POETIC BLOOMINGS

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

HOOK, LINE AND SINKER – PROMPT #113

We’ve played with words from the day we’ve assembled in this garden. One of the most challenging romps is to be given a list of words to be included in your poem (Brenda Warren at THE SUNDAY WHIRL has had great success with the weekly Wordles). What we propose is similar, only instead of words we are providing you with random phrases that must be incorporated into your poem. You pick the poetic form (or none), any (or all) of the five offered phrases,  and the subject matter. You took the hook, we’ll feed you the lines, and it’s sink or swim as far as poetry goes.

Your lines:

“in the doorway where she stood”

“he had gotten a taste of regret”

“please, don’t squeeze the ________” (Fill the Blank)

“a blur of self-doubt”

“Elvis Presley is NOT dead!”

MARIE ELENA TAKES THE BAIT

SOLO

He lingered a good long while in the doorway where she stood, looking confused and forlorn those last moments they had spent together. A blur of self-doubt, she begged an explanation.  He had none.  He didn’t mean to hurt her.  Simply, he had gotten a taste of regret.  A taste – an insignificant sip – was all it took to leave remnants of love tossed to the wind to scatter like thistledown?  And now, a new and permanent supply of regret seized and overwhelmed him. 
 
He stepped clear, closed the door, and locked it behind him.
 
© Copyright Marie Elena Good – 2013
 

WALT’S HOOK:

ELVIS PRESLEY IS NOT DEAD!

In a blur of self-doubt, William Stanton
waited for the emcee’s introduction.
He had his instructions to begin
when the music reached an ear-splitting din.
Stanton’s impersonation was spot on!
He knew of its import, he was a good sport
but he had gotten a taste of regret.
The silhouette in the doorway where she stood,
was no longer hers. Rhinestones glimmering,
slick hair shimmering in the spotlight –
the time was right. This was his night.
The ladies screamed and dreamed
of his curled lip; he was so hip!
“Please don’t squeeze the Hunk of Burnin’ Love!”
It’s like he’s back in the building.
Long live the King!

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

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215 thoughts on “HOOK, LINE AND SINKER – PROMPT #113

  1. Good prompt!

    Dis-Grace

    She gave Graceland all it knew of grace, her figure silhouetted in the doorway where she stood, hesitantly but forthrightly looking over the men in the room. Was she searching for someone? Her eyes shone with intense emotion. In a blur of self-doubt, he beckoned to her, wordlessly offered her a chair, poured wine into a glass for her, watching her eyes glisten and burn. What would it be like to possess such a woman, to make her smile, laugh, moan? Watching her torture her napkin and ball the table cloth near her lap stabbed at his heart, for already he had gotten a taste of regret. “Darlin’, please, don’t squeeze the table linens so,” he said softly, offering to take her hand, but she suddenly looked at him with horror, jerked her hands away, and snapped, “Elvis Presley is NOT dead!” She was quite mad, of course, but he had carried a number of dead rockers living in him as well, so who was he to judge her for being the King’s fanatic. She was just so damned pretty she made him want to sing, “Don’t be cruel to a heart that’s true”, knowing he would never have the chance to love her tender.

  2. William Preston on said:

    A MILD ARGUMENT

    In the doorway where she stood,
    in an old, forgotten neighborhood,
    she never had a blur of self-doubt:
    she really knew what she was talking about.
    “Elvis Presley is not dead
    but Pat Boone is, instead,” she said.
    Her aged spouse was quite upset,
    for he had gotten a taste of regret
    at what she said. He knew full well
    that Boone was alive and Presley, in Hell.
    Hearing his words, she thought him silly.
    “You eat those words,” she said, shrilly,
    “for if you don’t, I’ll have your head.”
    “Please don’t squeeze the trigger,” he said.

    copyright 2103, William Preston

  3. She’s Gone…

    Her scent
    Still lingers in
    The doorway where she stood
    All those years, watching and waiting
    For him.

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope

  4. (A Haiku)

    A blur of self-doubt
    Clouded her senses – her love
    Remained unnoticed.

