POETIC BLOOMINGS is a Phoenix Rising Poetry Guild site established in May 2011 to nurture and inspire the creative spirit.


This week our journey through the elements brings us to WATER.

Write a WATER poem. Anything liquid or water in any state, will satisfy the thirst of our parched poetic palettes. If it’s potable, make it notable!

Let your ideas flow. Water you waiting for?


John 4:14 “… but whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst.”
For this I’ve learned – we’re not immune
To dampened dreams beneath the moon
Where love lies fallow, barren, spent;
Where thirsting hearts are spurned and rent.

My Jesus, quench my burning need
And to your living water, lead
Where charred remains of love are nursed;
Where hearts will thrive and never thirst.



There’s no beating the heat,
it comes replete with perspiration
as your inspiration. Arid and dry,
tricking your eye to see the sea
of trouble you’re in for if your
thirst is not quenched, not
to mention the tension of visions
you can not explain. It looks like it rained,
a respite with puddles, an oasis
of all places. Running in a sprint,
the glint off of the water wins out.
You lower your mouth for the sip you seek…
you’ll be up spitting that sand for a week.

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388 thoughts on “WATER, WATER EVERYWHERE – PROMPT #59

  1. Fish Out Of Water

    All things thru destiny and fate.
    He swam around and took the bait.
    While on the hook and line he heard his calling.
    By gentle prod or stronger force
    he made his mark and stayed the course.
    The greatest hand of all kept him from falling.

    He flopped around, a silly dance.
    He didn’t want to miss this chance
    to build upon his visions and his dreams.
    A bolder voice had now been heard.
    It told him he must share the word
    and stock all of the rivers, lakes and streams.

    By Michael Grove

  2. ~The Ultimate Rain-Dance~

    I hear a dew-drop dribble-dribble,
    a little plop, slopping, plinka-plink-plink
    building to a dropa-dropa-drop-dewy-drop.
    This relentless rain sings a mantra;
    I don’t complain, my heart’s not strained,
    I know the sun shall shine again,
    I’m not worried…, not in the least.
    My feet are ready, rearin’ for stompa-stompin,
    I’m tip-tap-twitchin’ rippin-ready
    for some good old fashioned puddle-rompin’
    and my heart’s design dances to the melodic best;
    it races with the hip-hop-soppen-drippa-drop.
    I submerge my soul in the rhythm of the rain,
    my heart heeds the pitter-patter-slop-slop
    and sings with the round-bellied-red-breasted-robin.
    As we echo each other’s actions exuberantly,
    we’re celebrating this glorious water of life,
    with a delirious dew-drop dribble-dribble
    With much poignant plop, slopping, plinka-plink-plink
    and a dramatic dropa-dropa-drop-dewy-drop thrown in;
    our feet stride with the boisterous beat, vibrating in unison.

    ©Hannah Gosselin 6/10/12 @PB

    • So…I made some changes, I was too, hasty posting! Happy Sunday smiles to everyone! 🙂

    • Either way, I liked it. This is another with that “random” rhyme scheme… but I am thinking you might be working on a pattern somewhere in this piece. I can hear the sound effects reading this one.

      • Janet on said:

        Hannah, this is so ‘catchy’…my toes are a-tappin’ and my fingahs a-snappin’:) doo-dah…m-m-m-h-m-m-m!

      • So, I was trying to remember the name for this and then Viv, visited me with a lovely comment and reminded me of this: “Onomatopoeia!” That’s the way of it I think!

        Yes, Michael, I did do random rhyme but this time I didn’t even try to make a pattern out of it, while the other time we’re thinking of I created a scheme for it! I agree, Janet, I think that would make a great prompt!

        Thank you, so much to Michael, Janet, Marjory, Hen, Andrea, Kelly and Linda!!

        I had a delightful time writing this and am so blessed that I have such fun poetic friends to share my words with…truly blessed. Thank you and smiles to you all!

    • Marjory M Thompson (MMT) on said:

      Hannah – I think that you were simple having a delightful time writing, and gave to us a dightful piece to read. “random” rhyme scheme… I’ll go with that, and fun use of words.

    • Hannah, I think it’s great. This form is called “letter rhyming” in Danish – directly translated.

    • Hannah, I need to read this delightful poem every rainy day. The rain is often so gloomy and you were able to make it so fun and beautiful!

    • This was so very enjoyable!

    • Iris D on said:

      I think we could grab a guitar and make this into a song, Hannah. We coud sing it on rainy days. Good job Hannah!

    • That was fantastic, Hannah! You actually made my heartbeat go from dribble to full-fledged splashing dance! How you got that acceleration, that crescendo in there is amazing. Loved the sound, the exuberance that rose like water in low places.

  3. Pingback: ~The Ultimate Rain-Dance~ « Metaphors and Smiles

    • Marjory M Thompson (MMT) on said:

      Marie – Heart rending and heart filling all in one. 🙂

      Walt 🙂 next time do remember to take a water bottle…..

