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


Not as easy as I thought it would be. Fitting a random word here and there is one thing. Shoving a whole line in is  another. But our poets did admirably with the charge. We are reaching some fantastic heights with our work and we are all better for it. So for our blooms…

(reminder: The Bloom and Sunday prompts will be suspended for the month of July)


Prose poetry?  Flash fiction?  Call it what you will, but “Alleyways and Passages / Despair and Redemption” by Iain Douglas Kemp is an engaging read.  Iain, perhaps you should think about writing a novel.  With a slight curtsy, I offer my Bloom.

Alleyways and Passages/Despair and Redemption (by Iain Douglas Kemp)

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 judgment), 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.


I have chosen this poem for the sheer power and expression of it. It speaks for itself. Suffice it to say, I was blown away by this piece. Sharon Ingraham, you have earned this BLOOM in spades!

AUGUST’S HAUNTING by Sharon Ingraham

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.

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11 thoughts on “BEAUTIFUL BLOOMS – PROMPT #113

  1. Congratulation to Sharon & thank you so much! 😀

  2. Thank you Walt! This one felt true to write (if you know what I mean) … so I’m really glad you liked it, and I appreciate the bloom, plus being honoured with Iain is a double thrill, so again … thanks! And congrats Iain … your piece is a tour de force indeed and so deserving of Marie’s bloom…oh, it’s a good day in the garden!!

  3. Congratulations Sharon and Iain!!

  4. Henrietta Choplin on said:

    Wow, I always love the work of both poets!! Congratulations, Iain and Sharon!!

  5. Perfect picks, Walt & Marie! Iain and Sharon’s poems are haunting.

  6. Love them both! And so different. Wait–how did I miss the notice of suspension? Will miss you all–or see you on other forums we share!

  7. sheryl kay oder on said:

    These are both well written. The poem still leaves me not completely sure of the meaning at the end. Ian, a Baptist preacher might preach about Hell, but never Purgatory.That is a Roman Catholic concept.

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