Life is a mystery, and the best we can do is deal with its uncertainty. This was the task at hand this week. We have gotten another diverse menagerie  of excellent poetry (there’s never an uncertainty in that regard). So let us meet this week’s BEAUTIFUL BLOOMS recipients:


As a scratched record repeats, repeats, repeats – so have you heard me say every week (as if it is news) that I struggle to decide which poem to highlight among others equally deserving.  Ugh.  After literally hours of reading and re-reading, I offer this week’s “Bloom” to “Misky” Marilyn Braendeholm for her “really long thingy” which, ironically, is not certain what to call itself.  Call it what you will … it offers many layers of uncertainty,  is well written, engaging, and (yes) poetic.  In my opinion, few have the ability to tell a story quite as poetically as Misk.

NOTHING STOPS THE YOUNG  by Marilyn Braendeholm.

“Yes, that’s right but, please, my friends call me Mac,”
he said, “and I reckon you’re right; the best place to start,
is to start from the start.” He settled into the hard
plastic chair that was molded for everyone’s back
but his own, and scooted the shrieking metal legs
along the floor to give his legs a bit more room.

“For generations this house was a home;
this farm was a family. Six children were born
on to this land, and all six survived. Not everyone
had the Lord’s luck like we did. The children, well,
they had lots of friends: lambs and a calf or two,
cats and dogs, pet spiders that lived in the barn.

We cared for each other, we tended each other.
Fields to sow, acres to plough, first-cut hay
for the animals, second-cut dried and baled,
alfalfa and grass for the cows who gave us
their sweet, richness a demand, bees that cooled
themselves with busy wings as summer heat
fell across us like a woolen blanket. We drank

sweet tea from jam jars on the shaded porch
when the sun warned us off the fields. There
were days when an old hat didn’t give the shade
you’d needed on a crispy hot afternoon. It could
get so hot on the fields that you could hear
the air snap. I actually dream about the scent
of baked dust now and then. Those were good days.
They were happy days when we were all young.”

Nothing stops the young.

Mac took a sip of water, and shifted his discomfort
from this preposterous excuse for a chair.

“And then the children grew up. Year by year each
one made their excuses and left home,” he said.
“None of them wanted a future with callused hands,
knotted muscles, and a lifetime of uncertain weather.
They’d toil their brain elsewhere, they said. Each one
tidied their rooms up nice and then moved to the city.
They’d come back for Christmas, but in truth,
when children leave home they take a part of your
heart and soul with them. I’d lost my children.”

Nothing stops the young.

“The woman and I – she actually hates that I call
her ‘the woman’ – but there’s no doubt that she
was one hell of woman. The best woman for me,
that’s for sure, and I thank the good Lord for her.
Anyway, the woman and I tended and cared
for the farm for a good few more years. We had
some good years together, and I’m grateful.

The woman used to say that too much
of a good thing would kill your spirit. The woman
had a heart attack on one of those hot, baked dusty
days. Right there in the alfalfa field. It killed her.
Maybe I was just too much a good thing for her.
That’s a joke, by the way. I miss her. I really miss her.
She was too young to leave me but…” he shrugged.

Nothing stops the young.

Mac shifted uncomfortably in the chair.

“So, you see things are very uncertain for me.
Don’t know what the future holds.
I lost the children to the city.
I lost my wife to a heart attack.
And last month I lost my hand to baling wire.”

Mac blinked away a puddle of tears.

“So here are the keys to the barn, the house,
the tools storage and front gate.”

The bank manager nodded, “Thank you, Mac.
So what are your plans now?”

“I’m not entirely certain,” Mac said. He extended
his left hand to bid the bank manager goodbye.


It’s hard enough finding your feet on your own turf. But put yourself on foreign soil and the uncertainty sets in. That is captured well in Sharon Ingraham’s piece, NIGH TIME.

nigh time by Sharon Ingraham

the clock in the piazza is fixed
at the same hour it was when
last I saw it
as I pulled away
from the train station
bound for Roma …
almost one year ago

puzzled, I spend long moments
many – watching time,
waiting futilely for a change,
a sign
and in my mind I hear
a voice –
Ferlinghetti’s insolent
chattering gets louder

his has been in the background
of all the voices for months
maybe longer
he orders up insurgency
without which he
warns, the end of things
is nigh –

he points to the clock
stopped long ago;
one more example
of certainty
in an uncertain world
you wanted to bear witness?
he is mocking me, I know…
bear this


12 thoughts on “BEAUTIFUL BLOOMS – Prompt #63

  1. A lovely narrative with fantastic imagery, Marilyn! “crispy hot,” “baked dust” … and we’ve all sat in that chair. Nostalgically sweet and sad and truly lovely.

    And wonderfully crisp, yet somehow delicate word choices in Nigh Time, Sharon.

    Great Blooms!

    • I might have to get you to write my blooms, Kimiko. Love how you expressed yourself!

      Marie Elena

  2. Just rolled and bed to discover that my long thingy burst into a beautiful bloom! What a wonderful way to wake up in the morning! Thank you very much, Marie and Walt.

    Lovely piece, Sharon, and a perfect choice. Well done.

  3. I am always rewarded reading your choices – well reading on this site too.
    Each of these touch so many experiences, call to so much remembered or wanted to be recalled. Misky and Sharon I am so delighted with your gifts.

  4. Just noticed this bloom in my inbox and wanted to send a quick but heartfelt thanks Walt … congrats to you also Marilyn for your long, lovely poem – as always, a well-considered choice Marie Elena … Even miles away, it’s cosy to feel embraced by the garden and those who toil here. Thanks again all!

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