  4. Marie, prayerfully precious, your poem well with the Water of Love. So well written.

    Parched just reading this, Walt, such an aching lack of water and teasing mirage. Nicely penned!

    Thank you, for the prompts and poems to read, always with a smile!

    • AGREED – Marie, Your poem is so very beautiful. It flows gracefully. Walt, something tells me this poem of vivid imagery isn’t just about a desert mirage. SO WELL DONE… both of you.

  5. Water Under The Bridge

    It tried but didn’t kill you
    so it only made you stronger.
    You persevered, now be thankful
    it didn’t last any longer.

    The world is full of river beds
    and bridges over top.
    The waters keep on flowing.
    We must pray they never stop.

    Will you turn your weary head
    to view what’s up the river?
    Will you fixate downstream
    while you curl up and quiver?

    Peace of mind is precious
    as is what grace has in store.
    Be thankful for each day you have.
    Waters seek a distant shore.

    Climb up from the river valley.
    Walk along the ridge.
    Don’t dwell upon the passing of the
    water under the bridge.

    By Michael Grove

  6. Marjory M Thompson (MMT) on said:

    NONET 9-8-7—-1 Beats


    Morning sun rises to blazing sky
    that holds no trace of wind or rain
    to mare the deepness of blue
    and birds wing their way up,
    as gentle waves lap
    over the sand,
    you and

  7. Marjory M Thompson (MMT) on said:


    in blue sky
    best of summer days,
    soft waves lapping over beach sand
    where pebbles, shells nest by drift wood
    beach combers gathering
    to fill

  8. Marjory M Thompson (MMT) on said:


    Low tide
    crabs scurry
    across the wet sand
    while avoiding diving sea gulls
    and outrace children with dogs to
    return to the sea
    and live one
    more day

  9. claudsy on said:

    A Desert’s Truth

    Warm, tasteless, living fluid
    To wet the throat, leaving
    Behind only greater desire
    For expected coolness there,
    I drink you in, waiting for
    Satisfaction and relief.

    My gratitude expands with
    Sun’s potent desire to crisp
    All beneath its bright eyes.
    Never can I taste your sweet
    Wetness again without sheer
    Joy, knowing you are here for me.

  10. claudsy on said:

    Spring Melt

    Tumbling liquid emerald tresses,
    Flirting, tossing snowy petticoats,
    Ever wearing down mica-flected
    Bodies lying in Earth’s bed, so
    Firmly placed on valley’s floor.

    Merging with lake’s reaches,
    Mingling, tasting other streams,
    Licking stony shores as snows
    Recede to reveal winter’s end
    And land’s price for restful sleep.


    All I want is to sit with you on a boat catching cod
    under the high bridges
    on the dark blue sea.

    “Don’t move!”
    Careful, careful!
    “Don’t say a word, they have ears.”
    I’m completely silent.
    “No, no,
    don’t smoke, they have noses.”
    What incredible bright beasts,
    we’re about to kill.

    “Only whatever we do, the cods will be there,”
    you say, teaching me
    and I let you.
    I’m all here for you.

    Cods everywhere deep down under the dark surface.
    And we’ll get them.

    I thought:
    “All I want is to get them.”
    You smiled.

    “What’s wrong now?” I whispered.
    And you said:
    “You are supposed to catch max. three.
    Not twenty three.”

  12. A Villanelle. I was already working on this poem before you brought up the subject of water. But the water theme seemed to help me finish it.

    “The Riddle”

    Sphinx-like, he sits with a last, solemn gaze.
    Parched lids sink low in the heat of death’s glare.
    No other lover will I ever praise.

    I am dry Egypt in the desert’s haze.
    I thirst for his words, resigned with no fear.
    Sphinx-like, he sits with a last, solemn gaze.

    We both were part of misbegotten ways;
    Searching for water to needs not filled, where
    no other lover will I ever praise.

    Love honors a need for one who is crazed
    We keep ego safe before we can care.
    Sphinx-like, he sits with a last, solemn gaze.

    Death answers the riddle in his last phrase:
    “Love survives a desert because he shares.”
    No other lover will I ever praise.

    Oh, oracle; dry lips are now ablaze!
    My soul, in a vast desert, howling there.
    No other lover will I ever praise.
    Sphinx-like, he sits with a last, solemn gaze.

    (a shadorma)

    water’s edge…
    life in the balance:
    the choice is not always ours,
    we go with the flow

    P. Wanken

  14. Henrietta Choplin on said:

    Walt and Meg, loved both for different reasons! 🙂

  15. WATER






  16. When in hot water
    the proper response should be
    to yell out, ‘Hell l’eau!”

  17. Just Beneath the Mirror’s Surface

    We are water.

    Our words pour out
    our grief.

    Heated in our argument
    our flowing tears
    cloud our thinking.

    It might be easier
    to push them back,
    but we must put our palms together
    and our righteousness aside.

    To smear clarity through the fog,
    and bring us into focus,
    we need to retouch
    our unyielding words.

    Our hearts pour out
    our love.

    We are water.

  18. My frozen water Haiku.

    Hot coffee not good
    in the heat of summertime.
    Ice cubes make it great!

