One of our most popular prompts was presented during week #38, and we are reprising it for our ever-expanding poet base. The concept was this simple: Take that “I wish I had written that” line from one of the poems posted at Poetic Bloomings, and for the moment, make it your own …  as the title of a totally new poem. But, be sure to credit the poet and poem from which it came.  Have fun!



No hooked little mark
Will catch me off guard.
No comma faux pas
Will, leave my poem marred.

© Marie Elena Good – 2012

From Nancy Posey’s Uncertainty poem Within and Beyond my Grasp



A vacation in the South of France,
a chance to dance unencumbered
on the Champs-Élysées on a day
so blue we can’t help but be happy.

A day to be illness free; no trick knee,
no blocked artery, just a day…
where dark spots go away from x-rays,
a chance to verbalize emotions that are assumed.

A ticket with every number needed
to exceed my earnings in this lifetime
all in one inspired evening, leaving
everything behind to find my peace of mind.

A home to house this ever-expanding
empty nest, the best place to have raised daughters,
but we ought to lose the excess
and express ourselves more simply.

Success for those daughters to achieve
all which they aspire to and to view
the world through less cynical eyes;
this prize of life so garnished. Untarnished.

The end of conflicts where friends and enemies
stick out a hand and come to understand
what seems too good to be true; to eschew
the terrors of wars; to abhor them.

The opportunity to view these things in a life well lived
and to be forgiven for indiscretions and errors
in judgement, putting priorities in proper perspective,
rejecting all attempts to temp my loving temperament.

A night full of nothing but sleep to foster these dreams,
without the anemic schemes of a torn
and twisted psyche. It might be the greatest wish
on this dish of savory favors saved for sometime.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2012

Line culled from Marie Elena Good’s Uncertainty poem – DEMENTIA

190 thoughts on ““HEY… THAT’S MY LINE, TWO!” – PROMPT #64

  1. (from Jane Shlensky’s “Rain-Born”)

    “They lap at water-wonder and wait
    for skies of blue, returned from slate,
    for lamb clouds grazing at the gate
    of heaven,…”


    God’s promised gold
    with lamb clouds grazing at
    the gate of heaven hold the key
    to love.

    • I think she did mean two as in this is the second time the prompt has been given….

      • You got it, unevensteven – a play on words. And this is Walt’s prompt. He’s baaaaa-aaaack! 😀

        Marie Elena

  2. “When the words slip free
    rain through fingers…”
    “Will it be a downhill slide
    or a lengthy uphill climb
    as the ticking of the clocks
    steal away your precious time?”

    This slip-n-slide
    wet with unspoken
    and implied
    meanings and tears –
    you say
    we should just keep making strides,
    giants tripping on stones
    all around us,
    I say
    we twist
    and turn
    like otters
    the shells of doubts
    in our bellies
    and should you fall,
    crawl down
    next to me
    and my words will slip
    rain through fingers
    sliding down
    your face
    you clean,
    I only meant
    to hold onto them
    for you

    Pleae visit my blog http://unevenstevencu.blogspot.com/

    When the words slip free
    rain through fingers
    by whimsygizmo – Etymology – Uncertainty #63 Prompt

    Will it be a downhill slide
    or a lengthy upward climb
    as the ticking of the clocks
    steal away your precious time?
    By Michale Grove – Precious Time – Uncertainty #63 prompt

    • Loved: “… crawl down next to me and my words will slip free
      rain through fingers sliding down your face showering you clean…”

    • Really sorry posted too early when I wasn’t finished –
      Here is a more acceptable version


      “When the words slip free
      rain through fingers…”
      “Will it be a downhill slide
      or a lengthy uphill climb
      as the ticking of the clocks
      steal away your precious time?”

      This slip-n-slide
      wet with unspoken
      and implied
      meanings and tears –
      you say
      we should just keep making strides,
      giants tripping on stones
      all around us,
      I say
      we twist
      and turn
      like otters
      the shells of doubts
      in our bellies
      and if we fall,
      lay down
      beside me
      and my words will slip
      rain through fingers
      sliding down
      your face
      you clean –
      you see,
      I really only
      to hold on
      until I found
      my way
      to you.

