First, I’d like to take this time to thank William Preston for his exceptional work proving weekly prompts in my prolonged absence. His acumen and thoughtful and imaginative prompts brought the best out of our poets. This prompt concludes the prompts he had offered for consideration. William’s work is exception and his continued contributions to this site warranty the opportunity to earn BLOOMS and the recognition they offer. We will forego the IN-FORM POET prompt this week only as I will outline some changes in how POETIC BLOOMINGS will move forward. But for now, Prompt #137: WATER:

Among the things necessary for life as we understand it, is water. It makes up most of Earth, as we learn early in life, and seems to be the best-tasting drink there is when one is good and thirsty.  It can be majestic, as seen from the shore of an ocean or a great lake, and intimate, as seen in a rivulet in a meadow. It reflects everything, from a night sky to flashlight. It has tremendous power and exerts tremendous pressure, as anyone who has wet cellar walls can tell you. It is probably the most ubiquitous stuff there is, save for air and dark matter. Write a “water” poem.



confounds. Best to wait, or,
as my dad used to say, “hold your

© copyright 2014, William Preston



The happy dead are in its voice.
Majestic Poet! Might I be as full of song.
Melodies of seafarers past
haunt each true and measured step.
Lilting, ever-lifting; a gift
from the weary mariner to Neptune’s ear.
Accompanied in breath and beat,
symphonic sound of a lunar baton.
Maestro of the night, unwavering.
Building to crescendo, euphonious.
Tympani, cacophonous crash;
an introduction to the score
so written. And hidden within
languishes its familiar song,
lyrical expressions of heart and soul,
left to wash away traces of the moment.
Never ending refrain, sing again!

**Derived from “On Seeing A Train Start For the Seaside” by English poet, Norman Rowland Gale

© copyright 2014, Walter J Wojtanik

An additional poem by William Preston:

William had one more “prompt” slated for use, but it fell within the guideline of Form and was basically the IN-FORM FREE-FOR-ALL from last Wednesday. But the example he provided is worth posting here. All I can say is “Good form, William. Good form!”


Ofttimes, whilst eating beans and wieners
I’m apt to write obtuse fourteeners;

when gazing at milady’s bonnet
I’m sometimes moved to pen a sonnet;

whilst watching swallows swoop the dell
I might compose a villanelle;

and at the close of winter days
I’m moved to scribble triolets.

I make my points by writing tines
of Crapsey’s quintessential lines

and prone I am to tossing salads
by mixing rondelets and ballads;

when circular reasoning crimps my brain
I write pantoums to ease the pain,

and when my rhymes die in the tank
I settle for a verse that’s blank

unless, of course, I’m up a tree
and must resort to verses free.

© copyright 2013, William Preston

220 thoughts on “PROMPT #137 – WATER

  1. This is an older one that I wrote. The form is definitely more tricky for me than a Shakespearean Sonnet. 🙂

    Liquid Thoughts (Italian Sonnet)

    The smallest drop of clearest rain can make
    A tiny pool, which sparkles as it grows;
    It catches other tiny drops and flows,
    A river now, to meet a sea or lake;
    Just so, the smallest thought or sound awakes
    The banks of time, and in my mind there grows
    A tiny pool that catches thoughts, then flows
    To meet the sea, of constant thought partake;
    But while that thought is still its own and free
    Of all surrounding it on either side,
    The tiny drop of crystal rain is lost
    Amid the roaring waves that form the sea;
    And one day it will come in with the tide,
    A single part of that enormous host.

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

  2. GHAZAL (A = sea..i.e. Water) (B ends with ..y)
    bAbA cbA dbA ebA dbA

    What in summer is a tidy sea,
    in winter can be a mighty sea.

    With spring-time days and quiet nights
    it can change into a sassy sea.

    When tides run high in autumn’s air,
    wind can whip it to a bossy sea.

    When I’m with you on star-lit beach
    the moon turns it to a glossy sea.

    For me, year round, what’er the season,
    what’er the mood, ‘tis a lovely sea.

