It has been one year since Marie Elena and I had this hare-brained idea that we could establish a poetic garden that finds beauty blooming in the starkness of every day life. As we start our second year, no better place to start again, than with a re-seeding of our “Poet-anical” Garden. We return to the soil AND the prompt that got us started. And so…

Every garden starts with a seed. A small part of the big picture; a beginning. And so we begin our second year at Poetic Bloomings.

The prompt for this Sunday reflects that idea. Write a “seed” poem. It could literally be a seed of a plant, or an idea that sparks a greater effort. It could be the beginning of a life, or whatever you feel would be the start of something big. Write about the flower you have “adopted” on your Recollection page, and show your bloom. Just get started. That’s a beginning in itself.


REACH (a sonnet)

My feet are planted firmly here at home,
Yet seeds are scattered farther than my span.
Words blossom in encouragement-rich loam,
And flourish far beyond this gardener’s plan.

What joy, as peace and beauty grace the way,
What nourishment that seeps into my soul.
My senses overflowing every day
On shade-tinged path, or sunny poppy’d knoll.

One kernel sown, yet harvest so diverse –
A multiplicity of voice takes flight
And broadcasts as poetic seeds disperse
To transplant hope, wherever they alight.

In gratitude, two kindred gardeners toil
To cultivate Poetic Bloomings soil.


NOTE:  Poetic Bloomings seeds have blown across the following borders … a statistic that is altogether amazing and humbling.

United States, Denmark, Canada, United Kingdom, France, Spain, Australia, Bulgaria, Philippines, India, Singapore, Germany, Latvia, Nigeria, Italy, Sweden, South Africa, Sri Lanka, Mexico, Poland, Austria, Brazil, Republic of Korea, Ireland, United Arab Emirates, Greece, Saudi Arabia, Hong Kong, Pakistan, New Zealand, Malaysia, Indonesia, Portugal, Egypt, Senegal, Croatia, Belgium, Japan, Czech Republic, Norway, Georgia, Netherlands, Trinidad, Tobago, Kuwait, Ghana, Peru, Belize, Guatemala, Argentina, Bangladesh, Taiwan, Switzerland, Syrian Arab Republic, Angola, Slovakia, Ecuador, Costa Rica, Colombia, Albania, Puerto Rico, Yemen, Thailand, Dominican Republic, Malta, Gabon, and Russia!

Would that all visits be as harmonious as those stemming from our modest garden.  A Poetic Bloomings wave of greeting to all, and  “Peace be the journey.”




Darkness disturbed.
The first sprout of Spring is seen
and senses the early breath of a breeze
bathing it with the gentle movement
of a life begun. Showers have touched
the soil, deep and aromatic; fertilized
and fed to nurture and grow, strong in root
and tall in beauty. Our sprout reaches
skyward to embrace the golden life-giving orb.
And the sun shall reign down to caress
the beginnings of beauty in bloom!


In our effort to promote our poets, Marie and I wish to thank and congratulate the following poets who had posted poetry on the first day and have remained dedicated to the growth of beauty through verse.










And we’ve grown tremendously since then. Thank you all!

The POETIC BLOOMINGS badge is available under the P.B. Badge tab above. The HTML code is provided to allow you to show your inclusion in our garden. Join the growing that we are sowing!

351 thoughts on “RETURNING TO THE SOIL – Prompt #53

  1. Congratulations, my amazing friends! So glad to be along for the bloomin’ ride. Wishing you many more years of colorful poetic blooms. You are LOVED.

    The seed does not try to fit into its old, fallen rusk,
    just as the full face, heavy laden crown of kernels
    holds its head low, stooping in a slow stumble.
    It does not then try to regain composure
    but heeds the humble call for sowing;
    accepts its days of sun gracefully,
    feels true fulfillment in passing,
    calling and purpose in yielding.
    The seed does not try to fit into its old, fallen rusk
    It allows the drawing strength of gravity
    to fully flourish, extracting every remnant,
    every golden bit of good that it stood for;
    each solemn, soulful seed will succumb, will drop.
    Every pit is a promise, a symbol of hope,
    means for a new beginning and a fresh tomorrow
    lies in the strength of the conceding flower.
    The seed does not try to fit into its old, fallen rusk
    but plants its feet firmly in the terra firma
    fighting for survival with a fore knowledge
    deeply imbedded in the very pattern of its skin;
    written in the finite folds of its twisting history
    as it pulsed and pushed through the ancient ages
    and so it proceeds embracing its divine design,
    shape-shifting, spiraling cyclically through time.
    © H.G.@ P.B. 4/29/12 seeds

