true celestial thousand points of light multiply in God’s eyes forever
did you incur any regrets after all you’re just a human Azrael reminded
time lost revelling in my hatred and my pain first of self then of my nature of my sins and my enemies my inability for many years to feel with all of me
and seeing that i was about to cry Azrael lifted me with warmth and ease as my last breath sweet with smells of incense drew from me a soul unique and we clasp hands into the light of eternity

© 2020, mm brazfield

mm’s site is: Words Less Spoken, Gen X’r chronicles the art from of living in the Angelino metropolitan environment through poetry, creative writing, art, photography, and culture

Death-Mediocrity is Everywhere

Dedicated to Mary Oliver

Life moves in time in moment sublime
in moments painful in moments divine

life begins so joyfully with smiles yet
ends cuttingly, bodies scatter for miles

a month of obligation abstinence patience
teaches lessons of resilient tolerance

end a celebration a gratitude for completion
festive for some for some fatal cremation

horrible terrible killing fear murder cruelty
enemy advances ending lives brutally

Death Death Death all around ,will come
If it be not now, yet it will, for sure, come’

when the hearts bleed beat slowly slowly
when kids are burning dying, what is Holy?

what festivity what feast what happiness
what is Eid ~ what is care for family ?

a moment joyful reveals life is temporary
next, we should know heaven and eternity

Ah how truly said the great romantic poet
‘ In the very temple of delight resides veiled melancholy’

© 2020, Anjum Wasim Dar

And When Death Comes

And when it comes
I will meet the Angel and smile
and say ‘you came before, lifted me,
quietly, I felt the pull,

I saw my self flying straight up high
it was so swift, in flight a few seconds
and as I looked down- I trembled-

‘oh where are you taking me?
my children are so young
and my parents are in later age
they need me too, see,they are alone,

And Oh Angel you were so kind
You let me go’
You had permission to do that
and I heard you say something’ ?

Now if I have been good
have looked after my parents
and have guided my children,
on the straight path,

I hope and pray that
my way, will be illumined
each day of life ,scented,
colorful like daisies and pansies,

life will begin afresh, pure, peaceful
as the Almighty is Gracious and Merciful
“I am precious to The Earth’,
I need not be frightened’and definitely
not as simply having visited this world’

© 2020, Anjum Wasim Dar

Anjum-ji’s sites are:

“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

Surrender

I will stare into your eyes
As the poison drips into my arms
And laugh when I tuck plane tickets
To Europe in my suitcase

I will make faces at you
As I lay on the operating table
And laugh when my shirts are looser
And I see how much weight I’ve lost

I will flip you the finger
As I’m holding my kids
Celebrating graduations and birthdays
And even just regular days

I will slap you as you try to steal
The warmth of my blankets
And the heat of my lover
Wrapped in promises of forever and never

Yet when the time comes
And I know the difference between beignet and brioche
And I’m down to my high school weight
And the kids have gone back to their full lives
And my lover has fallen asleep on the couch

I will look you in the eyes
And smile sweetly
As I beckon you to me
And lay my head on your shoulder
Holding tightly
As you carry me across the threshold

© 2020, Irma Do

Irma’s site is: I Do Run, And I do a few other things too . . . 

.prompt.

yes i think of you fondly

all of you gone this while

we continue thankful in that we knew you

a while

while

feeling fortunate

in that we have been here a while during the good bits,

learning from the other bits

there are a few of you in the garden while others are

elsewhere

some too far to visit

with one down the lane

handy

i keep that tidy & maybe the gardener is now unecessary

i will not attach photos

i see you all in mind

& i thank you

my life continues

& i thank you

© 2020, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Sonja’s sites are:

Looking Back
Standing at the threshold suspended between life and death doing my best to capture the fleeting images flashing before my face in this race which for me is about to be over…gone forevermore…never to be again.

Early childhood memories in Berkeley, CA. Harmon Street to be exact…my grandmother pouring out buttermilk from a jug just for us to go with our lunch…ugh…yuck. Delicious pies cooling in the window overlook the yard as chickens peck at the dirt unaware of their fate.

A middle schooler headed to Camp Timbertall totally enthralled by the Redwood trees…trunks a mahogany red stretching high into the sky…up…up… up…green leaves ballooning atop the elongated trunk declaring summer fun has arrived in all its anticipation and expectations.

Piano lessons from age six…scales…arpeggios mixed with the classical…playing in the Jr. Bach festival…brother the boogie woogie king of the neighborhood…always some good piano music swinging with singing having fun ‘til the day was almost done.

High school graduation…civil rights demonstrations…relocation to the east coast…falling in love with New York City…Harlem nights, jazz, poetry…meeting the man who was to become my husband…trombonist…composer deep-rooted in the avant-garde revolutionary music.

Marriage vows…jumping the broom in a small room in front of a self-avowed minister declaring “until death do us part”…days and nights filled with wine, filled with art…then suddenly burnt out…new start…change of heart…God becomes my all in all.

Newark, NJ… our new home…my husband’s home town…going back to school…six children…the absolute rule for three decades wading through the deep waters of raising children…music education/ elementary ed certification…teaching is now my life.

Diary of an Inner City Teacher, my story about the glory, the good, the challenges in the honorable profession of teaching…reaching out to, and understanding students regardless of learning styles…regardless of emotions, just learning to go that extra mile for each and every child.

