Again, the decision process was made that much more difficult by the extreme quality of the poems posted for the Week #2 prompt, “Rhythm of the Falling Rain”. We’ve stretched the boundaries and explored new territory. “Great work!” to all of our “Gardeners. Now, for our “Blooms”:

Marie Elena’s selection – Barbara Yates Young’s   “Rough as a Cob  “:

Two Poetic Bloomings picks in as many weeks, Barbara Yates Young gets my pick for this week. “Rough as a Cob” has gusto! Barbara’s pacing whipped me right through, breathless to see what out-of-my-realm creative images the next phrase would bring. From “swearing cigarette butts and spitting out sidewalks” to “its sippy cup was surf loam” to “it ripped the roof off an old Monte Carlo, and drove that convertible into Tuscaloosa like a bat out of hell,” Barbara blows me away with this one.

ROUGH AS A COB by Barbara Yates Young

the twister rolled on;
it was old and mean, salty,
swearing cigarette butts and spitting out sidewalks.
it grew up hurricane-wild, on twice distilled gulf mist
and the evaporations of a thousand rural meth labs.
early on, its sippy cup was surf foam,
the chaff of wild oats, sea gull down; but it graduated
to slurping: tidal pools, fish, crabs,
fishermen dozing over their red and white bobbers,
pirogues, skidoos, pontoon party boats complete
with box wine coolers and kegs of coors,
barnacle-embroidered tugs
and the barges they were pushing.
when it decided to head north,
it ripped the roof off an old Monte Carlo,
and drove that convertible into Tuscaloosa like a bat out of hell,
tossing back beef jerky and dr peppers,
and littering the highway with burger king sacks,
fried peach pies, family albums, and bad checks,
leaving house parts in rows like seaweed at low tide.
as it finally petered out, its steam superseded by
cool condensation, it released three giant water slides, and
the intact brick chimney from a tiny riverbank fish camp.
a snowbird from Ontario it picked up at a peanut shack
breathes deeply, and says thank you for the ride,
but the sky is clearing blue and the twister, gone.

Walt’s choice is MiskMask’s “A Farewell to Dust”:

I love the story that this poem  tells. Goodbyes are always the hardest, and the “visual” aspect of this tale is both heart rending, yet hopeful. The rain of his past, becomes the gift that his passing brings. A rebirth in the baptism of the falling precipitation.


She thought him as ancient as marble
but that’s where comparisons end
His face weathered and rough
with whiskers that scuff when
he rubbed his cheek up against hers

She touched a long lingering line
carved from his nose to his chin
deep as the cracks in the field
where years ago corn used to grow
as high as the top of her head

Now dust swirls collecting in your ears
driving its way up your nose and eating
a meal means chewing on grit as it
races its way through the night
pricking and prodding at dreams

He talks to her of times long ago
stories that seem like tall-tales
of the scent of pure green
of a colour called pink
of roses and clover and rain

I remember, he’d say, the sound of rain
a sound she’d never heard for herself
He said it was a sound like that clown’s
flat-soled, over-sized shoes, the one that
chased her as she ran from its reach

I remember, he’d say, the sound of rain
pounding the top of my head cooling my skin
after a long hard day’s work. It pounded
like a hammer on soap, he’d say, and it’d make you
bend over and hide from its weight

But now only dust and wind filled the air
the clouds emptied of everything but dust
There was no rest for him here, so God called him
back home, a dark day when the sound of rain falling
was once again heard as they all cried their final farewells.