      When the words slip free
      rain through fingers
      by whimsygizmo – Etymology – Uncertainty #63 Prompt

      Will it be a downhill slide
      or a lengthy upward climb
      as the ticking of the clocks
      steal away your precious time?
      By Michale Grove – Precious Time – Uncertainty #63 prompt

  3. Dear Walt, I wish you: “…A night full of nothing but sleep to foster these dreams…”! Meg, so cute, when I think of the little comma.

  4. (from my own: I FELT THE EARTH MOVE…..UNDER MY FEET)

    How do I “unfeel” *
    the movement of the Earth be-
    low my cautious feet?

    * is there such a word…. well, there is now… 🙂

  5. (from Iain’s: “In the Dark”)

    Cool, clear water
    As quiet as your voice…
    I sit staring into
    Contemplating where to dip my toe.

  6. Love what I’m seeing already this A.M.!!

    Glad to see this prompt, Walt and your poem your heart poured on paper…a true gift.

    Marie!! Love it!

    Warm smiles to you both!!

  7. Good morning, all! Yes, one of my favorites, too. Love what I’ve read so far.

    I Would Find Something Small to Do That I Know Would Make a Difference
    (Linda Swenski, Prompt 63)

    who made
    the size of the universe
    absolutely mindboggling,
    made it up of equally astounding smallness.
    Wisdom can be drawn from anything God does—
    to accomplish big dreams, start with something small.

  8. Pingback: Daisy Chain of Memories | Vivinfrance's Blog

  9. When uncertainty is the pen

    My sure heart is soured
    by my acid stomach
    sluggishly digesting
    your last lie, a stupid
    one, unworthy of me.

    My weary mind shuffles
    through peaceful images:
    waterfalls settling into pools,
    rainbows roofing the sky,
    waves crashing and smoothing

    a beach at sunset, birds
    feeding after rain, all
    shadowed by the cynical
    smirk you wear when you
    think you’ve gotten away
    with it again, when you

    count on my caring more
    than you do, when you
    wait for and despise
    my forgiveness, knowing
    you don’t deserve it,

    and I’m hoping for words
    to save my life again,
    to open a door for me
    that will close crisply
    behind you, for love
    to be my lines, for hope to be
    my harbor, for humor to be
    my hand, for a poem to heal me,
    when uncertainty is my pen.

    From mike Maher’s “Uncertainty Ode”
    Prompt 63

    • I feel honored that you used my line, Jane. And you used it so well that I can no longer honestly call it my own. This line belongs to you now. This poem is astounding.

      This line, in particular, might very well stay with me forever: “and I’m hoping for words
      to save my life again”

      Wonderful job.

      • Thank you all, Meg, Misky, mike, 3M of poesy and encouragement. mike, I’ll trade lines with you any time, my friend. I love this prompt, Meg.

    • Yes, the lovely peaceful images: “…waterfalls settling into pools, rainbows roofing the sky, waves crashing and smoothing a beach at sunset…” It feels like I just returned from a mini vacation… thank you, Jane!

  10. Street of Dreams (lines taken from Barbara Y.’s poem)

    Moths around the street light
    Guitar riffs trailing from a passing car

    Shadows spread and darken
    The children are called inside
    You remain, lost in that moment
    when those quick-passing notes
    pierced your soul and grew until
    your knew you could not hide

    The melodies and the rhythm
    Your fingers learned to fly
    Called to more crowded cities
    Bright lights that hid the sky
    Strange words and stranger rhythms
    Became old friends to you
    When you followed that music
    To a place where it was promised
    Every dream came true.

    Careful, little girl, someday these memories
    Will awake. You will wonder what has
    Happened to a place you knew
    As quiet, loved and safe.
    Where your soul became entranced
    And from some stranger’s dreams
    You were able
    To pluck your own guitar and turn
    Your dreams loose upon the world.

    Everyone who shares the memories
    And longings of your heart
    That beats in rhythm with our
    secret, dream time souls
    And for a little while
    are lost, then found again.

  11. “A regular paycheck is an honored guest”

    We take for granted a salary,
    even a job that claims our lives,
    pays our bills, provides food and
    lodging, educations, transportation,
    freedom from want and fear,

    waiting instead for the sweepstakes
    to sit at our table in the honor seat,
    while we scream, accept the flowers
    and pose for photographers as we
    receive the unusual lucky sum,

    hardly even remembering the usual,
    the check that saves our lives
    every day, the job that claims our time
    and expertise, the profession that gets us
    up in the morning and keeps us thinking,

    the colleagues that see us at our best and
    have our backs. Like lecherous old husbands,
    we snuggle up to the voluptuous prize,
    yelling at the old wife of sundry years,
    present through sickness, family, and folly,

    who has loved us through baldness, halitosis,
    and flatulence, to bring coffee and make it snappy.

