IN-FORM POET – The Monchielle

The trend for In-Form Poet has been to highlight a uniquely different form than the norm.
Today’s offering is the Monchielle, a form created by Jim T. Henriksen.

The Monchielle is a poem consisting of four five-line stanzas where the first line repeats in each verse. Each line within the stanzas consist of six syllables, and lines three and five rhyme. The rhyme pattern is Abcdc Aefgf Ahiji Aklml.

Marie Elena’s Monchielle:


Not all who dare to dream
Pursue the vision’s call.
Life dares obstruct their view,
Or taunts their fragile core,
And plans then go askew.

Not all who dare to dream
Take pleasure in the path.
Though they may first begin
With passion at the helm,
The process wears them thin.

Not all who dare to dream
Seek guidance from Above.
Bold faith begins to pale,
And expectations wane,
Then in the end, they fail.

Not all who dare to dream
Race on, and finish strong.
You dreamed, you sought, you vowed.
Your vision, now fulfilled,
You’ve reason to be proud.

Walt’s poem:

In The Distance She Stands (Monchielle)

In the distance she stands,
softly angelic, she.
Beauty beyond compare,
an ever-present smile
and windblown auburn hair.

In the distance she stands,
a lost soul, complacent.
Searching the horizon
for a glimpse of love’s shine;
compassion’s communion.

In the distance she stands,
a mournful heart, guarded.
Longing life’s sweet caress,
apparition most sweet;
whose love beats in my chest.

In the distance she stands,
dispersing in the mist;
a sad, sun-kissed farewell,
an ever-lasting love
here, where my angel fell.

Copyright © 2011 – Walt Wojtanik


Vantage point plays an important part in firing up our muse. The view from the ground varies greatly from the treetops. We see things slightly different. Today we are exercising our imaginations and playing with our perspective. So let’s blast off!

Your tether has broken away from the command module, and you are adrift in deep space. You are Major Tom floating by your “tin can”. But, you are not in danger. Until they can reel you back in, you have nothing but time to poem; equipped with your message board and an extraordinary view of the universe.

Write your poem, remembering your vantage point and your over-active imagination. “Can you hear me, Major Tom?”

Marie Elena’s blast:

Peering down on earth
From my perch upon the moon
I see no borders.

Walt’s attempt:

The poem I had written as this prompt’s example came extremely close to what Marie Elena had submitted.

From up in deep space

It is very clear,

I can see my house from here.

I am keeping my eyes peeled for a special phrase in the poems. The first to mention it will get a copy of my chapbook, WOOD. If it shows up as the title of the poem, I will include the CD featuring the reading of the book. Good Luck.


Prompt # 8, “Never A Cross Word” brought a new dimension to the quality of work we have come to expect here in the Garden. And as always, our poets did not disappoint. Here is the decision for this prompt:

Marie Elena’s selection:

This prompt was most certainly a challenge, Walt. You stretched all of us, though you’d never know it by the quality and variety of poetry posted again. You poets absolutely ROCK!

I had chosen the poem I wanted to spotlight (though it was a tough choice once again this week), but then Misk Mask showed up and threw the proverbial wrench into my plan. Misk, your “Finished” stunned me, and touched me deeply. You’ve somehow tapped into the heartrending, disturbing world of our homeless and mentally ill. You offer snippets that convey the mind, manner, and soul of your subject.

First, you endear her to my heart with her aluminum tab rings.

Then, you show me her intelligence, sense of humor, and despicable circumstances with this one simple line: “She’s a fashion rebel, she tells a blue bottle fly that licks at a sore on her ankle.”

You again brilliantly use one line … this time to convey exactly how disturbing is the world that unmercifully traps her mind: “And there’s the mutilated fairy doll that’s missing its head, but that doesn’t stop it from yammering on about nothing all night long.” I can’t even read this line without tearing up. The first time I read it, I literally shuddered.

I could go on, but highlighting nearly every phrase is the equivalent of not highlighting at all. I’ll just end by saying thank you, Misk, for this astounding poem.

