We’ve come full cycle to reap the benefit of our hard work. We have amassed a good group of poets who are extremely expressive and soulful. The “Garden” is a great place to see the beauty on display. We thank all for planting your words here to grow and flourish. Now for Week #4’s “Beautiful Blooms”:

Marie Elena’s “Beautiful Bloom”:

Generally, I am most captivated by few words that say much. Kimiko Martinez’s “BLOSSOMING” is a smart example. This three-line piece sets an outdoor morning scene in my mind. The choice of “tending” terms speaks to me of care and attention, and I envision a well-manicured garden. The next line jars my location, as well as my impression. I am no longer in an outdoor garden. I am face-to-face with myself. I have become both nurturer and object. Much has stimulated my senses in only two lines. Yet, Kimiko unsettles my footing yet again with her final line, “… that does not reflect the truth.” Oh, how many meanings can be gleaned from this statement? What began for me as a physical, hands-on garden, and literal interpretation of the prompt, now has me contemplating a cosmic matter. Brilliant, Kimiko.

“Blossoming” by Kimiko Martinez

Every morning I prune and preen
in front of a mirror
that does not reflect the truth

Walt’s “Beautiful Bloom”:

We’ve all been there at one time or another. The words seem to dry up and abandon our muse. The best way to battle through is one word at a time.

This “process” is described very well in Shannon Lockard’s “Writing My (Unpublished and Maybe Unpublishable) Novel”. The comparison of writer’s block to car troubles depicts the frustration and angst inherent within. I can relate to this as well as I’m sure other poets can. Thanks Shannon.

“Writing My (Unpublished and Maybe Unpublishable) Novel” 
by Shannon Lockard

It was easy in the beginning.
The words magically appeared
in my head and ran through my
fingers to the keyboard and
jumped onto the screen.

But in the middle the words stalled,
a broken down car in the middle
of the intersection.
I looked both ways
and began to push.

Slow and steady,
pushing with all my might.
A few words beating out with each step.
Each shove building momentum
until that car really began to move
and I was running to keep up.

Each character began making
her own decisions and
I was merely recording their
lives as they unfurled.

Typing the last word felt like
winning the lottery until
I realized I was only just beginning.
Draft and draft after draft,
asking myself, “Does this make
sense? Do I need this part? Should
I change this word?”

Each decision painful.
Each drastic cut like severing a limb.
I wasn’t just the author
I lived through each character.
The story was me.

The story is me.