  3. Water

    “Keep a-movin’ Dan,
    don’t you listen to him Dan,
    He’s a devil not a man
    and he spreads the burning sand with water, ”
    ___Bob Nolan “Cool Water”

    Frost called it a draw: ice versus fire.
    The world ends like a love affair;
    He was too young, then, to know
    what happens when the drama ends
    and lips and skin and heart
    see flooding elsewhere, while they parch.

  4. Pingback: Water – too little, too much | Vivinfrance's Blog

  5. I took advantage of some of today’s Wordle words in response to this prompt. I think that afterwards I may re-write it without!

    WATER – too little, too much

    One essential commodity far beyond price 
    and yet inaccessible for too many thousands
    trudging for hours weighed down with containers
    from remote muddy pool to primitive hut
    for needed but disease-laden liquid. 
    Listless children buzzing with flies,
    gasp and lie lifeless.
    Such scenes haunt.
    Excess has an equal impact –
    storms rage, rivers swell,
    inundate rich pastures
    destroy roads, bridges
    and homes
    take lives.

  6. An Occasional Illumination

    The Thames pooled to flood,
    left a lifeless haunt by the storm.
    Winter 2013
    was a scene at sea,
    barring the flickered eyelash flirt
    of street lights jolted
    to occasional illumination.

    Litter flowed the riverbanks
    like lovers intent
    on each other’s needs,
    strolling peacefully, 
through a dawdling afternoon,
    but damp hope looms a flood now.

    Priceless, the flooded churches,
    the graveyards, the vicarage,
    the old woman downstream
    who still bales the flood
    from her basement,
    and the water’s still rising they say.

    But such is the price
    of living on the river,
    and that eternal temptation
    of the water’s wash.

    [used a few wordles on this one, too]

  7. Pingback: An Occasional Illumination | The Chalk Hills Journal


    When life was a raging sea and I
    A mariner caught in a ship destined
    To sink in the devouring ocean waves,
    You appeared as one descending from
    A door carved out of the bluest sky

    The prayers I ranted in those frigid waters
    Reached heaven and angels took pity
    And somehow you were there with me
    The two of us floating towards land
    My life spared, my heart beating again

    All the while I flailed my arms in fear,
    The blue ocean grown black and cruel
    Lost its sparkling allure, but now it
    Sparkles in your eyes and my palms
    Upraised to God for mercy, were filled

    With salvation––all of me!––”The cup
    Is the body,” you whispered as you kept me
    Afloat. “Still, if you had lost hope, surrendered
    To the arms of a drowning death, I would not
    Have saved you. Love is for the hopeful.



    We watched the children we were back then
    walk barefoot in Uncle Frank’s creek
    behind his house, and we laughed
    with them, wished we could go back
    even for one quick Saturday,
    but they wade in the water of our memory
    and we swim in the raging now the best we can.



    We never step in the same river twice.
    Our world undergoes constant change
    And we who live within it change as well.
    We grow older, hopefully wiser.

    Our world undergoes constant change.
    The blade of grass in the dewy morning
    Is a different blade when the sun rises
    And later when the moon shines in darkness.

    And we who live within it change as well.
    Only a snapshot can capture the moment,
    But that snapshot too will age and yellow.
    Nothing is exempt from time’s passing.

    We grow older, hopefully wiser.
    We bend backwards; we bend forward. We change.
    The waters may appear the same blue, but
    We never step in the same river twice.


    (for Anna Coppola: 1936-1999)

    These are the tears
    Wrung from a body
    Stretched on the rack
    Of a torturous disease.

    I saved these tears
    This water so holy
    That flowed from the eyes
    Of my sister, a saint.


  12. From a Dry Land

    My boyfriend from Wyoming
    came to Pennsylvania for a visit.
    As we crossed a ditch, he asked,
    “Is this Shannon Creek?” I laughed
    and pointed to a puddle saying,
    “Yes, and that is Mirror Lake,
    or, at least, they would be in Wyoming.”

    • Having lived in Wyoming–both sides of the state–I can truly appreciate this poem, Connie. I chuckled and remembered my own experiences there. Great job.

    • This is wonderful. It recall for me the first time I saw the Santa Ana River in southern California: at that time of year (mid-summer) a little creek under a long bridge. Another time, when it had rained for days, the same creek almost went from side to side in its channel. In the U.S. Southwest, water is not only what is, but what might be.