    I played a bit with the idea of a free form-form that that I created that I’ll call “The Perfect Echo.” I made a bold statement and then followed it with seven lines (seven being symbolic for the number of completion), and repeated this pattern three times (three being symbolic for the number of confirmation). The nature of the topic of this poem makes way for the echoing idea of eternity…beginnings and endings following each other indefinitely forever. So with this idea in mind, I employed eight lines per stanza (eight being symbolic for the number of eternity).

    I just, just wrote this for a picture prompt of a sunflower for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads. I hope no one minds if I use it for this seed prompt…it just seemed to perfect a coincidence to pass up! Thank you, you guys!

    • Hannah, that form! And beautiful…our sunflowers have bloomed in the last week (the short ones) and so this beautiful piece validated their “heavy laden crowns.” Beautiful.

    • Hannah, you know that I like you so much. Now I have read this poem so many times and I’d like to invite you to come right over here and explain it for me. I looked up every little word that might interfere my interpretation and still I must say – I’m here – hands down.
      I hope you don’t kill me – but is this a praise of nature purely?

      • I believe I wrote this as a praise to the Power behind all of the journeys of every living thing that exists.

        To me, this is a poem of graceful passage, of accepting the “next,” thing of our lives and making the best of it all knowing that it has all been for fulfillment, a purpose. Passing is not a losing but a gaining in the aspect that what we have accomplished can further the next generations.

        I hope that helps some, Andrea. Warm smiles to you!

    • Profound, stunning, gorgeous and truly Hannah! So, so many great lines but this one made me stop and re-read…’Every pit is a promise, a symbol of hope,…Yes!

      Oh Hannah, life has many ‘gardens’ and the one I’ve been in lately is not at the computer, yet flowers like this bloom…and I keep praying to God that I keep my priorities in order and that in time a window opens for me to stroll a little through this garden. I’m thankful He let me find this bloom… and I’m thankful that the blooms will be here when I get a chance to return and enjoy the ones I missed! That is where a ‘poetic-bloom’ trumps any other. It remains a bloom for centuries to come!

      God bless you and thank-you for your faithful ‘seeds’ you plant in your poetry and in your comments!..ah, a bloom holds the seed:)

      • This truly makes my day, Janet! You’re so very kind. I would SO love to spend the day in the dirt of your garden. You live such a rich and fulfilling life. Thank you for your inspiration. God’s abundant blessings on you too, Janet!! Warm smiles to you!

        • 🙂 Right back atcha…

          Shortly after I left this reply there was a knock on the door and a neighbor was dropping by for a visit:)…the end of writing day.:( oops i mean 🙂 I told somebody else that my being torn between various ‘gardens’ is a torment of bliss, due to many loved ones.

          • Oh, I feel this pulling in your heart, Janet, it is a painful but bitter-sweet feeling. The longing to write when life pulls you away into different directions. I always try to console my soul with the fact that these times are but beautiful fodder for future poems. I imagine I would be so poem-less without the experiences behind it all.

            I know you know every bit of what I’m speaking about so know it is more of a commiserating in the sweetness of life that can feed and at the same time keep us from the physical craft of writing.

            Thank you, for this time to think about all of this. 🙂

  3. Marie! I love this stanza…

    “What joy, as peace and beauty grace the way,
    What nourishment that seeps into my soul.
    My senses overflowing every day
    On shade-tinged path, or sunny poppy’d knoll.”

    Such a beautiful and authentic voice in your poetry!

    I can feel the nurturing sunshine, Walt!! Thank you for your words, a blessing!


  4. Congrats especially to you stalwarts! And I meant to thank you both for the badge … it posted easily to my blog (not always my experience with badges etc.) and it’s very nice .. .

  5. Marie, your poem is a marvellous realisation of all that this site/garden has come to mean to us, and Walt’s follows on in delightful horticultural fashion. Thank you.both for all you do.

  6. Seeds

    garnered in autumn
    over-wintered in the fridge
    sown with hope in spring

    bathed in warm sunshine
    and a modicum of rain –
    last year’s flowers re-born


    I’d like to say I put on all the leaves
    on all the trees
    covered the world with oceans
    created waves of motions.