FINISHED by Misk Mask

The rain can’t reach her here.
She’s sheltered in the shadowed
recesses of a rank smelling alcove,
a dreary ravine between two shops
that she calls home during the months
that promise warmer weather. Wind flays the
marble walls of the shopping center,
paper cups and burger wrappers
swept up in the gusts that fly
past her imaginary front door
with its peep-hole at eye-level.

She pats her bulging pockets, protected objects
retrieved here, there and somewhere she can’t remember.
Store receipts, not hers of course, but she likes
to pretend that she bought something there.
Aluminium pull-tabs, 8 of them that she wears
one on each finger as her precious rings;
she’s a fashion rebel she tells a bluebottle
fly that licks at a sore on her ankle.
And there’s the mutilated fairy doll
that’s missing its head but that doesn’t stop it
from yammering on about nothing all night long.
And empty disposable lighters in bright primary colours
reminding her of a rainbow, like the ones
created by her favourite key chain
with its dangling crystal pyramid.

But most valued, most precious, her legal tender,
her handfuls of half-smoked cigarettes
rescued from a nearby aluminium pillared ashtray.
The one topped with a swathe of funereal sand –
cigarette butts erect in it, tilting,
bent and subdued under thumb,
abandoned ghostly headstones.
Abandoned like she was.
Abandoned of hope.
Abandoned of joy.
Abandoned dreams of a life that included
children smiling each morning in exchange
for her hugs and kisses.

She fingers the short stubs,
counting and recounting them in case
one was stolen by that freak of a headless fairy,
possibly when sleep danced on her pillow
stealing away her dreams of a fold-away cot
with a clean pillow in a warm hotel room.

“Concierge! Give me a light!” she shouts
at a woman with fiery-red hair. Ignored,
she launches into a Sunday sermon on the evils
of shopping on the Lord’s Day of Rest
and calls the woman a flaming heretic.

She looks away and lets the last cigarette butt
roll from her finger back into her pocket.
“21!” she counts, but instantly forgets and so
resumes recounting them one at a time.
One hand counts, the other opens her package
of empties. Time for a drink from the remains
of the day – a discarded beer can. It’s marked
by its previous owner as finished, the sides
compressed together and bent into a deep fold,
but she knows that nothing is ever finished
until God releases her from this hell.

What caught Walt’s eye:

I’ve always found this montage of words to be a great exercise when writing poetry. The randomness of the choices allows for some fascinating combinations and visualizations. That being said, I found my choice rather easily this week. I myself tend to over-think this task at hand. But simplicity reigns in my mind with the approach that Connie L. Peters applied to the challenge.

The humor and connection that Connie presented reminded me of my first attempt at such a prompt. Many times I pray for a “good fairy to come tiptoeing between neurons” She carried her theme throughout.

HOW I WROTE THIS POEM by Connie L. Peters

I’m afraid I’m going to be sitting here till morning,
trying to put a scattering of words in a package called a poem.
Maybe the good fairy will come tiptoeing between my neurons,
picking ideas off the shelves like a Christmas shopper
at a well-stocked shopping center,
choosing thoughts as light and strong as aluminum
or soft and comfortable like a quilt and pillow,
piecing together this and that like a dogmatic heretic,
stacking metaphors like Egyptians building pyramids,
willing to rebel against rhyme and reason,
attentive like a concierge looking for a big tip
and then the end stands before me like an open door.
I pocket dreams, fold up my feelings like a camper’s cot,
and run through.


We’ve ventured into a good thing with our Web Wednesday highlights and interviews. Our talks with De Miller Jackson and Andrew Kreider have garnered some great response, giving us an insight into what strikes them poetically. The next selection for this “honor” is a woman whose poetry and attitude have touched a chord with me, and stirs this confession: she was the inspiration for the idea of adding this feature to POETIC BLOOMINGS.

We share a fascination and faith in the existence of a certain red feathered bird. In her blog “Conversations with a Cardinal,” Laurie Kolp expresses her thought on the subject. But indeed, this spot is secondary to her “other” blog, where her poetry flourishes and takes on life. Fittingly entitled, “Conversations with Laurie,” it becomes a perfect lead-in to our chat. I proudly re-introduce you all to Laurie Kolp.