    © KED 2012

  19. Fill up a bucket
    with all the tears you have cried
    and drown all the pain.

    © KED 2012

  20. The green garden hose
    brings relief from summer heat
    cool and refreshing.

    © KED 2012

  21. Marjory M Thompson (MMT) on said:

    Waves Ripple

    Some folks say, “She is so strong!”
    If she feels weak – is that wrong?
    These times she walks to the sea,
    calming, sparkling endless sea,
    shining ripples in the sun,
    reflection of prize once won.

    Waves come rolling up the beach,
    seagulls stand within their reach.
    Moving waves under the sun,
    back-ground sounds as work is done.
    Calm, refreshing place to be,
    down beside the endless sea.

    Seaweed’s drying on the sand,
    pebbles, shells where ‘ere you stand.
    Sailboats bob in waves and breeze,
    others beached at tilted ease.
    From pebble tossed in the sea
    ripples move out endlessly.

    I wonder where ripples reach
    when started at some sandy beach?
    Un-ending ripples bearing
    peace, joy in memory sharing.
    Pebble’s rippling motion’s right,
    lifting burdens, give hearts light.

    Can’t remember if this has a proper form Name?
    7 beats per line – aaBBcc DDeeFF ….

  22. I haven’t had time to read these yet, nor very much time to write, but here goes with a little’un:


    There’s been too much water this year
    here, and too little over there.
    What’s wrong with the weather’s
    what I want to know.
    Why can’t distribution be fair?

  23. and here’s another:


    sparkling in the sun
    or dull green sluggish flow –
    inspiration f or artists and poets.
    wet to launder, wash us, clean house,
    to swim and cool our overheated bodies,
    lubricate the throat, restore fluid balance,
    freeze to add zing to a drink, preserve our food.
    Water can fight fire fearlessly, sizzle and die,
    vaporise into steam to power machines.
    Rain brings hope to drought-stricken
    folk and fear to river flood plain.
    Volatile, versatile, valued,
    saved, and distributed,
    vital to this life
    on earth.

  24. Poetic Bloomings on said:

    My goodness! OUTSTANDING work out here already, and it’s barely after noon EST! 😀

    Marie Elena

  25. Hi,
    wrote a wordle for the Whirl this morning, it’s a “water poem,” sort of.. will try to come up with another one just for PB:

    ~ Sailing ~

    I watch them sail –
    Two vessels, masts upright –
    The seven seas of summer
    (Mud-stained sails)

    Time crawls for them
    Mine – skips, and lands, and sinks
    Before I get to count –
    A thrown stone

    I close my eyes
    And travel back once more
    I brush away the shadows
    Willows cry

    I board my ship –
    Without a single nail
    Of love, and faith, and hope
    It’s built to last

    And soon enough
    I leave the coastal bluffs
    And taste the salty breath
    Of summertime

    I feel my heart
    Still trembling in the wind
    (Corona’s way too weak)
    I feel alive.

  26. Laurie Kolp on said:

    From Speedboat to Sailboat

    I stormed the Gulf of Mexico for years
    a speedboat zooming in and out of victim’s lives
    racing solo, jumping hurdles zealously
    a zigzag here and there without a backwards glance
    a vortex voiding eyes of innocence
    overpowered by a roar, a rev, a VROOM;
    voracious as a barracuda on the prowl.

    Until one day my engine crashed and burned,
    left me floating in rough waters all alone.
    I saw a sailboat sparkling in the sun
    with glassy ripples flowing rhythmically,
    found you at the cockpit calm and cool
    a peace emanating from your mien
    while seagulls soared in harmony.

    Your silent treatment blew my mind
    as the wind slapped life into me
    misty water splashed, cooled me down
    a mix of salt and fish aroma wakening.

    And all at once I knew the truth-
    the wheel was not my own to navigate.
    You are the wind, my guide in life.
    I’ll let you sail this boat from here on out.

  27. Henrietta Choplin on said:

    (A Cascade Poem)


    Who Are You?!
    With that voice…
    as smooth as… water…

    Those fathomless eyes,
    swimming right thru me…
    Who Are You?!

    Singing my song…
    …seranading me…
    with that voice…

    …Awakening my soul…
    …drowning my heart…
    as… smooth… as… water.

  28. janeshlensky on said:

    Fear of Drowning

    We learned despite our mother’s fear
    that water does not want us,
    but lifts us up like leaves
    floating on a current, that trust
    in our buoyancy was our life raft.

    She had never swum, at odds with
    crashing waves, the undertows
    of her landed life enough to pull her under.
    Knowing she herself was mostly water,
    her body a pond to all her children, still

    she was never at home with lying back
    in danger’s lap, her weightless flesh
    cradled by whatever navigates the depths,
    by whatever winds make waves,
    by the notion that deep water still runs.

