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


In this day of little computers disguised as phones, paper-and-pencil lists may be going the way of the dodo. Nonetheless, many people still make lists somehow. For this week, you do the same. Write a poem that is basically a list of what you like, or don’t like, about something or someone you like, or don’t like.


“On October 27, 1967 I met with my mother. She’d been dead since September 30, 1959. At 8:00 P.M. local time, Con Thien, Vietnam, as artillery shells landed within inches of my position with the Third Marines, my world, my body and my mind explosively turned upside down and inside out.” ~ Daniel Paicopulos


What do I know of my mother


D  e  a  d

at my teenage feet.
What do I know of being


in body and spirit
at the hands of an enemy
I didn’t choose.

What do I know of channeling
raging pain
into charity for my fellow man.

What do I know of love,
benevolent and boundless,
born of anguish.

What do I know of smiling
for every being in my path.

What would I know of heroism,
but for you?

© copyright 2010, Marie Elena Good



Baseball is spring and summer
blessing autumn with a burst of green.

Baseball is hot dogs and beer and peanuts
and all the time in the world to eat them.

Baseball is ballet afield, a circling chorus
dancing around a square,
forever rounding it off.

Baseball is waits, pauses, meditations,
punctuated from time to time by explosions.

Baseball always returns, to wait.

Baseball is failure.
Most of the time, you’re out,
yet now and then you cross the plate.
Baseball, therefore, trains you for life.

Baseball is coming home again.

A game of nights and lights these days,
baseball nonetheless brings eternal days,
for it is never punctual;
it is ruled by runs, not time.

Baseball is a game;
the umpire says, “play ball,”
not “work ball,”

which is why we can’t do without it.

© copyright 2013, William Preston

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365 thoughts on “PROMPT #120 – MAKING A LIST. CHECKING IT TWICE.

  1. Marjory MT on said:

    all the lists
    in the world
    do not pull up a poem.


  2. A Beach’s Charms…

    I like the feel of sand between my toes
    And running through my fingers as I play;
    I like the tangy sea scent in my nose,
    Which lingers on my clothes when I’m away;

    I like the sight of never-ending sea,
    As far as I can see through all the mist;
    I like the cry of seagulls over me,
    And love the sound when earth and water kiss;

    I like the way the wind whips through my hair,
    And through my jacket too, in her sharp way;
    I like the way the sun’s still standing square,
    When we all know the clouds have won the day;

    But most of all I like to think of you,
    Right here with me, inside this heart I drew.

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

    We got back from our trip to the seaside on Friday, so naturally it’s all still fresh in my mind. 😉

  3. Marie, what a heartfelt, touching poem! 🙂 ‘s to you, friend.

    William, I too am a baseball fan, and I love this poem! We haven’t watched as many games lately, as football season has arrived, but I still enjoy it.

  4. William Preston on said:

    Marie, your piece is stunning. The mixture of stanzas alludes to the chaos of an explosion; I get the feeling of a falling shell, debris thrown into the air and settling, and the eery quiet that follows. I think it’s a superb piece.

  5. Marie, yours is amazing. So Touching.

    “All Things Grey”

    Pencil lead
    Hoary head
    Rain-filled clouds
    Winter boughs
    Shady deals
    Cold oatmeal
    Year old hay
    Eeyore’s bray
    Furry cats
    Sewer rats
    Ashes drab
    Fiddler crab
    Concrete blocks
    Shipyard docks
    Business suits
    Laundry chutes
    Shades of grey
    Back away
    You’re passé
    Hold no sway
    On this day
    I’ll be gay!

  6. Pingback: ……… Embracing A.M. ………….. | Metaphors and Smiles

  7. Embracing A.M.
    I like to wake up
    with a sun warmed face,
    pace the dew dropped earth-
    still and chilled with moon-glow.
    Slowly-I like to go forth,
    find the small/large beauties
    hidden till eyes choose
    to see,
    choose to
    unveil wildness;
    discover sweet pea.
    Magenta quilted hillside
    speaks to me early
    and I like it
    when I make time
    to listen.
    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2013

  8. Marie… *sigh* I love that one…so much honor and beauty in your well expressed words.

    William! Your underlying message unveiled in your closing lines are perfect…life does need baseball…we must always keep play in our lives.