Fifteen hour flight to Johannesburg South Africa…a trip home to my ancestral land…Africa the motherland…family and cultural ties severed by slavery but reconnected through the church to the drumbeat of my soul to a whole nother aspect of my being.

Images have been captured…will I be raptured? My breathing now labored…my vision blurry….although very cloudy I feel a hand enclose mine…a voice in the distance says “it’s your time”…the melodic sound of voices draw me into the realm of absolute silence.

© 2020, Tamam Tracy Moncur

Tracy’s book is Diary of an Inner City Teacher, a probe into the reality of teaching in our inner city school systems as seen from the front line.

AT THIS MOMENT,
Reaching out to my transport yonder, seconds reel to hug thoughts, one more time,
The flood of joy of creations gift in a child, O what a miracle!
Seeing the innocence and trust as only Heaven must know,
That first cry announcing birth, what mystery!

Reaching out to my transport yonder, seconds play an old tune,
Mother’s gentle hand massaging away a dreary fever, while,
Father held heaven to a session of hope for the child,
The bliss of safety anchored in the pillars of parentage,
Knowing for sure nothing would be spared for my sake.

Reaching out for my transport yonder, seconds rushing to close my eyes,
Deep heaves over that sorry never given, and silence when speech would suffice,
Pride of anger and bastard hoarding of hurts so useless,
Time fleeting and I so sad,
That when chance availed itself,
I now leave without embracing the fulnes in the beauty of peace,
One that comes from full acknowledgement,
Of the frailty of not letting go when time allowed.

Reaching out for my transport yonder,
Time closes the divide and erects a wall
I look at the agony of love and know nothing matters than love,
And though tears are beyond recall of my journey,
These hurriedly scribbled words should alert you of your time.
Nothing matters in matters of life but goodwill, love and care for those in need,
For as I soar away from what held me captive,
I bid you do good for it’s sake,
To beat the vanity that I now know to be,
As my last breath expires and material drops to dust.

© 2020, Nancy Ndeke

Nancy’s Amazon Page is HERE

***(With its death)

With its death
the day gilds
the leaves.
I do not know the names of
the tree
and it doesn’t matter for
beauty.

© 2020, Bozhidar Pengelov, a.k.a. Bogpan

Bozhidar’s site is: bogpan – блог за авторска поезия, блог за авторска поезия 

Constituents 

Seventy-two
Nothing new
Except the feeling
The feeling of time
Taking a turn for the worse
Can’t think about loved ones
No contest
Will miss them most
Who
Or what
Will I also cry for?
Surrounded by Elements
Of beauty and truth
Solid Earth
Birthing botanicals
And crystals
The poor person’s diamonds
Liquid Water
Amniotic life
Cool as rain
Hot as unwanted pain
Mixed Gas, creator of Air
Softly blowing my hair
And the Plasma of life’s Fire
Burning passionately
From this love affair with Life
Thought I’d see you all
Forever etched in the gray matter
But that, too, will be Dead
There, I said it: Dead
It hurts to know
That although
Thought I’d touch you forever
Smell you
Taste you eternally
See your beauty
While hearing your music
That music of the universe
In my 3-beat heart
I so thought it would never stop
But no
How can I go on
Without the Elemental Beauty
Of Life…?

© 2020, Clarissa Simmens

Clarissa’s site is: Poeturja, Poetry

Wednesday’s Child is Full of Woe

Last week was speckled with
Kardashians and stock markets and
crude internet memes, yet now
the nuclear annihilation
my father once foresaw has
spontaneously spread
from an unexpected pocket of the planet,
labeling nearly all life with a
pressing expiry date.

Back during Dorito-and-Aqua Net-stained
marathon phone sessions
in the safe, dark coolness of the sofa in the basement,
my high school crony Ron revealed that, if
a mushroom cloud ever bloomed nearby, he’d
survey the display with his dad on the porch.
Deprived of that option, I merely
remember my parents,
probably praying and mouthing Isaiah 41:10
in a tearful huddle with my brother’s brood,
and spark a last DuMaurier Ultra Light
(a shared tobacco habit
being one of our few common features)
despite having quit because it’s more soothing
than the scarier smoke I’ll be
choking through soon.

If my hammering heart doesn’t halt from horror and
anger, my vital organs will be envenomed by
other people’s politics and pride, and I’ll never again
hear Dusty Springfield’s vulnerable voice
wailing about “Your Hurtin’ Kind of Love” over swirling strings
while I spin in time to the vinyl in exhilarating circles
between the cuckoo clock and the iced chai latte with oat milk
that’ll spoil, unsipped.
Summer sunlight shimmers, and I’m missing rain, spitting
against my shaved head and naked arms or
on my window as I nestle into freshly-washed pillowcases,
not unlike the rushing veil of water on that morning
in Moncton when my buddy with the scratchy beard and pirate eyes and I
showered together.

I drop-kick my laptop off the balcony because
there’s no point in completing that
tedious editing job to pay rent rendered needless
since death is at least free for the corpse, and,
over the chaos and crying and swearing and shooting,
an unseen beak trills in a soprano, competing with
those sirens savaging my eardrums.
I press Natasha against my chest,
not far from armpits
permeated with perspiration;
I need to protect her, even if
the gesture is a sham for show, and
her heat is what I wish to feel before
meeting my peace-loving Mennonite ancestors
who’ll say, “we told you so.”