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

  5. Henrietta Choplin on said:

    This is an intriguing prompt…!

  6. William Preston on said:

    ENVIRONMENTALIST

    To help
    Mother Nature,
    it’s good to plead without
    surcease, but please, don’t squeeze the trees
    too hard.

  7. William Preston on said:

    LESSON LEARNT

    I knew a retired martinet
    who was mellower since we had met,
    for his wits were at end
    when he lost his best friend;
    he had gotten a taste of regret.

    copyright 2013, William Preston

  8. Ice Breaker

    In the doorway
    where she stood

    a blur of self-doubt
    masked assuredness,

    heat lightning a brief flash
    pursuant task– confidence.

    Back straight, chest back
    each breath a forward step

    sipping courage, no regret
    she offered him a light.

  9. Self Doubt

    In a blur of self doubt
    As if walking on eggs
    So quick to bow out
    In a blur of self doubt
    In search of escape route
    Confidence begs
    In a blur of self doubt
    As if walking on eggs

  10. DebiSwim on said:

    espinela (decima?)

    She’s Leaving

    Finally, he had gotten a taste
    of regret. She said, “I’m leaving.”
    And he sat, watched, disbelieving,
    in a blur of self-doubt that raced
    through disordered thoughts. He braced
    for the pain. “Please, don’t squeeze the life
    from me. It pierces like a knife.
    But in the doorway where she stood
    in her fatigues he understood.
    Doubting no more he kissed his wife.

  11. connielpeters on said:

    In and Out the Doorway

    In the doorway where she stood
    She pushed back her little red hood
    Eyeing the quaint room inside
    She’d like to rest. She bet she could.
    And so did not do what she should.
    All caution brushed aside

    She wound up breaking Mama’s chair
    Eating Baby’s porridge that was there
    And mussing up Papa’s bed
    The bears came in and they did glare
    She awoke with fear beyond compare
    So out the doorway, she fled

  12. Heavy

    “O, please don’t squeeze the aubergines,” she cried.
    “It makes a mushy seedy mess inside.
    We are not making moussaka today.”
    A blur of self-doubt carried her away—

    perhaps a parmesan was what to bake
    or an “Elvis Presley is NOT dead!” Cake.
    Such names they put on recipes these days,
    as in the doorway where she stood, she sways

    remembering a slow dance with her spouse
    to “Love me Tender” lilting through the house.
    She cannot bring herself to serve him light
    fare, something that can make his middle tight.

    Instead, she makes his favorites, all heavy,
    and his thin belt hardly contains that levy.
    For twenty years, he’s faced caloric threat,
    and he had gotten a taste of regret,

    for every dish his wife prepares is more
    than his hungriest dream would bargain for,
    such savory delights, or saucy sweets…
    his dancing days are done; he sits and eats.

  13. “Love is Blind on Such Midsummer Night”

    T’was on a summer solstice such as this
    when drunk with idleness, our Bottom napped.
    Awakened then, his new reflection kissed
    two donkey ears, a toothy grin; a sap!

    “Hee haw!”: a screeching noise that made him frown.
    But through her eyes, a BLUR OF SELF-DOUBT CEASED.
    Thus, Bottom, hero to Titania; bound!
    So, love is tilted as the summer breeze

    with lofty dreams and sprightly attitude.
    Sure, Oberon’s pretensions might be blamed
    for all the fairy pleasures of a brew.
    But, caution! Maze of errors might inflame

    for love is blind and surely ecstasy;
    Old Shakespeare knew of love…and you and me.

  14. Please don’t squeeze the poet

    Please don’t squeeze the poet
    for she is not a pimple.
    Her one chance: she won’t blow it.
    Please don’t squeeze the poet.
    The words will flow and show it
    is kismet, pure and simple.
    Please don’t squeeze the poet
    for she is not a pimple.

