The BLITZ was created by Robert Keim and is a 50-line poem of short phrases and images.
Here are the rules:

  • Line 1 should be one short phrase or image (like “build a boat”)
  • Line 2 should be another short phrase or image using the same first word as the first word in Line 1 (something like “build a house”)
  • Lines 3 and 4 should be short phrases or images using the last word of Line 2 as their first words (so Line 3 might be “house for sale” and Line 4 might be “house for rent”)
  • Lines 5 and 6 should be short phrases or images using the last word of Line 4 as their first words, and so on until you’ve made it through 48 lines
  • Line 49 should be the last word of Line 48
  • Line 50 should be the last word of Line 47
  • The title of the poem should be three words long and follow this format: (first word of Line 3) (preposition or conjunction) (first word of line 47)
  • There should be no punctuation

There are a lot of rules, but it’s a pretty simple and fun poem to write once you get the hang of it.


(I learned I can’t write a proper Blitz and make it poetic in any way, shape, or “form.” You all can just skip mine and get right on down to Walt’s now. You’ll be better off for it. 😉 )      I beg to differ…this is worth the read, if you Noah what I mean!


Built an ark
Built it big
Big God provided blueprints
Big rains rained
Rained 40 days and nights
Rained HARD
Hard luck
Hard to imagine
Imagine two of every animal
Imagine being cramped together
Together getting seasick
Together stuck inside
Inside cramped quarters
Inside is better than out
Out in the chaos
Outlandish state
State of humankind
State of the ark
Ark of hope
Ark of creatures
Creatures of God
Creatures kept
Kept safe
Kept secure
Secured two of everything
Secured two mosquitoes
Mosquitoes uh huh
Mosquitoes really
Really annoyed
Really tired
Tired of mosquitoes
Tired of roaches
Roaches don’t belong
Roaches shouldn’t be
Be rescued
Be anywhere near humankind
Humankind was like a mosquito
Humankind wasn’t kind at all
All 2000+ species
All devious mosquitoes
Mosquitoes scammed us
Mosquitoes did
Did I say I’m tired
Did you see the rainbow
Rainbow God crafted
Rainbow promises
Promises from God
Promises to all

Copyright © – Marie Elena Good – 2012



Love of life
Love of money
Money for lunch
Money for nothing
Nothing to see
Nothing for you
You only live once
You hold your future
Future predictions
Future world
World record
World War Three
Three coins in the fountain
Three’s company
Company “B”
Company picnic
Picnic Basket
Picnic table
Table of contents
Table the meeting
Meeting of the minds
Meeting room
Room for improvement
Room with a view
View to a kill
View master
Master of your fate
Master lock ®
Lock the door
Lock the safe
Safe haven
Safe harbor
Harbor lights
Harbor town
Town without pity
Town hall tonight
Tonight’s the night
Tonight until tomorrow
Tomorrow never knows
Tomorrow’s another day
Day tripper
Day to remember
Remember the Alamo
Remember the feeling
Feeling sick
Feeling fine now
Now is the time
Now is the place

Copyright © – Walter J. Wojtanik 2012


The last word on our progress was this:


Several have asked if this book is still in the works.  Rest assured, it is.  The process is going more slowly than we would like, but we are moving forward nonetheless.

Keep the faith, and we’ll let you know when you can expect it to be ready for publication.

Write on!


Prompt 79 may be found here: .


We have celebrated people and things that have helped mold us. Now, where were the places you went to get away from or hang out with your friends.


Part 14: Hanging Out – Tell us about a place where you spent a lot of your free time growing up (or as a grown-up). Even if it was in your own room, what did you do? Where did you socialize (pre-facebook, of course!). Where was your ultimate sanctuary?


Anywhere with Cousins

Whoever’s house,
Whichever park,
Whoever’s porch,
Whichever street,
Whoever’s room,
Whoever’s yard
Whatever rink
Whichever pool
Whatever field
Whatever pond
Whatever creek
Whichever place
Where we could be
All together – family.

(To Patti, Punk, Susie, Carrie, Connie, Shan, Dick, Bobbie, Mary, Jimmy, Barbara, Ray, Jim, Judi, Tom, Lisa, and Chris – with more love and gratefulness than my heart can contain.)