  13. Pingback: Water Ways | Whimsygizmo's Blog

  14. Water Ways

    She spills best here,
    fills her veins with indigo-inky
    strains of song. She belongs
    along these sapphire shores,
    breathing in blue and knowing
    too that heaven sighs
    in turquoise tears.

    We’re all three-fourths liquid,
    but perhaps after all these
    salty years, her heart lies
    deeper, steeped in murmured,
    mirrored sky.

  15. It’s been a long time since I slipped in toi add two cents and to admire those who’ve left their words as change. I’ve been surprised this morning by the major changes here; the new look and the new tone, plus not seeing Marie Elena greet me.

    I’m not surprised by the quality of contributions I’ve found on this page. It heartens me to know that while some change is inevitable, quality hasn’t been one of the changes notice. I’m glad I came by, if only for a quick moment. It’s good to see everyone.

    Watery Mirror

    Day shine lingers on rising mirage,
    waving fingers to tantalize
    one’s brain with illusion’s barrage,
    painting wishes from desperation
    to give hope, to massage
    one’s faith in future existence.

    Running, panting, seeking relief
    within illusion’s slippery grasp,
    brings anger at hope’s silent thief.

  16. Blue

    from space,
    it shines
    cloudy opal,
    hanging like
    a pendant of
    a gem swirled by
    wind, rain-fed, with
    sunlight sufficient
    for breath, living
    bauble of wonder,
    teeming with
    the blue planet,
    home of

  17. Holy Water

    By David De Jong

    Carry me over the torrents and stones
    Refresh my soul and nourish my bones

    Shelter me afloat on Your deep abyss
    Blanket me surrounded in fog’ed kiss

    Bring dew to my meadow and make her bloom
    Flood love to my heart, may it be Your home

    May I flow beside You in lurid or dreams
    On storm swept seas or along joyful streams

    You are my Water, the Giver of Life
    My stream in the desert, my calm in strife

  18. Water Magic

    “If there is magic on this planet, it is contained in water.” ~Loren Eiseley

    You only have to glance at it,
    as sunlight glints on its expanse.
    Magical enchantment rises

    and then, your gaze just cannot quit,
    because you’re beckoned to the dance.
    You laugh. You laugh at its surprises

    and by its shoreline you will sit,
    in contemplation, dream or trance.
    All’s revealed. There’s no disguises.

    Water magic’s celebrated
    as you’re wholly captivated.

    The form is Trilonnet.

    • I don’t think I’ve encountered this form before. I love it, as a form and in this poem. I especially like the phrase, “beckoned to the dance.” Water, indeed, often seems to be dancing.

      • Oops – actually I messed up. The Trilonnet should have a fourth triple stanza before the final couplet. I’ve written several poems in this form (sans the 4th triplet) so I’m now undecided as to whether I should rewrite it correctly – or treat this as a new form (and thereby leaving it as is.)

        In any event, thanks for the kind words. 😃

          • Corrected version (true to form):

            Water Magic

            “If there is magic on this planet, it is contained in water.” ~Loren Eiseley

            You only have to glance at it,
            as sunlight glints on its expanse.
            Magical enchantment rises

            and then, your gaze just cannot quit,
            because you’re beckoned to the dance.
            You laugh. You laugh at its surprises

            and by its shoreline you will sit,
            in contemplation, dream or trance.
            All’s revealed. There’s no disguises.

            You’re in nature’s orchestral pit;
            You hum along, your one great chance.
            Unscripted time improvises.

            Water’s magic’s celebrated
            as you’re wholly captivated.


      • I say, create an offshoot of the Trilonnet…maybe a Trilonneta…it reads well the way it is…interesting form in any case and you’ve done a nice job. I agree with William. The water does seem to be dancing.

    • RJ, I’m will William on this one. I’ve not seen this form before, but I like it, and it reads so smoothly. Thorough enjoyment. Thank you for introducing us to it.

  19. MIST

    -A speck at the rim of the quiet sea sent a golden thread to me. Through the mist, the speck became a sliver and then an ascending globe emitting a beckoning beam.