  15. Gee, thanks…I love your name, lol.

  16. Know When to Leave the Building

    It was a quiet night
    As quiet a night as he could remember
    Although his mind was filled with other things
    Right up front was a blur of self-doubt
    Spurred by an innocent discussion that
    Exploded into the fight of the century
    Son against mother over something stupid
    Things said that shouldn’t have been said
    Bad things that gave them both a bad taste
    But he had gotten a taste of regret that he
    Just couldn’t seem to get out of his head
    He knew better
    It was his mother, for crying out loud
    His dear, sweet, and very old mother
    Set in her ways and stubborn as an ox
    Just like the son that she raised so well
    Or maybe too well
    Why had he forgotten her number one idol
    Why was it that he made such a stupid statement
    And why, oh why, didn’t he just laugh it off
    Instead of insisting on following in her tracks
    And winning at all costs

    It was time to eat crow
    Time to admit fault
    Time to get on the floor and grovel to his mother
    For arguing with her when she uttered these words
    “Elvis Presley is NOT dead!”

    © 2103 Earl Parsons

  17. In the Doorway Where She Stood

    Elvis Presley is NOT dead,
    he said, and swear by her blue
    suede shoes, she believed him.

    From the brim of his hat
    to the tip of his
    (what’s that word?)
    tongue, he had gotten
    a taste of regret.

    Don’t fret, she purrs
    but please, don’t squeeze
    the blur of self-doubt
    I’m about.
    He

    (pause for effect)

    sneezes,
    leaves.

    .

  18. Meadow Tree

    By David De Jong

    He road a blue roan, sweeping across the prairie and plains,
    Searching a vision, extraordinary, to some insane.
    She came in a dream, at Leaping Wolf’s winter hunting camp.
    Warmed by the fire, its flames a transcending, hypnotic, lamp.
    The great chief’s pipe was passed, trinkets traded, stories retold.
    The smoke lingered in the air, like ghost, from their tales of old.

    They called her Meadow Tree, because she was so free and tall,
    Silken blonde curls, blowing free with the amber leaves of fall.
    She brought them warm wool blankets, muffins, gooseberry preserves,
    They loved her for her beauty, but also admired her nerves.
    Holding on to aimless hope, while her husband long since passed,
    Taken by the fever, not the prairies first, nor its last.

    Smoke took hold; his eyes began to fade into frays of grey.
    She beckoned to him in a dream, and quietly walked away.
    Wearing a long white dress; trimmed in sea shells, leather, and lace,
    Deep emerald eyes, long dark lashes, blonde wisps held her face.
    He woke in a start, his heart pounding, gasping, just because,
    She was an angel, without a doubt, if ever there was

    “Come find me, bring me home” is what she whispered in his dream.
    Words that rolled in his mind like snow melt, rushing through a stream.
    He couldn’t rest till he found her, longing to hold her, he must.
    Her cabin; empty, shelves bare, except for spiders, and dust.
    Just then, a Diamond Back grabbed his thigh as his boots hit wood,
    Meadow Tree reached for his hand, in the doorway, where she stood.

  19. Pingback: In the Doorway Where She Stood | Whimsygizmo's Blog

  20. Chickens in the Morning

    In the doorway where she stood,
    Stephanie could feel the warm air
    Of the stove on her back and the cold
    Slap of early spring on her face.
    A clear day, she thought, turning
    Back to the kitchen table and the bowl
    Of fresh eggs, waiting to be turned into
    Breakfast.
    “Freeze!”
    It was the twins, up at dawn on a Saturday
    When there was no school.
    “Please, don’t squeeze the eggs” she warned
    as two pairs of pajama-clad arms stretched
    across the table.

    As she broke the eggs into a bowl, she had
    Gotten a taste of regret. These were Annabelle’s
    Eggs and Annabelle was the second hen that had
    Gone broody. How many future chickens were
    They about to destroy?

    A blur of self-doubt came over her mind as she
    Remembered that the rooster, Elvis, had not
    Been in the coop last night and so far she
    Had not heard his familiar crow.