  29. Water

    the scald and steam of the shower
    was not succeeding in cleansing
    the stain,
    no more than hours of wondering
    wandering in the rain had cleared
    the memories,
    or a day on the sand trying to cull
    meaning from the ocean had healed
    the pain.
    I was told that water symbolized
    but everything was the

  30. Marjory M Thompson (MMT) on said:


    Waves cross bay to roll up the beach
    sun distributing morning warmth
    before the tide slips out of reach.

    Seagull swoops in a graceful arch
    out for a breakfast of fresh clams
    Waves cross bay to roll up the beach

    Drift wood lays where sun left it bleached
    ‘waiting beachcomber’s happy to claim
    before the tide slips out of reach.

    Mothers bring young children to teach
    of shells, sand, birds, fish and tide as
    waves cross bay to roll up the beach

    They listen to the seagulls screech
    as dogs and children chase them away
    before the tide slips out of reach

    Then feast on grapes, plums and a peach
    served with hotdogs and ice cream as
    waves cross bay to roll up the beach
    before the tide slips out of reach.

  31. Pingback: Of Soulful Tears and Oceans Wide | Two Voices, One Song

  32. It’s been a long time … my poetic side has been hibernating, I think. (Maybe some cold water in the face will help wake it up 😉 ) Anyway, here’s simple shadorma for today’s prompt:


    Little drop
    shining with color,
    a rainbow
    midst the tear-
    imagine a world flooded
    with rainbows.

  33. A Tear’s Journey
    By: Meena Rose

    I honor you by
    Showing my hurt –
    A lone tear slides
    Down my cheek.

    Your discomfort is
    Insulting and angering;
    I release my tears
    No longer concerned.

    My throat catches on
    Fire – frustration
    Searing, vexation
    Lancing my soul.

    My pain, my agony –
    Glossed over; all
    Women cry, foolish

    I watched my tears
    Escape into Ocean’s
    Embrace; I watched
    My tears ride high

    Upon an Ocean’s wave
    Leading the charge
    To places unknown;
    Bringing life.

    I gaze out longingly
    Seeking out my tears,
    One looked back and
    Waved goodbye.

  34. By the Shores of Lake George
    By: Meena Rose

    Summer time by Lake George,
    An annual get-a-way,
    I now sorely miss.

    Endless hours spent
    Reflecting upon Water –
    Grand nourisher of life.

    Water – it flows;
    It does not resist;
    It gives.

    Water – it soothes;
    It does not judge;
    It caresses.

    Water – it persists;
    It does not give up;
    It succeeds.

    If it can’t go through it,
    It goes around it;
    It is unstoppable.

    Whittles rocks,
    Shaping the land –
    Remember: You are half water.

  35. http://rinklyrimes.blogspot.com.au/2012/06/littleness.html

    My photograph is an essential part of my poem so I’ll just leave the URL. I’ve enjoyed reading the other entries.

  36. It took much crying, cursing, and beating my head into my desk, but I’ve managed to write my first attempt at a sestina…don’t think I’ll be tackling that again any time soon! I have to say that the effort makes me appreciate Walt’s talent for that form even more 🙂

    Shadows on the Water

    I ventured through the mud and stones
    Until I reached that special place
    Where the lingering shadows
    Of willows trembled in the dying light,
    Cooler of cold Corona in hand
    And memories of you in my heart.

    Seeking salvation for an aching heart
    Is much easier here than in a field of stones
    Shaped and engraved by a mournful hand,
    Finding comfort in a familiar place
    Where we watched divine light
    In its endless dance with the shadows.

    I truly understand those shadows;
    They now occupy my heart,
    Their darkness choking away your light,
    Brushing across the stones
    And desecrating this place,
    Dusky phantoms melting in my hand.

    I cup water in my hand
    To wash away the shadows
    Yet they remain in place,
    The stubborn stains of a wounded heart,
    One martyred by Death’s stones
    But still seeking the redemption of the light.

    As night approaches, the light
    Crawls across the bluffs, God’s hand
    Stroking color across the stones
    But not banishing the shadows
    That now haunt my heart
    Every moment in every place.

    I’m merely a vessel floating in place,
    Unable to move into forward toward the light,
    The loss of you a nail through my heart.
    I take another bottle in hand
    And make a toast to you, to shadows,
    To lost heroes in a sea of stones.

    Here in this place I feel you close at hand,
    Your spirit now a part of that dance of light and shadows,
    Bringing just a bit of peace to a heart battered by stones.

    • Marjory M Thompson (MMT) on said:

      “….It took much crying, cursing, and beating my head into my desk, but I’ve managed to write my first attempt at a sestina….”

      Mary, the beauty, pain, love, clarity of this… is absolutely wonderful. And if this is from a reality of your own, then I am sure that the crying, cursing and beating were not all to do with the form. But , it completion was, hopefully, also a part of healing.

      Also understand the Work! Great job. Thank you for sharing.

      I am also working on my first sestina (not a one-day stand for sure) but mine is in a much lighter mood. Waiting now for a Prompt it can fit into. 🙂 Chose a summer time activity, so am sure Walt will oblige me with a good prompt soon. 🙂

    • Mary, a Sestina is not for the faint of heart. Time consuming! Challenging! You did a great job here. Just a suggestion. Try writing one in very strict, iambic pentameter. Writing in a particular meter seems to help me get control of the line.

