POETIC BLOOMINGS

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

A MUST-READ POET – PROMPT #112

Your life is an open book; a best seller. Your poem is the blurb from the back cover. It doesn’t need to be strictly on the level. Let your imagination and ambition color your background. What have you done; what do you dream of doing? Consider it accomplished and write your blurb.

MARIE ELENA’S RUN-ON DREAM:

“Our truest life is when we are in dreams, awake.”   ~ Henry David Thoreau

If success…
 
is measured by pleasure
that graces wee faces;
the glee you see as they adorn the knee
of the one who will read and quench their need
for story in rhyme, and take the time
to let small fingers linger and point
and think it a treat to repeat and repeat
the giggley, squiggely words for the wiggley
who can’t get enough of her picture book stuff,
then yes, she’s been blessed with the grandest success.
 
© Copyright Marie Elena Good – 2013
 

WALT”S BLURB:

WORDS OF WALT

Years of struggling have paid off,
others scoff at Walt’s success, but the rest
of the world knew what he went through
to reach his dream. His ninth poetry
collection has taken perfection and
although turning it down a notch,
raised the bar to secure future success.
His best is yet to come,and some
find that hard to believe. Looks deceive
but his words tell it like it is.
Entitled “Bullcrap Sells,” this may well be.

© Copyright Walter Wojtanik – 2013

We’d also like to wish all the dads out there a very happy Father’s Day.  It’s one of the toughest jobs on the planet, and hopefully one of the most rewarding. 

Walt, we’d love to see a photo out here of you with your gorgeous daughters.  *hint, hint*  Happy Father’s Day, Pard!

WojFamPlus1

The “Official” family wedding portrait (I’m flanked by my daughters)

IMG_0145

Andrea and Melissa

 

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134 thoughts on “A MUST-READ POET – PROMPT #112

  1. William Preston on said:

    GOT THE WORLD BY THE TAIL

    There’s nothing in the world that’s going to bother me today;
    won’t let the sticks and stones that fly deter me from my way;
    I’ll face down almost anything, no matter, come what may:
    I’ve got the world by the tail on a downhill drag.

    The two of us together, just my tweety bird and me,
    are grinning while the universe goes spinning fast and free;
    with all the stars and galaxies to keep us company,
    we’ve got the world by the tail on a downhill drag.

    When life sends crates of lemons I just make some lemonade
    and sip it in the sunshine while my troubles seek the shade.
    Because I do, most people think I’ve surely got it made:
    I’ve got the world by the tail on a downhill drag.

    copyright 2013, William Preston

  2. William Preston on said:

    Marie and Walt, I enjoyed both of your blurbs. Marie, your patter-rhyme is a special delight, and Walt, yours reminded me of something a very successful boss once told me” “Bullcrap makes the world go `round.” Only, his tongue wasn’t in his cheek.

  3. I AM FROM DREAMS WHERE I CAN FLY

    I am from old corner-bent and fading photographs
    gifts from two old codgers named Kodak and Eastman.

    I am from a West Virginia apartment we call home, a haven
    where we lay our heads together on a nighttime pillow.

    I am from the heart of the leafy artichoke, the black belly
    of the daffodil whose yellow petals challenge the sun.

    From laughter at the kitchen table where love
    resonates for Sharon who saves my life each day,
    and for my parents whom this heart will not forget––
    nor Alphonse, nor Joanie, nor Sarah––all with love!

    I am from kissing on both cheeks, embracing, praying
    each night the darkness will find us safe in our beds.

    I am from the boy who learned of God and loves Him still,
    the child whose mother’s prayers send angels to guide me.

    I am from the Roman Catholic baptism that touched me
    with water and oil, from the Holy Communion of bread and wine.

    I am from Brooklyn, a budding son from the branch of
    a Sicilian family tree where nests of hopes and dreams thrive.
    I am from Mama’s pasta sauce poured over Sunday meals.
    I am from hot Italian loaves of bread my father baked.

    I am from the tears still shed since Papa, Frank, and Anna
    left this world in God’s friendship to reserve a place for me.

    I am from dreams where I can fly, final words my father spoke,
    the prayers in my mother’s Bible, my Sharon’s kiss upon my cheek––

    all of this and so much more! I am from dusty roads and rocky roads,
    smooth macadam, warped sidewalks, sleek ice and snow, friendly white clouds.

    #

  4. Henrietta Choplin on said:

    Meg: LOVE this!!! Walt, your talent is absolute!!

  5. An older one written for my wife – but I think it fits the prompt….

    Nothing Compares

    By David De Jong

    I’ve traversed the mountain, just to view the valley below,
    Worn gem-stones; with gold and silver, riches to show.