    From Marian Veverka, “Living in an uncertain world”

  12. I’m using the line, “What if they Misunderstand me?” in Patricia A. Hawkenson’s poem, “That Wasn’t My intention” from prompt #63.

    What if They Misunderstand Me?

    What if they misunderstand me?
    What if they can’t comprehend?
    Will they bother to figure it out
    when my days have come to an end?

    I’d love to write a poem when I’m one hundred,
    Even if my thoughts are scattered ’round.
    I‘ll still hold out some hope posthumously
    that the truer meanings may be found.

    No one here can hold a pen forever.
    Some day I’ll be a distant memory
    I hope they will still read me when I’m gone.
    But, what if they misunderstand me?

    By Michael Grove

  13. The end of conflicts where friends and enemies

    find either each other or themselves
    is right next to the place where the leftovers
    make promises to ashes.
    Bill gets to sleep every night by telling his wife
    there is no such thing as death,
    that we are only the imagination of ourselves inside of a dream
    and, so, you know? She doesn’t.
    Bennie says the real enemy is Digitalization
    but you can see there that theory has flaws,
    beauty marks so obvious and prominent
    they are mistaken for freckles merged into other patches of freckles.
    Rhea says no punk rockers have freckles. Not a fucking one.
    Steve is always experimenting with new duck bacon recipes.

    All poems talk about death at some point
    and so it must be a thing
    because poems never lie.
    Mary says a high level of naivete works in your favor
    in the next world, and so she doesn’t ever watch the news.
    Whenever you’re ready, says the sailboat.
    I never know where to go, says the dock.

    When it comes time again to sprinkle the ashes,
    whisper the truest feelings you can muster
    and remember they cannot be unsprinkled.

    • Whoops. Just realized I forgot to include the citation! Here it is:

      (title taken from Walt Wojtanik’s “SAVED FOR SOMETIME DREAMS,” which was a line taken from
      Marie Elena Good’s Uncertainty poem – “DEMENTIA”)

  14. Today everything seems to have conspired to keep me from writing verse. But I’ve managed to get the first of my chosen pieces finished. I hope you enjoy it.

    From Misky’s “A Seed in Her Ear”
    “I Wondered if God Rested His Chin on Rooftops”

    I Wondered if God Rested His Chin on Rooftops

    As I watched clouds move in to hang
    Above gatherings of angry people;
    People who’d come to harass and
    Harangue those who dared be different.

    As I listened to vitriol spewed forth
    Onto one who would not defend himself
    Against the lash and the stone,
    He sighed at the unenlightened.

    I wept as I felt his pain radiate beyond
    A body dealt terrible blows by hands
    That would seem powerful though pitiful,
    Under other circumstances of time.

    I knelt as he took his place above all others;
    A place meant for thieves and murderers,
    Which would forever be known as Calvary,
    The site of a Son placed before God,

    To suffer for me that I might rise at death.

  15. From Misky’s “The Language of Poetry” Prompt #53

    “Layer on layer of Delicate Sounds”

    Stillness hushes night’s slumber chamber,
    weaving its sorcerer’s spell across land
    weary from day’s labors and taunting life,
    leaving behind smallnesses to tantilize a
    mind with its layer on layer of delicate sounds.

    Whispers sush, mice feet scurry along paths
    worn into earth’s face, whipping grass stems
    aside; speed provides safety, protects all.
    Silence broken only by a squeal tiny
    enough to rate only an eyeblink of notice.

    Owl feeds while night hawk watches,
    rustling and restless, needing bigger,
    braver prey to grace his dining limb.
    Cricket serenades lull the locals into
    false hopes of passing dangers.

    Breezes, gentled by trees’ waving wands,
    Sigh across landscapes filled with nature’s
    little people, cooling distressed and panting
    runners, stroking fur with light air fingers,
    and rippling still waters for leaping frogs.

    Night folk have risen to live lives quietly
    dark, within and without recesses never
    lightened by sun rays, never dimpled
    by man’s footprint among buttercups,
    ferns, and tree trunks that make homes.

