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


In celebration of National Poetry Day 2013,  Poetic Bloomings hereby offers its very first contest!

To enter the contest, simply write a poem about:

1. an already-existing poem
2. composing a poem
3. a poet

I’ve created my own definition of poem, below. If you like, you may redefine poem, and use your new definition to write your contest poem.


(pōəm, pōim, pōm)


  1. a composition in verse, utilizing sound and cadence to kindle image and emotion
  2. a part of one’s soul that cannot exist apart from one’s soul


  1. to compose in verse, utilizing sound and cadence to kindle image and emotion
  2. to impart one’s soul, verse by verse

(As an aside, I predict poem will be officially recognized as a verb in our lifetime. 😉 )

Please share your poem(s) (as many as you wish) in the comments section of this post, as per usual.  At the close of the contest,  I will post a poll where you may vote for your favorite.  The winner will receive an autographed copy of Robert Lee Brewer’s Solving the World’s Problems.

This contest opens immediately, and ends midnight (eastern time zone)  October 31.  Enjoy!!


Click here if you are looking for this week’s In-Form Poet with RJ Clarken

Click here if you are looking for William Preston’s prompt for this week (Prompt #122)

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  1. Rhyme Break

    For quite some time
    I wrote in rhyme
    I thought it necessary
    And then one day
    Someone said, “Hey,
    Don’t be so ordinary.
    It’s like romance
    Just take a chance
    And write straight from the heart.”
    It was my time
    To break from rhyme
    Get off the sound-alike cart
    So I broke the rhyming curse
    For better or for worse
    I took the leap of faith
    And escaped the rhyming race
    Now I’m free
    To be me
    I can be what I want to be
    I can rhyme if I wish
    Or not

  2. William Preston on said:


    A poem
    to be re-lived.

    copyright 2013, William Preston

    NB: This is not a contest entry; just an off-the-top-of-my-head reaction that I wanted to share.

  3. Going wrong.

    On the days words flow like water
    And soak into existence
    I gaze in wonder at the
    Oasis of calm
    Pooling on the desert page
    Filled with wonder-where-that-came-from
    And inner reflections.

    Today is not such a day
    The words are there
    The words are here.
    See them. Jumbled, awkward, useless.

    I so much need
    To make my words speak.
    Now. For you as the tears
    Clog your throat
    And nothing flows
    Because everything
    Has frozen
    Into dust
    And blocked

    M. Brenton 3rd October 2013

  4. Zen of Creation (a glosa)
    By: Meena Rose

    May morning be astir with the harvest of night;
    Your mind quickening to the eros of a new question,
    Your eyes seduced by some unintended glimpse
    That cut right through the surface to a source.
    ~ John O’Donohue – “For the Artist at the Start of Day”

    “Where is my muse?”, a common refrain;
    Blank paper, blank screen – focus shattered;
    Have you not heard what Osho said?
    Don’t seek, don’t search, don’t ask,
    Don’t knock, don’t demand – just relax.
    Just chill! Smile and end your plight;
    Surround yourself with serenity – a date
    With nature or a bubble bath perhaps;
    Safe dream time travel, enjoy your flight;
    May morning be astir with the harvest of night.

    A new light, a new day – a bounty of opportunity;
    A tiny little voice speaks up and asks you –
    “Seen your muse lately?”
    Benign in intent, destructive in consequence;
    Self-doubt sets in, unleashing frustration,
    Incubating sabotage – the worst transgression;
    May I offer an alternative?
    Pull out your dream-catcher and pluck out a gem;
    How’s that for a suggestion?
    Your mind quickening to the eros of a new question.

    What did you find? What did you see?
    Pink elephants on Venus and blue ones on Mars?
    Perhaps a singing dolphin wooing a bat?
    Or, maybe, a ballerina lost to her dance?
    Or simply a stolen kiss on a secluded pier?
    How about kids envying the playfulness of chimps?
    I could go on and on as you can see
    There are always gems that tug and pull – forever
    Inspiring muses and writerly imps;
    Your eyes seduced by some unintended glimpse.

    You are there, you see, in your place of zen;
    Chuckling at the playful antics of your muse,
    Who thought she could win at a game of hide
    And go seek – you showed her that in the end
    It all must lead back to you – only you;
    You steadily shine light on thought without remorse;
    A fact you seem to forget from time to time.
    So chill and relax – all roads lead to you;
    Remember that you have eyes, of course,
    That cut right through the surface to a source.