Copyright © – Marie Elena Good – 2012



A happy little hamlet hidden,
on the Lake Erie shore.
A cottage fully furnished
and burnished by the misted surf.
My friend’s turf, (his name was “Murph”).
It was Murph’s Turf! Summers were spent
rent free, the only “fee” was the upkeep.
We used to sleep until nine
and unwind on the sand until
time demanded we get busy.
Whirlwind waves made you dizzy
if you watched them for long.
The best song was their crash against
the break wall. But best of all,
it was a haven for the unshaven.
Because, when things move that slow,
you’re apt to let yourself go!

Copyright © – Walter J. Wojtanik 2012


The complete spectrum of emotions resides in this complex and intricate person we call Mom. She may be a saint in our eyes, or the bane of our existence. But, no matter which she is, there is no doubting that a Mother will have a first and lasting impression on our lives.


I agree with Walt.  Is there a more critical relationship in a child’s life than a parent … whether present (in every aspect of the word), or absent?  Your writing this week is emotionally intense, and full of beauty.  Among the outstanding pieces, I chose today to highlight one that is simple and speaks to a mother I wish every child that ever lived or ever will live could relate to:  A mother who is strong, yet gentle, and who inspired this: “The first word I learned to spell was Mom and I thought it spelled love. I guess it did.” My Beautiful Bloom goes to Iris Deurmyer for her precious little untitled tribute.

Untitled (by Iris Deurmyer)

Quiet and calm, with hands always busy
So strong for a lady but you were a farm mom
Yet I can still feel the gentle touch of those hands
My earliest and best memories include your smile
What I would not give for one more hour Or even a minute to sit beside you and hear
Your voice once more say my name
The first word I learned to spell
Was Mom and I thought it spelled love
I guess it did.


This poem selected confronts a mother’s pain. It is apparent that all the love and nurturing a mother’s heart possesses, can mask great anguish that manifests itself in mysterious ways. The work of ANDREW KREIDER in this piece expresses this quite well. A powerful and heart-breaking poem indeed, worthy of a BEAUTIFUL BLOOM.

reconciliation by Andrew Kreider

some mothers live in
lace and photographs,
make memories for play
and regulate the universe
against the watershed,
the day their children fly away
slick winged and innocent
the harbingers of spring

but this home echoed softly
of a tragedy endured
a second try at life
a single child ignored
or so it seemed and hardly touched
as if in fear the knife
would fall again if ever pride
or hope were shown abroad

so many children know the world
to be a drama played upon
their every sacred breath.
In time I came to see
my growing years were
gathered close and pushed away
within a mother’s sorrow
at her beloved daughter’s death.

SNAFUS AND HAIKUS (and a couple of LUNES thrown in!)

Pardon my faulty hands and decrepit laptop. The prompt for some Wednesday in November will feature the LUNE form. It takes a bit longer to compose and check the mechanics of these things lately and that one obviously got away from me. Continue to practice the LUNE and be ready with some fabulous work when it finally posts.

The FIBONACCI is this week’s form (and a fine job you’ve all done) .

Tomorrow will feature our BEAUTIFUL BLOOMS.

Sunday is prompt day for our next installment of the POETIC MEMOIR PROJECT.

With the newer poets joining us all the time, we ask that you check the DAISY CHAIN tab to be sure your personal blog is represented there. If it is not, please inform us at

As well, if you do not have a POETIC RECOLLECTIONS page and would like space to collect your POETIC BLOOMINGS work let us know that too!

Finally, we continue to celebrate your achievements. So, if you have a chapbook, collection or tome to promote, let us help. We are discussing plans for a POETIC BLOOMINGS “BOOK SALE” AND SWAP MEET to aid in some small way with your distribution. It is about the process and propagation of poetry. Without you poets, that’s a blank page!

Thanks. Walt and Marie


Gregory K. Pincus created Fibonacci poetry, as a 6-line poem that follows the Fibonacci sequence for syllable count per line.

The number of syllables in each line must equal the sum of the syllables in the two previous lines.

So, start with 0 and 1, add them together to get your next number, which is also 1, 2 comes next, then add 2 and 1 to get 3, and so on.