    I’d like to take you by the hand
    show you that you can
    so brilliantly walk around.
    A world is out there to be found.

    Only I’m not the almighty here
    the light of wisdom, dear.
    I’m only your neighbour
    that you say you favour.

    I’m your other you – two eyes, two ears, a nose and a heart
    so scared to see we’re torn apart.

  8. Lovely words, Walt and Meg; congratualtions on your very successful first year, and may you have many, many more! I Love it here!

  9. (No specific form. Except for the title, this piece was written long ago and far away.)


    I vow this day
    to go back to the Old Ways
    to regain my strength…
    to return to the Earth.
    God keep me safe.

  10. Sabotage in the Garden

    Obey Rules;
    No Red Rum Fruit,

    Bending Branch;
    Rolled Apple to

    Rib, Shaken;
    Her Innocence

    Adam’s sin:
    A beginning

    (A favorite of mine; the Japanese lantern : 1,2,3,4,1.) From little acorns of thought, many things grow…


    You try so hard to make them grow.
    Why you do, I don’t quite know.
    Sufficient water, lots of light:
    They grow themselves outside all right.

    Pat the soil, watch the leaves
    For signs of insects or disease.
    And though it gets its share of light,
    It doesn’t seem to grow quite right.

    Though you did what you could do,
    It grew unlike it wanted to.
    A plant is meant, not to be grown,
    But to develop on its own.

    So now remember you and I
    And don’t let faded memories die.
    Keep them watered with your tears,
    And cultivate them through the years.

    For if you leave them all alone,
    They may develop on their own.
    Yet, one day memories must be faced.
    They can be changed, but not erased.

    • Linda, I have a friend in Missouri who sent me a picture of her peach tree recently. And I wrote back to her yesterday: You’re so far ahead of us here in DK.
      She’s Amy and I’d love to share you poem with her. She’d love it and so do I. Is it okay?

    • Just love this Linda! I will share this with my wife (Container Queen…loves her pots as much as everything in the ground!) And these are of course my favorite lines….

      “Keep them watered with your tears,
      And cultivate them through the years.”

  12. Blooming Proud to Be Here

    The wind tries
    in gentle nudges,
    but when pushed
    to its limits
    a moving gale.

    Friends of poets
    do the same,
    knowing the seed
    shares the power
    of hope.

    A prompt can be
    a thought that sticks,
    burring till it picked
    and shared
    with you all.

    Then memories
    from the garden path,
    both word and deed
    linger in sweetness
    throughout the day.

  13. Source Material

    Some writers
    find their words,
    buried in the compost of bitterness,
    in a field of anger and resentment,
    sown by sorrow, raked with regret,
    fertilized by vengeance for abandoned love,
    ironically giving birth
    to beautiful blooms

    Other writers
    find beauty in everything,
    in their children, of course,
    and family, friends, and lovers,
    but also in the catalog of daily living,
    in the exotic rose,
    the mundane marigold,
    the common fern,
    predictably giving birth
    to beautiful blooms.

    Most writers
    have a sadness muse,
    prompting great works
    of love and loss,
    replete in their integrity,
    they open their veins,
    water their seedlings with blood,
    painfully giving birth
    to beautiful blooms.

    All writers
    know, regardless the source,
    no matter the topic,
    the truth will come out,
    honesty triumphs,
    love trumps cuteness,
    every time,
    each wonder-filled heart
    generously giving birth
    to beautiful blooms.


    You try so hard to make them grow.
    Why you do I don’t quite know.
    Sufficient wanter, lots of light:
    They grow themselves outside all right.

    Pat the soil, watch the leaves
    For signs of insects or disease.
    And though it gets its share of light,
    It doesn’t seem to grow quite right.

    Though you did what you could do,
    It grew unlike it wanted to.
    A plant is meant, not to be grown,
    But to develop on its own.

    So now remember you and I
    And don’t let faded memories die.
    Keep them watered with your tears
    And cultivate them through the years.

    For if you leave them all alone
    They might develop on their own.
    Yet one day memories must be faced.
    They can be changed, but not erased.

