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'A Perfect Day'



Blues Sound in St. George

Out of the dark of an evening
On return from Little Bay Street
Up the hill to the ferry view
A vibe pierces the sky while grounded on earth
As I walk uphill, still lingering with memories of café y pastelillo de guayaba
Blue notes make a line through the air
Compelling me to find the source
As I detect it from just below a hill crest
By the corner of Central and Hyatt
Wondering if it was emerging from the theatre house
No, it was live across the street
At the foot slope by Marine Hospital Quarantine Cemetery
Where children played on the grounds just a few hours ago
A brother was practicing his harmonica
A perfect evening:
Amid cool summer breezes carrying blues sound

© Ángel L. Martínez July 2018
The Bread is Rising Poetry Collective


A Perfect Day

Beneath the shadow of trees besides the waterfall at 110th Street in Central Park
A few kilometers from 111th Street on the 50th anniversary of the Old Timers Day
Celebrating the beautiful sounds of the timbales of Guajiro of Willie Bobo
Lifting the rhythms of dancing in the streets
Maybe it’s time for the passage from the Mid Atlantic to the center of narrowness
Although the rain is blowing terribly here on this Sunday morning
We have gathered here on this bright, sunny day
On the mound beside the Scioto River walking in a circle of enlightenment
I thought now is the right time to enter Antioch College in Yellow Springs
I remember a distant past of forty years of graduation
At open stage at Café Horace
Blowing a love poem for the children who are separated from their mothers
And the unsung heroes of the PPC today and yesterday
And I remain silent to honor the forgotten dead:
Fefel Verona Berrios, Puerto Rico, Presente
Bobby Hutton, Oakland, California, Presente
Fred Ahmed Evans, Glenville, Ohio, Presente
For their visions of liberty of 50 years ago
And now I know that the time has come
To the James Weldon Johnson Residence
As the DJ a Family Reunion, a Family Reunion by the O’Jays
On the 71st anniversary as the crowd jumped into joy
Food was served but do not eat which will harm you
But what is healthy for you
Oh, the voices of memory of Mamy and Papi
and Brother Floyd and Brother William X
To the roots of un palo de mango
Over a sweet past
Given today over the Aquahong and to St. Mary’s Park
On the hillside of Big Good Wolf
Sitting and listening to Spanish Harlem Orchestra
Play a set of guaguancó and salsa all in one
As the voice of El Barrio has the audience dancing cheek to cheek
In the tradition of 110th and 111th
And today I salute my brother Sammy from the Vladeck Residence
Of Los Pleneros de la 21
A perfect day

© Carlos Raúl Dufflar 7/9/2018
Yellow Springs, Ohio
The Bread is Rising Poetry Collective 


My second visit to Selby’s

Ladies that drink espresso, machiato and skinny frappés,
Various accents leaping like baby hares
Over the Blues in the background.
Laptops and ipads disgarded on the table.
There’s a cadence of authority and little-girl-
Then it falls away when the lazy North London
Murmur of hung-over men and Irish wearied workers
Mumbles behind a silent child who looks tired
And quiet.
And a plain woman who’d benefit from rouge
And eye shadow is typing silently.
And her manicured fringe frames her face with strawberry
Blonde straightness and there’s a bubble
Around her.

Not a flicker of acknowledgement.

The red-haired man at the counter
Is watching me scribble.
He’s handsome like a pirate’s refined cousin.
The place is filling up as morning tea-time draws in -
Outside a storm threatens.

© G Campbell

Just Perfection

Does Perfection come in days?
I suppose it does for some
But I'm not sure it's not in a daze
When I'm feeling really dumb

That moment when things click into place
You see all the bits as one
The card I play turns into an ace
And at last the job is done

So on one day I really can say
I just made the right selection
It just turned out just the right way
And just for a moment – Perfection ...

Well – nearly ...

Dave Chambers
Newham Writers Workshop


On the Shrewsbury river path
Although my eyes could take
everything in. I focused
on sound;

‘I thoroughly enjoyed it’ said
squeaky shoes’ passing by.
Blackbird alarm pierced the
still air amongst the trees,
flitting disturbance.

Mum to questioning child
‘it’s a ring you throw in, if
someone falls in the river’ .
Conversation, back and
forth, walking on with
disappearing voices.

Station speaker bing-bong’s -
pay attention on peopled
platforms. Train destinations
and arrivals; indistinguishable.
Passengers invisible to me,
I don’t know them, or where
they are going or coming from.

Resting pigeons coo under
riveted railway bridge.
Cloaked rumble heard.

Cycle wheels swishing on
wet leaves; one smiling lady
dings her bell; how sensible she is.

NB - A walk with fellow poets in a poetry workshop;
A Perfect Day

Jan Hedger

Freedom & A Few Steps from the Road

Cast out from lake, rushing over the weir
The Vyrnwy runs pure and crystal clear
Where oak stands tall and the ash leans o’er
Deepened soul of water here runs slower

Bathing the stones, washing their face
Smoothing the pebbles in sculptured space
As on it travels tween depths of green
With rippled sound and peace pristine


I breathe the smell of moistened green
Twisting, tangled undergrowth neath
Dripping canopy of shadow- light; as
Foxgloves pierce through, spear like
On single stems of royal bells, deep
With nectar for searching bees.

A Chiff Chaff greets me repeatedly
Calling of its identity; a Robin trills
Voices of cyclists filter then disappear
As I pause on the soft absorbing path
Self-Seeking in this woodland; who am I?
With lake side edge; a whisper away.

A Poetry Workshop at lake Vyrnwy;
with time alone to compose;
A Perfect Day

Jan Hedger


The Road-Sweeper

When the day is just a day like every other day perfect
Gone flying in the street upside down
Shoulder and hip wounded in a flash
Rescued by the kindness of a road-sweeper
So lucky that it wasn't my face smashed
Bless this perfect day this road-sweeper gent
Here a perfect gent in perfect days
Today a day is a day just another day
Perfect to the bone in every day

John Joseph Sheehy



 Artwork by John Joseph Sheehy


I try to muster my senses
The beauty amongst them
The glorious colour I sometimes lose
My sight diminishes

and then I hear nothing
Soft emotion
Sounds within me
Crying, where art thou?

I then put in my hearing aids
I have to adjust
My brain still hears the sounds
Of crushing moments, my senses

I hear, I see, my senses tell me
and yet, I know not
A Perfect Day, for within me
I know my senses are dying
But, I do have a Perfect Day,
for I still have my intelligence

(C) JosieLawson
All Rights Reserved



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