© 2020, Adrian Slonaker

Final Interpretation of Silence

Raanana, August 10, 2018

Today Death touched my friend’s lips
With her icy finger and silenced them,
Enfolding him in her long dark robes
And carrying him against her cold breast.
Across the wide sea, I stand alone now
Unable to cobble together a few words
To measure the greatness of my friend.
He called himself a wordsmith
But I called him a poet.
He knew the names of every flower,
Every bird and every cloud.
He could paint a picture in your mind
So detailed you’d swear you’d been there,
And if you called yourself a poet too,
You’d have died to write like him.
What a eulogy of himself he could have given
If Death had not taken away his breath first,
Now silence must be his eulogy
With nobody left to interpret it.

from Call of the Whippoorwill

© 2018, Mike Stone 

I’ve Seen Death Come

Raanana, June 4, 2018

I’ve seen death come for some
But not for others.
I’ve seen it drag souls from those they loved
And seen souls pull death’s slippery robes
Begging to be taken with it
Wherever it may go.
I’ve seen death sit patiently by a bedside,
Waiting for some soul to ask to be released,
And seen it rescue others
From the fear or pain of dying,
A thousand times worse than death, once come.
What else can be said of death?
That it’s unknown until it comes
And once it comes,
There’s no time left for wisdom’s gain.

from Call of the Whippoorwill

© 2018, Mike Stone 

Zen and the Art of Dying

Raanana, December 23, 2017

Death, after a full life, is not so fearsome.
It’s like a kind of meditation,
A relaxation from the tensions of living and dying,
A clarity that sees illusions, but also through them,
A detachment from pain and desire
In which the subject and object disappear together
And all that is left is invisible and silent.
Death is not a thing that stalks you,
That finds you where you hide,
It’s not a thing you can hold in your hand,
Thumbs up or thumbs down,
But the end of a life that never was forever,
That proffers bitter-sweet meaning
To those who accept it
On its threshold.

from Call of the Whippoorwill

© 2017, Mike Stone

The Hermit and the Cabin

My poor soul, bless its,
Well, you know what I mean,
Would soar like an eagle over dappled valleys
Dragging my body along with it if it could
But it has grown accustomed to the weight
And cumbersomeness of my body
Like a hermit grows accustomed to his cabin
Of rough-hewn logs and thatched twig roof
Lost in a wilderness of loveliness and terror.
The cabin protects it in a small way
From the vicissitudes of a heart’s seasons
And the uncertainties of our knowing,
But eventually the weeds send their tendrils
Through the chinks between the logs
At first admitting welcome daylight
But then unwelcome cold and finally
Strangling the logs with their slow sure strength
Until the hermit is forced to leave the cabin
Looking for another not too overgrown or exposed.
The old cabin will miss its hermit
Until the last log falls to ground
And the roof lies unthatched among the weeds, but
What cares the hermit for the cabin
Or the soul for its earthly body?

from The Hoopoe’s Call

© 2019,  Mike Stone

Mike’s website is HERE.

Call of the Whippoorwill is Mike Stone’s fourth book of poetry. It and other books of poetry and of science fiction by Mike are available from Amazon all over the world. Mike’s U.S. Amazon Page is HERE.

Jamie Dedes:

Your donation HERE helps to fund the ongoing mission of The Poet by Day in support of poets and writers, freedom of artistic expression, and human rights.

Poetry rocks the world!

FEEL THE BERN

For Peace, Sustainability, Social Justice

Maintain the movement.

“Democracy is not a spectator sport.” Bernie Sanders

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

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“A Piece of the Sacred Planet”. . . and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

Lightening storm in Africa (Monrovia, Liberia), courtesy of Bethany Laird, Upsplash

“At the heart of globalization is a new kind of intolerance in the West towards other cultures, traditions and values, less brutal than in the era of colonialism, but more comprehensive and totalitarian.” Martin Jacques, British journalist, editor, academic, political commentator and author

Zimbabwean poet activist, Mbizo Chirasha, hosted this prompt on January 22, which called our attention to neocolonialism or the use in place of direct imperialism of capitalism, globalization, and cultural imperialism for the suppression of human rights by First World actors in Third World* arenas: Africa, Asia, Latin America. Admittedly this was a difficult challenge, especially for those who don’t live in a Third World country or if Third World issues aren’t something closely followed. Hence, we didn’t consistently make the target but we do have a thoughtful pointed collection to share today that emphasizes issues of poverty, violence, inequality, land-grab, and human rights abuses. This is gifted to us by Anjum Wasim Dar, Irma Do, Taman Tracy Moncur, and Pali Raj. Much appreciation to these writers for rising to the occasion with intelligence, courage, and passion.

* I recognize that some might say “Developing Countries” would be the more appropriate terminology, However, I would suggest that where destabilizing by First World countries is the order of the day, “developing” is difficult, if not impossible.

Because I am working on moving to another apartment, I won’t be posting a writing prompt tomorrow. The next Wednesday Writing Prompt will publish on February 5.

A Piece of The Sacred Planet

A piece of sacred soil
whose land is it ,
why so many claim it ?
land of purple saffron gold,
land of golden apples bold,
land bought again and again
land controlled, land sold,

conquered, ruled taken by force
maharajas, badshah, rulers
for what crime natives told to
abandon ship’ can land ever sink?
who is to think?