  16. (Poetic Form: CENTO)


    Once in a blue moon
    with lamb clouds grazing:
    Dipping toes into sweet
    cool, clear water…..
    Tonight you stay
    your presence, unseeing
    wraps full around my being
    your whisper in my ear…..
    You’ll always be
    my muse.

    -With a thank you to: Pmwanken, Jane Shlensky, Jacqueline Casey, Claudsy, me, Marian J. Veverka, MMT, and Daniel Paicopulos.

  17. You can see why I recycled this prompt! It highlights anothers poem and give us a fresh inspiration. Everyone’ words are worthy and all that has been posted are marvelous! Thanks all. Walt

  18. Pingback: Collegiately Inspired – Take 2 | Two Voices, One Song

  19. http://2voices1song.com/2012/07/15/collegiately-inspired-take-2/

    No Elixir Or Rewind
    By: Meena Rose

    The noisy cafe grew quiet;
    All eyes were upon me;
    A lapse of judgment or a lapse of memory –
    I will never know which.

    Source: In Hand by Mike Grove

    drum & beater – unpainted (Photo credit: 19melissa68)
    Spirit Drumming
    By: Meena Rose

    She entered the hall coughing,
    The smell of burned sage
    Caked on her throat.

    She could hardly see past
    Her watery eyes;
    She walked straight through.

    Some had gathered in a circle;
    Some just milled about;
    She froze.

    Her feet refused to move;
    Her toes dug into the earth;
    A sense of surety cementing her resolve.

    Inspired by a voice unheard,
    She began to dance
    Steadily stomping her feet.

    The Earth called to her,
    The Sun encouraged her,
    An Eagle screeched overhead.

    Source: A Fascinator by Claudette Young

  20. Pingback: As the Sun Slips Beneath the Water… « Metaphors and Smiles

  21. I borrowed Marie’s line,“As the sun slips beneath the water,”
    from After Glow, a nonet from 11/16/11 In Form Poet..Free Form Form

    As the Sun Slips Beneath the Water…

    I’ll gather the glassy reflections of my day,
    I’ll handle them prayerfully and sort them.
    Cobalt blue, careless mistakes I made
    set aside seeking forgiveness.
    Red for words slipped-spent in anger
    I bitterly remember,
    with wish and will to do better.
    Purple pile for the bruises
    placed upon my core,
    hurts harbored
    intentional and otherwise.
    Amber tints of disappointment,
    dreams unfulfilled,
    misplaced expectations.
    Green glints of truth in nature
    filling my heart and home
    my mind and design,
    reminding me of creativity.
    Iridescent ivory, most pure beauty
    moments not wasted,
    each encouraging instant
    in accordance with Love.
    So as the sun slips beneath the water,
    I gather the grains of Light,
    I grasp gems that bring health
    and fling far rocks that hold fear.
    I trust and I release and wait
    for it all to begin again
    with burden on my heart
    and rise of Son to comfort me;
    I’ll be myself and try my best,
    just being with a helpful heart.

    ©Hannah Gosselin 7/15/12

  22. Hi all! Just a reminder (lifted from our “Welcome”):

    4. WHO MAY POST? Poetic Bloomings is open to all poets, regardless of skill level, point of view, OR AGE. As such, we encourage members to “keep it clean.”

    Thanks! 😉


  23. Pingback: Willows Trembled in the Drying Light « Misky

    Inspired by “SHADOWS ON THE WATER” by Mary Mansfield

    Thirteen Widow Trees – ancient and adorned in grief,
    Thirteen willows forlorn in tears they sank,
    Thirteen widows standing guard
    On the flooded river bank
    In the old churchyard.
    Thirteen willows pray to calm the grief,
    Thirteen widows wading the river deep
    Protecting the rest of those asleep
    In the old graveyard.
    Thirteen willows adorned and forlorn in grief
    Thirteen widows weep in the dying light

  25. From Walt’s “Love’s Longing”
    (Alliterisen Poem)

    “I stand in silent shadows”

    I stand in silent shadows,
    wildly wondering about a love lost.
    One long hazy hope once
    calligraphied in ink on a chilly
    night. He held our poem, now
    tarnished three decades, too delicate
    to retrace, yet too refined
    to sheathe as token shame.
    I wonder if I have labored longing
    in vain, if it should remain as vintage
    love–lost in the silent shadows.