  15. Happy Anniversary to Poetic Bloomings, Marie, Walt, and fellow bloomers!


    Considering the wizened bulb,
    rattling seed pod, dusty husks,
    minute dots of promise, all that
    they are folded into themselves,

    the salty slime, the darting cells,
    the pollen-laden bee and wind—
    the truly extraordinary yet mundane
    origins of all things living,

    we can only be encouraged
    by the resilience and tenacity
    of sun-warmed, water-sprung
    life, that out of the briefest

    specks of possibility came
    something so beautifully lush
    and petaled, so formed,
    foliaged, flowered, fruited;

    so thirsty, hungry, needy, longing,
    so very Eden.

  16. Seedling

    Plant these words.
    I do not know what will
    grow, but I love this fertile
    ground, and I am
    ready for new roots.

    Raise this phrase
    until it blooms full,
    looms on silent stem
    hemmed in soil, breeze
    and gilded gathered trees.

    Steep these syllables
    in sunshine, sea and song
    and perhaps someday
    we’ll finally sow what we
    wished for, all along.


  17. Tending the Poetic Garden

    The seed,
    inkling of a thought
    nurtured into an idea
    that does flourish and grow.

    A fertile, rich soil for the crop,
    no birds that would scavenge
    and eat, rocks plowed out so
    roots can grow deep.

    No thorns allowed to choke out
    voices with poetic words, but a crop,
    loved and tended, producing a hundred
    times more than that sown.

    “Whoever has ears, let them hear”
    the beauty of these poetic blooms.

    Matthew 13

    Thank you Walt and Marie for your
    work on this beautiful garden!

  18. You are all so kind. Thank you for the sweet thoughts and beautiful words. You make this, as Patricia put it, a “safe place to land.”

    Y’all ROCK!!

    Marie Elena

  19. Walt, Marie, Congratulations! And please put Russia on the list of countries your garden has touched 🙂

    This was written some time ago in response to Margo’s prompt, but it’s about my Recollections flower, too, so here it is:

    ~ Golden Glows ~

    In the darkness a glowing ball of flames
    Floats, pouring golden grace. Myriads
    Of rays fall onto Earth, into
    The dark soil that breaths them in,
    Shoots them back up. They burst
    Through, brighten my sky –
    The yellow suns
    Outside my

    Thank you again for everything you do!

  20. I am happy to join the rest of you garden-poets while planting seeds.

    A modified Hay(na)ku – in the interest of condensing to save another tree,
    I am writing the three lines as one while denoting the second line with brackets.
    I am choosing to call it a SHORT, FAT HAY(NA)KU 🙂

    SEEDS [in cycle] planting, growing, eating

    PURCHASE [hopes high] seeding veggies dreams.
    HOLDING [offered choices] so much choosing.
    SAVING [by buying] dozen or more.

    SELECTING [mom’s flowers] dad’s sweet corn.
    PREPARING [garden loam] defining the rows.
    SOWING [tiny seeds] to grow dreams.

    COVERING [seeds gently] patting in place.
    MAINTAINING [vigilant watch] for erupting sprouts.
    NURTURING [feeding, staking] string tied disciplining.

    WATER [can’t neglect] sprinkle not saturate.
    WATCHING [mindful tending] weeding, thinning, pruning.
    GROWING [as watching] the promises increasing.

    SAVORING [first strawberries] salad greens, peas,
    ANTICIPATING [summer melons] beans, cucumbers, peppers
    TOMATO [red globes] enticing to pick.

    PRESERVING [as possible] canning, drying, freezing.
    SHARING [with others] stupendous fresh pickings.
    SAVORING [delight of] abundant, lush harvest.

    FALL’S [offerings arrive] carrots, beets, cabbage
    PRECEDING [sweet corn] squash, pumpkins.
    LOOKING [forward to] next spring arriving.

    MMT 4-30-12

  21. A Seed in Her Ear

    Tell me about the seed, he said, the beginning.
    I offered him a single word, no need to say more.
    Miscarriages, I said.
    I felt the warmth drain from my eyes,
    icy defences like a fence post to keep
    my spine erect when my only wish was to slide
    back on to myself like a melting snowman
    cosied-up with an electric blanket.

    And …? he asked.

    It was a monosyllabic conversation
    of extraordinary depth. I reckoned that
    he was as drained of emotion as I was filled
    with defensive tools. I was a tiny, ticking,
    spring-wound clicking clockwork complete
    with squarely notched edges so my thoughts
    would fit together in a sensible way.
    Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick. I was geared up.

    Adoption, I said.