    -I boarded the beam. The mist deepened then turned to golden droplets of water. The temperature dropped. Pulsating crystals of ice, each bearing a rainbow speck, undulated through space.

    -The crystals multiplied. The colors grew, and I rode a rainbow that stretched as far as the eye could see.

    -Whirling above the rainbow’s glow were flecks of snow, each fleck matchless in its beauty, size, shape and reflected colors.

    -I danced with the flakes in a waltz of the stars to the music of the wind. As the rhythm increased, I became a spinning top. With outstretched hands and head flung back, I rode the currents, dodged the stars.

    -The rhythm accelerated. Through the resounding thunder, in exhilaration, I rolled and flew while pelted with flakes of snow mixed with crystals.

    -The rhythm slowed, sound and movement subsided. The rainbow faded. The rain softened.

    -Beneath the suspended mist, I lay and watched the moon.


    Winding down
    Around the banks,
    Through valleys and
    Entering sleepy towns on
    Rushing current wings.

    Rolling gently over rocks
    Into crevasses singing like
    Violin strings around
    Eddies which hide the fish behind
    Rocks too large to move,
    Silent in their stillness.

    Landing or starting in
    Areas of quiet water
    Keeping the same borders,
    Entering and retreating on the
    Shores on the slippered feet of lullabies.

  21. Flimsy Whimsy

    Autumn sky of such a blue
    I must dive right in
    tilt back my head and float
    on the jetstream
    let the currents
    take me
    where they will
    brush off the foamy clouds
    that splash me
    cannonball into the milky way,
    then somersault
    without a splash
    into the sea of tranquility.
    Waves of blue, slippery hue
    of daydreams and whimsy.

  22. I decided to try the form that RJ used, the Trilonnet. It’s a beautiful form.

    Waterfall (a Trilonnet)

    You see that shimmer on the gentle sea,
    Two stars reflected, joining at the points,
    A waterfall of love in silver light?

    Well that, once, long ago, was you and me,
    Hearts fused together, mind and soul joints,
    In tune, a waterfall, one aim in sight;

    Like rain we let our passion scatter free,
    We surged together, wave of heart and joint,
    We rushed, a waterfall with sparks of light;

    We fell, we broke, dashed by a mighty sea,
    A rainstorm came, we faltered in the noise,
    We rushed, a waterfall engulfed by night…

    You hear the water fall, the roar of pain?
    That’s you and I, we floundered in the rain…

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

  23. Worshipping the Mighty North Saskatchewan

    Here I am come down to your shore again
    at a point difficult to access
    But where I most need to be …
    Your pathways have washed away to ruts
    Slick with mud and reeds, knobby outcroppings
    I almost missed the beach entirely it’s so narrow-
    If one can call this pebble-strewn section of your edge
    a beach

    Being away from you for most of the summer
    I missed the Biblical rising of your waters, the rains
    I hear fell incessantly almost every night and many
    days as well

    Perhaps insisting on this ingress was foolish
    The mosquitoes are the size of Sikorsky helicopters
    and vicious as pit-bulls – even with copious amounts
    of bug juice applied liberally, I am being bitten
    pretty much non-stop

    Still, the serenity that is your blanketing water
    is the sanctuary I seek and I sink down
    on a slimy stump, determined to drink you in;
    I am suffused with gratitude for this private place…
    In the main, it is closed to the public,
    I come here at the indulgence of someone close to me…

    The cliffs climbing vertically from the other shore;
    I know they are part of your charm for me,
    so completely unexpected the first time I saw them—
    They are doppelgängers to Scarborough’s Bluffs,
    the ones a block from where I grew up in Ontario—
    I remember initially how I just kept sitting and staring,
    afraid they might disappear if I let them out of my sight.
    Even now, years later, I am still startled anew
    every time I see your cathedral-like chalky walls,
    feel I should drop to my knees and give thanks.

    This day I find myself peering into your shallows searching—
    At first, I tell myself I’m just checking out the floor of the river
    but then I see one, then another—tadpoles.
    Moving languidly, there are tadpoles, lots of tiny tadpoles;
    It is nearly dusk so I’m not expecting to see any
    of the miniature frogs that populate this area –
    they’ve usually dug into the silty soil on the river bottom
    by this time of day
    But the tadpoles are a welcome sight … a relief
    That means at least, there are frogs,
    the scientific bell-wether that tells me you are thriving.