Fibonnaci: 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, and 21…

Poetry: 1 syllable, 1 syllable, 2 syllables, 3 syllables, 5 syllables, 8 syllables, 13 syllables, and 21 syllables…

More Info:

MARIE ELENA’S (1,1,2,3,5,8, reverse) FIBONACCI:


Just we
Low-key spree
Unplugged fantasy
Internet, T.V., cell phone-free
Hot tub, hike, sightsee



The air chills
and heavy frost kills
all that summer had provided.
Hidden in the barren trees, a lone robin singing
songs of farewell until the seasons change back to Spring.
For in Spring everything renews.
It is our true test.
All in life

Copyright © – Walter J. Wojtanik 2012


Finally, we come to write of specific people in our lives who had more influence than most. Who else had more influence on this existence than the women who carried, nurtured and bore us. We give the first nod to our mothers in this week’s poetic prompt. (This should give a clue as to two other upcoming prompts.)


Part 13: Mamma Mia – In verse and song, our Mothers have been extolled. Be it in the simple hug and “I Love You, Mom,” to the burly football player’s television acknowledgment (Hi Mom!), we’ve always found a way to return the love so given from birth and throughout our lives. For this prompt, write something about your mother and your relationship with her.


Marie Elena’s Mom


When I was a baby, my mother was my world.
No one else could feed me,
change me,
hold me,
rock me —
No one else would do.
As a young girl, my world expanded.
Yet, I missed her terribly if we were apart
For even short periods.
As a high school girl, I appreciated
And respected
My stay-at-home mother.
Her grandchildren love her above all.
Her nieces and nephews value her presence.
My father tells me that as a mother,
I remind him of Mom.
I’ve tucked that notion deep in my heart
For safekeeping,
Retrieving it for reassurance
Whenever I doubt myself.
I want her to know – to tell her how much she is loved –
But my brain lacks the words
My heart possesses.

Copyright © – Marie Elena Good – 2012



Irene Marion Wojtanik, 1930-1986

You never slept,
always waiting, crocheting,
swilling to excess on coffee,
and searching for a few more puffs
to satisfy your nicotine craving.
Always saving everything
for everyone else, and denying
what you needed; your love exceeded
all expectations, and these revelations
were late in coming. Summing you up
was always hard, for with every flower,
or hug, or card we made for you,
your love stayed true. You played games
with me, wee hours and round after round,
I found your acumen at Yahtzee! ® or Scrabble ®
would have me unraveled when morning came.
But all the same, I am no one without your
tender heart and re-assuring hand.
I stand here today because of all you gave me!
You had truly saved me. You were gone too soon!

For Irene Marion (Kura) Wojtanik, 1930-1986

Copyright © – Walter J. Wojtanik – 2012


So, our work continues as we have explored the chores and jobs we had done in our travels. A lot of ironing seems to have flattened a bunch of fabric and that toil steeled the tapestries of our lives in many wonderful ways. And now the chore becomes Marie Elena’s and mine; choosing two poems that have earned their way into our collective hearts. All wonderful poems…but here are the blooms:


Well, I’ll tell you what was NOT a chore: reading all your memory-induced, creative takes on the prompt.  Choosing just one?  Walt is right. THAT is a chore.  After sweating through it ( 😉 ), I decided I absolutely can’t resist celebrating “high-thread-count origami,” “Monopoly marker on holiday,” and whispered secrets of a steam iron.  Nancy Posey, only you could make an absolutely amazing read of “Ironing Sheets.”  For this, I offer you my Bloom.


I loved the symmetry of folded sheets,
corner to corner, pressed and steamed,
spritzed with starch, growing smaller
and smaller, high-thread-count origami,
stacked beneath matching pillowcases,
His and Hers embroidered white on white.

The hiss of steam as metal met moisture
whispered secrets to me, alone
in the laundry room, creases stiff
beneath my iron, a talisman part
bookend, part Monopoly marker
on holiday away from the Scottie dog,
the little car. On occasion, I too
fled the company of siblings on bikes,
of neighborhood children, choosing
even instead of my books that simple
solid chore, deferring my drowsy
dreams beneath their smooth weight,
no single wrinkle disturbing my sleep,
a princess without her pea.



I come from a family of six siblings and the chores were plenty indeed. But the many chores expressed in this poem is very reflective of the poet; it is a master work. It weaves that fabric with intricate precision and the resulting swatch is my BEAUTIFUL BLOOM recipient, Daniel Paicopulos.