    He peaked his fingers together like a steeply pitched
    cathedral roof, and then rested his chin on the top.
    I wondered if God rested his chin on church roofs
    when he grew weary of listening to our incessant
    whinging and belly aching. I doubted it. If God
    got tired, there was no hope for fool like me.
    He blinked, and paused …
    I did the same.

    And…? he asked.

    He and his brother were my everything.
    I was happier than any one person
    should be allowed. And then he grew up,
    he left home, moved far away, he married,
    and then there was Emma. It was my turn;
    I blinked, and paused …
    He did the same.

    And …? he asked.

    Well, the thought of her being so far away,
    the thought of her not knowing me except
    as that woman in England who sends
    very pretty dresses, ruffled umbrellas
    and pink wellington boots, well, the thought
    of her growing up without me was more
    than I could take. I was impaled on cold chills
    and throttled by panic. And then one day
    when she was 2-years old, we cuddled,
    we laughed, and we played. I treasured
    every moment of that particular stay.
    On that day, I hugged her
    and I planted a seed in her ear.

    Remember me, Emma, I whispered,
    Please don’t forget me.

    He stared at me, still playing God with his
    peaky fingers. There was a hint of impatience
    in his voice when he said,


    Well, she’s 4-years old now, I said. A big girl.
    When last I was saw her, she climbed up on my lap,
    clasped her arms round my neck and whispered,
    “Don’t worry, Nana, I haven’t forgotten.”

    He stared, and I stared back.
    How is that possible that a baby can remember
    something like that, something I said so long ago?
    He just stared, sitting there in his godly peaky pose,
    and shrugged.

    Well….? I asked.

    • Beautiful – full of love and encouragement.
      My grand-littleone will be born the other side of the world this month.

    • This is soo sweet and precious, M! My three will be visiting me for three glorious weeks, this summer! 🙂 🙂 🙂 !!! 😀 !

    • Oh…Misky. My heart hurts. Mine is possibly moving away, and I am about to cry at this poem. She will only be three hours away, but it feels as if she might move to England, because I’m so blessed to see her almost every day.

  22. Pingback: A Seed in Her Ear « MiskMask

  23. How appropriate the theme in this spring season! The Theme of “Returning to the Soil” immediately brought to mind my Dad who was a farmer who shared many non-scientific but quite reliable ways of the land with his sons and daughters. This small poem was inspired by one of them.


    By Patricia Anne McGoldrick

    Amber wheat so hard
    Crushed by my father’s molars
    Harvest’s white centre.

    Published in Issue 3 March 2010 at
    (previously published at this url, now retired due to lack of funding)

  24. What is Soil?

    Throw away the verb.
    Soil is too precious to be slandered
    Think of a land of barren rock
    That has never seen the color green
    No life, no vegetation, no animals.

    Cover the rock with soil. Generations
    Would pass ,( if they exsisted)
    Soil is a product of intensive care.
    Of animal, vegetable, mineral
    Of atmosphere – sunlight and clouds
    That produce essential water.

    Millennia without number.
    The earth disturbed, gently
    Let the seeds split in the soil
    Once again, small spears of green

    So we live our animal lives
    Living in shelter, family, kin.
    Together tending the soil
    Watching as the earth turns from brown
    To living green
    Harvest the grains of gold.

  25. The Day Ends

    Shadows greyed
    the peonies
    as they hung their
    heavy heads
    after a day
    of showing off
    their crimson petticoats
    with the passerby’s glances
    forgetting to inhale
    their shot of intoxication
    that was free for the picking.

    Now night must do her magic
    giving them renewed courage
    to raise their heads
    in dignity
    and tomorrow
    before the summer ends
    with chastising heat
    and dries them all
    to seed.

    • Oooh… : “…her magic giving them renewed courage to raise their heads in dignity tomorrow and tomorrow…”

    • Beautifully written – Thanks
      Our peonies bushes (not individulal plants) are just teasing us with a tiny hint of color – in a day or two the bushes will be bursting with huge blossems.

  26. Pingback: Fiery Tulips « MiskMask

  27. Fiery Tulips

    Your seeds ignite reds,
    Bright burning yellow petals
    on grass-green carpets,
    Stretch your neck long for clouds
    Fill your blossoms with raindrops

  28. If you nurture them, they will grow. Thank you for the opportunity
    to be a seedling in your magical garden.

    Brown-eyed Flower

    Seeds sown in planters
    grow large leaves,
    mighty stems
    that bend toward sun, velvet brown
    eyes, sunflower wise.