    Reluctantly watched a man die as I held his hand,
    Witnessed fire consume vast parched acres of land.

    I’ve been mesmerized by the ocean’s calls on the sandy beach,
    Relaxed on the mountain top, counting stars, just out of reach.

    I’ve grasped the spirit of the horse, bareback, galloping in the rain,
    Grimaced uncontrollably, ensnarled with blood and invisible pain.

    I’ve listened to symphonies, harmony engulf the concert hall,
    Only to realize, the sound of your voice, out-plays them all.

    The vision my eyes yearn for, relish, and can’t wait to see,
    The beauty of your smile, step by step, as you walk towards me.

    None compare the inexpressible gift of holding you in my arms,
    Enchanting fragrance on your wrist and the music of its charms.

    Emeralds of Jade color your eyes, as they peer deep into my soul,
    All of everything about you; completes me, making me whole.

  6. First, Walt!! Happy Father’s Day and Cheers on your best seller…it’s a gem!!!

    Marie! I so love this part…all of it really but this:

    “and take the time
    to let small fingers linger and point
    and think it a treat to repeat and repeat”

    So often life can try to make us rush through these special times…this is such a beautiful reminder to take that time and enjoy if fully. Thank you. ♥

    Warm smiles to everyone!

    Excellent start, William…your poem played out as an animated beauty as I read…love the positive spirit there!!
    ~
    Now…

    My Story!!
    ~
    Fresh pressed from the heart…critically-acclaimed
    writer Hannah Gosselin with her tiny-tome, “Big Impressions.”
    ~
    They say it’s…
    “A gripping, colorful, honest voice…a definite must read!”
    ~
    “It’s a true light, distinctly heart rendered…life affirming writing.”
    ~
    “One-hundred and eleven pages you’ll never regret reading!”
    ~
    “Her words are awe-filled and brimming with the beauty of the natural world!”
    ~
    But don’t take their word for it!!
    For a meager Abraham stamped penny…you can own your very own copy!
    ~
    This small volume will make you fall in love with life again. It will remind you of the tiny/big things that can bring so much joy to the world…it transforms the ordinary into extraordinary in the blink of an eye and brings a whole new appreciation for nature and all living-breathing creatures.
    ~
    This book tears down walls of division between human beings and creation and shines a light on the true oneness that exists within. A journey, hope for the heart, a dream for wellness…
    ~
    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2013

  7. Pingback: Fresh pressed from the heart… | Metaphors and Smiles

  8. connielpeters on said:

    Sevenling (Persistence)

    Two layer cake with chocolate icing
    Neapolitan ice cream
    Candles blazing

    Decrepit laptop
    Words piled up in files
    Ergonomic chair

    Pulitzer

  9. DebiSwim on said:

    Life is a Strange Place to Live

    From a little unincorporated place in Tennessee
    this lady has moved around from east coast
    to west coast and settled finally down
    in West Virginia – back in a small town.

    Along the way she lost her dad, grandparents,
    husband, step-father, miscarried a son,
    uncles and aunts and a few dear friends –
    you could say it’s been a bittersweet blend.

    But overall life has been good – blessed even
    with a fine man who makes her laugh and three children
    and six wonderful grandsons, family scattered but close
    to the heart with lots of visits so she says, “I’ll not be morose”.

    Her book is a treasure that will be dogged-eared
    with the years of thumbing through to gather nuggets
    of wisdom from heartbreak, laughter and joy that abides
    in her poetry collection “Wimps Need not Apply.”

  10. This exercise made me realize that I need to get going if I want these things to be true about me!

    I WOULD LIKE TO SAY A FEW WORDS OF THANKS TO MY GRANDMOTHER

    First, I would like to thank her for growing the cherry tree
    that gave me so many afternoons of finding heaven
    through sunlight shining through green leaves
    climbing to hunt red jewels staining my lips with
    the same sweet that made the birds come back
    year after year and trill out their gladness for life.

    I would like to thank her for teaching me to play jacks
    speak sign language make tamales mix salsa dance salsa
    dance samba play samba reggae on old buckets and
    love the world how I find it.

    I would like to thank her for driving me to the beach and
    to the desert in her souped-up El Camino with turquoise rims
    that she converted herself to run on vegetable oil, so it poofs out
    the carnival scent of frying dough everywhere we go
    and when my grandma hits the hydraulics, everyone points
    and says look at that old broad and her broad smile sparkles with
    the sunlight bouncing off the hood and she always stops for
    hitchhikers because she has Shaolin training and can
    disarm any foe so why be afraid?