1. Laurie, we began Andrew Kreider’s interview inquiring about the penguins in his life. I happen to know cardinals have played a special role in yours. Our readers have the opportunity to visit your blogs, but briefly, please tell us your story of the cardinal and its inspiration.

First I’d like to thank the both of you for what you’ve done and still do for the poetry community. I love Poetic Bloomings and am honored to be included in your Web Wednesday highlights.

Shortly after I began blogging, a dear friend of mine, Mary, committed suicide. The first experience I had with a cardinal was only days after her death. I was sitting in a meeting room at our church where we used to gather quite frequently. I was trying to keep my composure, but my tears kept sneaking out of staring eyes. I remember looking up while rolling a soggy tissue between my palms. I asked God to show me a sign that my friend was okay, to please let Mary know I’m sorry and that I miss her. (You see, everyone who is affected by suicide always thinks they could have done something to prevent it). When I left the meeting and was driving through the parking lot, a cardinal flew right in front of my windshield, landed on the ground, and then hopped across the pavement. It was like the story, Make Way for Ducklings, only it was a cardinal marching across the road instead of ducks. I had an indescribable euphoric feeling of peace and comfort. I knew without a doubt that God had heard me. I went from sad to happy in an instant. The cardinal then flew to the fence beside the driveway and just stared at me. Another time I gave a “Sisterhood Award” to Mary’s sister. After I notified her of the award, I looked in my backyard and it was swarming in red. There must have been a dozen cardinals! These are only a few of the many synchronicities that have occurred and still do. I am so grateful I still experience cardinal joy three years after Mary’s passing.

**I wrote this shortly after Mary’s death (before the first cardinal experience). It’s how I got my grief out:

A Dreadful Storm

Mary was a friend of mine
Who only wanted to be free.
She came into my life one day
Like a ship that sails the sea.

Mary paddled ahead for inner peace
And tried so hard to win,
But the rocky waters she sailed upon
Wore her life too thin.

Although she had the kindest heart
That was simple, pure and true,
She led a life of disbelief
Never knowing what to do.

I tried to help give Mary hope
That no matter what’s been done,
She could have a better life
And still have lots of fun.

But like a storm can sink a ship
Mary struggled, couldn’t win.
If only she’d surrendered,
Given time for peace within.

Rather than just letting go
And making a fresh start,
Mary took her life one day
With a bullet through her heart.

Now I am desolate and alone
From the loss of a good friend
Who sadly could not carry on
Until her destined end.

And like a ship that sails the sea
I will navigate ahead,
But when I face a dreadful storm
I will turn to God instead.

2. As I had recounted on your “Cardinal” blog, I had similar experiences with a pair of cardinals in relation to the passing of my parents. There was a solace brought about by the appearance of these glorious birds. Tell us what they personally have brought to your life.

I was so happy when you shared your experience with me, Walt. Thank you for doing that. Several others have, too. One day I’d love to publish a collection of all the cardinal stories!

For me, the cardinals offer hope and reaffirm my faith. Did you know the beautiful red birds are regarded by Native Americans as highly spiritual? They believe cardinals symbolize self-worth, creativity and intuition. Their chirps remind us to listen closely and pay attention. The cardinal’s bright red color reaffirms that everything we do is meaningful and colorful. We are all connected, and many Native Americans believe that loved ones who have died come back to visit in the form of cardinals. Keep reading and you’ll gain a deeper understanding of how this all comes together for me.

3. We’ve mentioned you have two blogs: “Conversations with a Cardinal,” and “Conversations with Laurie.” This sparks a two-part question.
a. Why the term “conversations?”
b. How does each blog serve your writing needs?