August is a cruel month
leaves wither as souls fly,
the only flowers are on
warm cloth embroidered with
blood, cries muffled, eyes dry,

beauty reflected in aquatic surfaces
camouflaged evil toads in inner deeps,
land of pure peace, poets and dreams
land of silence, in sounds of screams’
world has forgotten to cry,

law is a uniform,rule is a gun,
power is the force under the sun
all bodies are war,blood spills are fun
and we children too were on the run
we hand no toys no food nor bun
then all fell, one by one-

a crime a time a right unknown
a helpless innocence grown
the king can do no wrong
people can never be strong
pansies died in the flower beds
governors live in far away towns
all is owned all belongs to the crown.

I see the soldiers they look like me
their garb is like mine, how then
are they my enemy?
I am not to think I am not to speak
why I had to leave my land
why I laugh and cry, sit and stand
I wish I could understand…
I wish I could Understand…

© 2020, Anjum Wasim Dar

In Freedom

In freedom there is fear
When a close and dear
one, is no more,

In freedom there is blood
When all you made in life
Is washed away in flood;

In freedom there is sacrifice
When all you claim and own
Is taken away without a price;

In freedom there is liberty
For many just a statue
fights, no rights, nor equality;

In freedom there are letters
promises and false hopes
soon you are in iron fetters;

In freedom I was born
I never saw my land
I long for its beauty,
like dewdrops in the morn;

In freedom there is a gift
treasure not and you find
it floating by and adrift;

In freedom there is ease
calm and harmony, hold
it strong for eternal peace.

© 2020, Anjum Wasim Dar

Anjum-ji’s sites are:

“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

“Do You Want Fries With That?”

Your wild red hair,
Pale skin and
Painted lips belied
Your power.
Despite Scientists showing
The Traditional Ways were better,
Our greased guts and
A-salt-Ed hearts craved the
Colonial Menu
Of broken McPromises and
Big McLies.
Our health for Your wealth.
Not funny Clown.

© 2020, Irma Do

Irma’ site is: I Do Run, And I do a few other things too …

Poverty Rocks Hard
The ratta tat tat of guns in the night…a fight…a fight to the death…in search of illusive respect. The convictions of the streets supersede all cognition…all rationality…all logic…it’s dog eat dog, tit for tat, disrespect me I’ll disrespect you right back. No space or place for politeness…kindness portrays weakness… that’s just the way it is. What’s there to do but live hard in the face of endless denial; laugh hard during the constant struggle; party hard to revitalize and make dry bones come to life.

Poverty rocks hard!

The music blasts…feet dance fast…hearts beat as blood rushes through the veins transporting surreal images of feigned happiness…another puff…that’s the stuff to die for…another puff…calms nerves…another puff supports muscles that inadvertently crave in evolving waves of dependency…another puff to the point of no return to any pretense of normalcy.

Poverty rocks hard!

The high is fleeting looking down into the neck of an empty bottle, ranting…raving…fixating on who took the last of the elixir…the fixer. Rage that has been smothered by day to day survival spies out a rival…a beef erupts spewing volcanic emotions and repressed anger into the atmosphere mushrooming into a toxic waste laced with venom… a gun is fired that eradicates all semblance of euphony and implodes into a rubble of broken dreams as a stream of blood oozes from the collapsed corpse.

Poverty rocks hard!

Sirens wail in the night. Violence devours innocence…sorrow then masticates the essence of life and regurgitates hopelessness. Shame becomes ingrained into the psyche…anger lashes out slapping kindness into a condition of degeneration… masochism becomes entrapped in isolation …love and fury become enmeshed in confusion crippling empathy impeding the expansion and the maturation of the human spirit.

Poverty rocks hard!

© 2020, 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.

Poverty, Hunger, and Sanitation
Oh, I throw myself upon
Violence, Terrorism
Once where was war
Now tearing our nations apart
May be, thus, they are taking control
(May be it’s neocolonism) but
What has happened to the whole world?
Poverty, Hunger, and Sanitation
Oh, I throw myself upon

© 2020, Pali Raj

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Your donation HERE helps to fund the ongoing mission of The Poet by Day in support of poets and writers, freedom of artistic expression, and human rights.

Poetry rocks the world!

FEEL THE BERN

For Peace, Sustainability, Social Justice

The Poet by Day officially endorses Bernie Sanders for President.

The New New Deal

Link HERE for Bernie’s schedule of events around the country.

“Democracy is not a spectator sport.” Bernie Sanders

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

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A Note From An Irate Black Woman . . . and other responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

“In every age it has been the tyrant, the oppressor and the exploiter who has wrapped himself in the cloak of patriotism, or religion, or both to deceive and overawe the People.” Eugene Debbs, Canton, OH, Anti-War Speech, June 16, 1918, Voices of a People’s History of the United States

Here we are at Tuesday again with responses to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Deception, January 5, which was suggested by Anjum Wasim Dar.

Today’s thoughtful collection is courtesy of Jane Wood, who is new to our pages and warmly welcome, and Anjum Wasim Dar, Irma Do, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Tamam Tracy Moncur, Eric Nicholson, and Mike Stone

Enjoy! and do join us for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt, which will post tomorrow morning and is being hosted this week by Mbizo Chirasha. All are welcome to come out and play, beginning poets, emerging and pro.