THE CHORES OF CHILDHOOD by Daniel Paicopulos

It was a small town, a village really,
and everybody had their special roles.
There were six churches and with them,
six types of leaders, one called priest,
another two were pastors, three more
by name and function, ministers.
Not large enough for multiple choice,
but populated aplenty to require each service,
we had one drug counter, one hardware store,
a small post office, an eight-lane bowling alley,
Sal the barber, and the IGA grocery,
owned and run by my family.
There were also tradesmen scattered about,
working from their homes and trucks,
plumbers and electricians and such.
Also scattered throughout the streets,
most of which ended at the lake shore,
were thirty or more taverns, but
that’s a story unto itself.

I worked in that grocery, performing
most tasks, like checking and bagging,
stocking and delivery, sweeping and dusting,
marking prices on cans with black grease pencils.
I steered clear of the meat counter, though,
never trusting those knife-wielding butchers,
unable to stomach the blood, the smells.
When the summer folks arrived, mostly
rich people who did not cook,
I learned to make potato salads and cole slaw
and baked beans, a vegetarian in the making.
The wealthy did not shop, calling in their orders,
and it was for me to take them their bags of goods.
Sometimes, I broke an egg or twelve along the way,
but they never tipped, so it did not bother me much.
It always amazed me that these people
with so much gave so little.

My work did not end at that store.
A sickly mother, an often absent father,
a large yard, and the usual requirements of living
all gave me chores in slew-size.
I can’t recall if I complained back then,
but I’m grateful for it now, that work experience.
It taught how to cook, to clean, to care.
It taught me the silliness of “someone oughta”.
It gave me strength when my mother’s
sickness turned to death.
It gave me order when my father stayed absent.
It provided the way to responsibility.
It provided me with broad shoulders.
It gave meaning to that lesson about
Saint Francis of Assisi, where he was asked
while raking the garden what he would do
if he knew he would die that afternoon, and
he said he would finish raking the garden.



Writers on the whole are (in my opinion) a brave lot.  It takes a measure of courage to put words on display for viewing and assessment of the general public.  I can only imagine it takes a heightened sense of commitment and courage for one such as our own Andrea Heiberg, who chooses to write in a foreign language:  English.

In addition to writing and posting poetry online, Andrea has published a fictional book of short stories, centered around folks on her beloved Sejer Island (Next Stop:  Sejer Island).  In this English tongue that is foreign to her, she manages to engage and move the reader to truly feel, know and (yes) love the characters she draws.  Her stories speak to everyday life as experienced on a tiny island, complete with life perceptions and subtle take-away lessons from ordinary victors.  I applaud Andrea’s efforts, and highly recommend this book.

 MARIE ELENA:  Andrea, what prompted you to begin writing in English?

ANDREA:  Arab, Spanish, and English are the main languages in the world, and since I like to be part of the world and speak English, I picked English. It’s been quite a journey for me, though. I knew I needed an editor, so I looked for an editor in Britain since I write in British English, and I found a firm. I sent some short stories, and I never understood the corrections. Then I saw an American editor who was so much cheaper, so I sent the same short stories to her and didn’t expect anything considering her low charge for editing.

I will never forget that Tuesday back in 2008 when I got the first short story back from her – it was “A Kingdom for a Kalashnikov.” When I read her perfect edit of my short story, I was shocked because I had wondered whether I could ever accomplish my task, which was and is to preserve my Danish voice in English – and she just showed that I could, that I accomplished it. In a way, my writings in English could have stopped there, but I liked corresponding with her. I still do, so I wrote more short stories.

When I finally had written a lot of short stories, a British publisher wanted them, so a British editor needed to change the words into British English. So my stories needed another editing, but this time the British editor only changed the American expressions so they appear in British English.

MARIE ELENA:  “A Kingdom for a Kalashnikov” was well placed as the first of your short stories in Next Stop:  Sejer Island, as it shows off your ability to draw in the reader, endear us to your characters, and your extraordinary ability to layer your work.

Andrea, I know your place and date of birth carry great significance to you.  Please tell me about that.

ANDREA: I like that my place of birth is near the place where one of my favorite authors lived (Karen Blixen), and since I could couple her with Ernest Hemingway (another favorite author of mine, with whom I share a birthday), I had a chance of making a bit of fun – and so I did.

So here I have to admit there is nothing special about my birth – only that I was born far away from where I come from.

It is a fact that I am born, though, and also that I consider my birth miraculous, just as miraculous as yours, and I see us all like little wonderful wonders all around the earth.

Still, having been born, I live with Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s words. He says in his “Le Petit Prince”: “It is the time you have spent with your rose that makes your rose so important.”