One of my first big projects was writing my memoir. I was very possessive of this and scared to expose myself by letting anyone read it. My husband hadn’t even read it! Mary took a great interest in my writing and convinced me to let her read the memoir. She came over to my house every day. We sat together at the computer until she had read the entire manuscript. We had conversations about our pasts and discovered we had much more in common than we originally thought. We had just taken different paths. I tried to help and encourage her in the problem areas of her life. At the same time, she believed in me, made me feel confident and good about my writing. It was a two-way street, just like a conversation should be. Because of her initial supportive shove, I have been able to open up and share more of myself through my writing. Conversations with a Cardinal symbolizes the friendship we shared and my promise to pursue my writing. I now use it as a personal writing blog. Conversations with Laurie has evolved into my poetry blog.

4. “Let your conversations be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone.” This quote from Colossians 4:6 welcomes us to “Conversations with a Cardinal.” It seems this is becoming a standard question, but you are another who is obviously a woman of faith, so … what role does your faith play in your creative writing?

A huge role! Not only does my Higher Power put words, phrases, and ideas into my head, He also gives me courage to put my work out there. I have to be spiritually fit and willing to listen, though. When my mind is obsessing on overblown nonsense which I have no control over, I’m not able to hear my inner voice. I’m not saying I always do this (because sometimes I beat myself up and worry unnecessarily), but when I submit a piece and leave the results to Him, I feel so much better. It’s really no reflection on me whether the editors like it or not; in fact, it’s none of my business. If it’s meant to be, it will get published. If not, then maybe I have helped or entertained someone through sharing. Only then is my writing a real success anyway.

5. As most of us here are well aware, the month of April celebrates poetry. Many of us (including you, I’m glad to say!) participate in the Poem-a-Day Challenge at Poetic Asides with Robert Lee Brewer. April not-withstanding, do you find time to write poetry nearly every day?

Most certainly! Writing poetry is part of my morning routine: a cup of coffee and a poem. I think it helps to have a support group, though. Thanks to Poetic Asides, I became a member of a poetry group three years ago. We called ourselves The Baker’s Dozen, and we were from all over the world. Every day we wrote poems from prompts we had agreed upon and shared them with one another. I feel like I became a better poet because of them.

6. We are pleased to see you have successfully published several short stories, and have participated in NaNoWriMo. What are your aspirations (if any) for a novel in your future? Or possibly a collection of your wonderful poetry?

Yeah, NaNoWriMo was intense, but I really liked working under the pressure. It was a challenge to complete a novel in 30 days; and when I did it, the sense of satisfaction was overwhelming. Many of you know Pearl (Dr. Pearl Ketover Prilik- “Imagine” I couldn’t have done it without her support and encouragement. For some reason she found me on the NaNo site and started cheering for me just like Mary had. I began to do the same for Pearl. We’d send each other little messages with rhyming cheers. The support really kept me going. Imagine my surprise when one day she sent me a note asking why the cardinals on my blog. Come to find out, she had experienced cardinal comfort after the death of her father. For me, it was an affirmation that someone up above was rooting for me, too.

I always have a lot of projects I’m working on. I do hope one day to have a published book of poetry and short stories (and maybe even a novel), but I’m not in any hurry. I feel like if and when the time is right, everything will fall into place.

7. What do you enjoy more: your short stories, or your poetry? Why?

You know, I’m like a pendulum. I’ll go for awhile focusing on short stories, and then I’ll swing back to poetry and concentrate on that. I really like both, but if I had to choose one as my favorite, it would be poetry because it seems so natural to me. I can work on a poem and complete it in a short amount of time. I like the immediate gratification.

8. Marie seems partial to the sonnet form. “I Am the Sea” is one of our favorite poems of yours. Apparently, it was one of Robert Lee Brewer’s as well, as it was chosen as #3 in his sonnet contest.

I Am the Sea

The water’s edge laps rhythmic solitude
Enticing waves, the arms that call me in;
I drown in bitter sorrow from this feud,
Then like a buoy pop up once again.
Rejuvenating tides this cycle bears,
My fingers slap calm water freshening.
Hypnotic reverie from ocean’s prayers;
A dolphin diving up and down, I sing.
Am I insane to dream myself to shore?
To think white castles hold the golden key?
Each time a current pulls me to the floor,
An inspiration molds my destiny.
I am the sea, I write to fill this hole;
No storm or wind will crush my hungry soul.