    Wonderful starts everyone! I must go embrace morning…I was asked to read a poem in our gathering this morning for the moment for creation…wish me luck. 😉

    Smiles to all I look forward to reading you guys!

  9. Musical Terms – A Liszt

    Accelerando, Minuet,
    Legato, Scherzo, Reed, Quintet,
    Variations, Portamento,
    Leitmotif, Gavotte, Fugue, Lento,
    and Pentatonic, Quodlibet,

    Intermezzo, Horn, Glissando
    Nocturne, Beat, Key, Ritardando,
    Pianoforte, Polka, Phrase,
    Recitative, and Polonaise.
    That’s my short Liszt for this ‘Rondo.’


    The form is Quintilla/Spanish Quintain. And you knew that someone had to make a Liszt pun. Right? At list – errrrmm – at least, I didn’t take it all the way with Chopin Liszt. 😀

  10. Property Liszting

    Charming four bedroom/
    two and a half beats baths, with
    music room (or den.)


  11. “A Sporting List”

    For most of life, I kept a daily list.
    Checked off my calendar as hours were spelt:
    the date of birth, the date of death and midst
    my notes, erasure near when plans not dealt.

    Sometimes my list expectant, filled with fun:
    a picnic note with pickles, mayo, salad sought
    and hurried notes I know will come undone:
    a college list of clothing to be bought.

    For all my life, I’ve labored with my list
    as if in writing, might control my day
    not leaving it to absent-minded kiss
    of unknown fate or memory’s assay.

    My pencil shed; its rubber head grown short;
    attention to the moment now my sport.

  12. my apologies for the potato salad in line 6. I deserve a slap on the hand for messing up my
    iambic-pentameter line. It should read: “a picnic note: potato salad sought”, lol. Should have left out the mayo and pickles.

  13. connielpeters on said:

    My Hubby

    Long eyelashes and blue-gray eyes
    Broad shoulders and, oh, so wise
    Sings well and plays guitar
    Deep voice, he’s my star.

    Ready with hugs, sweet kisses
    Holds hands, loves his Mrs.
    Compassionate, sees good in all
    Patient, won’t let you fall

    Good at math, to the penny
    Eats leftovers till there’s not any
    Nice handwriting, carpentry skills
    Dependable, not big on frills

    Doesn’t see in black and white
    Creative, tries to do things right
    Helpful, frees me to gallivant
    Lets me sleep in when I can

    Spiritual brother, loves the Lord
    A bit different, but I’m not bored.
    Works hard, goes the extra mile
    Likes to sit and talk awhile

  14. the poem and the musician…a keeper

  15. Marie, your poem is

  16. Bucket List

    “History will be kind to me, for I intend to write it.” ~Winston Churchill

    There’s several things to accomplish
    ‘ere I kick the proverbial
    bucket: photographing a star,
    discovering a brand new hue,

    learning to speak Esperanto,
    and baking the perfect Danish.
    I want to ‘get’ string theory,
    and find a comfy high-heeled shoe.

    Just once, may I be called ‘impish’?
    (Cute but naughty, at the same time.)
    But really, not to sound mawkish,
    what I’d really like to pursue:

    just being in love. That’s my wish,
    and to spend that whole time with you.


    The form is Bref Double. I wrote this poem for my husband, since our 18th wedding anniversary is on Tuesday. ♥


    The peace only found
    in my own back yard,
    achieving a goal
    that was really hard,
    believing in dreams
    that seem out of reach,
    a beautiful walk
    on a quiet beach,
    holding on to hope
    when it seems so lost,
    putting it out there
    not measuring cost,
    hoping that life is
    not troubles and pain,
    but only a list of
    the treasures we gain.

  18. Pingback: Two Voices, One Song | Oh, If It Weren’t For Those Lists

  19. My List, My Truth
    By: Meena Rose

    “Much learning does not teach understanding.”
    ~ Heraclitus

    A list of one – yes, that’s right;
    My list says one simple thing:
    Learn something new everyday.