    • Mary, quite an accomplishment. I’ve never attempted one, and need to study the form more. But you shared the emotion and desperation and loss so well, it just ‘rested’ into the form and seemed at home in it. Beautiful, sad.

  37. Janet on said:

    It fills the tear that stings the eye
    In raw, unkempt emotion
    It weeps in mercy from the sky
    And forms the turquoise ocean

    It cheers dull nooks in laughing brooks
    It crushes as it rushes
    Its nectar drips on parted lips
    On twilight ponds it blushes

    It drenches parched, drought-stricken lands
    It floods, it flows and gurgles
    It mirrors heaven’s vast expanse
    And cools the sluggish turtles

    It trickles, seeps, it drowns, it pools
    Baptizes re-born sinners
    It lures young lads from woes like school
    To fish and dream till dinner

    It gleams like silver, polished glass
    On winter’s frozen shallows
    It sparkles on dew-dazzled grass
    And tames the dusty fallows

    From cups it spills, in rip-tides kills
    Too much or none; disaster
    In midnight rain its soft refrain
    Evokes passion’s grandmaster

    How cold the grave beneath its wave
    But as the sun gets hotter
    We tip the jug to fill our mug
    And thank the Lord for water, water, water…

  38. Drops Drip (a shadorma)

    Water drops,
    Once ice, now just cold,
    From the twigs
    Of these trees
    To awaken spring anew
    With incessant drips.

  39. This looked like a lovely raindrop on my computer, but nevertheless this is the result here on PB.

    Summer rain
    would bring out
    the bathing suit and
    down the street I would run
    to where 10th and Pierce would
    intersect. Puddled up on the corner
    I’d splash and kick at the gathering
    pool, careful to miss the passing cars.
    Then back up the hill I would go and
    throw myself down on freshly mowed,
    soft, wet grass, to soak up more rain.
    I wish I had time to soak up a
    warm summer rain
    once again.

    © KED 2012

    • Marjory M Thompson (MMT) on said:

      Kelly, Your poem is such a fun picture. Tells a wonderful story.
      and I choose to see the raindrop!

      This looked like a lovely raindrop on my computer, but nevertheless this is the result here on PB.

      I appreciate your effort – I have ‘not-got’ it yet either, will keep at it!

    • Janet on said:

      In spite of the heat today I feel refreshed. LOVE this:)

    • Kelly, this took me (and I’m sure many others) back to the yards of summer! Fun, loved it.

  40. Henrietta Choplin on said:

    Wow, there are so many great water poems that I can’t give individual comments, as the Grandbabies have just arrived to share my life for the next several weeks! 🙂 🙂 🙂 !


    Everyone said
    that he didn’t have
    the sense
    to put a hat on his head,
    to come in
    from the rain
    when any right thinking
    sane man
    would duck and take
    cover. But there he stood
    like petrified wood,
    rain trickling
    rivers down his face,
    his hair wet,
    a glistening mat,
    his clothes
    embracing water
    like a thirsty river bank
    as his eyes
    scoured the clouds
    for water, pleading
    for a mouthful to drink.
    Hour on hour,
    day on day,
    he held out his tin cup
    and waited for it to fill.
    Water, water everywhere,
    he’d cry,
    and not a drop
    in my cup to drink.

    • I’ve re-written this one:


      Everyone said
      that he didn’t have
      the sense
      to put a hat on his head,
      to come in
      from the rain
      when any right thinking
      sane man
      would duck and dive
      for the dry. But there he stood
      like petrified wood,
      rain trickling
      rivers down his face,
      his hair wet,
      a glistening mat,
      his soured clothes embracing
      water like a dry
      river bank. His eyes
      scouring the clouds
      for a mere sip of dew,
      for a mouthful to sip.
      Hour on hour,
      day on day,
      he held out his tin cup
      and waited for it to fill.
      Water, water everywhere,
      he’d cry,
      and not a drop
      in my cup to drink.

      • Iris D on said:

        You have certainly drawn a captivating picture of a hopeless man here. Thought provoking, Misky.

        • Well maybe, but the point is that he’s soaking wet and there’s water everywhere but he still thinks he needs to drink from a cup that the rain isn’t filling very quickly. 😀

          • Iris D on said:

            Agreed. I just meant he is hopeless in that he cannot see to reach out and take what is readily available but waits for it to come to him. Great poem

      • Great picture Misky of our ridiculous conventions…we insist so often in drinking properly from the cup. Liked this.

  42. Just a quickie from me – I’ll try and stop by with something better considered later!

    Water! Water!

    have a complant!
    Ths stupd grapefrut
    you provded just squrted
    me n the face. Now can’t
    use my eyes.

    Ths establshement s a dsaster
    and shall be wrtng a letter
    to your manager, just to tell
    her what thnk of you.

  43. Such great “water-works” hee, hee… and it has only been a full 24 hours (or maybe a bit more)!!! Really excellent poeming poetical peeps!! You all make this craft such an enjoyable experience!

