And so, we begin again. The beauty of our garden has grown beyond our wildest dreams, and it seems we have more to do. We have re-seeded our plot with a wider broadcast, and reaching as Marie had highlighted, all around the world.

Our next phase has begun and we are celebrating as we do, by choosing the BEAUTIFUL BLOOMS for the first prompt of our second season.

Marie Elena’s Bloom

And once again our poets have brought beauty, poignancy, smiles, and warmth to our humble garden. Once again, so many of your offerings could be bestowed the honor of a “Beautiful Bloom.” However, “Marilyn (“Misk Mask”) Braendeholm’s  A Seed in Her Ear brought me to tears several times this week. Nothing I can say here could possibly do justice to the depth of this love story of heartache, humanity, hope, and utter love. Marilyn, the power of your pen is astounding.

A Seed in Her Ear (by Marilyn Braendeholm)

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.


It begins with a seed. And here, our seeds are flashes of thought; ideas that prompt us into our verbal nurturing. Here we equate our poetry to the beauty of a flourishing garden. Our poet has taken this thought and reduced it into the “simplicity” of the writing process. Daniel Paicopulos give us SOURCE MATERIAL.

SOURCE MATERIAL by Daniel Paicopulos

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.