  5. A Musing Athlete
    By: Meena Rose

    The Ides of March.
    I was called upon to
    Awaken a slumbering
    Comatose muse.

    Pleading and grumbling,
    Protesting and wrestling,
    Fighting and finally dragging
    Her to the launching PAD.

    April Fools.
    Resignation and chagrin,
    Self doubt rising within,
    A fool wondering where to begin.

    Pleading and reasoning,
    Cajoling and placating,
    Raging and finally breaking;
    Her tenacity winning this bout.

    Tax Day.
    Spirits flying high,
    Three other challenges
    Taken on with pride.

    Creating and musing,
    Liking and commenting,
    Blogging and finally sleeping;
    Her hopes soaring to new heights.

    May Day.
    A soft sigh and a goodbye,
    A last lingering look
    At the finish line.

    Reliving and reflecting,
    Remember and contemplating,
    Releasing and finally crying;
    Her smile too big to contain.

    PS. This was written on the last day of the first PAD that I had participated in. (Poetic Asides)

  6. Poems

    Braid words
    to reach across
    expanse of experiences

    Pull together strands
    of pain, joy
    sadness, hope,
    wisdom, love
    bit by bit, strand by strand

    Form strength
    tighter, stronger, thicker
    criss cross
    hand over hand
    fingers nimble
    fast, slow

    Pull together
    thick cords
    ropes of strength

  7. Pingback: Sleepy Book Dragon | National Poetry Day, October 3rd

  8. Emily

    Emily, will you be my friend?
    May I occupy one small corner
    of your life and watch you write?
    I’d like to see the pencil resting
    on your lip, you sucking the tip as
    ideas wrinkle across your brow
    thinking of death and carriages,
    burdocks, angleworms and flies
    on window panes. I’d be ever so quiet
    and try to help unobtrusively…
    I’d gather your words as they fall
    across the paper, pushed aside, finished.
    I’d devour each jot and tittle with my eyes
    and soul and sigh that I know such loveliness
    as this. Then take the bounty of your harvest,
    bind them with needle and thread
    hide them away until the day they’re read
    by hordes… hordes of people, Emily.
    I wish I could be your friend
    and tell you how your words
    will thrill kindred souls.


    “I never met a poem I liked
    and that’s the truth, so help me.
    I read a lot, you’d think I’d find
    at least a few to please me,
    but all they did was make me snooze.
    I hope that you believe me.”
    –– Turned off to Verse

    “Sir, you mustn’t be so hasty.
    Consider how a poem is made,
    the ingredients so tasty.
    A poet’s words are meant to fill
    the coffers of the lonely,
    each line a rope to save the lost.”
    –– Turned on to Poetry

    “But can poems change this world, my friend,
    that’s mired deep in bloody wars?
    What can a rhyme or rhythm send
    to those who lack the hope for peace?
    There’s nothing that a poem can mend.
    Find a better use for your pen.”
    –– Turned off to Verse

    “True peace begins within one’s self
    before it touches all the world.
    A poet’s ink pours forth a wealth
    of heart and mind and soul,
    a treasure hidden, a new-found health,
    a cadence sparking song and dance.”
    –– Turned on to Poetry

    “Perhaps you’re right. I can be wrong.
    If reading poems can change the world,
    then surely I will tag along
    and do my part to find some peace
    by reading verse. I will grow strong.
    Poet friend, have you a poem to recommend?”
    –– Also Turned on to Verse


  10. And here’s one I prepared earlier:

    THE SIGNIFICANCE OF MEANING – a quasi sonnet

    I try to find the meaning of a poem.
    They tell me that it’s more than just the words.
    I find that nothing’s really as it seems.
    The clarity of language is divorced
    from reality, perverted to create
    poetical effect with metaphor,
    confusing images, strange punctuation.
    Consonance and assonance work well,
    within a frame of rhythm, rhyme and metre
    to weave a magic cloth of sensual beauty,

    So who am I to question this tradition?
    The meaning, should it be the raison d’être?
    the be all and the end all of a poem?
    or is it something I don’t need to know?

  11. Clichéd

    Every page I turn to shows off whispering
    willows, snoring mandolins, deflated
    orbs, or stories of a father having a war

    with himself. Then there is the laughing
    lotus and lilting caribou that my daisy and deer stand
    naked next to. And I didn’t realize that cellos

    could drip honey or echo like the flutter
    of hummingbird wings encroaching down
    into the depths of flowers with bird names.