Walt and you share your roses on The Poetic Bloomings, and thanks for that.  I’m also so grateful to be given the opportunity to share roses with Ina Roy-Faderman on

MARIE ELENA:  What a lovely sentiment, Andrea.  Thank you for your kind words.

Let’s talk about Sejer Island.  It is not your place of birth, so what drew you in, and why did you decide to settle there?

ANDREA: I haven’t settled on Sejer Island, yet. I have a cabin out here, but I still have a house on what we call “the other side.” In my case, I come from Vordingborg. There is a ferry to and from, and the service takes an hour. In my case the ride is around three hours altogether, but since the weather is unpredictable, I might arrive seasick to the mainland, having another two hours to drive. It is quite a journey for me to come home, so very often I stay on the island during the weekends, too, but I guess it’s important for me to know that I’ve got other possibilities.

I admire people from Sejer Island for being able to live on an island permanently, but I’m not sure I could stay here if I didn’t have the chance to go “home” and have a good warm bath, and knowing that the electricity will work 24 hours a day.

Sejer Island
(Photo credit: Gitte Andreasen )

Sejer Island
(Photo credit: Gitte Andreasen)

MARIE ELENA:  My goodness, Andrea.  I have such a low tolerance for being seasick, that it is hard to imagine subjecting myself willingly on a regular basis.  But when I think of the stories in your book, and I see the photos of your lovely island, I do believe it would be well worth the trip.

ANDREA:  Gitte Andreasen (from the island) took these beautiful photos using her cell phone. She is out here, every day, everywhere on the island on her small three wheeled bike, accompanied with her two small dogs.

MARIE ELENA:  Your friend has captured such beauty with nothing but her cell phone?  Impressive!  Please do thank her for us.  We are pleased to share her photos here.

So now tell me — what does a typical day in the life of Andrea Heiberg look like?

ANDREA: A typical day for me is so typical. I’m up at 6:30 every day, at work at 8:00, and home at about 2:00. I’m a teacher at the local school. Then there are the meetings on Mondays and Thursdays, and quite often these days I’m “off duty” at around 7:00 or 8:00. In between, there are the poems. If, for instance, you and Walt have an appealing prompt, it might stay in my head so I need to write a poem when I get home. But I seldom write short stories, prose, during the week because normally I’m not satisfied with my writing after a day’s work at the school.

MARIE ELENA:  I did not realize you are a teacher.  That’s wonderful! Walt and I have been rather amazed (and pleased) at the number of educators who regularly grace our site.  Do you teach small children?

ANDREA:  My education allows me to teach both children and adults. During my long life of teaching, I have been teaching both children and adults. English is one of my specific subjects, but working on an island requires good computer skills. We cooperate with other small islands, and we use a video conference, Smart Boards, laptops, Ipad –and we connect using a program called Bridgit. So far we only worked together with Danish schools, but an Irish school and a Swedish school (also island schools) might want to join us – and that’s great!

MARIE ELENA:  In addition to being a teacher, blogger, poet, and published fiction writer, you are an award-winning playwright.  That is just so impressive, Andrea!  Please tell us all about it.

ANDREA: Back in 1986 I won a contest. A theater in Copenhagen, Teaterbutikken, picked my play, and I won kr. 25,000 (around $7,000 in today’s money). It was a play about recycling. It’s called “Losse Else,” which means more or less “Trash Else” – “Else” being a female Danish name. This Else is an old woman who collects trash items, and so does a young boy. It is within this bonding that the story runs. On the surface you might think: What is trash? But you might also think: Who is trash?

MARIE ELENA:  That sounds so unique and intriguing.  On top of that, I understand plays of yours have appeared on Danish television.  That must have been such a thrill for you!  How did this come about?

ANDREA: Danish television picked one of my plays to air in the beginning of the eighties. It was a play for and with children, called “The Bad Sheriff and His 18 Robin Hoods.” It was quite a success, so we went forward with a story inspired by Danish history called “The Murder in The Finderup Bar.” This was also a play for children and played by children. So much fun!

MARIE ELENA:  They both sound absolutely delightful.  What diverse experiences you have under your belt!

Let’s concentrate on poetry a moment.  I’ve chosen two of your poems, which I believe flaunt your diverse creativity.  The first, “ENGLISH,” particularly touches me.

