BEAUTIFUL BLOOMS – PROMPT #64

MARIE ELENA’S BLOOM

Nancy Posey brought up the very heart of this exercise with her comment, “You do realize that this prompt sends me back reading (a joy that has taken my morning!).”   I trust that you all experienced the joy of which Nancy speaks.  I know I did, and do with every visit here.  So many brilliant, beautiful, profound, poetic, comical lines are found among your works.  Thank you, all!

Henrietta Choplin’s Cento took this prompt a step further, as it is woven of lines penned by six brilliant poets (Janet Martin, Sharon Ingraham, Catherine Choi Lee, J. Lynn Sheridan, Jane Shlensky, and Amy Barlow Liberatore).  The result is cohesive, deep, and lovely.  With warm smiles, I offer my Bloom to our resident cheerleader, “Hen.”

EYES THAT SHALL NOW, ALWAYS BE MINE (by Henrietta Choplin)

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
with
rainbows roofing the sky
and
waves crashing and smoothing a beach at sunset…
Yet,
the fear of depths too deep to see.
Cool, clear water,
how do I “unfeel”
this feeling
too delicate to retrace?

WALT’S BLOOM

The piece I chose was by J. Lynn Sheridan with inspiration from Janet Martin’s A Villanelle. J.Lynn seems to have found balance in her poem.

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

THE HARMONY OF PLEASURE AND PAIN by J. Lynn Sheridan

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 breathe 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.