    Every page I turn to awakens the sleeping
    mime inside me, the one that whispers
    Keep going, then bares all

    of its “tic-tac teeth,” laughing at me.
    Every page I turn to holds faces of hollowed
    cheeks, flint-black eyelashes framing

    pools of aqua eyes. And when I turn to these
    every pages, my fig tree dancing in the moonlight
    becomes still again, having dropped

    every last fruit, naked in the moonlight, the dance no
    one can appreciate, but the one performing it
    for me. And every page I turn to becomes

    blank again.

  12. sheryl kay oder on said:

    Because I cannot format my poem in Poetic Bloomings and formatting is an important part of this poem, I will submit the poem “Word Tag” by means ot the link below.


  13. A poem is more than just its parts and I think maybe you are right, we don’t need to know just enjoy. Thoughtful poem, Viv

  14. Pingback: Braiding Words into Poems | AlvaradoFrazier

  15. Poetry a River (part 2)

    Poetry a bold-faced river
    ever flows rampant with imagination.
    Knowing no boundary,
    barrier, limit or stagnation.

    Poetry a river ever flows free
    words with wings migrate from you to me
    How rich and far reaching

    • Benjamin, I’m THRILLED to see you! Love this piece. But is there a “part 1” that I am missing?

      • Yes, this is part 1. A poem I wrote a while ago. I modified it a bit.

        POETRY IS A RIVER (part 1)

        Poetry is a river unabated
        a violent current running wild
        incessantly collecting heart minerals
        yet still flowing, adeptly, uniquely styled
        Its a brook, a stream, a tugboat blowing steam
        toot-toot-toot Look! passing by towing life full of dreams
        channeled through apt faculties
        acute angles of mind, emotion, will
        sweet watercourse of words in motion
        like a time released pill
        a daily muse to sooth one’s senses
        penetrating well beyond our inner fences
        of boundary, barriers well surmounted
        Yes, poetry is that river unabated
        unhindered, still flowing free unfrustrated

  16. All Poetry is possible

    The potential
    energy exists
    deep within you.
    It becomes kinetic
    as you move your pen.


    A nut is hard to crack.
    But once it’s shell is broken
    And the kernel revealed,
    You can most certainly trace the source
    back to a heart once sealed.

  18. Hearts in sync expressed
    Across different medium.

    Display the beauty of their words
    even though they may differ, their spectrum is still the same.

    Sharing a wavelength
    understood and perceived only by the poet.

    Their words carrying energy
    electrifying and magnetic.

    Most stimulating and enlivening
    transfer secret messages.

    Encoded, interpreted
    by a secret society.


    The bomb
    has been
    the nation.
    have been
    affected with
    an immense
    radiation of
    Story at


    First a seed then a sapling
    twingling roots
    wiggling frantically
    reaching through
    particles of soil

    it’s greeny leaves shyly unfurl
    displaying lively design

    little stem thickens
    yet still humble and hardy

    growth emerges upward
    steadily until the full blossom

    and the poem is set forth
    hopelessly selling it’s fragrance


    Let the bird fly
    Let her wings spread wide,
    expanding across a yawning sky
    dancing in the anxious winds that carry her
    far and near

  22. Eulogy (To Alfred, Lord Tennyson)

    What words that come from earthly lips and hearts
    Are strong enough, or full enough of love
    And praise for you, O poet of my heart,
    O voice divine, O blessed by God above?

    I can’t describe the wonder that I feel,
    The beauty of the words that you have penned;
    I can’t explain, I can’t even conceal,
    My pleasure in the lovely paths you wend;

    Your work was not reserved for just one age,
    As Johnson once declared of Shakespeare’s verse;
    While yet your words remain on tongue or page,
    In your enchantments will I all immerse;

    And in your praise I’ll ever take a part,
    Though I have only earthly lips and heart.

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

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  24. Poems are Prisms

    Poems are lines that travel lives,
    Poems de-stress like deep massage,
    Words buoyant, steeped in spaces,
    spicy, sweet as milky tea.

    Poems are prisms, splayed emotion,
    Poems are prisons of the unrequited,
    Reflective solitude, search for reason,
    Reflection on the nature of seasons.

    Poems have wings; they fly when read.
    Poems are tactile; they touch, caress.
    They rush to hearts, to sooth, to rest,
    To poems our souls are moved.

    Poems are lines that travel lives.