    The twins must have been following her thoughts
    They opened the door and looked outside.
    “He’s probably dead”, their father muttered
    Suddenly there was an ear splitting crow.
    The rooster had spent the night on the porch.
    “Elvis Pressley is NOT dead!” the boys shouted.

  21. sheryl kay oder on said:

    Squeezed

    A blur of self-doubt
    made its way to his stomach.
    He, a, Shakespearean-trained
    actor, was waiting his turn
    to speak this stupid line.

    He was an adult
    for goodness sakes.
    Why was he here?
    Oh, yes, his wife, his kids,
    and their many bills.

    He was told this could
    supplement his income.
    Now, take a deep breath,
    he told himself. You can say it.
    “Please don’t squeeze the Charmin.”

  22. AUGUST’S HAUNTING

    Every night it’s the same:
    The phone’s strident ring
    splits the dark like an axe
    Her hand reaches, flutters
    ghost-like, mirrors her heart
    hammering so fast,
    it’s a blur of self-doubt
    And always, that oh-so-recognizable
    voice in her ear pronounces,
    “Elvis Presley is NOT dead!”

    From the doorway
    where she stood
    her Mama—eyes wide,
    moves to her side,
    grabs her hand so tight,
    “Mama, please don’t squeeze
    the life outta my hand—
    I’m okay—really—”

    They stare at each other…
    Neither one wants
    to say it
    But eventually she gives in,
    her voice as wistful
    as always,
    “Do you think if he had
    gotten a taste of regret,
    he’d still be in the building?”
    The dark closes over them
    like water, like curtains
    being drawn.

  23. janeshlensky on said:

    This is just great, right down to the “left the building” and that final image is magic. Wow!

  24. In The Doorway…

    In the doorway where she stood
    Just before she left for good
    In the doorway that she walked out
    Leaving him with a blur of self doubt
    What had he done that made her leave
    To face the rest of his life to grieve
    In the doorway she left a note
    Her reason for leaving on it she wrote
    A reason that bit him like a snake
    Reminding him of his biggest mistake
    In the doorway he learned too late
    A life without her would be his fate
    He had gotten a bitter taste of regret
    So bad he regretted the day they met
    In the doorway of her last stand
    He wept and mourned a lonely man

    © 2013 Earl Parsons

  25. ejparsons on said:

    A Tanka

    In the doorway where
    He had gotten a taste of
    Regret and self-doubt
    She stood squeezing out the words
    Elvis Presley is NOT dead!

    © 2013 Earl Parsons

  26. Performance

    A blur of self doubt
    darkened her thoughts
    in the doorway
    where she stood,
    about to take her place
    on stage to begin
    this long awaited performance.

    She breathed deeply, slowly–
    in and out–hoping she would
    not find herself in the same
    place where he had gotten
    a taste of regret.

    She stepped out on stage,
    smiled, bowed briefly,
    and took her seat at the piano.

  27. William Preston on said:

    A GREY STUDY

    Golden October was blowing away,
    leaving skies of heavy grey;
    leaving dreams of other years
    to ease the first November day.

    Yet, through a mist of budding tears
    and memory torn into arrears,
    he saw a face that spoke of love
    and felt a voice caress his ears.

    Then, like a frightened homing dove
    returning to a velvet glove,
    his heart felt, briefly, loose and gay,
    unleashed by scenes that he dreamt of,

    but truth would not be held at bay,
    nor time be chained to endless May.
    for he had gotten a taste of regret
    that lonely, cold November day.

    The heartless grey was heavy yet;
    it lasted till the gloom had set
    and blackness spread its heavy net
    on dreams he had no chance to get.

    copyright 2013, William Preston

  28. Forgive and Forget

    He had gotten a taste of regret;
    And she was ready and willing
    To end the quarrel, forgive and forget;
    He had gotten a taste of regret,
    At his confession, her heart upset:
    All her love started overflowing;
    He had gotten a taste of regret,
    And she was ready and willing.

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

  29. One Of These Days I’ll Break…

    “You know
    I love you, but
    Please don’t squeeze me so tight
    With your enthusiastic hugs!!”