Congratulations on your well-deserved accolades, Laurie. Can you share with us the inspiration for this entrancing sonnet?

Thank you! It’s funny how things go sometimes because I was drowning in a wave of self-doubt when I wrote I Am the Sea. The poem symbolizes what writing is to me… I am at peace when writing; and the ocean waters pacify me, too. I sometimes have a “feud” with myself when rejected, but always bounce back because it’s part of who I am. I spent years searching for my purpose in this world, and even though I wrote all the time as a child, I tried my hand at teaching and other things. When I found my way back to writing, which was after I became a mother of three, it was like I was home at last—like a dolphin in the sea.

9. Is there a poetry form to which you are partial?

I used to only write rhyming poems. The Baker’s Dozen gave me courage to branch out into free verse and non-rhyming poetry. I love the challenge of writing form poetry, but my favorite has to be the meditative aspect of small stones (daily observations). Writing small stones, which I will be doing daily in July, helps me stay in touch with nature and my surroundings.

10. Finally, do you have any advice for young aspiring poets (or old irascible nudges like Walt who are always willing to learn something new) about the process of this poetic life we lead?

Poetry is an art form; and like art, everyone will interpret it differently. Some will like what you write, others won’t. Some might even give you a new understanding or perspective of your work (which I love). But it doesn’t mean it’s not good. Try to keep the joy in writing poetry instead of making it into a stressful quest for publication. Write every day whether you want to or not. And get involved in active online communities such as Poetic Bloomings and Poetic Asides. To me, it’s all about SUPPORT. We need each other. Don’t give up, because you never know what’s waiting for you right around the corner.

Laurie, we are extremely happy that you have accepted this long-overdue accolade. Thank you for sharing a piece of yourself with us.

Your welcome… and thank you! I wrote this just for you, Walt and Marie:

Poetic Bloomings

Poetry shared
Online, around the world
Equally managed by
The team of Walt and Marie
Inspiration is the seed
Creative ideas the roots

Bloom into decorative
Language, flowing limbs
Opening, fragrant petals
Overtures tasteful, alluring
Melody the words that form
Into flowering, colorful art
Nurtured like tulips in a
Garden of fine poetry
Savored by all who visit

@laurie kolp/ 6-20-11


morning, package, fairy, shopping center, aluminum, pillow,
heretic, pyramid, rebel, door, concierge, pocket, cot

One thing you can say about our genial gardeners here at POETIC BLOOMINGS, is that there is never a cross word between them. Use as many of the words in this crossword grid and write a poem. This week is a challenging change of pace.

Marie’s submission:


Once upon a moment,
The moon’s aura rested
At my window,
Leaving silver-plated packages
Of windfall in my name.

I believed that door to be
Sealed at the whim of a heretic.

What then could I do,
But prepare to lay my head
On the pillow-less aluminum cot
Of an uneasy future
Of shopping center pleasantries
And pyramid schemes?

But I have a fairy in my pocket
And a penny rebel’s heart.

Morning broke.
I collected my being.


Walt’s rant:

Another Day in Paradise

Morning is a rebel, fighting the grip
with which night clutches, slipping into its pocket.
An uninvited visitor at the
door by which the heretic had entered.
In the shadows, the concierge rests,
the aluminum façade of the
shopping center becomes his pillow;
the street, his surrogate cot, proffers dreams.
Sugar plum fairy dances by the grace
of the distant pyramid’s gleam.


I have thoroughly enjoyed this peek at the favorite of your favorites. A wide range of inspiration and thought provocation. The quality level continues to rise making this task both enjoyable and taxing. But we have made our decisions. So without further delay:

Marie’s choice:

This week, I chose Kim King’s “Poetry Reading,” inspired by a line from Billy Collins’ “Introduction to Poetry”:

“But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.”