ENGLISH (by Andrea Heiberg)

Though I love the sound of my mother’s voice,
her words,
her lullabies,
the stories are stories
and the facts are facts
and when told in English,
there’re just as much stories and facts than any Dane could tell them
in any language
and just as much English.

So, please Mom, up in Heaven,
that English bears the signs of worldwide cultures
we added
up here
from the north,
up in Denmark.

 And how I love that someone added

 Mom, I tell you this in English
though tears drop
down my cheeks
and whether they drop in Danish or in English,
I don’t know.
I just miss you.

MARIE ELENA:  This: “… and whether they drop in Danish or in English, I don’t know. I just miss you,” is one of the most touching lines I’ve ever read, in any poem, by any poet.

Another poem is inspired by one of Robert Brewer’s prompts back in 2009 during the April Poem-a-Day challenge.

SO WE DECIDED (by Andrea Heiberg)

So we decided to go home,
only we didn’t,
we kept sitting there side by side, staring at the lake,
staring at the lake’s surface,
we decided to go home, not daring to touch, not daring to even look, just staring at the lake, waiting for us to decide to go home, only hating having nothing better to say and hating the thought of leaving,
leaving for our homes, our parents,
hating sitting like this and desperately thinking of something brilliant to say, only not too brilliant, something catchy, but not sexy, something that could make the ice break.

So we decided to go home.

We went.
Stumbling kind of.

 “Should we kiss?” you said.

MARIE ELENA:  “So We Decided” captures the excitement and awkwardness of “that moment” perfectly!

When did you begin writing poetry?  What poet(s) inspire you?

ANDREA: Poetry is my “in between” during what feels like busy days– only I learned that poetry also gives me the feeling of syntheses. Like headlines for stories, or like prompts for short stories or novels.

The Danish poet, Benny Andersen, inspires me a lot.

Most of all, I like that poems unite us. We can write about all kinds of everyday issues, the general truth, so to speak, of our everyday lives, and we don’t need to involve politics and religion. Poems give us this opportunity to say hello, and I believe that this “hello” is a building stone for a world in peace.

MARIE ELENA:  I can’t help but share one more poem.  “O Magnitude” was the recipient of a “Beautiful Bloom,” and will appear in our upcoming “First Blooms” collection.  I was glad to learn that it is one of your own favorites as well as mine.

O Magnitude (by Andrea Heiberg)

The days never end but
for the longing of
the damping forest
the on shore wondering,
the red-necked grebe
on its way
with her two heavy babies on her back,

 No, the days never end.

MARIE ELENA:  One of the most memorable experiences of your life is an event that I’m embarrassed I knew nothing about:  The Camino.

ANDREA: The Camino! The Way! People from all over the world walk the Camino every year, and we are following a trail of hundreds of kilometers up north in Spain. There are around 25 kilometers in between the towns and the beds where you can sleep, so for many people the options make it possible. A lot of men wrote about their external sufferings and inner revelations walking these hundreds of kilometers, and I don’t understand this because the majority of people I met on the Camino back in 2006 were women. Women from all over the world losing weight.

I never intended to walk the Camino, but a friend of mine wanted to go there. She had breast cancer, and in a hospital bed without breasts, she cried, “Now I can never walk the Camino.”

And I said, “Of course you can.”

And she said, “Will you bring me?”

And I said, “I’ll carry you all the way if necessary.”

My friend recovered, and every now and then she reminded me of my promise, so one day we were there. “Hello 500 kilometers ahead of you,” I thought one day in Burgos in Spain. It turned out to be a painful nightmare for the first couple of days because I did not know anything else than walking these 500 kilometers (approximately 300 miles) to reach the airport in Santiago to get safely home to Denmark. How would I ever succeed?

I got lost from my Danish friend after two days. Only I met a lot of other people. People from all over the world. People from Holland, Germany, England, Ireland, Canada, America, and Australia.

I walked all those hundreds of kilometers mostly with three Australians, but I met my Danish friend after 19 days in Santiago. When sitting in a restaurant with my Australian friends, whom I walked with for what felt like a lifetime, my Danish friend asked me, “Andrea, why do you speak in English?”

And what did I say? Likely that it was important for me that everybody around the table understood what I said – only the fact was that I felt more or less Australian.

When I returned to Denmark, I started writing about all the experiences with all those hundreds of people that I’d met. I wrote in English, and after three months I ended up with a book manuscript of 72,000 words, now wondering:

Who doesn’t need to follow a long-haired, American anorexic pilgrim walking out there with her plastic bags?