    For some, learning is learning;
    For others, learning is understanding;
    For me, learning is living.

    For some, living is having a pulse;
    For others, living is being in love;
    For me, living is creatively exploding.


    The rush, the high, the grandest leap;
    Ripping oneself off the tracks of linear
    Thought becoming another person’s curve ball.

    The daring, the risk, the embrace of life;
    Extending oneself and lengthening their neck
    In the name of creative insight.

    The mess, the chaos, the lack of inhibition;
    Granting oneself the carte blanche to
    Fully experience the oneness of connection.


    For some, connection is intensely spiritual;
    For others, connection is piercingly touching;
    For me, connection is simply empathy.

    For some, empathy is dangerously risky;
    For others, empathy is often confused with sympathy;
    For me, empathy is my mirror of Soul.

    A list of one – it bears repeating;
    My list says one simple thing:
    Learn something new everyday.


    it was where I hid my heart
    under my walking shoe
    deep in the leather sole
    sometimes in the heel to throw off
    sidewalk breakers
    my heart safe and soundless
    one day under my left shoe
    the next my right,
    a flesh-and-bone heart
    suddenly taken for granite
    a stone pebbling in my shoe
    crimping my walk
    hobbling me like an old man
    a heart that one day said
    “No more searching
    Walk me where you please!
    I will not love again.”
    a heart–my heart!–this heart
    said “Hide me. Hide me.”
    But the tingling in my feet
    the soft easy steps I now take
    –gone the lame game!–
    my heart (it was you!)
    my heart (you out there!)
    my heart has come home again
    If you place your soft hand
    here against my chest… can you hear
    the music of my blood pounding the beat
    far from loveless sidewalks
    far from peopleless streets
    pounding the sound of your name
    here against your hand
    my heart because of you once more unafraid.


  21. Satisfaction

    crossed off my
    list is pure, gleeful
    satisfaction! The more lines which
    are eliminated by lead the happier I am.
    Of course more items are constantly being added
    to my list, which just means sooner or later
    I will have the delightful satisfaction
    of deleting, decimating, causing
    death by pencil to a task until
    eventually there is only
    one task left to
    the start
    of a

  22. elishevasmom on said:

    God protects fools, drunks and children (Proverb)
    Walking Alone

    He cautiously makes his way
    to his feet—giving no thought
    to evenly distributing
    his weight.

    Careening first one direction,
    then another, he’s not sure
    where he is going,
    (nor does he care).

    His keeling and reeling
    are attracting attention.
    Lookers-on laughing
    with him, not even noticing.

    Staggering, stumbling, instead
    only tumbling. There
    he goes, down again. He
    lurches to his feet—waggleing,

    straggling, oh so bedraggling.
    He tries to amble,
    but wambles again.
    His clothing in shambles.

    His balance unstable, heads
    for the table, still floundering
    as his mother finally
    rescues her toddler from his toddling.

    Ellen Knight
    write a “list” poem for Poetic Bloomings

  23. William Preston on said:


    You’re shorter than a horse post
    and knobbier as well;
    your voice recalls some chalk on slate,
    much different than a bell;

    your legs look like a road map;
    your eyes resemble bonnets;
    no matter how I look at you,
    you don’t inspire sonnets.

    But yet, you are a poem,
    albeit not yet printed;
    the words to fully limn your charms
    to date have not been minted.

    Your deficits are many,
    enough to make one groan,
    but there’s one thing you truly have:
    a beauty all your own.

    copyright 2013, William Preston

  24. Marjory MT on said:

    she and I
    could both qualify –
    You did not choose me, you chose her.

  25. Henrietta Choplin on said:

    Pure, Sweet Connection

    I am mesmerized
    by your expressive eyes,
    Your sweet, tender kiss
    And the way
    that you curl into me
    when I touch your

    (For Raphael… Majestically gorgeous German shepherd)

  26. Marjory MT on said:

    Lists are long or short
    My list for you held only
    one – do you love me?