Don’t you just love it? What a line!
Kim’s “Poetry Reading” is well planned. It tells a story, complete with relatable characters. She raised my level of discomfort, and made me squirm in my seat as though I was back in junior high. In the first two couplets, Kim manages to introduce us to the personality of the author of the love letter. These lines are absolutely dense with tell-tale description: “scratched in ink, some smears along the margins,” “folded words,” “loops of L’s and O’s in Bic he borrowed,” (that is my favorite!) “Rhyming words with silly pleas,” and “figures sketched to make her smile” … all help us get inside his head, and endear him to us. Using only a handful of couplets, Kim weaves her love story, while showing us what poetry is all about.
Kim, you should feel very special, being chosen among such splendid work this week !

Poetry Reading

By Kim King

The lines he wrote were scratched in ink, some smears
along the margins. Folded words he penned

to her with loops of L’s and O’s in Bic
he borrowed. Rhyming words with silly pleas

to never leave him, figures sketched beside
his poem drawn to make her smile. That note

he wrote in English class when Mr. Hughes
was teaching sonnets, verse and metered feet

while tapping beats, “da, Dum, da, Dum da, Dum.”
He slipped the page across the aisle to Joe

who passed it––Hughes then grabbed the note and read
the poem. Mouths agape, they stared at both

who blushed and shook while Hughes kept reading all
to twenty kids who did not move or hear

a single word. The fate of couplets, verse
and trochees lost in fear and horror shared.

The lesson learned, the note returned, the class
then left the room. His poem shared, he bowed

his head and dropped the note into the trash.
She pulled it out and pressed his fragile words

into her breast. She hid that note inside
her book. The poem fresh, she breathed his verse.


Walt’s honoree:

Well, it had to happen sooner of later. I had scrutinized the wonderful works this week, and while waiting for Marie’s selection had made my decision. SO in fairness, I will congratulate my first choice, Kim King for wowing Marie and me with Poetry Reading.
But I will choose another of these equally impressive works.
In this piece, the imagery is abstract but hauntingly familial. Our daily struggle to find who we are and from whence we came plays itself out in this work by one of my favorite poets in his own right, Daniel Ari.


Playing Favorites offering by Daniel Ari

“When I pray for you, I also pray for myself.”

this kid pierces me though
turns my body to flash fire
a feral look beyond rage
and i can’t be sure what species
we belong to
the bear or the beetle
something that eats its young
or destroys its sire

in that accusation
is the crucible of years
the deadly kung fu
of unappeasable caterwaul
and the reason after reasons flee
impulse before libraries of wisdom
surrender of shedding live skin

sure as any animal is chemical
adrenaline will not let me sleep
i need a new lair
i need a medicinal berry
or for the moon to set

and in the morning
this kid runs balm through me
a beatific smile beyond cosmic
and i’m still not sure what species
we belong to
the bear or the beetle
something that carries its young
to the only safe corner of the ocean
or something whose only program
is to nourish its queen
with morning honey


Congratulations Kim and Daniel for your Week #7 Beautiful Blooms.


The latest form to be highlighted on In-Form Poet is the Sijo.

Sijo is the classic form of unrhymed poetry in Korea. Sijo have three long lines. Each line varies between 14 and 16 syllables, with the middle line the longest. The first line states a theme, the second line counters it, and the third line resolves the poem.

Marie Elena’s offering:

Mild reprieve from thought confusion and hallucinations,
At what cost? Becoming functionally blind? Movement disorders?
Regrettably, treatment often begets unwelcome fate.

Walt’s Example:

The winds of change blow harshly, burning my face and my eyes.
I shield them with my calloused hands, hoping for some relief,
so that I can steel myself against its stark reality.

Sijo are not usually titled. Try your hand at a few.


Take your favorite line, from your favorite poem, by your favorite poet. Make that line the inspiration and title of your poem. Shine a fresh new light and write.

