First, we are in the middle of Prompt #48 – IN THE SHADOWS. If you haven’t posted your work for this touching photo prompt as of yet, we encourage you to do so. Find it here: http://poeticbloomings.com/2012/03/25/in-the-shadows-prompt-48/

In another week we will be entering April and be inundated with the challenge of many challenges to celebrate National Poetry Month. Here at POETIC BLOOMINGS, we will continue with business as usual during the month of April. There is enough going on around the poetic blogosphere and we feel that adding another “challenge” would just muddy the poetic waters.

We would love to feature some of your poems written for the various challenges, so Marie and I will offer this page for such endeavors. Please post your work, but be sure to include the site/challenge for which it was written and the nature of the prompt, if there is one. Put your best work forward, and let us help. A little extra exposure for your poems wouldn’t hurt!


  1. Vivienne, I know you have it in you. We all need that brief hiatus to recharge, and I have no doubt you’ll bring your best to the fore. Deep breaths and focus. You’ll do fine; you always do. Walt.

  2. Everyone seems to be going all out this season with challenges and poetry. Love it.

    I hope to keep up with PA, do some here, and do Robt’s other April challenge as well. I don’t think I’ll have time for the BlogHer challenge, though it, too, is POEM, for the month. Maybe I can combine others for the month for BlogHer.

    Sorry to ramble. Regardless, I will stop by each week to see what people are up to and what they’ve written.

    Good luck to all her pick up the gauntlet.

  3. Here are my entries:

    Lost (for the Sunday Whirl)

    Lost. White world, no markers.
    Snow swirls, air dense.
    She senses
    the others
    are far gone, somehow.
    Entranced by trail’s
    blinding blitz of sunlight,
    she knows,
    she has strayed
    further than realized.
    Still clutching her map,
    cumbersome back pack
    weighting her shoulders
    like a woman balancing
    a heavy basket, she shambles
    from here to there, reluctant
    to roam
    too far
    from the murmuring of trees
    that she cannot question
    nor can they reply.
    Nose quivers,
    she inhales
    the unmistakable acrid smell
    of smoke. She stumbles
    across the pelt of an animal.
    Following the scent,
    her heart quickening,
    she navigates her way
    toward fire’s glow of a campsite,
    eager to cement a quick bond.

    Magic Hat (for We Write Poems)

    He says he wants a new hat, one that allows him to become a variety
    of people. A new hat, a new fate–perhaps? He’s a French fashion plate, smoke of a Gauloise clouding the air, when the hat is worn backwards. A wisecracking cab driver hammering his horn, when brim is turned frontward, or, a struttin’ man, pants worn low on his hips, fingerin’ invisible bling of a rapper, when slung sideways.

    The rest of the day, he expends energy clearing out storage bins, shredding old documents, pruning files, until he is down to bare bones.

    Moment to moment
    I change character, stopping
    sands of life, slipping.

    Safe Haven (for Sunday Whirl)

    Found in the room
    she prefers to inhabit
    the kitchen, canisters
    filled to fullness with white
    flour, sugar, and rice on tiled
    countertops. Homey, warm,
    and safe, where she returns
    to the shadows of sweet
    treats prepared lovingly,
    though now sporadically.
    She smells cinnamon
    and ginger infusing the air,
    allowing her to drift unaware
    of the losses life has cut
    from her. In her kitchen,
    metal utensils gleam. She knows
    this room will bar admonishments
    by her daughter–haphazard
    cook–urging her to be careful
    when chopping, and maintain
    control over possible mixer
    mayhem. She laughs. There
    is daughter, coatless again
    in brisk wind, no scarf or hat,
    presuming care of her mother,
    who is cosy in woolen layers
    of self-protection.

    Rebirth (Poets United-Think Tank thursday)

    occurs when
    you discover
    a brand new facet
    on the diamond body
    that is yours, and it sparkles,
    a bit brighter than the others,
    compelling you to pay attention.


    Japanese maple,
    spare branches
    in winter. Rain silvers tips,
    as bubble cushions.

    Spring warmth dissolves drops.
    In their place,
    baby buds
    bloom in burgundy feathers,
    branching out, rebirth.

    The Schoolroom (for Tuesday Tryout-Sense of place)

    Surrounded by blocks of barricaded
    trees, thick-trunked, strong-limbed,
    on cement streets cracked with age,
    a fortress stands–a school–faded
    brick facade, small windows set in
    as if an afterthought.

    In a room, commanding front center,
    a blackboard smeared with chalk
    erasures, easily dusted for prints
    of last class’s lessons. Woodendesk engravings,
    `Joey loves Maria,’ ‘Teacher Sucks.’
    Armrests swing out as an artist’s palette.
    Rowsof students sit within touching distance,
    blue cloth looseleaf binders, pencil cases
    of sharpened number twos, and tattered
    textbooks stacked in a pile. Squirming
    students in front row tap their feet, eyes
    fascinated by floor, terrified to be called on.

    Small of stature, David hunches
    over, dirty blonde hair defying the gravity
    of his head. Pale face slick with sweat,
    knowing his homework is unfinished.
    Parents were told he daydreams,
    does not pay attention, is unprepared.
    David’s thoughts ride on roller coasters,
    traveling from street games, to mathematics,
    to the trees outside his bedroom window.
    His head fills with fancy free pursuits.
    He feels like a cooped up chicken
    unable to break free of its cage.

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