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

  30. Henrietta Choplin on said:

    Still, I Have My Work

    In the doorway where she stood
    staring
    All of her books, her silent children
    waited patiently.

  31. Henrietta Choplin on said:

    The Virtue of Patience

    In the doorway where she stood
    she wondered
    WHEN he would ever say
    “hello”.

  32. Summerfest

    If I could ever come back from the dead
    I’d be that chick with the pink tambourine
    swaying to the beat onstage – with those mean
    curves under the bright lights. That’s what I said
    to Hank at the sound booth. He shook his head
    You’re crazy man, you gotta live a clean
    life to get that lucky! From what I seen,
    you’ll come back as an old fat guy instead.

    Jenny walks up behind us with a beer
    and laughs, “You’re already halfway there, hon!”
    She tries to pinch my butt, but I won’t go
    there: “Please don’t squeeze the merchandise, my dear!”
    I drawl. She looks so fine there in the sun,
    I’ll worry about karma tomorrow.

  33. If Only

    I may be wrong but never in doubt, he boasted,
    unaware of the mocking he prompted
    behind his back. He might have caught
    just a blur of self-doubt in the mirror
    as he shaved if he’d ever taken off
    those rose-colored glasses. But no,
    he may have paid his bills on time,
    but he’d never learned to pay attention.

    He’d flatly deny now that he used her
    to sharpen his wit against, a scratching post,
    never thinking of the damage done.
    Arguing just to be contrary, just as quick
    to take one side of the other—Elvis Presley
    is Not dead—or he is. Marilyn was killed
    by the Kennedys or the Russians.
    Please don’t squeeze the Charmin,
    he’d goad strangers in the store,
    then pick up the twelve-roll pack,
    snuggling up like Mr. Wipple for laughs.

    Not until he saw her, in the doorway
    where she stood arms akimbo, bags packed,
    did he acknowledge that blur of self-doubt
    that would for the rest of his life, haunt
    his dreams like some old daguerreotype
    of how things might have been. If only.

  34. ELVIS PRESLEY IS NOT DEAD

    There was still mistletoe hanging
    in the doorway where she stood.
    It was 6-months old, straggly
    and touched with mould, but how
    could he know that he missed
    his chance at Christmas to sow
    romance and plant one on her.

    Hesitation was his life’s regret,
    and he had gotten a taste of regret
    at the Christmas party. She’d
    puckered up and closed her eyes,
    but to her surprise he shouted
    at the guests, “Please, don’t squeeze
    the fruitcake!” which of course put her
    off him quicker than a flea’s blink.

    And now she stood there in the doorway,
    lips sweet and inked with ripe cherries,
    and puckered up at him again. He felt
    out of his depth and a blur of self-doubt.
    She opened her eyes and stared at him.

    “Have you nothing to say?” she said.
    He flung all hesitation aside for once,
    and blurted, “Elvis Presley is NOT dead!”

  35. Pingback: Elvis Presley Is Not Dead | The Chalk Hills Journal

  36. Alleyways and Passages/Despair and Redemption
    Our hero (or villain, you must judge for yourselves) sat in the all night diner across the street from the alleyway. He’d been down that alleyway more than once in both despair and desperation – visiting the tenants of the dark, dank tenement block that lay at its furthest end.

    Maria (that was the name she gave and the one he had used, though he doubted its authenticity) gave a smile, a wink and a nod to the sign that hung on the wall in the doorway where she stood which stated “please, don’t squeeze the merchandise”,
    there was a cartoon of a voluptuous, young (very young, it seemed from her face), Latino girl, “unless you intend to buy”.

    Behind Maria, a dimly lit passage way led to a stairwell. The stairs went upwards but surely guided the passenger down to the eternal fires of damnation by way of the series of rooms opening off each landing that were in turn as much purgatory as any described by the Southern Baptist preacher who regularly stood outside the diner condemning the sins of the flesh.