  27. Because you never ask to read her poems

    you’ll never know
    how much your presence
    shapes her thoughts,
    leaving her breathless
    at times
    and hopeless
    at others.

    you’ll never know
    why someone without
    an ounce of superstition
    reads her horoscope
    and yours
    picks four-leaf clovers
    pressing them between
    the pages of books
    and yours.

    you’ll never know the little
    worries she picks
    like a hangnail
    and practices
    telling you, standing
    before the bathroom mirror

    you’ll never hear the words
    locked so tight
    they can’t escape her lips
    but committed daily
    to the page,
    mere pencil wisps.

    you’ll never receive the gift
    not of mere words
    but of trust, truest words
    unfettered by fear.

    you’ll never share the magic
    she has woven for strangers
    in coffee shops,
    spoken aloud,
    printed in journals.

    You’d be surprised to know
    that others have shared
    her poems as Valentines,
    love letters meant for you
    written in other hands,
    given away as love tokens.

    and all you’d have to do
    is ask.

  28. Enlisted

    I found a list from long ago
    of hopes and plans, not bucket fare;
    imagination flourished there
    when I was her. No vertigo

    would keep that me from climbing up
    a nose-bleed trail into the sky;
    no fear-of-falling alibi
    kept that girl grounded, not grown up

    enough to know that dreams have wings
    but still may need a friendly wind,
    that paths may peter out and end
    along a cliff. I’ve lived the stings

    along the way: my heart in tow,
    my courage fueled by my fear,
    my faith in outcomes sheltered here.
    The list excludes what it can’t know.

    But taken as it is, I see
    that I have traveled, studied, learned,
    that I have loved what I have earned;
    those early goals led into me

    like tributaries into lakes;
    the trickle of my life was fed
    by open heart and open head,
    a flow of goodness and mistakes.

    The truth is I have lost this girl
    although I feel her in me still—
    her sense of fun and iron will,
    her faith that joy can save the world.

    Her eyes are just as blue as then,
    but they have lost the innocence
    she had when she set down this list,
    trusting her life to paper and pen.

  29. janeshlensky on said:


    While cleaning my desk,
    I found six to-do lists, all
    with the same item
    remaining: organize desk,
    always listed #1.

  30. Marjory MT on said:

    Oh, what he is missing…..

  31. janeshlensky on said:

    Mother as Writer

    She’s ticking off another kind of list,
    not like new mothers cling to in their fear
    that they will suck at this.

    She’s swirls in her writer’s vortex
    watching her baby, curled like a comma,
    a tiny arm thrown out, like a dash.

    She holds this new life mewling near her neck
    and lists images late hours bring to light
    of silent night birds winging through the night,

    of cool September days and scuppernongs,
    of her own mother softly singing songs,
    comparisons dove-tailing in her mind.

    Her baby smells of rich life and new clays
    of spices her new life cannot now name.
    She’s listing metaphors for future days,
    knowing her life will never be the same.

    • William Preston on said:

      Wow. As a male, and one who never was a parent, I don’t think I can appreciate this the way a mother can, but even so I was deeply moved by the image of a new mother gaining sensations and impressions that later will be put to words, perhaps echoing her own mother’s songs. One thing is certain: I could see the scene you drew. Wonderful.

    • Jane… you got this momma going. I find myself reliving many a memory and a sensation through the writer’s eye. To have been a writer all along, I can only fancy what that might be.

    • “She’s listing metaphors for future days, knowing her life will never be the same.” Wow…

    • Henrietta Choplin on said:

      Love this!!

  32. My New Year’s List

    As New Year’s Eve approaches
    Resolutions come to mind
    Like losing weight or getting rid
    Of vices of every kind.

    We resolve to do much better
    Our intentions, always good.
    After all, we’re only humans
    We’d do better if we could.

    But maybe our resolutions
    Are just to easy to break
    And what about the ones that we
    Always forget to make?

    I’m gonna’ make resolutions
    I can use year after year
    Resolutions with real meaning,
    Meanings that are crystal clear.