    The Site to Seek

    Poetic Bloomings
    where small seeds
    grow and bloom.
    Each word is a leaf, each phrase
    a perfumed flower.

  29. Bloom

    I planted a seed of normalcy,
    Hoping for a life more ordinary,
    But the bloom that burst forth
    Was anything but commonplace,
    A rare blossom unseen by mortal eyes
    And destined for the exceptional.


    Texas spills fragrance:
    Night-blooming Jasmine, English
    riding boots, horse breath. :)!!!

  31. The Spider

    A spider has its place in life
    Though it has its limits

    To catch those pesky flies,
    With a web like frost on glass

    Its silken thread glistens in moonlight
    As the spider guards its seed

    The spider goes about being a spider
    With no glimpse of the big picture

  32. Growing a Poet – Parts One and Two

    I am barren, gutted, sere
    Words have flown from me
    Fluttering their wings as fast
    And fiercely as the wind
    Wailing off waters as yet

    My days unwind ahead
    Of me like pale pedestrian
    Imitations of the life
    I dreamt was my poetic
    Legacy when setting down
    Such things consumed me

    Beyond despair I give up hope
    Of writing, so am stunned
    To find myself in a garden
    Filled with blooms poetic
    I know not how I got here
    But wish only to stay, drink
    In poems until inebriated
    In this paradise, I pass out

    Surprisingly clear-headed
    I awake and in my grasp
    The beginnings of a poem
    Just a seed, but it is a start
    I pledge to plant the poem
    In the garden should it
    Come to fruition

    Part Two

    Now, I frequent this garden
    with regularity
    The gardeners here are true
    stewards of the earth and
    poetry both
    Providing tender generous care
    in all respects
    And the rewards sown
    Are reaped by all who come here
    Whether it is to post work
    Or just to read …

    A funny thing about poems with blooms
    Just like plants, they produce more seeds
    This garden is a self-perpetuating place
    That’s helping spread poetry everywhere
    This once bereft poet cannot articulate how
    Grateful she is for the place and the gardeners
    And wonders why the simplest things seem
    The most difficult to express … like thanks.
    But when all is said and done, that’s all she
    Needs to say – thank you for the seeds,
    For the garden, and mostly, for being here.


  33. BETTER LATE THAN NEVER!!! ‘Tis I, “the late” ABL. ha ha

    Garden of Weeds

    It can start with anything
    A feather caught in a curling freefall
    That cardinal pecking at my window

    The random assemblage of spices
    jumbled on the shelf – one tumbles me
    awake, ablaze with cardamom coincidence

    Mom’s spirit sharing coffee with me
    telling stories from where she now resides
    far off in heaven, and thisclose

    Even bad memories stir me
    dredge, sift, filtering through
    my bones, seeping to the nerves

    A prophet once told me that
    love is everywhere
    So is truth
    So is pain
    So is amazement
    So is amusement
    So is romance
    So is anger…
    despair …

    So it’s time
    to reach for my journal
    and sprout another plant

    for my garden of weeds

    © 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
    For Poetic Bloomings, Marie and Walt called for poems about SEEDS… seeds to plant, to nurture; seeds of poetry and other art… the beginning little “oomph” that pushes one to action.

    • You do grow LOVELY weeds! Amy, there is SO much food for thought in your words! thank-you for sharing.

    • Amy…the best poems to me are like this one–the writer’s moments, the writer moved, the writer reaching to write. This kind of poem reaches and squeezes our hearts as writers, and affirms the common beat in all of our souls.

  34. WOW! Could it really be a year already?? It doesn’t seem possible! You guys are amazing — as is your reach and influence! I feel both honored — and undeserving — to be included in your list of poets, as I’ve only been lurking about in the shadows. You’ve “guilted me” into trying to be more present in the future — is that an oxymoron?? Marie & Walt, I love both your poems, and will make every effort to plant more seeds into your lovely “Poet-anical” Garden (love that phrase, Walt!). Starting today, here’s my “seed poem”:


    Uprooted from faraway places
    distant homelands, familiar faces,
    scattered, broadcast, blown by breeze
    transplanted into common ground
    by sweat and toil, they sowed
    their seeds in fertile soil

    old roots cling, hew and cleave,
    standards relinquish, legacy
    intermingles with new mores,
    uncertain beginnings blossom,
    wild flowers finding their own way