  44. Looking for Water in This Clumsy Living

    Skip right to page 86 and it will all make sense.
    Probably not but there’s a story there
    with a title – green on the day –
    that doesn’t make sense until the last line
    and those are the best stories
    so it’s worth the trip.
    I went there looking for water.
    Funny how we get pissed off when the rain shows up
    but even more pissed when it stays away too long.
    What a life.
    It’s raining here on page 21.
    Another story, too.
    You can tell because the author held the book out the window
    while writing it. That and he told me it was raining.
    Good thing too because the bottom of page 21 is on fire.
    I didn’t expect to find water on only the second try
    and so now I’m not sure what to do, where to go,
    and so I do what I always do when I feel that way
    and skip to the goodbye.
    Pages 98-99, in this case.
    It stings at first like most goodbyes do
    but then Bob ends it with pictures
    – which are really only ideas of pictures at this point –
    of storms
    – which are really pictures of darkness and terror –
    but there is light in the terror.

  45. Iris D on said:


    Only when you’re gone do we think of you.
    You are ignored unless needed.
    Then panic sets in and everyone begins
    running here and there;
    searching for you in any available place.
    With his last breath man obsesses.
    When he can’t find you, he dies.
    Crying your name, he finally cherishes you.
    Water, water, water…

  46. Iris D on said:

    I wrote this in 2009, but since it is about the ocean full of water, I just wanted to post it. Loving this prompt, so many poets posting splashing hits!
    Ode to the Pacific

    Are you aware of your scope and sway,
    that the moon controls your destiny?
    High tide, low, or waning,
    she sets the limit of your boundary.

    For centuries man continued to aspire,
    to ride your waves to unknown shores.
    Times you spew him like dragon’s fire,
    others you cradle him like a babe.

    Poets forever speak of your beauty,
    sonnets formed for you alone.
    Romances blossom along your side,
    to be washed away before the dawn.

    Mankind mirrors your volatile moods.
    Rising from the peace of the neap
    to the height of powerful tsunamis,
    mysteries lie buried in the deep.

  47. Iris D on said:

    Marie, you make my eyes water with this poem. I give you a dozen blooms for this one!!

  48. Iris D on said:

    Walt, I have expierienced a few mirages in my life. Life does not always teach us in subtle ways. Thanks for the reminder.


    He’d come the long way around
    to hating water, sailing around the Horn,
    a face full of iced, slushy storms,
    and waves that heaved and rolled,
    the likes to envy any matron’s heavy bosom
    as she bounced, bobbed and bounded
    herself into elasticated Playtex.

    He wanted to girdle the sea into submission,
    and cursed the days when the waves filled
    his head with sick. He braved it all,

    facing the wind, retching and heaving
    into the sea spray and the fracturing waves
    across the deck. He was dehydrated and weak,
    and he’d come the long way round to hating
    water. He and his boat floundered with fish
    that caressed the edges of waves,
    tickling and teasing his boat’s keel.

  50. Iris D on said:

    Mist, ice, or flowing river
    simple H20
    complex is our need of you

  51. Iris D on said:

    Tears in a Bottle

    Two parts of hydrogen
    One part of oxygen
    Put them together
    In one tiny drop
    They make a tear
    That falls in sorrow
    According to the Torah
    God stores our tears
    In a bottle for us
    Drop by tiny drop

  52. Until the Breaking of the Waters

    Our first sea is secret, only we can
    Know its beaches and its barriers
    Its jagged boundaries, the fragile
    Reef on which we have learned
    Not to founder but to dive

    Into the richness of our umbilical
    We alone, private swimmers,
    Cannot relate tales of its depths,
    Tides and inlets, no darkness
    Or dawn, no constellations, moonless.

    When the moment arrives and we
    Are plucked from our watery world
    And into the kingdom of air, listen
    As our lungs awaken. We breathe,
    We feel, we hear, we exist!

    Now the world of water will remain
    A memory hidden in the circuitry
    Of our veins.

    • Marjory M Thompson (MMT) on said:

      Marian – really enjoyed that as I welcomed our granddaughter to the word of air just a few weeks ago. Beautifully written.

    • A beautiful picture of placental bliss! Loved these last lines…
      “Now the world of water will remain
      A memory hidden in the circuitry
      Of our veins..”

  53. Salton Lake

    There in the desert lies a lake
    Filled with water whose taste gave me a jolt
    Such a surprise was this inland waterway
    This lake more like an ocean really

    Thunderheads above surged at the ready
    To fling fresh droplets but could they
    Detach to join this body of salt-water …

    There in the desert with the sea-gulls
    Screeching wildly overhead

  54. Some Other Day

    We tell the rain don’t come
    but it does anyway, can’t help
    its slippery sloppy self, slides cold
    down these silent window panes.

    We watch these puddled places
    rise and fall and wash it all
    away, rinse clean these shadow
    -ed streets and spill. Hold, still.

    We tell the rain don’t come
    but it comes anyway, comes
    and goes and ebbs and flows
    and floats your heart away.