    I resolve to do the following
    And I ask, please pray for me
    To help me in my walk,
    To be what God wants me to be.

    To be a better Christian,
    And walk with God each day.
    To trust Him in all matters.
    To pray, listen and obey.

    To be a better husband.
    And do more for my wife.
    To love her with all my heart.
    And be her man for life.

    To be a better father.
    With unconditional love.
    To guide and guard my children
    On earth and in Heaven above.

    To be better at my job
    And be worthy of my pay
    To let God shine through me
    Every minute of every day.

    To do better at my church
    Even when I don’t feel led.
    To always remember Jesus
    And the reason that He bled.

    To care for every person
    Whether they be saved or lost.
    To witness with the message
    My Lord Jesus paid the cost.

    Now my final resolution
    Is to seek God’s holy face
    ‘Till I die or Jesus takes me
    With Him to a better place.

    And I say a little prayer
    To my Father God above
    That He’ll walk along with me
    And fill me with His love.

    Heavenly Father, smile on me
    As Your will I try to do
    Dearest Jesus, hold my hand
    My faith, each day, renew.

    Help me to be more Christ-like
    Keep Satan far away
    I put my life in your hands
    Forever there to stay.

    And now put me to work
    I’m ready to begin
    In Jesus name I pray
    Amen, and again, amen.

    © 2001 Earl Parsons

  33. New Footprints

    A monument to the memory
    of those who perished,
    and those who were never found.
    Shiny and black,
    larger than life,
    the structure culminates
    in a steel nail spire. Below,
    a reflecting pool
    of black tears.
    Could we not have had
    a fitting, spacious memorial
    of simple contemplative spaces,
    flowing water, flowers,
    and shrubs–living plants
    that would grow and flourish–
    without a building that must rise
    higher, in effort to replace
    what cannot be replaced?

  34. sheryl kay oder on said:

    It is a good thing I wrote this list poem years ago. Michael is now 33, not 15. Today’s late-afternoon nap has left me still a bit sleepy and feeling a bit drugged. To create a new poem in this state would not work.


    Five foot eight and growing
    Joyfully out of school
    Occasional worker at the Wednesday Journal
    One who critiques his mother’s
    Poems—He once edited a useless word from my poem
    and he was right.

  35. sheryl kay oder on said:

    This is the first time my formatting did not work. Words, Sighs, Actions,Dinners, and Poems should start right under the “h” in the word Who.

  36. Marjory MT on said:

    The format does not reduce the meaning, nor understanding of your words,
    Love the ending.

  37. It Was So Real…

    Lost your trust,
    Your love, your friendship,
    And myself all in one long

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

    This is the result of a dream (or should I say nightmare?) that I had the other night: I did something (I don’t remember what) to hurt the guy I like and he got mad and started to yell and I cried and we basically never spoke to each other again. I was so relieved when I woke up. 😉

  38. The Contents of our Closets – How they Change

    The bathing suits are washed and every grain of sand
    Is carefully wrung out before they are put away
    Gone are those happy summer days
    Of lying on blankets on some fun-filled beach
    The blankets too are folded and out of reach
    Bikini bottoms, strapless tops
    Very short, short shorts
    Will anything fit when we try them on next year?
    We might have to buy some more, new styles will appear

    Now we take out our heavy football shirts
    The dark blue ones with a centered golden “M”
    Some of us prefer the shirts of red
    With a gray letter “O” – our colors never fade
    Like our rivalries that entertain us
    As the seasons change
    And we grow older but all of us, it seems
    Never outgrow our fondness for blue jeans.