  26. “. . . the harmony of pleasure and of pain
    Sweeps soulfully across the sea and land.” Janet’s Villianelle June 27

    “The harmony of pleasure and pain”

    The harmony of pleasure
    and of pain, sweeps soulfully
    across the sea and the land.

    The sea may rage and argue
    against spring’s thundering
    hand and I may ride the rain

    like waves of war cutting across
    meadowland and dwelling,
    with a swelling fear inside

    my breast—the pain of height,
    the fear of depths too deep
    to see. I breath numb, I stumble

    dumb into the message from
    one who walked these seas.
    Tonight I sleep with my blind

    voice, reciting pithy proverbs,
    the lore of folk, weak and fruit-
    less. I need a strong hand to

    stroke in the torrid thunder,
    I need a voice to hush the gales,
    to awaken my eyes to prayer

    and the promises that sweep
    soulfully across the sea and
    land, a guiding hand to ease

    my shorn soul. Tomorrow I’ll
    wake to that Voice on the
    breeze, singing a simple prayer,

    gently brushing love through
    the wind in my hair.

  27. No Dimensional Warpgate*

    Swimming with passion to the horizon,
    we expect to fall off edges not reached
    into Edens unfound. Sounds deafen
    our senses and—progression un-impeached—
    we cling to sandbars until we are bleached,
    reach out for flotsom still floating away,
    ram into tangles til our hulls are breached,
    remain for pickers to salvage someday.

    * The title is a line from “Riverspeak.” Hedgewitch, thank you.

    Two birds live in one bush here and I have no intention of throwing a stone: In addition to here, this is posted on my blog and linked to K’s “Poetics – A French Twist For Quatorze Juillet” at dVerse.
    Copyright © 2012 S.L.Chast

  28. Pingback: Of pleasure and of pain « Writing On The Sun

  29. I’ll be back to go through with appreciation and make comments. But for now, this is my last offering for the prompt.

    From Hannah Gosslin’s “The Sunflower”

    “As It Pulsed and Pushed Through the Ancient Ages”

    Man created time to explain distance,
    When no other explanation sufficed,
    And took delight in measuring all
    that came before him with precision.

    Life took its meaning from time,
    Looking toward expenditure as value,
    Rather than intrinsic benefit to man,
    Or to this world which gave him life.

    Time became master of all creation,
    For without it, nothing could be valued,
    No one paid for creation’s products,
    And nothing valued for creation abilities.

    For those who ignored time to pursue
    Value in creation, livelihoods held little,
    Poverty in man’s eyes came only with
    Symbols of time’s valued commodity.

    And so destruction of good came before
    Creation, and creation came at soul’s expense,
    Leaving, as it does, little of value in its wake,
    Lasting only as long as destruction stands aside.

  30. From “nigh time” by S.E. Ingraham (Prompt #63 “Uncertainty”)
    “Ferlinghetti’s insolent/chattering gets louder/his has been in the background/of all the voices for months/maybe longer”

    at the twin branch library

    in the stacks, history stands still
    cloth bound and unassuming
    three girls dressed as if by accident
    tear a page from Vanity Fair
    write an anonymous note
    to the wire-rimmed beatnik
    daydreaming behind the counter
    Ferlinghetti’s insolent chattering
    gets louder, his has been in the
    background of all the voices
    for months maybe longer
    yet to there is no hearing,
    no hearing, no listening, no hearing
    just the ten-cent sale by the door
    the wind-blown seed caught in a screen
    the smeared lettering high above the street
    the crooked bathroom door, the parched library lawn
    the end of things may have already begun
    but there is no poster for it on the board

  31. I Am Obsessed ( a loop poem)

    I am obsessed, half crazy with this craving,
    consumed, bewitched, the all-enslaving
    path to my heart glitters with diamond paving.
    Your smoky brown eyes, hot, persuading
    me to embark on a love affair, braving
    disapproval of gossips, who, while gaily waving
    secretly whisper that I will need saving.
    They are certain our binding will loosen with time,
    ropes fraying like an old clothesline
    dropping garments into alleys of grime
    as if our costumes were guilty of crime,
    as if the mountain was not worth the climb.
    But forever the bells of love will chime
    for an obsession, a craving for love in our prime.

    Taken from Andrew Kriedler’s, Uncertainty, July 8th

  32. The Weight of My Words

    Some are jagged like rocks
    thrown at a retreating back,
    last-minute bravery meant
    to draw blood, to bruise memory.