    © M. Braendeholm October 2013

  25. Pingback: Poems are Prisms | The Chalk Hills Journal

  26. I’ve been reading and enjoying all the great poems posted here (and at Poetic Asides) over the past week or so. I haven’t been around lately because I recently learned that my brother passed away. We were never particularly close – in truth, we never really liked each other – so I’m filled with a mixture of guilt, regret and sadness. Usually, I can turn my emotional confusion into poetry but, at the moment, it seems my inner poet has failed me. I think it’s a credit to each of you talented people that, if only briefly, I’ve been able to walk away from myself and into the wonderful world of your poetry. And I thank you for that!

  27. Pingback: I Had an Inkling Lurking There…. | Metaphors and Smiles

  28. I Had an Inkling Lurking There….
    I didn’t realize there residing
    was a unique-creature
    and before I had become aware
    it had burrowed a poem shaped hole into my heart
    and it would not be fulfilled
    till a pen found my hand.
    And I didn’t know
    that it had a plan all ready for me,
    it had a design in mind
    to make gray matters transform
    become plaid with creative-madness.
    This poem
    this piece of me-
    it’s pebble-sized.
    It resembles the smell of fresh air,
    it holds the color of a cloudless-blues-sky.
    It is small
    but it is wide,
    it is vast inside;
    this plink of a poem…
    it pretends to be busy
    but it’s always listening,
    it’s always watching
    taking simple-scribbled-notes,
    stuck to the center-binding of my being.
    This poem follows me everywhere
    just behind my heels,
    like a good dog does
    and it’s always
    just a breath away from noticing
    the way a great friend will
    the next amazing-ordinary detail of my life.
    It pokes me saying
    poet …quiet…
    sink into the pool,
    still yourself sufficiently-
    hold me long enough-to let me go.
    This poem pines to be released from its dwelling,
    swelling inside.
    Soon, like a pond-tossed-stone
    it spirals slowly into a watery well-
    begins a timeless journey
    descending and also ascending
    it whispers-
    exudes the essence of spirit spill-spirit fill.
    A poem in motion’s always beholding,
    waiting word-fully
    for the next best creative-clamber to the edge-
    it takes the plunge only to bungee back
    ready again for the next jump.
    It’s a blue-bird-poised nest-side
    prepared for free-falling-flight;
    verse by swooping-verse
    each word’s a wing-beat,
    a glide-soar closer
    toward understanding the real me
    just a little pebble-a poem inkling more.
    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2013

  29. Ramblin’s

    By David De Jong

    I’m writin’ these words; don’t know what else to do.
    They just run through my brain, simmerin’ like stew.
    Seems lonely times of workin’ they come at me the most,
    They generally
    Will accompany
    Some scattered thoughts; of the Father, Son, an’ Holy Ghost.

    So I’m wonderin’
    What it is,
    They might be tryin’
    To get me to say.
    It gets a little crazy,
    Every thought
    Comin’ in
    An’ rhymin’ that way.

    Maybe the Good Lord’s helpin’ me, deal with the things of life.
    For instance; right now I be missin’ my beautiful wife.
    Or possibly it keeps my anger from runnin’ wild.
    When all your thoughts is rhymin’, purty hard to get riled.

    I’ve learned to take awhile an’ jot em down,
    Some crack a smile, others just draw a frown.
    Seems to be a message though, hidden in the words,
    Fer some it’s all nonsense, mainly just fer the birds.
    I don’t mind that none, they can have their way,
    Long’s they give it a read an’ I’ve said what I have to say.

    I know there be folks that like such ramblin’s,
    Protect em, in a leather bound purse.
    Some nights I’ve been kept till sun-up chasin’,
    Words in my head, rhymin’ bein’ a curse.

    All-n-all, hope my wayward thoughts, treat your heart an’ soul well,
    Thank ya; fer sittin’ quiet an’ ponderin’ this a spell.
    Just remember, come night-fall,
    When the work is done
    No words left to tell.
    Say a prayer;
    Thank the Father
    Fer sendin’ His Son
    To save us from hell.

  30. sheryl kay oder on said:

    I’m glad I have written several poems about the poems or the process of poetry. Recently I have been so busy at little things at home and have had little time to compose anything new.

    On November 18, 2012 Robert Brewer gave an example of a palindrome poem. I have been playing the word game Lexulous on FaceBook, so I could not resist thinking of this as a word game. I wrote this poem on November 21, 2012. It is on my blog on March 14, 2013.