  35. The King’s Roots

    The King’s choice seed has been planted
    His royal germ is well known
    Full growth its full inclination
    Into majestic garden, stately home

    The life within, stirred demanding
    Constant perfection, glory replete
    as gem-laden rhizomes drink ripe earth
    sinking plumb deep, wayward creep

    Its uncomeliness has now been broken
    From cracked shell it obtains escape
    Pivoting to and fro developing
    With wiggle room taking shape

  36. Extravagant Royal Seed

    Extravagant royal seed

    What magnificent birth of soil

    of crystal Magnolias arrayed

    in soft sapphire trunks

    pickled pink in diamond-rose blossoms

    abundantly crowned aside

    emerald leaf, rubied spinal stems

    sparkling, startling rich producing fruitful gems

  37. Wholly Encompassed

    Seeds sown
    in tilled hearts
    taking root;
    gaining ground
    seeking room
    gathering fruit
    of mind, emotion
    trailing arm, limb
    each extremity
    head to toe
    holding fast tendrils grip
    til blessed immobility
    wholly encompassed
    slithering, sliding
    in full poetic bloom

  38. On Planting…

    If you plant peas, my dear
    You will not get beets
    The fruit that will sprout
    Is the off-spring of seeds

    …just as in life
    Deeds are seeds of fruit
    We cannot plant evil
    And expect to reap good

    Can’t wait to return and read…

  39. Seeds-R-Us
    By: Meena Rose

    Two positions to fill,
    We are seeking creative
    Lateral thinkers who
    Will help seed and
    Nurture innovations
    In the Silicon Forest.

    I contemplated the job
    Post wondering if I
    Was a creative lateral
    Thinker and could I
    Possibly help bring other
    People’s seeds to fruition.

    I gazed back at a lifetime
    Of experiences and setbacks;
    Infusing will into the seed
    So life may renew itself
    One more time; each seedling
    Spawning others along the way.

    Was I truly a fit incubator, a
    Proper nurturer to be entrusted
    With someone else’s fragile seed
    Of an idea or innovation? I stared
    At my hands; I could not tell if
    My thumbs were green or black.

    I closed my eyes and smiled
    For a new seed had begun to
    Sparkle, shimmer and gleam. It
    Fought hard against a sea of
    Glittering seeded potential to
    Say pick me.

    I carefully picked the seed up
    And breathed life into it
    Fanning its inner glow; quickly
    The seed started to thrive reflecting
    Its luminous glow on its neighbors;
    I think I found it: my own catalyst seed.

  40. Pingback: Deep Calls Unto Deep « echoes from the silence


    seed sown into fertile soil;
    dark, rich earth
    damp from the moisture below,
    warmed by the sun above

    deep calls unto this seed
    to be more than itself;
    the depth of its potential
    yet to be realized

    P. Wanken

  42. Inspired by two massive, aged, wise trees I noticed on a beautiful evening.

    Wise Trees

    On the nightside, parked
    tucked in the shadow
    I took courage at seeing
    your gorgeous crown,
    dense dimensions,
    fullness of wisdom
    of your elegant roots.
    Your presence
    so charming
    draws me closer
    within the limits
    of your
    massive frondescence
    please fold me closer
    wrap me tightly
    with your wise
    winged boughs
    I beg you, branch deeply
    into the chambers
    of my heart and
    fill me with your

  43. Haiku on Seed (3)

    I am only seed.
    You are fertile ground and rain.
    Together we grow.
    ~ ~ ~
    From a single seed
    enough good can multiply
    to nourish the world
    ~ ~ ~
    Dandelion fur
    left alone in natures hands
    will yield a bounty
    ~ ~ ~

    By Michael Grove

  44. The Beggars

    A handful was all he had.
    A simply special seed.
    The beggars were all glad.
    He grew enough to feed.

    A simply special seed.
    Please multiply and grow.
    He grew enough to feed.
    At first he had to sow.

    Please multiply and grow.
    Share what you shall reap.
    At first he had to sow.
    At last he had to weep.

    Share what you shall reap.
    A handful was all he had.
    At last he had to weep.
    The beggars were all glad.

    By Michael Grove

  45. Back to the Potting Shed

    The best laid plans
    of Poets and Weasels
    (like a dreadful case of measles)
    have gone, if not agly,
    then at the least
    a bit skew-whiffly

    The time has come
    the ball-fan said
    to howl of many things:
    of chips, of booze,
    of stealing third,
    of hot dogs,
    and wings.