Righteousness

We are living in a time of certain doubt.
Cruel men and mean women
wielding their self-anointed power of bibles.
Piously pulling verses over our eyes.
Poisoning us with dark lies.
Wretched faces hating at me from tv screens
screeching eternal damnation screams
in the name of their gods.
Americas royal lineage of preachers and politicians.
Immersed in godly superstitions.
With every breath condemn us to a hellfire rain
on an endless trek of tears
death
and pain.
Vengefully severed from the promised garden.
Surrounded by wailing walls of lamentation.
Rising from the volcanic mud of beasts
they prey upon us at their sin eaters feasts.
Death makes angels and devils of us all.
Made naked born to suffer for your heaven rewards.
Crucifix around my neck
‘hail mary’ on my lips.
Contemplating murder
or
forgiveness.

© 2020, Jane ‘SpokenWord Grenier

Jane ‘SpokenWord’ Grenier
JANE ‘SPOKENWORD” GRENIER‘s performances represent the spoken word as it is meant to be experienced, raw, uncensored and thought provoking. A poet and spoken word performer, her performances are eclectic and range from poetry reads, to slams, duos, trios, and various band formations. 

Jane’s collaborations include Min Tanaka of the Butoh theatre, Mayo Yamaguchi of the No Theatre, avant-garde Maestro Cecil Taylor, Founder of the Nuyorican Poets Cafe, Miguel Algarin, Beat Poet John Sinclair, her son, hip hop musician/producer Nastee, and her partner in all things Albey on Bass. Her experience spans a full spectrum of venues; the Nuyorican’s Poet Cafe, the Whitney Museum, The NYC Alternative New, Year’s Day Spoken Word Extravaganza, Bowery Poetry Club, Roulettes, Blue Stockings Bookstore, Cornelia St. Cafe, A Gathering of Tribes, Evolving Voice/Evolving Music Series, Arts for Art in the Parks, The Stone, Le Poisson Rouge, the Cantab, the Lizard Lounge, the Maple Leaf Reading Series, festivals include The Vision Festival, MA Poetry Festival, Lady Fest, Dumbo Art Festival, SxSW, Porch Fest, The New Orleans Infringe Festival, libraries, slam lounges, art galleries, clubs, street corners, and living rooms everywhere. 

Jane has self-published two books with cd’s and videos Tragically Hip and Word Against the Machine. Her piece I Am A Poet was recently chosen for publication in We Are Beat, National Beat Poetry Anthology, 2019. Various works have been  published in Good Housekeeping, Boston Magazine, the Boston Globe, Tragically Hip – L.E.S. Publication, TV Baby – OHWOW  Publications, and several anthologies: Estrellas En El Fuego (Stars in the Fire) – Rogue Scholars Express, Shadow Of The Geode, and Palabras Luminosas,

Doomed Deception

Obreption rampant,
post fall disobedience
leads to destruction,

color, creed or race,
one good in grace, one in face,
a face meeting a face,

lost heaven, fate doomed,
no fear, nor lessons taken,
why still, false beguile ?

crimes committed in
conniption, subreption reigns,
gold saves savages,

misprision, denial,
a trendy Bohemian style
Ah, but for a while,

the rich may stand tall,
puppets, idols, mafia,
deception soon dies.

Resile falsehood, then,
discern truth,adapt, accept,
wait, be blessed by Light!

© 2020, Anjum Wasim Dar

Editor’s note: Obreption and sobreption are Latin terms used in ancient Roman Law meaning to creep toward or against and in the Cannon Law of the Roman Catholic Church, where they refer to fraud (whether intentional, malicious, or done out of ignorance) when there is a plea for ecclesiastical dispensation. Obreption is also used in Scots law. 

Anjum-ji’s sites are:

“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

“Self – Deception”
If I don’t swallow
the lie you put on my plate
My stomach grumbles
© 2020, Irma Do

.the deception.

light gentle sweet

you touched my spine

your face no picture

slow ɡradʒʊəl inevitable

you killed me

one shot to the chest

now

careful

healing

with silver

© 2020, Sonja Benskin Mesher

:: the invitation ::

i issue one invitation only, if you respond. a quaint
old fashioned idea, that we may be friends.

please come, talk ,take a drink, walk with me.

let us get to know each other, gently. not fall into bed.

do not over stay the welcome, 50 minutes will suffice.

breaking cups,spilling tea will abuse the hospitality

please come. i have the kettle on. this is not the time

for hostilities. beware those tendencies to deceive,

to live in trees. this double spacing annoying me.

© 2020, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Sonja’s sites are:

A Note from an Irate Black Woman

This a note from an irate black woman who still lives in hope despite the intolerance, the racism, the violence perpetrated against black people a direct result of the massive deception that justified the oppression of Africans forcing them into slavery using Christianity to camouflage greed and lust in a quest for money and for power…passed on through the generations to the hypocritical leaders of today still making obeisance to hate, the almighty dollar, and to avarice.

The image of Jesus changed “in the twinkling of an eye” from a brown man to a white man…a lie painted by a famous painter commissioned for this duplicity by a leader in the 15th century to paint and portray his son as Jesus another twist in the use and abuse of our Lord and Savior… Jesus the God of Love sent by the Father from heaven above to set our souls free filling our hearts with empathy for our fellow man.

