You floated into our lives ~
an autumn leaf edged in gold,
a tiny froth of smile and grumble,
a lifetime of grit and grizzle.
Your mind over-larded and lost
in the never-land of ninety years.
Yours such a small body, such pain.
So bravely, autumn leaf, you chose
the wind on which to slip away,
leaving us to the emptiness of your
special chair and our wistful hearts.
For Mary Kate
© 2010/poem, 2014/photograph, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved
“In the midway of this our mortal life,
I found me in a gloomy wood, astray…”
Inferno Canto 1, Durante (Dante) degli Alighieri
in a mood
he stood at the wood’s edge and thought
this pained walk
under dark skies
living on the verge
wondering if he was
the plaything of his Lord, if so
a cruel game
from somewhere brightness beckoned
on the wing beat of sudden insight ~
it’s not your memory melting in the heat of time
or your true music dissolving unsung
nor the whimsy of some capricious god
it is, perhaps, Dante’s transformative hell
no love without yearning
no compassion without pain
no charity without failure
a Phoenix, he rose from his ashes
a Moses, he fell before the flaming bush
in his found humanity, he embraced life whole
This is for Victoria Slotto’s Writers’ Fourth Wednesday writing prompt today on The Bardo Group blog. Please join us and link in your own poem. Mister Linky will remain open for seventy-two hours. We’ll visit your blog to read and comment and hope that you will visit others to encourage and support them. If you are uncomfortable using Mister Linkey, just leave the link to your piece in the comments section.
© 2013, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved; Gretchen Del Rio (Gretchen Del Rio’s Art Blog), All rights reserved, posted here with Gretchen’s permission
the fields that year taught the art of sleeping outside,
sleeping without walls, watching the stars and moon,
harvesting dreams from sunsets and morning dew
we slept in bedrolls configured of old white sheets
and army surplus blankets made of khaki wool
Did my uncles have those during the war?
i wondered, i pondered on many things, and
those months held sundry delights, climbing trees
and eating cherries without washing them . . . oh!
and there were blueberry bushes and fig trees and
i lined the path to the food hut with Sunday stones,
my own bare prayer while the big girls were at Mass
i marveled at my middle-aged mother’s plump knees
and marked her spirit for wearing shorts, joining
in children’s games and singing ‘round the fire
now i wonder at summer camp morphing into metaphor ~
all her life Mom lived with her yield of dreams,
an outsider artist sleeping without walls . . .
© 2014, poem and photograph, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved
Lacking discretion . . .
she mistook agenda for wisdom
and suffering for sanctity.
She confused sex with intimacy
and saccharine with sincerity.
Because she endured,
she thought she was strong.
She fancied pain was her Cross
and treasured the confines
of her dark, singular world,
mistaking the fallout born of folly
for her God’s perfect plan.
© 2014 poem and photograph, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved
Be the Peace
“To Alef, the letter
that begins the alphabets
of both Arabic and Hebrew ~
two Semitic languages
sisters for centuries.
May we find the language
that takes us
to the only home there is ~
one another’s hearts ….”
- Ibtisam Barakat
Ibtisam Barakat praying for peace.
This poem is from TAKING THE SKY: A Palestinian Childhood by the Palestinian-American poet, writer, educator and humanitarian, Ibtisam Barakat (ابتسام بركات).
Ibtisam is from Ramallah, a Palestinian city north of Jerusalem. She came to the United States to work an internship with The Nation. She taught at Stephens College in Columbia, Missouri.
Ibtisam works tirelessly with children and adults to encourage creativity and life enrichment. She says, ” All voices are needed for the song of life to have all of its notes.” Her poetry collection and children’s book, Al Ta’ Al-Marbouta Tateer (The Letter Ta Escapes), have won accolades and awards. She writes in Arabic and in English.
© poem, Ibtisam Barakat; Ibtisam’s photograph, D. Hemingway; “Be the Peace” photograph, Jamie Dedes
it was the golden light
the moon camping out
casting my room in the
glow of its fire
for a moment
unsure of my place
slowly peeling away
the veil, the confusion
i melt into
the golden light
into sleep again
as easily perhaps
as breathing into
so frail and fragile
is this anchor
this silver thread
this castle of solitude
this just me
© 2013, poem and photograph, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved