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Wednesday, November 27, 2019


Jamie Dedes is a freelance writer, poet, content editor, and blogger. She also manages The BeZine and its associated activities and The Poet by Day, 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. Jamie's work has been published widely in digital and print publications. Her primary professional affiliation is Second Light Network of Women Poets (U.K.)

Jamie Dedes,
The BeZine, Founding & Managing Editor

The BeZine: Waging the Peace, An Interfaith Exploration featuring Fr. Daniel Sormani, Rev. Benjamin Meyers, and the Venerable Bhikkhu Bodhi among others Short linK:
“Every pair of eyes facing you has probably experienced something you could not endure.”  Lucille Clifton


Another Kind of Beauty

they’re paralyzed on the Atlantic seaboard under
the weight of snow drifts, the detritus of blizzards;
stark bare branches of oak, elm and maple
etch dark veins into an icy-gray cast-over sky
on the West Coast we’re breaking out magnolias
and blades of tender young grass are unfurling;
the near-spring temps us to wrap ourselves
in its perfumed and congenial blessing
along the stretch of Big Sur the sea strikes stone
and the air explodes, bright and wet with spume,
the green patinated-brine salts our mouths;
above us cloud turrets mimic white-capped waves
standing here, consumed by this seeming infinity,
our hands and eyes and mind conspire
to imitate nature in the most apt way, using
our sketch pad, pen and colored pencils
a quick wingless flight into that dancing sea and
we surface with visions grasped tight in our fists,
our eyes are blinded by a palette of colors, our
pencils bear witness to the gift of another morning,
another kind of beauty; undulating, animated
and so unlike the silent white majesty of snow
The Softness of the Moon

See the softness of the moon on my block,
Visiting on this street’s end, smiling at that woman
She collects tossed cigarette butts, a homeless man
Raising arms, large hands waving blessing, at the
Bench by the bus stop, food magically there where
He habitually sits, food left by a stranger, no stranger
To hunger, lights beam from open windows, fortunate
Housed, dinner and television, maybe heart wonder
Maybe heart break, there are some who want to
Die and haven’t, some who want to live but died
Some who take to joy, some pained, stewing in
Despair, the varied elements of the human spirit,
The softness of grandmother moon, gracious
Company for an old poet in reverie watching

Mourning Brooch
the memories have little substance
they flit and fly, pollen on the wind,
like the quick passing of a joyful birth,
the school years, the sweet trysts ~
a waving bridal veil . . .
             the way your love drained you of your dreams
             just to fill yourself with him
. . . . . the epitaph of tears
only when yesterday becomes a story,
once upon a time, do memories
become memorial, a mourning brooch
forever warm upon your breast

 the grandmother stone

at the medical center you put your ear
to the trunk of a birch and listened to my heart
while i roasted potatoes in a snowed-under parking lot
and managed the effects of a shrinking brain
when i heard the door to the crematorium slam shut,
i found myself floating on waves of heat that flayed my skin,
mom held me in mourning and sang 
Salve Regina
(she was slightly off-key)
but i found the grandmother stone you left in my hand
it pulled me back to the earth and the snow
i heard you say you savored the taste of my blood
in the kalamata olives you ate the day i died
i listened to doves cooing and watched the wind
wrap silver filigree around tree branches
the morning was crisp and fresh
the others came to say goodbye, arms full of flowers
but your arms were empty and heavy with love
i decided to live

The Valley of the Shadow of Death

Night makes way for morning
The clouds tumbling in like
Cotton bolls blown across a
Field of promise, sun ablaze
Tinged with crimson and saffron
Grooving to the rattle and the click
And caw of our city corvids, and
Hear too the blue jay’s whispered
Song, the mourning dove’s coo
In my kitchen, five stories up, is a
Breakfast reminiscent of my father
Broiled trout, roasted potatoes, and I
Pull cartilage from the fish, evocative
Of a trachea, and salt the potatoes
To the humming of O2 concentrators
I drag on a nasal cannula, life support
In this, my Valley of the Shadow of Death


Pinakini said...

Beautiful poems !!

Linda said...


Unknown said...

Very nice!

Dragon Katet said...

Love these, Jamie! My favorite of this set is the grandmother stone. You give us such strong and detailed images to complement your well chosen word-smithing! :) Wonderfully done!

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