Deceptive politicians and devious people hide behind the name of Jesus condoning liars pants all afire and ablaze with animosity wreaking havoc and bloodshed keeping the poor in subjugation hungry living out their lives in desolation…condoning war mongers in their insensitivity as they split up immigrant families…condoning bigotry as it destroys health care for the needy…where is mercy? where is New Testament charity in the land of plenty?

Jesus tells us to love God, love our neighbor even love our enemy. He comforts us in our deepest depression because He is our friend in the midst of feelings of isolation…He gives us a spiritual peace as we travel through the muck and the mire of this earthly existence releasing our innermost feelings to “the Creator of the ends of the earth”, to our God who sits “high and looks low”, to God the Father who is in control of this universe.

“On Christ the solid rock I stand, all other ground is sinking sand.”

© 2020, 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.

Anthony Gormley’s Quantum Cloud

A thousand metal struts thrum
in a quantum cloud
like a giant version of pick-a-stick
as you slowly circle round
you create a human spirit after all
the world’s sages talk of an energy
body distinct from what your eyes
tell you going beyond Single Vision
you are a collaborator
with the maverick metaphysician’s
uncertainty principle and slowly
together you populate space time.

View a photograph of Quantum Cloud HERE.

© 2020, Eric Nicholson

Eric Nicholson is a retired art teacher and lives in the NE of England. Eric’s site is: https://erikleo.wordpress.com

Truth?

The grain in the wood tells the story of years gone
Circles of time etched in its rich veins in sepia tone

The rain soaked wood has the tales of trees,
Hardened by sun and heat, cooled by breeze

Truth in its core displayed for all to see
the passage of time, centuries evoke
or

Lies?
Our lives are an illusion, maya, grasping wealth
in those brief years on earth, ego swelling stealth

Memories soften with age, truth or lies?
Images flash by in one’s inner eye, as one tries

A legacy, an image, transparent as gossamer
dust to dust, body interred, king or commoner.

© 2020, Leela Soma

Blessed Are the Rich

Blessed are the rich
For they shall inherit the meek
And enslave them.
Blessed are the rich
Who will inherit new worlds to suck dry
After they have sucked dry our only world.
Blessed are the rich
Who make their own blessings
And the gods to bless them.
Cursed are the poor
Who bow down to worship
The gods of the rich,
Who count the blessings of the rich
Who are sucked dry by the rich
Who are enslaved by the rich.
Cursed are the poor
Who bless the curse of meekness
For their children to inherit.

© 2019, Mike Stone

Hatred

And the prophet stood among a few people.
In the marketplace of ideas, there were many prophets
But this prophet spoke quietly. He said
Hatred is not a state of mind
That one can enter and leave at will;
It is a road that starts in innocence
Leading ever downhill
And ends in unplumbed evil.
I don’t tell you turn the other cheek
When struck, as another prophet said,
But I say don’t answer hatred with hatred.
Hatred comes from ignorance of others,
Thinking they are not like us,
That they don’t love their children
Or honor their parents
Or fear for their future as we do.
Why not answer hatred with hatred?
Because it creates a circle without exit or break
And perhaps their hatred comes from
Honoring their past or fearing their future.
What should you do?
When you understand those whom you call “other”
You will know what to do, and hate
Will wither like dry tumbleweed in the desert
Because there is no other,
There is only us.

© 2019, Mike Stone

Then as Now

The sweet pungency of rose and violets
Floats on the gentle breezes
And down the road a ways the church bells toll
As they did then.

At the shooting range, you still see bullet holes
But they buried all the targets in mass graves,
Not helter-skelter like some graveyards,
But very orderly as they were then.

The tall poplar trees surround electric fences,
They seem inviting, leaves rustling in the breeze,
A nightmare inside a blonde and blue-eyed dream,
As it was then.

They scrub the showers, ovens, and the smokestacks,
The red brick raw and spotless.
A pile of shoes stands in silent accusation
But no one hears, then as now.

© 2019, Mike Stone

The Colossal Feats of Ramses Two

Ramses Two, Ozymandias, third king of the nineteenth dynasty,
Son of Seti One or the sun, as you would have us believe,
Conqueror of Nubia, Libya, Canaan, Syria, and the Hittites,
Enslaver of the Hebrews who carried your pyramids on their broken backs,
You built temples to forgotten gods,
Cities buried under shifting sand dunes,
And colossal statues of yourself in stone
Commemorating your colossal feats for all posterity
Striking awe and terror in your peoples’ hearts,
Intimidating those who would invade,
But all that remains are the colossal feet,
The rest resides in a British museum.
Your mummied body, five foot seven,
Hunched over ancient arthritis and abscessed teeth,
Is now in some Parisian museum viewed by
Heartless bodies with a plane to catch.
If you could see yourself as we see you now,
The submerged relics of your once and future greatness,
Would you have thought it worth your efforts
And not a waste of precious life?
Life crashes through all of us,
As through paper walls or
Trampling you and me like blades of grass
Under a careless runner’s feet
To reach some distant star.