    Some are whispered, sighed,
    as if utterance erases them,
    their life transmitted through
    the eyes, souls conversing
    when bodies know no words.

    The air is filled with words
    every day, some only useful
    in drowning silences, worth
    whatever we are willing to pay.

    Which of them swaddle us at birth?
    Which shield us from the storms or
    warm us when cold breath buffets us?
    Which create a landscape of the self,

    the varied terrain of truth, or stretch
    a meadow across our minds, a blooming
    challenge to rise up, take sunlight, and
    forge a sky to house the stars?

    Some trifling words hang on us,
    dragging in rags behind us for years,
    while others are heaviest unsaid,
    their silence echoing in our minds’ tombs.

    And yet, we love them, words,
    longing for their meaning,
    for fleeting beauty in the face of change.
    Time measures every one, calculates
    heft, power, strength, purpose,

    the weight of my words proving,
    finally, how I lived in the world,
    what, whom, and how I loved,
    if I was thankful or bitter, and
    whether I was wise, kind, true.

    From Hannah Gosselin’s “The Lottery”

  33. I\’ve been reading the postings for the last several prompts, and there is one that has haunted me. It is ”Waiting” by Andrew Kreider, written for the #58 ”In the Air Tonight” prompt. He squeezed it in toward the end of the week, so you might have missed it. I hope you will go back and find it because he packed so much into those five lines. I’ve used the first two to bookend my poem, but I certainly don’t do them justice!

    A Thousand Miles from New York

    My fingernail scratches the envelope
    along the blue and red stripes as if
    the border were only on the surface.

    Between us is an ocean of paper,
    every blank space filled with unwritten
    words that burst like hearts.

    It is for our hands and lips to speak
    the longings too heavy par avion:
    I’m waiting for you.

  34. Star Shine and Shadow

    I wish for wonders in the heavens
    Precious joys that pull my doubts asunder
    Star light Star Bright

    I wish for the magic of belief
    Bunnies hidden deep in hats
    First star I see tonight

    Coins that grow behind my ears
    Cards that vanish and then reappear
    I wish I may, I wish I might,

    Tricky fingers, sleight of hand
    Shine and shadows, magic wands
    Have the wish I wish tonight

    Inspired by “Missing The Wonders” by Nancy Posey

  35. Pingback: Star Shine and Shadows « Misky

  36. Last I Saw*

    A one-eyed





    it was not good.

    *Sharon Ingraham’s Nigh Time

  37. I have to admit that I’m kind of surprised nobody has asked me who is Will, and why would I want him to leave my poem marred.



  38. I took the title to this from one of my own poems, “Splash” from prompt #37. The form is a rondeau.

    Casting Wishes to the Sky

    I still believe my secret dream,
    The one I fear is too extreme,
    Can break that binding earthly string.
    When wrapped inside an angel’s wing.

    When seeking power to redeem
    A broken wish that’s lost its gleam,
    I seek the help of One supreme,
    The fragile faith to which I cling.
    I still believe.

    It sometimes seems a hopeless scheme,
    To linger on the same old theme
    And risk the pain of failure’s sting.
    With all the power I can wring
    To carry on instead of scream,
    I still believe.

  39. Parched Love

    This drought-stricken lover
    Craves your cool waters
    To refresh my inner desert.
    Fling my withered heart
    Into your raging river,
    Let me drift your currents
    Into pools of peaceful bliss.

    I “borrowed” the title for this from Jlynn Sheridan’s poem “Desert Thirst” written for prompt #59 – water.


    I open my window,
    I take a deep breath
    inhaling you

    (From my “WHO, WHAT, WHERE – Gives me no Rest)

  41. *Taken from Walt’s synchronicity poem…Yes, I’m late as usual:)

    *Within every waking moment,
    the gift of life is heaven sent.*
    So if we learn to cherish moments
    We will learn to be content

    We cannot see the trickle
    Of Time’s elemental force
    But we can feel its whispers trace
    Our temporal discourse

    Within every waking moment*
    Trembles possibility
    Gift of life, oh fleeting morsel
    Full of opportunity

    We cannot preserve its tenure
    Tick by tock its measure slips
    As we touch and taste the treasure
    Flowing from Time’s gracious lips

    Within every waking moment,
    the gift of life is heaven sent.*
    Oh God, I vow to cherish it
    The gift of life that you have lent

  42. Marie, Thanks for the compliment! You do realize that this prompt sends me back reading (a joy that has taken my morning!) Here’s mine:

    Reading the Sky

    Looking at the sky’s pink blush out my window,
    I have to recite the rhyme to remember:
    “Red sky at morning, sailors take warning,”
    just as I have to place my hand over my heard
    as if pledging allegiance, to tell left from right.