    You serpentine as the sun deserts the sky,
    your tawny scales lie flat as you coil lazily
    by my vantage point, the wind barely breathing.
    Once the sky gives up day for good, I check my pocket
    to make sure I have a flash-light—I will need it if I hope
    to climb out of here later— it occurs to me:
    I am shit-out-of-luck at this point if I don’t have one.
    No sooner do my fingers wrap about the tiny light
    when I notice you have become an ebony ribbon,
    as dark and enigmatic as your unfathomable depths.

    As always, I am surprised by how much I am able to see
    by existing light …
    Yet, you seem loath to give up your sources; I have never
    been able to discover from where your natural light comes
    Oh, if Luna deigns to appear, it’s easy enough
    But this night, she rose and set as quickly as the suggestion
    of a breath
    Plus, she was but a crescent, as slim as a hangnail
    So, no light source Luna tonight
    Still, I can make out your shores clearly and the silhouettes
    of the alder and ash leaning far out from your banks …
    Their undeniable scents fill the air as well
    I see the wind has picked up, planting diamond chips
    row upon scattered row on your surface,
    As you roll by, I hear you whispering breathily to the dark …

    The night-sky is uncommonly clear, most likely blown that way
    by the same breeze driving you now
    Constellations are pressed with text-book precision overhead
    and the planets dangle low, looking close enough to pluck.
    I am drowsy, falling asleep practically but still, I find it difficult
    to leave your side;
    It’s grows stronger every time I go away and then return,
    You feel like coming home to me:a benediction, a blessing, a prayer.



    Water, wizened in the shapes of flakes
    or hoary in the sweep of snow,
    or swirling in the northerly blow,

    or sharp, in icicles abaft the house,
    or slick, in mirrors on the sidewalk,
    or rendered stony in great blue slabs,

    leaves me wondering; will it weep?

    © copyright 2014, William Preston


    Water, wending wide
    on incoming tide,
    splashes upon the stone beach;
    rendering a shine
    and leaving a line
    of debris I cannot reach.

    How often I’ve dreamed
    that all of it seemed
    a mirage, and nothing more.
    But no, it is real
    and my hopes congeal
    on sands of a distant shore.

    © copyright 2014, William Preston

  26. Peace

    What a precious feeling
    An inexplicable gift
    A state of conscience
    It feels like love

    Can’t find your own
    I’ve got so much
    A gift from my God
    From Heaven above

    Available to all
    Free for the asking
    The price already paid
    When Jesus gave His life

    Now and forever
    Enough for everyone
    Drink from the Living Water
    Go, and live in peace

    © 2014 Earl Parsons

  27. Sniffles
    (a triple Lune)

    “Oops,” said the cloud to
    the puddle,
    after it had sneezed.

    To which the puddle
    answered, “Ah,
    dry up already!”

    “Be careful what you
    ask for,” the
    cloud reminded him…

    Ellen Evans 1.13.14
    a “water” poem for PB

  28. I wrote this a few years ago, neven been posted here though. Thought it was a good fit for the prompt.

    Cherry Valley in the Early Morning

    My truck stops in its tracks,
    as though overpowered by
    the vista spread before us.
    Each droplet of the morning
    mist, frozen in

    time to every place it touches.
    Liquid crystals turn
    the valley into a
    shimmering fairyland.
    Indeed only dreams reside here.

    Each frozen drop, reflecting
    the power
    of all creation, drinks
    shamelessly of the sun’s

    hesitates, becomes more liquid
    than crystal. Now sliding from
    the tree branches,
    telephone wires, street signs,
    signal lights, roofs of buildings…

    Every possible place where
    the mist could rest—
    even the undersides
    of things. For although
    the mist has no strength to

    call its own, it’s ability to seep
    through every hole
    and fill every space must
    surely be a power.
    In my trip down to the

    valley floor—no more
    than a few minutes,
    countless of the magical garments
    have been shed by their hosts.
    The balance between

    high up in the sun’s sway,
    and down on the ground,
    beyond its touch
    is such, that even as
    I hear the tinkling of

    the unglued fairy dust,
    it heaps up in piles in every
    standing shadow.
    I turn off my truck, roll
    down my window, and

    travel in a trance,
    to a distant mirage,
    a flight of fancy, taking in
    the fresh smell of
    elevated emotion,

    daring my eyes to
    stay open to the brightness,
    not wanting to blink, and
    miss a moment
    of this reverie.