© 2019, Mike Stone

Used to Be

Used to be
Evil was more personal.
You had to be there to do it.
Now just somebody doing his job
(Someone has to do it).
A small child all curled up
Hugging the floor
Because there’s nothing else to hug
Thinking maybe that will protect him
Feed him.
An old woman
Survived the Holocaust
The concentration camps
The selections
Her bare-lightbulb
Peeling walled room
Filled with shiny new exercise equipment
Carrot peelers turkey stuffers satellite radios back scratchers
And other stuff she didn’t need
Because she couldn’t say no
To the nice lady on the phone.
The trees being cut down
And people cows factories and cars
Blowing carbon into the sky
Til the last one of us drops breathless
To the ground he made great again
While our world went to hell.
Used to be good
Though there always was some evil
But you could always see it coming
From a mile or two away
And the world was always greater.

© 2019, Mike Stone

Mike’s website is HERE.

Call of the Whippoorwill is Mike Stone’s fourth book of poetry, It contains all new poems covering the years from 2017 to 2019. The poetry in this book reflects the unique perspectives and experiences of an American in Israel. The book is a smorgasbord of descriptions, empathies, wonderings, and questionings. It is available on Kindle and if you have Kindle Unlimited you can download it as part of your membership. I did.  Recommended. / J.D

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The Poet by Day officially endorses Bernie Sanders for President.

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“Democracy is not a spectator sport.” Bernie Sanders

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

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“Hope Spoke” . . . and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –
I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
Emily Dickinson

This week we bring you poems of hope in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, At a Peace Reading, October 30. As always, all poets have come through beautifully for us, examining hope from several angles. Further some have gifted us with sorely needed salve for these days bad news, unrelieved.

Thanks and a warm welcome to two new-to-us poets, Shannon Browne and Oz Forester and thanks to our stalwart poet-heros: Paul Brookes, Anjum Wasim Dar, Frank McMahon, Urmilia Mahajan, Sonja Benskin Mesher, Tamam Tracy Moncur, Ben Naga, and Bishnu Charan Parida.

Enjoy! and do join us tomorrow for the Wednesday Writing Prompt (something a bit different this week). All are welcome to join in: novice, emerging, or pro.

Hope is the way …

Hope is in the way we play
Not just in the words we say
Its through our actions
aspirations and dreams
desires, good fortunes
utopian schemes.
In a world so empty
Anger finds its mark
Matched by sister courage
Intertwined from the start
One without the other

Shannon and her son fighting a cold keeping spirits high

May be pure bliss
What fun would life be
With no manipulation by sis.

© 2019, Shannon Browne

SHANNON BROWNE ((Letters2Mom, Give it a rest) is a wife, and mother of three with an Elementary School teaching degree. Thriving and surviving are her main games at this point in life.  Shannon lost her  grandmother recently and mother some time ago and has been using writing as her outlet.  Finally started blogging and trying to have some fun with her “corky old nature” in a world that’s so unsure.

Hope spoke

Find me, hope said
where headwaters unfurl
and roll across eons of rocks
polished by the playful tumble
of a rumbling stream. I stir belief
in the faintest trace I leave
under layers of a forest bed
the faint murmur of a mountain spring
where the ascent of a desert trail
is more than water
and the curl of a wool blanket
around the thumb of a sleeping child
is more than warmth.

Find me
where daydreams break
and flood the order of days
bridged by that narrow crossing
between duty and yearning. I destroy walls
from the rigid constructs I emerge
from labyrinths of complex reasons
the unwanted changes and the changing wants
where the hunger on the abundant earth
is a promise made
and the bend of the searching sun
under the months of winter snow
is a promise kept.

Find me
where smoke rises
and lifts the ghosts of mourning
entrapped by a constant churn
of candle stubs. I unite breath
under melting symbols I bow
to the church of the desperate fate
the humble faith in the big mistake
where a vow of strange forgiveness
is more than peace
and the prayer for a shamash flame
or the chant to an endless knot
is more than peace.

© 2019, Oz Forestor

OZ FORESTOR is a former journalist. He began writing short fiction, poetry, and essays when he realized the topics that don’t make news are more interesting than news: class struggle, un-planet Pluto, geriatric romance, power psychology, migratory birds, Nazi-era art suppression, trees.  Forestor’s nature-themed poetry chapbook sold out–all three copies- when he was nine. He enjoys hiking, travel, is prone to getting lost, and does not believe in GPS technology.

Reverse Rumi

Always live in regret.
The past is ever present.

There are no new days; you are the same person you were before.

Believe that today will be no better than yesterday. It’s about looking down with despair

and looking backward.

Don’t Look for new opportunities
that the Almighty has planned for you.

Hardship disheartens,
and does not pass away.
All hope is followed by despair;
all sunshine is followed by darkness.

People want you to be sad.
Serve them your pain!
Don’t untie your wings
bind your soul with jealousy,
You and everyone around you
can’t fly like doves.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

Hopelessness Is Life

Only the hopeless live.
Only hopelessness makes you smile.

When all hopelessness is gone
then you will grieve at the loss.