  55. Pingback: Some Other Day | Whimsygizmo's Blog

  56. Oh, Marie. Yours just pours with praise, my friend. This should be a hymn. Just gorgeous.

  57. Iris D on said:

    Well of Life

    Wash, spray, sprinkle or downpour
    Geyser, waterfall, fountain and more
    Aqueduct, creek, river, or sea
    Variety of your potential
    Seems endless to me
    You ripple or wave, steam, or gush
    Hydrate, irrigate, trickle or flush
    Torrents cause deluge
    Tsunamis bring fear
    Iceberg spells danger
    A drop becomes a tear
    Watershed, waterworks
    Waterboard, waterski
    For pleasure or for life
    Water is sheer necessity

  58. Cleansing

    Our tears
    Cleanse the wounds
    Inflicted by
    The thoughtless,
    The ruthless,
    The careless,
    And the clueless.

  59. Water Haiku

    Child in water wings
    Stands frozen at edge of pool
    Knowing he can’t drown

    Still, a tiny hole
    Might go unnoticed in one
    Wing, and he could sink.

    Blue pool waters splash
    Friends laugh, wave, and beckon him
    Deep breath in, he jumps.


    Put Yourself In Their Roots ( a fibonacci)

    the plants yet?
    The get thirsty too.
    Would you like to be dry and parched

    no water
    close enough to reach?
    Guilt forceful enough, turns faucet.

  60. I couldn’t come out to play yesterday, so I’ll play tonight and since I’m in a playful mood–

    “Fighting dreams on moonbeam ponds”

    There, peeking behind the nightlight,
    that clever tribe of dimpled savages
    (hide-and-seek rule-breakers)

    We watch them skip atop mottled lily pads
    mocking sleepy babes afloat
    on snores and scores of moonbeam ponds.

    Three wee nymphs wink
    (lips alive with high-jinx.)

    diving to the sugary depths
    with feet like yellow waddlers,

    lapping chubby toddler toes,
    slugging through warm jello,

    juggling Neptune’s conk shells,
    tee-heeing sweet lullabies
    sung on waters in the sky,

    tangly sourly silly ripley starry.

    Momma shoos this hear-less school
    of giggling gypsies in and out,
    around and ‘bout this sleepless milky way.

    Dream-fighters, they are—

    Wrapping streams of moon -man
    cobbler ‘round momma and child.

    Dream-stealers— locking sleepers
    from the land of nod

    rocking, rocking on a sea of stars
    wave after thirsty wave
    into the far red twilight.

  61. Little late to the party. All excited (inadequate word) with packing for the Kenyon workshop. (not quite within shouting distance of Erie, but next door to next door)

    décima: night and sound: water

    Late July rocks a fishing boat
    in the deep night. Water stirring
    like a breeze in the stillness brings
    distant tunes and gunshots to float
    to me, intimate as love notes.
    Screen doors stretching their long black coils
    pour their secrets across glass miles
    of lake. Trains and whispers alike
    fly along the water and lick
    at my ears, leaving moist sound trails.

    A décima is a little like a Spanish sonnet.

  62. I’ve yet to read the great submissions for this watery prompt…but should have time now. FINALLY we got rain after begging, cursing the weatherman, pleading with God, fainting at the first of summer’s rising water bills ($92.06–just water!). So, no yard work today, just a lazy day in the rain. My submission is below, then I’ll enjoy the blooms above.

  63. Flash Flood

    a deluge overwhelms

    a threat of quenching
    nears me.

    it seeks to do good
    to me.


    dry earth
    a needed rain can’t
    fill me.

  64. “Desert thirst”

    parched love
    a hazy mirage of baby’s breath—
    my desert sanctuary,

    liquid silver
    on wounded lips, raw cheeks
    rough on my lone lonely heart.

    eyes too blind
    to see the shifting art—
    sidewinder paintings,
    sun-scorched passion,
    jeweled tribal veils
    snapping in the wind.

    I draw
    baskets of water
    from the arid oasis
    drinking the mirage
    of our love.

  65. Summer Storm

    I feel his weather in the gathering clouds,
    a skin premonition like prophetic bones,
    arthritic knees, and joints.

    Cracked lands, dry lands, great plain lands
    lay awake underneath the dilating sky
    as rumbles begin to build.

    The storm moves over me, rolling across
    my surface with the smooth power
    of floods and bombs.

    Sounds bloom in the wake of his passing
    In a symphony of stray dog whines
    and flapping screen doors.

    Silent tears fall from a deep height
    downward in random lines into
    growing puddles of mud.

  66. Hmmm… just tried to post this and it didn’t take, so am trying again. (Apologizing in advance, if I should end up with duplicate entries.)