    His conscious had got the better of him this time, he had got a taste of these forbidden fruits too often for his own comfort and now he had got a taste of regret which stuck in his craw and turned his stomach, turned his face away from the mirror behind the counter to glance uneasily around the room. A life size poster of “The King” was emblazoned with the slogan “Elvis Presley is NOT dead!” He had not felt so dead inside since the day Elvis had died (in spite of the proclamation on the opposite wall).

    Our protagonist (let’s leave it at that and let the preacher and his maker sit in judgement), gulped down his burnt, stale coffee and rose to his feet. He said “goodbye” to the counter-girl who responded with a “see ya later, Mac”. “No!” he retorted, “goodbye!” He stepped out into the hot, still, summer night air and in a blur of self-doubt he crossed the street and made a single pace into the alley. He stopped, frozen, mesmerised by the faint light behind the unmistakable form of Maria. He spat, cursed and turned on his heel, striding quickly away. at the corner of the thoroughfare he hailed a cab and bid its driver take him home (if that is what you might call it – a place to sleep and keep his other suit was about all it amounted to).
    He halted the taxi’s progress uptown and went instead of “home” into a swish hotel lobby, took a room, took a drink at the bar and took the elevator to the roof.
    The morning paper stated that Jessie, a waitress at an all night diner and a working-girl who gave her name as Maria, identified the man as a frequent customer of both their “establishments” but were unable to offer a name to go with the now battered but peaceful face. The hotel lobby bartender recalled that he drank bourbon on the rocks and said his name was Elvis.
    Iain

  37. This is my first entry at Poetic Bloomings. Thanks for mentioning The Sunday Whirl. The title links you to the piece on my blog, undercaws, but it looks like most post here, so I will, too. Here’s my take on your prompt:

    Without Saying Good-bye

    A taste of regret lingered
    in the doorway where she stood
    breathing in the barn’s fecundity.

    Outside, swallows darted and dove,
    swimming through sporadic wind currents
    between two towering grain elevators.

    A blur of self-doubt
    fluttered in her chest, then
    she pictured her heart rusty,
    dulled like the hinges on the old barn door,
    their original sheen eroded
    over time’s long passage.

    As sure as swallows ride the wind,
    her heart would die there
    nailed to the old barn door.

    She breathed in one long last feel for the place,
    then left without saying good-bye.

    Brenda Warren 2013

  38. A real poem this time:

    The Writing is on the Wall

    The walls and woodwork
    were daubed with graffiti
    in the doorway where she stood:
    “Elvis Presley is NOT dead!”
    and “Carrot Soup is Best!”
    amongst the “Call Tina or Lulu for a good time”
    and less attractive suggestions,
    for Mary, Jasmine and Billy.

    She had got wet walking there,
    she was wetter still now,
    as the doorway sheltered little.
    She had got a taste of regret
    and an empty feeling in her stomach
    that was slowly gnawing away at her soul,
    as a ravenous beast might on carrion.

    She waited an hour,
    three busses had come and gone;
    she caught the fourth.
    The rain on her face hiding the tears.
    Carved on the back of the seat in front of her was
    “Oh please! Don’t squeeze lemons if you don’t want lemon juice”
    next to a crudely drawn cock and balls.
    She smiled and thought
    “Stupid prick! I deserve better!”
    Lemon juice!
    Bitter like her tears.

    Iain

  39. Pingback: In HIS Honor | echoes from the silence

    • I posted a version of this at Poetic Asides today, too…this is the edited/”final” version.

      ///

      In HIS Honor

      In the doorway
      where she stood,
      she knew she must be
      obedient
      to her Creator.
      Yet
      she still asked
      for the cup to pass.

      With His eyes,
      she had seen him,
      who he was
      created to be.

      He had allowed the enemy
      to wreak havoc
      in his life;
      a blur
      of self-doubt
      altered his path…
      and hers.

      With His heart,
      she had loved him;
      and he broke it.

      With every piece
      of her broken heart,
      she spoke
      the truth in love.
      Together,
      they cried…
      he had gotten
      a taste of regret.

      With His strength
      she said goodbye.

      2013-06-26
      P. Wanken

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