    I would like to thank my grandma for listening to me like a lake
    deep and unruffled for always having a bed made for me and
    my sisters and all my cousins and for giving us a little money
    every time we come around and unwrapping the right story
    from her life at the right time to help us place our own
    vignettes within the mosaic of our family history
    world history universal mystery.

    I would like to thank my grandma for raising goats
    but not eating them and never forgetting
    to bring something small for each grandchild
    from her trips to Cuba, Brazil, Nigeria, Morocco, Prague,
    Mexico and for dedicating her best last book
    of poetry to me and for putting my 8th grade Winter Formal
    picture on the jacket of her underground smash hit album
    of Smokey Robinson covers.

    I would like to thank my grandma for sitting with me
    silently on the porch swing just nibbling on the subtle shifts
    of sunlight’s colors and angles for waiting
    til she turned 80 to start smoking a tobacco pipe
    and waiting til her great-great-granddaughter was born
    to leave this planet
    and I want to thank her for
    leaving us a little sign behind
    when she left
    that everything would be alright
    because she crossed over smiling
    and humming an unknown song

  11. About the Author

    The Professor of Procrastination
    After many, many unfinished attempts
    Is proud to present an unabashed glimpse
    Into his most unusually and unordinary life

    The Professor of Punditry
    Ever on the hunt for comment or opinion
    Has packed these pages with personal judgments
    And advice, of which some he has taken himself

    The Professor of Political Incorrectness
    Willingly breaking the rules verbal sensitivity
    Believing that the truth should always be spoken
    Regardless of whether or not it could be handled

    And the Professor of Poems and Prose
    Or so dubbed by his loving and caring wife
    Although never one to toot his own horn
    He never stopped writing of which he loved

    Please, enjoy the life of Professor Parsons

    © 2013 Earl Parsons

  12. First time trying to write a Sijo. 🙂

    Success consists of wealth and fame and articles about me;
    But is this really all life holds? I think not;
    If I write a poem that spreads God’s word, I’ll be a success to me.

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

  13. First I thought this was a time to do nothing but break out in prose. Otherwise I would have a too-prosaic poem or use pitiful rhymes like nag and bag for tag or stomp or tromp with romp. Then I remembered Earl and his new form. Hooray! Earl Parsons, thank you for creating the poetic form, Appreciation and sharing it with us. Without that form, I would still be stumbling around in the poetic dark as I tried to find the words for my imaginative blurb.

    As I mentioned on my blog we each flattered ourselves because we could. After all, we were writing our own blurb. I do find the process of writing poetry a romp. It is only my desire to have others enjoy those poems as such a romp. Oh, I guess I broke out in prose after all. 😉

    Poetic Romp

    Sheryl

    plies her word tag

    in a poetic romp

    chasing words and ideas

    as they flit across the page.

    http://sherylssporadicspurtings.wordpress.com/2013/06/16/poetic-romp/

  14. Marie, I loved your light-hearted peom, and Walt, I’m sure you mislabled your poems, but you wrote a good poem anyway,

  15. William Preston on said:

    LIGHT BLURB

    This volume of poems is scarcely a tome;
    its elegance speaks more of Nome than of Rome;
    in spite of all that, the author does hope
    that readers, when finished, have no cause to mope.

    The verses herein are offered for laughs;
    they’re not guaranteed to be free of all gaffes.
    Some pieces, perhaps, venture wisdom to seek
    with tongue, nonetheless, planted firmly in cheek.

    copyright 2013, William Preston

  16. Ah, we will remember that last line when we read your nome–neither tome nor Rome. 😉

  17. Whoops. it should read imaginary blurb, not imaginative blurb.

  18. Oh, you did it! You did it! Thank you SO much for the photos, Walt!

    ME

  19. A Year in Poetry

    I’ve taken all my thoughts and dreams
    And put them into words,
    Arranging them in forms and themes,
    Giving them wings of birds
    So they can fly upon my voice,
    Hidden on the pages,
    Causing all that read to rejoice,
    Weep, or fume in rages.

    All this culminated in
    A single chapbook:
    “A Year in Poetry”
    By Erin Kay Hope.

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

  20. An Alabama Book Review

    From Alabama’s red clay earth she comes;
    her forebears, Cherokee, whose welcome song
    she heard as she ran, barefoot, in the sun
    and with the Mockingbirds, she sang along.

    Her tunes are copies of the lavish oak:
    her love; the red, red flutter of their leaf.
    And if you sense the heart with which she spoke
    you’ll find among her pages true belief.