“Being a Franciscan believer doesn’t allow me to own anything,” she said. Only I for one would have loved to buy a rucksack for her. Listening to her endless packing and unpacking of her noisy Spanish plastic bags at 5 o’clock in the morning was hell.

“Sorry, but I need to arrange all my stuff right,” she said.

Or the polite British pilgrim who wore his trekking trousers inside out, explaining to me that the trousers belonged to his dead friend who had wanted to walk the Camino.  He promised this dead friend’s wife that he would wear these trousers along the entire journey, and there he was, “saving” these trousers for Santiago where he would put them on right.

“What an odd promise,” I said.

“Yes, you might say so,” he said, “but that’s how she wanted it, and I do it because she promised me his old car when I return to England.”



MARIE ELENA:  “I’ll carry you all the way if necessary.”  Wow.  What a friend you are, Andrea.  And what an amusing and amazing experience!  It sounds like a very good thing that you brought your sense of humor with you. 😉

And now, as I end all my interviews — if we could know only one thing about you, what would you tell us?

ANDREA:  Being a Danish author writing in English, living on a remote island, makes it difficult to get published. My dream is to have my Camino manuscript published. I could go on forever, and I do so in my manuscript. I promise the world a good read and promise any reader a new and extraordinary view of the Camino. Please help me get my Camino manuscript through.

MARIE ELENA:  Thank you so much for taking time out of your busy life to help us get to know you better.  Your poetry is a welcome asset here at Poetic Bloomings.


Ways to find and support Andrea:

Next Stop:  Sejer Island was published by an independent British publisher, and may be found on Amazon ( and on Salt Publishing at .Remember to leave a review, and consider a recommendation on Goodreads ( .

“A Kingdom for a Kalashnikov” may be found at:

As Andrea touched on above, she recently connected with another talented writer, Ina Roy-Faderman, to create a delightful blog:  “in our books (tales of two writers)”  Do stop on over and give them a look-see.

One more way in which we can support Andrea is to share Facebook connections with her.

It is wonderful having a diverse poetic community here at Poetic Bloomings.  We thank you all for your generous support of one another.


The SONNET is a poem, properly expressive of a single, complete thought, idea, or sentiment. It consists of 14 lines, usually in iambic pentameter, with rhymes arranged according to one of certain definite schemes. In the strict or Italian form it is divided into a major group of 8 lines (the octave) followed by a minor group of 6 lines (the sestet). An a-b-b-a, a-b-b-a pattern became the standard for Italian sonnets. For the sestet there were two different possibilities: c-d-e-c-d-e and c-d-c-c-d-c. In time, other variants on this rhyming scheme were introduced, such as c-d-c-d-c-d.

The English form breaks the poem into 3 quatrains followed by a couplet. Each line contains ten syllables and is written in iambic pentameter, in which a pattern of an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable is repeated five times (da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM). The rhyme scheme in a Shakespearean (English) sonnet is a-b-a-b, c-d-c-d, e-f-e-f, g-g; the last two lines are a rhyming couplet. Alternate Rhyme Scheme: a-a-b-b, c-c-d-d, e-e-f-f, g-g

More detailed information on the SONNET may be found here:



She’s elderly.  Some say she’s always been.
So wise is she in how she spends her time
A model of her Savior’s love toward men
Her body, frail; her grace is in its prime.
He isn’t who he feels he ought to be
He feels no kindness toward his fellow man
In prayer, he bows his head and lifts a plea,
To change his heart, as only Jesus can.
I wish to be a mirror of His love,
To see you through His warm and tender eyes,
Emit the grace I’m undeserving of,
Become like Him:  accepting, kind, and wise.
So thankful Jesus scraped away our dross –
This sinless One bore all upon the cross.

Copyright © – Marie Elena Good 2012



Love is the tender trap that snares the heart,
from eyes’ first glance the ember’s passions start.
And so to bless two souls in search of love,
who in each other’s heartbeats they do move.

The snare so baited lures her to his arms
where he becomes enraptured by her charms.
A gentle hold upon him she does reign,
to touch his very life and soul again.

He, once the hunter now becomes the prey,
the tender trap is set to save his way,
a sanctuary there within each chest;
a safety sure, procured in nurture’s nest.

Evasive hearts surrender, for ’tis true,
there is a tender trap set just for you!

Copyright © – Walter J. Wojtanik 2012