    Ellen Evans 1.13.14
    a “water” poem for PB

  29. At the Edge of the Sea

    She stoops and bends her knees,
    draws her hand along the still-wet sand
    The tide is turning and the sand
    for the moment is newly-born.
    She cannot resist the small shining
    shells peeking from its surface.
    Carefully she slips her hand beneath
    them and draws them out.

    This sky so intensely blue.
    This solemn sea, the sea-gulls
    wheeling, crying.. The waves
    breaking on the sand without a sound
    For a moment all of it is hers…
    then gently, she lets it slip
    from between her fingers.

  30. Pingback: You and Me…we’re not so very different | Metaphors and Smiles

  31. You and Me…we’re not so very different
    Within this mesh of flesh,
    inside this web of skin
    and behind these bones,
    deep at the core, a beauty;
    at the heart of pulse and pull
    there lies a likeness-
    a commonality between beings.
    Extracted and exacted,
    graphed and mapped
    we would appear identical.
    Without all these extra bodily-bits,
    at the center of all that is
    we’re all just pools of Living Water.
    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014

    • This reminds me of that great old song, The Brotherhood of Man. Given that we all are mostly water, and we all are of one species, this poem is just about perfect, in my opinion.


    When under the bridge
    it’s forgotten,
    never to pass
    this way a-
    gain. All

    P. Wanken

  33. Pingback: Water’s Ways | echoes from the silence


    It was a sulking, sultry day
    with blue above and haze below;
    the dust was flowing to and fro
    for want of rain. The heat that lay

    upon the land was like a shroud:
    it married sweat to skin and hair
    and grinned that all the languid air
    had failed to raise a single cloud.

    But then, arising in the south,
    a puff of white began to form;
    it came at leisure, not a storm
    but showing grey abaft its mouth

    and laying down a length of shade.
    When overhead, without ado,
    it loosed a burst, or maybe two,
    of showers; that is all it made.

    It must have been exhausted then:
    the grey had segued into white;
    onward it went, then out of sight,
    perhaps to join its wayward ken.

    The heat returned with eventide:
    the dust and flies were flowing free.
    But I was in a reverie,
    thinking about the cloud that tried.

    © copyright 2014, William Preston

  35. Waterfall

    The channel of grief cuts deeply
    My anguish a capstone
    A river of iniquity
    Faults eroding my soul

    My hardened heart a hollowed cave
    Love at my feet pooling
    A mountain of mercy cascades
    From hallowed lips holy

    A pool of absolution waits
    If I would take the plunge
    Renew my spirit and my faith
    Sins of my past expunged

  36. Aftermath

    After the rain
    we watched the clouds roll by like runaway lovers
    and we stood knee deep in the water,
    watching the sky burst into colour
    from our colourless lives.

    Underneath the water
    we touched ankles,
    shared glances,
    breathed in burning air.

    After the rain
    we picked up the debris of a broken home,
    photographs like tissue in my fingers,
    memories now a breath gone by,
    the rainwater had dissolved my walls
    to a rotten barricade,
    windows to a mirror
    because all I could see for miles upon miles was

    • This is a sobering piece. It recalls for me the aftermath of a typhoon. Very effective writing, in my opinion.

  37. ADRIFT

    The ocean mixes with the sand,
    cementing me to where I stand.
    I’m motionless as water schemes
    to put an end to silent screams.
    Though not yet drowned by my despair,
    I find some burdens hard to bear.
    No easy out from where I stand,
    so firmly rooted to the sand.
    But then a wave comes in to break
    and rescues me for my own sake.

    © Susan Schoeffield

  38. Pingback: Adrift | Words With Sooze

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