    Atop the swaying Chinaberry tree
    she found her play when climbing, as a child.
    Her little book of rhyme is memory;
    she weaves her thought from nature with its style.

    Oh, happy is her tearful book of Now;
    her verses; both a promise and a vow.

  21. What They Are Saying About Sara McNulty

    Dubbed, The Purple Poet, due
    to her penchant for wearing
    purple clothing, Sara McNulty
    shines in her seventh collection,
    “Dug From Life.” With her preference
    for black and white photography,
    Ms. McNulty’s new poems enhance
    that media type in clear crisp lines,
    like the book’s cover of black stick
    figure trees against a snowy background.
    This is a bare bones personal look at life.
    The author resides with husband, four
    dogs, three cats, and one rabbit,
    in Portland, Oregon, maintaining
    an apartment in New York City.

  22. DebiSwim on said:

    The author resides with husband, four dogs, three cats, and one rabbit,

    That sounds like it could be fun. Nice descriptive poem

  23. From, “NOW You See Me?” by S.E.Ingraham

    “…and moths, drawn to flame
    will curl round like candle wicking
    …desperate to flutter away…
    will become as breath, as smoke
    and the dust on wings with powdered
    death betrays them…”

    Ten years after her untimely death, the discovery
    of S.E.Ingraham’s, “NOW You See Me?” a collection of poetry
    almost as enigmatic, and certainly as eclectic as the late poet
    herself, is causing quite a stir in the literary world.
    There has been on-going controversy surrounding
    the book’s publication, and a lawsuit to keep the book off the
    shelves and out of the public arena has just concluded.
    What wasn’t known until just recently was the reason
    for the lawsuit, the person fuelling the controversy, and at the
    heart of all the intrigue surrounding the book and the attempts
    to keep it from being published.
    Samuel Lawson, Ingraham’s self-named “bastard boy”
    came forward less than a month after her death, explaining
    his reasons for staying silent until then were personal, and had
    to do with protecting his mother. Court ordered DNA tests
    proved Lawson’s claim, and genetic link, to his mother, Ingraham.
    Ingraham’s recognized heirs, twin daughters, Inga and Ilsa,have
    never spoken publicly about their newly discovered brother
    and have lobbied tirelessly to have “NOW You See Me?” published,
    saying only, they believe it is what she would have wanted had she
    lived.
    As to the discovery of the manuscript…the mystery and
    intrigue continue to swirl. There were unconfirmed rumours
    the pages were discovered with Ingraham’s personal effects; also, that
    it appeared when Lawson did…again, unconfirmed. No-one has said
    definitively just where it originated. Perhaps no-one knows.
    On one thing the poetic community is in complete agreement,
    at least those who have had a preview…none of the poems in this book
    has been published before. For that reason alone, “NOW You See Me?”
    is a guaranteed must read.

  24. Beautiful responses by all. I sort of went off the deep end here. Thanks for a great prompt!

    When the running stopped

    Just before his final race, Andrew Kreider
    made two calls, one to his lawyer,
    the other to his spiritual advisor.

    Whatever was discussed can surely explain
    only in part the bizarre circumstances
    of his subsequent disappearance

    the anonymous gift of one thousand copies
    of Anne Lamott’s “Bird by Bird” to the
    Elkhart High School English department

    the establishment of a state-of-the-art
    penguin hatchery at the heart of
    the Potawatomi Zoo

    and the sudden appearance of
    Garrison Keillor’s face carved into
    the side of the Swiss Valley Ski Resort.

    His garage was populated with
    medium duty power tools
    (not the really dangerous kind)

    and a wall of guitar amplifiers
    loud enough to make even
    Pete Townshend soil his drawers.

    Some say Kreider never took life
    seriously enough. In truth, he probably
    cared more than he could bear.

    This collection must be read with a smile,
    for as Kreider knew all too well, in the end
    we are united not by our triumphs but by our flaws.

  25. William Preston on said:

    CAVEAT

    The poems here were written at a price
    comprising nights subsisting on warm beer
    and cold baloney. I would often splice
    the poems here

    to tap two thoughts when one would not appear,
    then meld them carefully by rolling dice
    and metrics, merged with moldy atmosphere

    to form new forms as faux as fairy lice.
    For all of that, the reader need not fear
    my words; there is no need to sacrifice
    the poems here.

    copyright 2013, William Preston

  26. He Who Wrote This

    He who wrote this would like to express
    His gratitude to you for reading this mess
    Such glimpses of thoughts spilled to the page
    Lived or witnessed from young to old age
    Some totally true; some exaggerated
    All by true life thoughts generated
    Within these pages he’s laid his life bare
    The adventure awaits; join in if you dare
    He who wrote this has many stories to tell
    Each, is his hope, will ring memories bell

    © 2013 Earl Parsons

  27. A Southern Posey

    You’ve met Scout. You’ve met Scarlet.
    Southern blooms from the same soil.
    You’ve read Flannery and Miss Eudora
    until you know their families, their towns.
    You’ve danced to Loretta and Patsy,
    harmonized with Tammy and Emmylou.
    Now it’s time you meet a real Posey,
    as Southern as catfish and kudzu,
    capricious as a summer rainstorm,
    with more energy than a speedboat.
    One lifetime hardly seems long enough
    to capture Nancy, but this one edition
    will have to sate your curiosity–for now.