    Word Rotator

    Poems as puzzles—
    Work brain.
    New reflections
    and words in order
    order in words and
    new brain work,
    puzzles as poems.

  31. sheryl kay oder on said:

    This poem was writen years ago before I had ever heard of poetry prompts.

    Word Vacuum

    I thought that poems
    were word vacuums,
    not the other way around.
    Could I make a poem
    from the word “swish”,
    or would an idea
    suck in a needed word
    like a vacuum picking up
    cat hairs,
    or unidentified squiggly things?
    Perhaps it works both ways.

  32. sheryl kay oder on said:

    Although formatting is not that significant for this poem, the formatting of the original is a bit different from this.


  33. Here is my entry: This is a poem about a Poet known as Shakespeare with reference to his play, “A Midsummer’s Night Dream.”

    “Love is Blind on Such a Summer Night”

    T’was on a summer solstice such as this
    when drunk with idleness, old 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 the eyes of love, Titania sees
    our Bottom; hero, in the place of crown!
    So, love is tilted as the summer breeze

    with lofty dreams and sprightly attitude.
    Old Oberon’s pretensions might be blamed
    for all the fairy pleasures that are brewed.
    Beware! a maze of errors may inflame.

    For love is blind and surely ecstasy;
    Old Shakespeare knew of love…and you and me.{/center}{/c}

    Reference: Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  34. #nbsp#nbsp#nbsp Earl,
    You have freed us up at the start! Thanks.

  35. “A Quiet Space”
    Where prayer so muted
    as the humming-bird
    whose pause is heard
    among her hurried ohm.
    Her wings seem stilled
    tipped over open bud
    yet hover; huddle home.
    Silent is her poem.

  36. Poetry is Creation –
    No Hadron Colliders were injured
    To unravel the mystery of Origin.
    ~ Meena Rose

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  39. Sisters Reading The Highwayman

    They tiptoed back to the closet and grasped the red book where
    They searched for page 123 and sat on the floor right there.
    They pointed to Alfred’s Highwayman a poem they could not ignore,
    And the sisters all sat reading—reading—reading—
    The sisters all sat reading, there on the hallway floor.

    They soaked in vibrant details, the velvet and the lace.
    They closed their eyes and imagined sneers on the ostler’s face.
    They sighed for the dark-haired daughter and the man whom she adored,
    And the sisters all sat reading—reading—reading—
    The sisters all sat reading, there on the hallway floor.

    When soldiers bound the daughter, the sisters held their breath,
    Spellbound they sat motionless when she warned her love by death.
    And tears formed within their eyes when he died on the lonely moor,
    And the sisters all sat reading—reading—reading—
    The sisters all sat reading, there on the hallway floor.

    They pictured his ghost in the darkness whistling his tune.
    And she’d step out to meet him in the light of the silvery moon.
    They shivered with sad delight and read the poem once more,
    And the sisters all sat reading—reading—reading—
    The sisters all sat reading, there on the hallway floor.

    They often heard friends’ voices, “Can they come out to play?”
    “They’re back there reading poetry.” They heard their mother say.
    Their silly friends sniffed and hollered, “Poetry! What a bore!”
    And the sisters all sat reading—reading—reading—
    The sisters all sat reading, there on the hallway floor.

    From The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes

  40. connielpeters on said:

    Fishing on the Allegheny

    Like Billy Collins, I’ve never been fishing
    on the Susquehanna, but I have been
    fishing on the nearby Allegheny.

    My parents transformed a bus into a camper
    and parked it on a plot of land just a short drive
    from the river. We vacationed there often.

    Dad in his hip waders would be the one
    fishing, and we five girls would be more likely
    sloshing in the river trying not to let Mum’s

    warnings of us slipping in and winding up
    dead in the ocean drown our fun.
    I can almost smell the fishy clay aroma.

    But splashing around in the Allegheny makes
    Collins’ quiet room, a portrait of a woman,
    and a bowl of tangerines frightfully dull.

    And to think the closest he got to fishing on
    the Susquehanna was viewing a museum painting
    makes me feel sorry for him, great poet or not.