  39. What to Put In, What to Leave Out

    After so many visits, it should be old hat
    Or failing that, a check list, at least…that
    But every time, it’s as if it’s the first
    In fact, as I grow older, I swear it gets worse

    Or maybe not so much since I seem to need less
    I guess I don’t care so, what I’m like in distress
    So oft times I’ll go there with just the clothes I have on
    Then send home a list and trust others not to yawn

    Once I’m ensconced in my room at the bin
    I get busy, or not, making a list for my kin
    I ask for my pet pig, my youth, my memory, my Dad
    And if they have time could they look up my glad

    Weirdly enough they all react the same
    Peering at me as if I’m playing some game
    Then backing away and smiling like fools
    Really quite funny when they don’t know the rules,

    After they leave and it’s quiet, peaceful, and night
    It never fails, I think of more things, find a pad and I write
    Chocolate, a fountain pen with purple ink, a map to tomorrow,
    An angel with only one wing, and something to read very slow

    By then it’s lights out or time for some drugs
    Either way it’s all good, they hand out free hugs
    I know I’m safe here in the land of the loons
    And should I need out, there’s always balloons.

  40. Pingback: To Do’s | Whimsygizmo's Blog

  41. “When a friend goes missing”

    She bought a loud Mustang at 65
    A Rough and Rowdy ride with a hint
    of pride. Her own hide was a mix of
    Hippy happy gauze and French vanilla.

    She gave me a heart attack with her
    wondering ways that eventually led
    to a chapel and a hymn but Lord,
    she told it like it was when she was
    found lost and lost she was until John 3:16
    made sense but nothing is linear not
    even a race to heaven.

    Yesterday, she beat me to that blessing
    and I can only think of the joke we might
    create out of that. Something about her sins,
    which are many, are forgiven—
    for she loved much. But she who
    is forgiven little, loves little So the
    one who loves better wins the prize
    first. I guess I have more learning
    about love to do. She’d be the first
    to point that out that malfunction in me.
    Unafraid of the truth.

    She lived loud and fast like a roller
    coaster and often forgot to buckle up
    and buckle in And sometimes she
    forgot to slow down Until after she’d
    been around around the ride a few
    too many times. Then down she went
    The phone would ring We’d share a
    terse tear then she’d be silent for weeks
    licking her wounds with my arrows
    flung in defense of her heart.

    Sometimes she rubbed salt in my
    sores but always rinsed them in love
    With a laugh that shattered the
    window panes. She saved that laugh
    for me, then thanked me for giving it to
    her but truth was it was the other way around.

    We hated once for awhile It was because
    we knew we were safe hating each other
    but it wasn’t real hate It was just growing
    up and old with a side dish of cranky.

    Loyal, She was always Loyal to the end
    to the ones who loved her full and fast
    in the static present and lingering past.

    On New Year’s day, I’ll never eat black-eyed
    peas again and feel Lucky. Though we
    never said it, We knew we weren’t lucky.

    Just held.
    Whether we felt we needed it or not.
    We were held.

  42. Marie, yours is seriously AMAZING.
    William, I once loved baseball in such a way. I miss it. Beautifully done.

  43. William Preston on said:


    He lists loves

    copyright 2013, William Preston

  44. Henrietta Choplin on said:


  45. Sometimes You Can’t Keep a Stone from Sinking

    I hate that you couldn’t see
    what for me
    makes life so special

    like rain on grass or
    jewelled dew cooling
    silky mid-summer days or

    bird song that fills dawn
    with fledgling breath or
    sweet spills
    of marmalade on toast or

    pale moonvine that opens
    as sunlight swoons to dusk or
    the way smoke curls
    from sixteen candles or

    brown eyes that smile or
    or long silent prayers or
    love that’s travelled
    rough roads for miles.

    I hate that you couldn’t see
    your life this way
    and instead
    you chose to end it.

  46. Pingback: Sometimes You Can’t Keep a Stone from Sinking | The Chalk Hills Journal


    An education I had missed
    seduced me to proceed
    to fill out forms and make a list
    of courses I would need

    to make up time so quickly lost
    with unrelenting speed.
    The bridges needing to be crossed
    might easily impede

    the progress on this path I take
    in order to succeed.
    With perseverance, I will make
    the tide of doubt recede

    and tackle all that’s on my list
    refusing to concede
    defeat, but rather will insist
    that soon I’ll be degreed.

    © Susan Schoeffield

  48. Pingback: In Memory | echoes from the silence


    home grown vegetables,
    and a steak on the barbecue.
    These were a few of his favorite things (now, mine too).

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