MARIE ELENA’S CHOICEThe Onion by Ellen Evans

There is so much to admire in this poem.  The inferred rejection; the reference to simply “Cook;” the emotion; and the transfer from “onion” and “Cook” to “me.”   But what really moved me was the invaluable lesson ingeniously presented.  Ellen, this piece leaves me shaking my head in awe.  This should be required reading for young and old alike.  It is my pleasure to humbly offer you my Bloom.

The Onion by Ellen Evans

Once there was an onion,
in the corner
of the bin
pushed aside by itself,
in the dark
until it was picked up.

First, Cook removed
the few outer layers.
They sure were dry
and shriveled
—looked more
like the leaves

swirling in eddies up
the back porch—
but at least
they had protected
the ones underneath.

Next came a few good ones,
moist, pungent, tender,
the way an onion
was supposed to be.
Afterward one
that was spoiled—

soft, brown, rotten-smelling.
“Not even good for
soup, that one,” said Cook.
Then back to a few more
healthy ones, followed by
another putrid one,

a few more good ones
—and so on.
The spoiled ones always
pushed out of the
way on
the cutting board.

And this was Cook’s
experience with onions:
If you take an onion that
had been around
a while, and just
cut it open—

mixing up
the bad with the good
spoiled the good.
All had to be thrown away.
Ah, but take that same onion,
and open it carefully—

layer by layer.
And behold, at the center,
a green shoot starting
to grow.
And Cook says, “I think
I’ll plant that one.”

“Who was the onion?” you ask.
“Me,” I answer.
“And who
picked it up?” you ask.
again I answer.

Funny thing about onions,
how even the
good ones
when you
open them
make you cry.

 WILLIAM’S PICKOn We Walk Earthly Bound by Marilyn Braendeholm

I must confess that this poem enthralled and enchanted me with sounds and images; its contrasts between the “earthly bound” and the birds carried “along on spread wings and piccolo song” left me open-mouthed in wonder. Words are superfluous as I try to describe how much I like this poem and how deep are the feelings it inspires. The prompt produced many excellent works, as I noted in my comments, but this one, above all others, cast a spell.

ON WE WALK EARTHLY BOUND by Marilyn ‘Misky’ Braendeholm

We walk winter frost under steel sky, rain held
in clouds with our sheer desire. We seek to know
that we are alive, to breathe northern cold that scalds
our toes, that bites at our hatted heads and fingers
wrapped in woollen gloves, but on we march, earthly bound
through fallen November leaves, and bracken mournful

of December. And we step chilled to bone toward
bleakest winter. We follow shadowed sky, deeply steeled
to grey, and we know that above those clouds all reigns
blue and clear. The winds swift to carry sun and birds
along on spread wings and piccolo song. We live,
my friend, in two different worlds, but we march on.


RJ’S IN-FORM BLOOM:  August Terza Rima by Vivienne Blake

Once again, there were some amazing Terza Rima poems written. It was really  hard to choose. Three really stood out for me, though, and totally made me say, “Wow!”

One of those was PurplePen’s ‘Christmas in New York.’ Having lived in NY for 14 years, I could absolutely relate – and it brought back some wonderful memories.

Another was Erin Kay’s ‘Dreamcatcher’ for its awesome imagery.

But…I think this week’s In-form Poet Bloom has to go to Vivienne. Her crescent moon and the romance – in a combined Terza Rima Sonnet just resonated with me in a huge way.

Congratulations to all the poets! You are brilliant and I love the amazing way you all have with your words!

August Terza Rima by Vivienne Blake

A garden in the hush of eventide,
all work has stopped, the buds have closed in sleep.
A summer place, we saunter side by side.

Above, a crescent moon is set to peep
shyly on our bliss, both satisfied
and sad the day is ending glorified.

Reluctantly we turn our steps aside
towards the setting sun that dips below
the trees that line the riverside

with red-streaked colour statement. It must go,
to stay away for hours, just to preside
on other summer places we don’t know.

We turn again, prepared to go inside—
as night must fall, the moon will still abide.


Quick note from Marie Elena:  I TOTALLY second William’s and RJ’s choices!  Such amazing poetry this week!