Walt’s “Developing Story” prompt brought out the storytellers, didn’t it? As usual, I’ve been sitting here a great deal of time (it is now ~1:15 a.m., and I’ve spent the better part of the last hour-1/2) reading and rereading your fabulous works, trying to pick only one to highlight. Why do you all have to be so difficult? I finally chose Jerry Walraven’s “But Stopped Watches…” as my Beautiful Bloom. Jerry (“Chev”) wrote in his usual “say much in few words” style. This haunting piece makes smart use of words that caught my attention, intriguing phrases (“tantalizing hints still on film”) that drew me in, and an ending that is clearly not the end. Chev, your work always grabs my attention. I feel privileged to have you as a regular here in our “garden.”

“But Stopped Watches . . .”
By Jerry Walraven

Light leaks through walls,
seemingly solid.
The heat of years
takes its toll,
leaving tantalizing hints
still on film.
A face in clear focus,
looking in at eyes
which match,
detail for detail
but the thoughts
and dreams
are faded
into rusty trinkets.


Walt’s Choice:

I had that special bond with my Grand- Father, basically growing up living with him in the back rooms of our house. The scenario presented was of actual artifacts I have of this gentle and mysterious man. The poem I’ve chosen tells my story just as well as if I had written it. Isn’t that the best thing? Being able to put yourself into someone else’s vision? With that in mind, Michelle Hed’s CONNECTIONS gets my nod for a BLOOM.


CONNECTIONS by Michelle Hed

I always wanted to meet my Great-Grandfather,
we share a birthday you know,
a special connection –

I have his pocket watch,
It doesn’t work anymore
But when I hold it,
I feel warmth,
A memory,
And time stops. . .

And I see a boy running through
the fields of his grandparents’ plantation
and the bagpipes are playing in the background
and every story I was ever told about my Great-Grandfather
comes to life.

I set the watch down
and pick up the old key and
turn it around and around in my fingers,
imagining the door,
in the house,
that it might have belonged to
but now it is just a key
with no home.