Marie Elena’s effort:

What sort of poet has a difficult time choosing between Shel Silverstein and Jack Prelutsky … and King David? I finally chose King David, who truly is the ultimate praise poet. I have so many favorite lines from his psalms, but must say that I am partial to De Jackson’s life-motto: From Psalm 61, a psalm of David: “And I’ll be the poet who sings your glory – and live what I sing every day.” This has become my own personal daily prayer as well. Several of the psalmist’s expressed feelings found their way into my sonnet, below.


My Lord is great, and greatly to be praised.
In Him, I live and breathe, and take delight.
Yet, even though I’m awed and stand amazed,
My hollow words do not reflect His might.

How regal is Your name in all the earth!
Lord, who am I, that You would care for me?
Creator of my heart before my birth,
I long for it to be a light for Thee.

Now, “may the meditation of my mind,
And words upon my lips,” as David urged,
“Be pleasing in Your sight,” and may You find
Offensive ways concealed in me, now purged.

Imperfect poet, bound in mercy’s frame,
I seek to daily lift Your sacred name.

Walt’s Week # 7 Poem:

My favorite poem from one of my favorite poets is “A Man In His Life” by Yehuda Amichai. In it there is this line:

“A man doesn’t have time.
When he loses he seeks, when he finds
he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
he begins to forget.”


Her face retains some semblance
of familiarity, a rarity these days.
He says he can recall a time when
she was his sunshine on a cloud filled sky,
but he cannot remember her name.
The smile is soft and comforting,
yet he doesn’t know why she smiles.
“Have you seen my wife?” he asks,
confused by her tears. “She was just here.”
Her head lowers to the bed in sobs.
A hand reaches to comfort and caress.
“Dear, don’t cry. I love you,” he states
“but, what is your name?”


A busy weekend with my daughter’s Class Day, Senior Prom and Graduation had me away from my computer for the day. Sorry about the lateness of the posting.
This week we let color tell our tales. Beauty blooms.

Marie’s Beautiful Bloom:

As one who still finds a fresh box of sharp crayons one of the joys of life, I chose Jane Shlensky’s “Garden Art” as my pick this week.

Jane’s “friendly acronym” introduces us to color’s energy. After all, “…color did not live in a box of worn wax.” The words that follow conjure vivacious images of nature’s rich diversity of color — complete with taste, scent, and sensation — along with “the promise of rainbows,” and “the magic of mixing life with life to create new hues.”

Now, where did that eighth crayon go? 😉

GARDEN ART by Jane Shlensky

we memorized
this friendly acronym,
pointed toward our crayon
boxes with each wax stick
labeled, but color did not
live in a box of worn wax.
We imagined a kindly man
in overalls, Mother Nature’s
gardener, our Roy, an earthy
dirt-squeezing gentleman,
conversant with leaf shapes
and tints, fruiting vines,
sun-kissed citrus, berries,
tomatoes, radishes, and ripened
squash, their waxy necks entwined.
His middle initial conjured
freshly mowed lawns, string beans
hanging from staked vines, cucumbers,
lettuce, cabbage, jungle-striped
fleshy-hearted melons,
corn stalks and pale ears,
pearly kernels hidden
in layered shucks,
the foliage of all vegetable life.
Mr. Biv, we imagined, had
his grower’s thumb involved
in every step of gardening,
pocketing seed pods, shelling
sunflowers for birds of
every feather—grosbeaks, chickadees,
cardinals, finches—rushing
to feed at his hands,
his head firmly planted
in the overarching depth of sky,
thundering clouds a lullaby
to his ears, piqued for the plunk
of droplets on dry soil, his nose
tweaked for the smell of ripening
and ozone after rain,
his eyes lifted for
the promise of rainbows,
the magic of mixing life
with life to create
new hues.

Walt’s Pick:

A broken heart painted in the spectrum of the rainbow. A simple rendering of painful optimism. The poem speaks for itself. My favorite this week:

THE COLORS OF MY DAY by Paula Wanken

The inky darkness
that envelopes me.

The dreary cloud
that covers my days.

My eyes, like pools of water,
filled with tears.

My nose,
sore from blowing.

The color I see
on the other side of the fence.

The bruise that is
my broken heart.

The brilliance of sunshine
that I trust will shine on my world once more.