    (From Fishing on the Susquehanna in July by Billy Collins)

  41. connielpeters on said:

    To Write a Poem

    To write a poem I need a mind
    Filled with thoughts mean or kind
    Emotions deep or mild
    Appealing to adult or child
    Hard to tell what I’ll find

    Through brain’s labyrinths I wind
    Feeling deaf, dumb, and blind
    Searching where thoughts are filed
    To write a poem

    And together, these thoughts I bind
    To whatever form I’m inclined
    Random, organized and wild
    Surprising in how they’re styled
    Tapping keys, I unwind
    To write a poem

  42. connielpeters on said:

    Poet Speak

    P oets paint pictures with words and use “poem” as a verb.
    O ften count syllables. Determine sound and
    E motional value of words. Perturbed when an editor
    T hrows off meter. Like to capture life’s fragments.

    S ee everything as a metaphor. Enjoy symbolism.
    P assionate about free verse or forms.
    E namored with details. Hunt this-es, thats,
    A nd passive verbs like hunters after wild game. Poets
    K now there’s plenty in a name.

  43. connielpeters on said:

    Rhyme Time

    Oh my, how can I find the time
    to put my words into a rhyme?
    And why should I use up my brain
    and dump my efforts down the drain?
    Will poetry become my bane—
    to rhyme so much I’ll go insane?
    Oh, can I stand the stress and strain?
    Is all my hard work done in vain?
    Has this become my sin and crime
    or will it be my joy, sublime?


    There’s nothing quiet in my head,
    It’s led about by its nose, fed
    Vowels and chewy words that drip
    From my #2 lead, and once
    A day I sit with my muse, so he
    Or she or it can empty
    The babble from my head.

  45. connielpeters on said:

    A Poet’s Day

    We write in time’s tiniest cracks.
    In words, a poet power- packs.
    A lot in a few, poets say.
    Painting pictures with words’ pallet.
    Coming from the urge to tell it.
    A poet’s feelings lead the way.
    Wrapping up life in tiny gifts.
    Giving the reader spirit lifts
    Makes a devoted poet’s day.

  46. Subtle Poet

    By David De Jong

    Does your penmanship, ever tire?
    Does your workmanship, end in fire?
    Can your words, conjugate tears?
    Can your chords, stimulate fears?
    Do your hopes, contemplate peace?
    Do your dreams, emulate fleece?

    Does that syllable, count its turn?
    Does that mandible, make you squirm?
    Can your eyes, be dotted in cinders?
    Can your teas, be crossed with ‘spinders?
    Do your translations, show their age?
    Do your creations, grow their page?

    Does your asterisk, creep from behind?
    Does your ‘rythmatic, count as refined?
    Can your punctuation, stop the time?
    Can your situation, still make rhyme?
    Do your worries, wisp up a chimney?
    Do your stories, stir up a memory?

    For if they do;
    It might be true,
    That subtly,
    Some poetry,
    Resides in you.

  47. “Transcendence”

    Long hidden in my hallway, there’s a stair;
    where steps do fall to seek my attic songs.
    A wish to go beyond my daily cares
    so, climb the ladder’s rung before too long.

    Pried open there a cedar chest of more
    old verse; a space where youth once had its ways.
    It’s then I sit upon the oaken floor.
    Reach back to thoughts of other sunlit days.

    This book is worn and bent but thoughts so free.
    I read, again the courage of her_ bold!
    The words, a treasure trove of Emily
    where warmth gives joy to yet another soul.

    I rise and take her volume in my arms;
    descend my stair with laughing, schoolgirl charm.

  48. To The Beat

    He listened to the music playing only in his head.
    He whispered to a world he knew was not already dead.
    There was a different drummer drumming than the one that they all heard.
    Still he marched on to the beat which flowed into each rhyming word.

    He’d stride determined to succeed. (It’s easier to run.)
    It wasn’t very pretty and it wasn’t that much fun.
    He slogged along the bottom gazing straight up at the top
    wanting so to reach nirvana that he knew he’d never stop
    penning salient observations with a clever little rhyme
    in meter and with metaphor… while killing lots of time.

    He trampled down the flowers growing there along the walk,
    scratched his nails upon the blackboard that was only meant for chalk,
    banged his head against the wall that was built from reclaimed bricks,
    until he broke the ceiling with his magic bag of tricks.

    Sometimes it all seems natural. Sometimes it comes and goes.
    Is it the eyes, the smile or hand that ultimately shows?
    So he made thirteen copies of a handprint cast with feet.
    Singing only to himself as he marched on to the beat.
    Every now and then he’ll choose to share the written word
    so maybe someone else will hear the music that he heard.

    By Michael Grove
    Copyright 10/29/2013

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