  28. Can you dig it?
    Yes I can!

  29. Pingback: Just to Prove It Can be Done | The Chalk Hills Journal

  30. Just To Prove It Can Be Done

    One day a few years ago, Misky fell
    into a mist. A depression, of sorts.
    A tropical depression without sun

    or sand, no rum nor steel drums.
    She’d reached the age where she
    should’ve know better – and that’s

    when she decided to prove herself.
    By making homemade bread. It was
    something she thought she couldn’t do.

    So she did it, and by golly she could!

    So then one day a few years ago,
    when the house was to the brim-full
    of bread, she grabbed a pen, a pad

    and a chair, and started to endlessly
    write verse. She wrote about everything
    under the moon, and then she wrote

    about that, too, and then she read
    all that she’d wrote to family and friends
    ‘til her throat was rubbed red and raw.

    I can write poetry, she thought, that
    highfaluting, uppercrust stuff that she
    always thought she could never do.

    But she did it, and by golly she could!

    So then one day a few years ago,
    she wondered if she was too old
    for school. All that she missed when

    teachers said she was too slow, below
    the rest of the class. Was it true? So,
    she went to uny whilst sitting at home,

    studied hard whilst baking bread
    and endlessly writing verse, and now
    now she’s a registered dietician.

    She did it, and graduated top of her class!

    So now Misky dreams new dreams
    with her house filled with bread
    and her head filled with verse. She’s

    drawn by the scent of salt, the feel
    of sea-stiffened hair, and long, broad
    pebble beaches and a little boy, Tom.

    Yes, she’s called by Tom and His Beach.
    Called by smiley face stickers and kids
    who hope that they can dream, too.

    And you just watch – she’ll do it, too!

    • What a totally endearing read, Misk. “House filled with bread and head filled with verse.” Love it! I have to admit that your ending (Tom) throws me though. My pea brain isn’t grasping it. I’m sure it’s just me, and when it all of a sudden hits me, I’ll be going “well, DUH!” 😉

      Marie Elena

  31. STILL ECHOING
    (a piku)

    So much is
    said
    in so few words.

  32. Pingback: Still Echoing | echoes from the silence

  33. Cowpoke Poet

    By David De Jong

    Just an old cowpoke, workin’ with wire
    Prob’ly be dead, before he’ll retire
    Workin’ the ranch, lovin’ his dear wife
    Thankin’ the Lord, for his blessed life

    Rhymin’ words he shares, simple yet true
    A workin’ man’s heart, country side view
    Hear the saddle creak, feel reigns in hand
    Pull of the lasso, burn a hot brand

    Hear an angel’s voice, then see her face
    Watch her loving smile, light up the place
    Timber and prairie, mountain and slough
    Printed on the page, in front of you

    Smell the fire, coffee, pine and smoke
    Watch dancin’ embers, laugh at a joke
    Cattle on the ridge, belly-high brome
    This would be the spread, proud to call home

    Saddle up, ride the trail, see the place
    See what comes of, God’s amazing grace

  34. Noble? More Like Nobel!

    Here it is at last! The long awaited sequel
    to the masterpiece that was the top seller
    of a generation. The genius who brought us
    Bartholomew Foggerty and the never ending
    saga of Ringo & Moosehead has surpassed even
    his own favourite “Cats, Poetry & Death” and
    delivered a tome worthy of international and
    yes, historical recognition. The depth of feeling,
    the range of language, the sheer unadulterated
    bliss that will overcome each and every reader
    simply oozes from the page – it is said that Auden,
    Isherwood and Larkin are to be found spinning in
    their graves – out of jealousy. Cohen and Collins
    refuse to write anymore embarrassed by their
    works in contrast to this giant of a literary mind.
    Put on your asbestos glovers and handle with care
    this is the hottest book of the century – delivered in the
    inimitable style of the man who put the Oh! into audio.
    Get it while you can – the printers just can’t keep up!

    Iain

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