    Did Byron Shelley
    and our man, Keats
    suffer such ignoble defeats?
    Tales are not given forth,
    Cry God! Harry, I’m getting hoarse!

    So lead us up the garden path
    and slyly pass the old bird bath,
    sneak into the potting shed
    and lay upon the old camp bed,
    muse and ponder for a while,
    about what words
    this old world needs
    and when at last the time is nigh,
    leap up to plant some fresh
    new seeds.


  46. Thank-you Walt and Marie,

    Their kind words fall
    Soft, whispered seeds
    Into a fallow plot
    They sprout
    Creating poetry
    From gathering of thought

    Kind words are seeds
    They strip the weeds
    That fain would choke the flower
    They nurture where
    Bleak, dark despair
    Would seek to over-power

    Translucent seeds
    Kind words inspire
    A universal garden
    Where poetry
    Blooms rampantly
    Beneath love’s tender pardon


    From little seeds came prompts, came poems,
    those few they gathered, coming home,
    and they were of many speech but one language.

    Lines they spoke in colours rich,
    stitching words, quilting poems they wrote,
    and they were of many speech but one language.

    Layer on layer of delicate sounds,
    rhyming beats of meter found,
    and they were of many speech but one language.

    Poetic floors, poetic walls,
    stanzas hung as softly falling shawls,
    and they were of many speech but one language.

    A house, a home, a poetic hearth,
    those that gathered, coming home,
    and they were of many speech but one language.

    The Language of Poetry

  48. Gardening with Dad

    Tommy trailed Dad down garden rows
    He watched Dad plant each tiny seed
    He longed to see how a plant grows
    That would explain his naughty deed

    He watched Dad plant each tiny seed
    His plan seemed right just at the time
    That would explain his naughty deed
    Felt innocent of any crime

    His plan seemed right just at the time
    To take a look see underground
    Felt innocent of any crime
    As Tommy plunged his shovel down

    To take a look see underground
    We’re just the same way with God’s plans
    As Tommy plunged his shovel down
    With worry we too upturn plants

    We’re just the same way with God’s plans
    We question how His Word comes true
    With worry we too upturn plants
    And what a childish thing to do!

    We question how His Word comes true
    Instead of trusting in His grace
    And what a childish thing to do!
    Let’s keep His promises in place

    So let us trust in His good grace
    And follow Dad down garden rows
    Let’s keep His promises in place
    And see how each plant surely grows

  49. I have been so, so busy, and I’ve missed my PB group. I will try to catch up.

    Where Growth Begins

    When you feel likes smiling
    don’t hide it.
    Smile, so others know.

    When tunes start stirring
    don’t squelch them,
    Drum or hum, make a show,

    When doubts come,
    don’t dwell on them.
    Push them aside, let them go.

    When an idea comes
    don’t dismiss it.
    Fuel it and let it grow!

    © KED 2012

    • KELLY!!! Missed you! Love the smile, smile, smile… sing, sing, sing to push the doubts away!!! 🙂 🙂 🙂 !!!

  50. Verdant

    I have a brown thumb
    I kill plants

    I don’t mean to
    It just happens

    So, you should probably
    keep seeds away from me

    Words are my soil
    That’s where I plant

    Some are forests
    November novels

    Some a clump of trees
    an adapted screenplay

    Some a bush
    leaves on each side

    of the branches
    stanzas of couplets

    Some a blade of grass
    a haiku

    These are my seeds
    I share them with you

    Plant them in your fertile soil
    your imagination

    That would make me happy
    and maybe you too

    That green
    that is our life

  51. Pingback: Prompt Week: Friday Freeforall « Margo Roby: Wordgathering

  52. Dandelion moon

    Now that you have failed, my friend,
    now that you have fought and cried,
    and close-kissed death , you are ready.

    Tonight, what once blazed gold on a
    sea of sun is beautiful again, become
    a pirate mast flashing silver at the moon.

    For upon this grey-swept beach we are all washed,
    drunk on disorder – quavering oaks bowing
    final prayers over our work as it floats away.

    Somewhere, this cloud of silk will find new
    ground and astonish. So let the skies descend, and
    damn the consequences. Every shipwreck is a seed.

    • Love that “Dandelion moon” title… and thinking about how “every shipwreck is a seed”…

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