There are three streets we can go down,
Faithlessness, Hopelessness and Selfishness

Without one of these the others cannot exist.
There must always be hopelessness

in the best of times. It reminds us of an edge
to life. Surrender to hopelessness

and all will be well. It is the force that drives
all that is worthwhile and 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

  • 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

Hope Flying for Peaceful Eternity

After Emily Dickenson

Flying lightly all over
feathers of hope hover
linger, alive, tingle the soul
stay without burden,cover
the spirit, awakening the heart
from time to time, warding away
danger depression sadness cold
storms in the turbulent seas, not
harming even a bird or a gull
but keeping the lull,cajoling Poseidon
for softness soothing mercy, nothing
ever from me asking or the entire humanity
but flying closer to all flying for peaceful eternity

© 2019, Anjum Wasim Dar

Anjum-ji’s sites are:

“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

Spiked

He thought it would be great to be
a manic comic, soaring
on dope and steroids, his wit
an acid-tipped stiletto.
But then he knew he couldn’t stand
his own dark hand ripping the heart
out of hope, his veins flooding
with the world’s insanities and evils
and nothing there to pump them out.

© 2019, Frank McMahon

Obituary – Shivpuri September 2019

Far from it that we skip the
stony ground of reality
and shroud unpalatable
truth under precarious wings
for two unprivileged children
who lost out through no fault of
their own
like countless others
whose flag is a small white bird of
hope singing from here to eternity

© 2019, Urmila Mahajan

Urmila’s site is: Drops of Dew

.a place of hope.

we find it when the rain stops,

light comes through. yesterday morning

looked nice.

find it in the leaves scattered in piles witing for the wind

to scatter

hope in the plane flying over

run out to see

i found hope in the mountains here

a home, a refuge plain

and simple things, the ordinary

become as sacred in our life

and brings a sort of hope

we can hold onto

cherish inside of us

without

there may be

nothing……..

small birds sing

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

hoping.

i found you stranded.

held you , hugged you.

felt the weight of your body.

felt your fin.

there.

i took you to the water

and lay there with you

hoping it would save your life.

© 2019, Sonja Benskin Mesher

Sonja’s sites are:

The Desert of Existence

Hope rises every morning coloring the sky with messages of love declaring peace despite the ratta-tat-tat of gun violence violating innocence.

Hope stands strong in vast rock mountains symbolizing strength…the strength to continue on along this narrow nebulous pathway into the future.

Hope is spring summer fall winter blanketing earth’s atmosphere in splendor…rain washing away tears…the sun shining away fears…falling leaves capturing pain…the snow white in its purity covering shame.

Hope rides on the waves of the ocean in glory and power diving into unfathomable depths seeking fellowship in the dark murky waters.

Hope flies through forests over rolling green hills across rivers into the desert of existence…the highs…the lows…the joy…the heartache…the caring…the callous.…the sharing…the selfish.

Hope unites hearts in just causes lighting fires of indignation flames ablaze burning up hate… subjugation…racism… fanaticism…exploitation…sending sparks of the evidence of faith into the heavens.

Hope internalized is belief in “Somebody Bigger than You and I”

© 2019, Tamam Tracy Moncur

Tamam Tracy Moncur probes  the reality of teaching in our inner city school systems as seen from the front line in her book, Diary of an Inner City Teacher. Over two decades in the trenches, Tamam exposes through her personal journal the plights, the highlights, the sadness, and the joys she has experienced as a teacher. Our children’s very existence is at stake! Laugh, cry, and become informed as you embrace the accounts of an inner city teacher.

She Seats Herself to Write

She seats herself to write

Half fearing her writing
Will drive her mad while
Half hopes it will cure her

In two minds – Ah, if only
Thinks were so simple
Turmoil turmoil turmoil

Enough! Dismisses them all
And seats herself to write

© 2019, Ben Naga

Ben Naga’s site is: Ben Naga, Gifts from the Musey Lady and Me. “Laissez-moi vous recanter ma vraie histoire.”

Hope

Hope is that flickering light,
Showing us the path
All throughout a darkened tunnel

Hope is in the little stars
Twinkling in a moonless sky,
As we watch them smiling

When a deadly night ends,
With sun rays dispelling the darkness
Hope wakes up in us, consoling

When for us everything is lost
As we bemoan, hope pats on our back,
Encouraging

For beggars on the street
With no food, no shelter
Hope lies straight as a road to walk over, on and on, ahead

© 2019, Bishnu Charan Parida

Bishnu-ji’s site is: Bishnu’s Universe Bishnu is just getting his blog started. We wish him much joy in this creative effort.

“Listen to the mustn’ts, child. Listen to the don’ts. Listen to the shouldn’ts, the impossibles, the won’ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me… Anything can happen, child. Anything can be.” Shel Silverstein

Jamie Dedes. I’m a freelance writer, poet, content editor, and blogger. I also manage The BeZine and its associated activities and The Poet by Day jamiededes.com, an info hub for writers meant to encourage good but lesser-known poets, women and minority poets, outsider artists, and artists just finding their voices in maturity. The Poet by Day is dedicated to supporting freedom of artistic expression and human rights and encourages activist poetry.  Email thepoetbyday@gmail.com for permissions, commissions, or assignments.

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Recent and Upcoming in Digital Publications Poets Advocate for Peace, Justice, and Sustainability, How 100,000 Poets Are Fostering Peace, Justice, and Sustainability, YOPP! * The Damask Garden, In a Woman’s Voice, August 11, 2019 / This short story is dedicated to all refugees. That would be one in every 113 people. * Five poems, Spirit of Nature, Opa Anthology of Poetry, 2019 * From the Small Beginning, Entropy Magazine (Enclave, #Final Poems), July 2019 * Over His Morning Coffee, Front Porch Review, July 2019 * Three poems, Our Poetry Archive, September 2019

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