    And like the sailors, I delight in the painted sky
    almost ablaze in the west, just over my shoulder.
    As I sit curled on the couch to read, my back
    to the window, you keep telling me to turn
    and look, at the sun’s magic tricks, his grand finale.

    Have we humans always looked to the skies
    for portent, hoping to read the life line, the heart line
    in the clouds? Seeing the rainbow teasing
    through clouds, then gone without a goodbye,
    I flag down drivers in the lanes beside me,
    pointing, wanting to share this momentary miracle.

    Maybe I’ve put too much hope in the horizons,
    the tree lines, the outlines of mountains miles away
    but visible from my back porch. This morning,
    I’ll restart my life where sunshine from the east
    and clouds in the west, seem to dare each other.

    from April 16 “It Doesn’t Make Sense to My Senses
    Connie Peters”

    This morning, I restart my life
    where sunshine from the east
    and clouds in the west
    seem to dare each other.

    • Nancy, this is genius … really fine … from Connie’s words to your expansion, I just love it … it’s so easy to relate to “reciting the rhyme to remember – “putting my hand over my heart to remember” – aren’t we all the same? I think so, most of us anyhow … so good to read your work again … sorry if I haven’t said so for awhile.

    • “… I delight in the painted sky…” Brings to mind: Santa Fe, New Mexico, Austin, Texas, Tucson, Arizona, and early morning airline flights above the clouds… Thank you, 🙂 !

  43. Tear the Longing

    It terrifies me so for I’ve held you close to me within a pen
    But in a poem I wrote to keep I caused you to disappear and then …
    All my life I’ve pretended not knowing you was for the best
    Yet felt you tear the longing from my chest
    How is it you hold the secrets deep within my heart
    Still all it seems you want from me is to keep us apart
    Am I delusional or have I really not understood you at all
    Please seek me out at your earliest convenience, do call


    This poem went somewhere entirely unintended, this I do promise. I used two lovely bits from an untitled poem of Janet Martin’s that Marie picked as Beautiful Bloom #34 – the bits are “I’ve held you close to me within a pen” and “Yet felt you tear the longing from my chest” and I really thought they were going to end up being part of a much more serious, heartfelt poem as they are simply gorgeous lines that I do wish I’d written myself.

      • I know – isn’t that the most amazing line … is it any wonder I stole it? Janet has such a way with words and phrases; they tend to stay with me a long, long time … Don’t forget. this came from Marie’s beautiful bloom #34 and now we’re up to 64 so I had to go way back to find this … I didn’t say it before but thank you Janet Martin for letting me have my way with two lines from that untitled poem … they were both incredible!


    feel close…..
    ………. Touch.

    (From my ONLY IN MY DREAMS?)

  45. Empty Womb, Tired Heart

    I hear the refrain
    of those that claim to care,
    the endless chain
    of Why
    and When
    and Just be patient, dear.

    They don’t understand
    the gravity of my condition,
    the anticipation that swells each month
    until red flicks of disappointment
    trigger more despair, more heartache,
    my grittled hope cracked and fading,
    maternal arms still longing
    for more than an empty cradle,
    clinging to the desperate dream
    that love will finally plant the seed
    I’ve waited to watch grow and bloom.

    I borrowed the title for this poem from whimsygizmo’s (aka De Jackson) poem Suspension (a shadorma) for prompt #43, a picture prompt.

  46. Pingback: Nothing Lasts Forever « echoes from the silence


    butterfly kisses
    raindrops on lashes
    oreos and milk

    kite-flying in meadows
    evenings by the fire and
    nighttime cuddles

    hand-in-hand walks
    embrace of a loved one and
    a kiss beneath the shade tree

    rainbows on stormy days
    the feeling of love, and
    sheets all in a tangle

    …nothing lasts forever…

    P. Wanken

    (*the title is taken from the closing line of an untitled poem by Jackson, written to prompt #63)

  48. (Poetic Form: CENTO)


    I’ve held you close to me within a pen
    every blank space filled with unwritten words that burst like hearts
    in the middle of the night.
    Dreaming of those eyes
    those fathomless eyes…..
    Longing becomes art,
    trembles possibility:
    Cascade of
    waterfalls settling into pools
    rainbows roofing the sky
    waves crashing and smoothing a beach at sunset…
    the fear of depths too deep to see.
    Cool, clear water,
    how do I “unfeel”
    this feeling
    too delicate to retrace?