    Sorry for the drive-by. Busy week! Too many irons in the fire. Back later to read and comment — I hope. :-]

    (is what I am)
    of the girl
    in the blue kayak
    skimming swiftly,
    floating slowly,
    sitting still and silent
    in green sanctuary
    birches, maples and oaks
    lulled by bullfrog hum,
    thrum of dragonflies, embraced
    by yellow pond lilies, while I
    tromp the trail along the shore
    anchored to earth by heavy boots,
    leaden, laden; driving by later
    on my way to somewhere
    else, I glimpse a flash of blue
    between the leaves and am
    coveting still, her quiet peace
    dreaming, desiring only to be,
    like a feather floating on the surface
    bobbing, drifting in the breeze
    one with the wind
    and the

  67. Hmmm… tried posting this earlier and it didn’t take. Trying again. (Wish me luck!) Back later to read and comment. :-]

    (is what I am)
    of the girl
    in the blue kayak
    skimming swiftly,
    floating slowly,
    sitting still and silent
    in green sanctuary
    birches, maples and oaks
    lulled by bullfrog hum,
    thrum of dragonflies, embraced
    by yellow pond lilies, while I
    tromp the trail along the shore
    anchored to earth by heavy boots,
    leaden, laden; driving by later
    on my way to somewhere
    else, I glimpse a flash of blue
    between the leaves and am
    coveting still, her quiet peace
    dreaming, desiring only to be,
    like a feather floating on the surface
    bobbing, drifting in the breeze
    one with the wind
    and the

  68. Henrietta Choplin on said:

    WOW!!! Incredible Prompt, Amazing words from Everyone!!!

  69. I combined this week’s post with the alliterisen one from last weekend — that I didn’t get to in time to post there.

  70. Good is like water;
    it nourishes in being.
    Without effort
    it just is.

    It does
    without thinking.
    It is
    without thinking.

    It is everywhere
    within us
    sustaining life.
    It is life.

    It does not contend,
    but flows naturally,
    finding a way to be
    where it needs to be.

    It flows down
    as streams and rivers
    to the world ocean.

    It rises up
    as vapor,
    the spirit of life.

    It is soft
    falling from the sky.
    It cleanses.
    It makes things grow.

    Supple and alive,
    it bends the inflexible.
    It weakens the hard;
    rocks become sand.

    Gentle sands now
    to walk on,
    lapped by the waves,
    the sound of life.

    It is calm here,
    down low
    where land meets water
    and the sky is open.

    Dive in,
    buoyed by life.
    Drink deep,
    it tastes good.

  71. Okauchee Lake

    That lake was everything to us,
    bathtub in the summer,
    a shortcut to town during winter,
    source of food and fun.
    There are bigger lakes, deeper too,
    but none more important in my
    Huck Finn childhood.
    It was glacier-carved,
    darkly deep and huge at one end,
    bluegill small and shallow at the other,
    a squiggly channel in the middle,
    looking like a misshaped dumbbell.

    We were all poor, but,
    with nothing to compare it to,
    we didn’t know it.
    We might have been needy,
    yet we all had a boat of some kind.
    Mostly, they were rowboats,
    aluminum if your dad had a job,
    an Evinrude motor on the back if
    there was a rich uncle somewhere.

    That lake had its mysteries,
    and it ate a human or two every year,
    sucked them down into the weeds,
    next to the cars it swallowed every spring,
    the ones driven on to the ice in March,
    at the American Legion jamboree.
    In late spring, early summer,
    before vacationers’ traffic clouded the surface,
    you could drift idly,
    see the ancient tree stumps below,
    wonder what the land was like before the floe.

    If you had a motor,
    or a young person’s energy,
    you could get out to Stumpy Bay,
    or to Stone Bank,
    where the best fishing was.
    You’d see birds of every type,
    small crabs near the shore,
    piers and docks of all shapes and lengths.
    You could stare at the sky,
    see where it joined the water,
    watch that lake swallow the sun if
    you stayed out late enough,
    waiting for the star show,
    catching a night bonfire up the hill.

    That lake was everything to us,
    and I bet, on still days,
    it served as a mirror
    for God’s morning primp.
    They say that there are 10,000 lakes
    in the state next door,
    even more up north, near Canada,
    but we only needed one,
    and it made us richer than we knew.

  72. Pingback: ‘”Stella!” It’s Friday Freeforall!’ « Margo Roby: Wordgathering

  73. The Sky

    Fog clings to foothills-
    unwilling to descend
    into the valley

    Wisps of fog-
    I’m taken with how
    they disappear

    The fog murmurs-
    before it’s invisible
    listen to it

  74. one tear drop
    can causes ripples
    miles away

  75. The Lure

    Aqua blue
    is the sea
    floating toward me –

    Hear the rushing lap
    of the inbound tide
    I’m longing for a ride –

    Hot, soft sand beneath my feet,
    humid, salt air in my nose
    and tumbling shells at my toes –

    One last exhale as I grab my board,
    dash into the sea, paddling hard
    adrenaline rushing, I am the wave.

  76. Connie L. Peters on said:


    He feels his way each step
    Back and forth with his “yep” and “doe”
    They pass him to and fro
    But it is great to know when he
    Floats in the pool, he’s free
    Bobbing confidently, his eyes
    Beaming laughter—my prize
    Water does equalize—what joy!

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