    (With a Thank You to: JanetMartin/Sharon Ingraham: Beautiful Blooms #34 & Prompt 64; OneInchTall: Pr-64; Me: Pr-64, In-Form, Loop Poem, & “Into the Depths”; SharpLittlePencil: Pr-52; JanetMartin: Pr-64; JaneShlensky: “When Uncertainty is the pen”; JlynnSheridan: Pr-64; Me: “I Felt the Earth Move… Under My Feet”; and JlynnSheridan: Pr-64).

  49. From the very first Poetic Bloomings prompt, and from the sensitive work of Marie Elena Good, entitled “Of Dandelions and Manicures””

    “One scatters dandelion seeds,
    Who understands a daydream’s needs.”


    I think of her often,
    living in a smallish place,
    a friend to so many,
    living vastly flung.
    I choose to think of her
    with a broad smile,
    sometimes a loud laugh,
    at all times huggable.
    I never consider
    the possibility of frowns
    or headaches,
    or any other form of discontent.
    It’s my daydream,
    and I’ll have in it what I want.


    Also from the initial Poetic Bloomings prompt, and from the passionate work of Walt Wojtanik, entitled “A Touch”:

    “It is desire of the highest power.
    It has been left to burn unattended”


    There can be no turning back,
    bridges blown asunder,
    boats all sunk,
    there is only forward in our plans.
    It is not that we are brave,
    simply that there is no choice,
    courage not at issue,
    as the fire rages at our backs.
    We can cure the ills of the world.
    We can. We will. We must.

    • Hee, hee, re: “Meg” – Don’t we all know someone like her? Your kindness does her well! 🙂

      • You leave me speechless, Daniel. Warm smiles and thanks … and wishing your daydream was 100% factual. 😉

        Marie Elena (meg)

  50. Inspired by WALT’S TWO SENSE: By Walter J. Wojtanik at Poetic Bloomings

    All my thoughts converge
    random ideas bombard
    making little sense.

    *This poem is a reflection of my own struggle of muse (Muse blues as you might say).

    Calling all Thoughts

    Simple recollections of nimble thought
    shimmery fragments of memory lain still
    sternly refusing to be gathered neatly
    disregarding a musing poets quill

    Nary a poem, nor sufficing word
    lacking bedazzlement
    enchantment of guest
    less than enthralling
    embarrassing, how absurd?!!

  51. (A Thank you to Nancy Posey: “Reading the Sky”, Prompt-64)


    I touched your face
    this morning…
    Traced its outline
    Cupped it in my
    as you stared down
    into me.

  52. Inspired by Henrietta Choplin’s Sunshine: Poetic Bloomings

    Dripped in Sunshine

    Gliding fingerprints in motion

    slowly brush your sizzling face

    dripped in sunshine

    my emphatic oils indelibly mark

    her open canvas space

    forever stained


  53. TRUTHS

    WHO are you?! I want to know
    your name.
    I want to say it
    to myself.

    WHAT are you? A guiding presence,
    a friend,
    a lover?
    A friendly, guiding, lover?

    WHERE are you? Wrapped around me,
    But I need to be
    that you do not
    with a wife
    who certainly
    would not be
    understanding. 🙂

    (From my “WHO, WHAT, WHERE – Gives me no Rest”)

  54. Pingback: One For All and All For Friday Freeforall « Margo Roby: Wordgathering

  55. We Met to Reminisce

    “Hey. It’s been awhile.”

    “Yes. Far too long, in fact.”

    “You never called.”

    “Neither did you.”

    “Because I thought you would.”

    “Why should I? You didn’t.”

    “Well, someone had to call first.”

    “I was busy, okay? Sue me.”

    “Seriously? Is that all you have to say?”


    “Really? You’re leaving? Just like that?”


    “And here I thought we met to reminisce.”

    “We just did.”

    (Title borrowed from the first line of Marie Elena’s poem “Sealed With a Kiss.”)

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