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


As you are aware, changes are being made to improve an already incredible place. I know the saying goes “If it isn’t broke, don’t fix it!”. Well, POETIC BLOOMINGS is certainly not broken. But the expansion of our creative minds and muses has predicated such a move. Tomorrow, the new name for the site will be announced and we will move forward from there. The design of the blog may change again to include all aspects we’ve “discussed” But as I have also mentioned, the focus on poetry will not be diminished. The Sunday Prompt and INFORM POET will be mainstays.

And so, we move into another Sunday Seed of thought. For this prompt, we become time travelers. Pick one moment in time or history and use that as the inspiration for your poem. The point of view that is adopted is surely up to you. You can be a historical figure involved, or someone affected by them. You can write as a distant observer or even as an inanimate object (you could be the Bastille as it’s being stormed, you could be the USS Arizona under attack at Pearl Harbor, you could be a page at the CBS Studio when the Beatles first appear on the Ed Sullivan show…) And yes Erin, you can write about as far back as last week if it serves your muse! 😉 Your title will be the event of which you write and the year it occurred, for example: The Sullivan Show (1964).

Share a moment in time that is memorable for you and share some history in the process.


Crash site of the plane carrying Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and J.P. “Big Bopper” Richardson, is marked by Holly’s signature glasses!



That’ll be the day I made my own,
now that I’m fully grown, I  remember
the passing of the “trinity” when I turned three.
On the third of February, as I was finding my stride
I would come to find that the music had died.
Bopper and Holly and Valens took on the challenge
of bringing music to the masses, but they passed
into history. It was no mystery that they shouldn’t
have flown… they should have known better.
Because of a turn in the weather, the three died together.
Early in the morning, the music world was mourning.
That’ll be the day I turned three!

© Copyright 2014 – Walter J Wojtanik

Buddy Holly

Buddy Holly

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179 thoughts on “PROMPT #138 – ONE MOMENT IN TIME

  1. William Preston on said:


    How weary he seems, how implacably tired,
    like an old sow irretrievably mired
    in quicksand. His eyes are deep
    and filled with pain, for want of sleep
    and understanding; his walk is slowed,
    as slow as the little mare he rode
    to this dedication, a horse so small
    it seemed insulting for one so tall.
    It was an afterthought that brought
    him here, and many thought he ought
    not to have come, but there he stands,
    following Everett’s flourishing hands
    and avalanche of hurricane words.
    He is alone. Above, the birds
    grow silent, like the graves around
    the battleground. The only sound
    is rustling from the foolscap sheaf
    he holds, and breezes born of grief.

    © copyright 2014, William Preston

  2. Thank you, Walt, but I couldn’t think of anything important that happened last week. 😉

    You have written a very interesting poem; I’d love to know the story behind it.

    • http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Day_the_Music_Died

      Here is a link to the story, Erin. Buddy Holly influenced a lot of performers with his sound, songs and style. I claim my affinity for music and poetry from our sad connection. I was a fan of Holly’s music from my earliest recollection. Three died on the third, my third birthday. A trinity of threes. The song “American Pie” by Don McLean pays tribute to Holly and that legacy he and Ritchie Valens and J.P. “Big Bopper” Richardson left from the early days of Rock ‘n Roll! Walt

  3. The Day She Found Out (2006)

    She knew something was happening
    When he just couldn’t stop coughing,
    Something was wrong, she could just tell,
    The way his thin chest rose and fell,
    The way he winced with every breath,
    The way his face turned pale as death;

    She saw a hurt and crying boy,
    She’d didn’t know he’d lost all joy;

    She couldn’t see what lay ahead,
    What sleepless nights and days of dread
    Awaited him the next two years,
    What endless pain and looming fear;
    She couldn’t see, she couldn’t know
    That he’d be taken with the snow…

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2014

  4. This is powerful for what it doesn’t say – who, what, where and when. A well-judged but emotional piece of writing.

    Scene: a small graveyard surrounding the church of St Mark outside Vienna,
    7th December 1791 beside a common grave. Present: Sussmeyer, Salieri, van Swieten.

    Shivering in the cutting East wind I gaze about me.
    Where are all the people?
    There should be crowds.
    Why aren’t people lined up ten deep around
    this insignificant hole in the earth.

    This death affects the whole world.
    Babies unborn will be lulled by his work.
    Generations to come will mourn
    this life cut short unjustly.

    The scent of crushed grass tickles my nostrils,
    Making my eyes water unaccountably.
    Grown men don’t cry. Do they?

  6. RJ Clarken on said:

    Boston, Massachusetts, January 19, 1809

    On this day, in Boston’s haven, underneath the sign of raven,
    ‘twas born a young boy, dark and brooding: whom fans (later) would adore.
    Growing up, he wrote, created, works about those desecrated
    as if someone’s life was weighted, hated or was filled with gore.
    When this shadow man’s rapport with gloomy subjects filled a drawer
    he’d sigh. “Time to write some more.”

  7. RJ Clarken on said:

    Thanks! I actually thought about using Baltimore in the last line, but then I thought it would be too easy. 😀

  8. THE LAST DAY: 12/21/2012

    The Mayan calendar said
    the world would end,
    so I took all my money
    and out on the town
    I painted it red.

    Have you ever placed a bet
    and the horse came in last?
    Instead of a windfall
    You’re on poverty row
    deep into debt.

    Did Mayans say stars at night
    like pebbles would fall?
    Now all we can say is
    nothing was written
    in stone black and white.

    The doomsayer carries a sign
    “The end is coming,”
    But the day comes and goes
    so they pick a new date
    and they whine.

    Skeptics will say it’s a ruse.
    Who can know if it’s real!
    They insist all these claims
    are invented by fools
    with screws that are loose.

    I don’t share their gloom.
    Only God knows for sure
    when this world will end.
    I hope it is not
    anytime soon.


    • Wm Preston on said:

      I love the sounds in that phrase, “fools with screws that are loose.”

    • The end is coming. It is always coming, until it is here and now. So on that note, the doomsayer is correct, only is timing off. 🙂
      Yet we look for the dates as rule to give our lives deadlines to make, ones to mark our becoming, ones to see if we’re succumbing to behaviors unwise.

      Great little poem about something we each face every day, for there is always one who will devote time and space to an end. Don’t you think?

      Thoroughly enjoyable.

    • Not too concerned about when the world will end… more concerned with living well till my turn comes.

    • Marjory MT on said:

      For sure, only He knows.

  9. flashpoetguy on said:


    it’s sad when truth is the crime
    for which those who speak it
    must pay a heavy price.
    somewhere in a mental ward
    (his name will remain anonymous)
    a man in a straight jacket

    still babbles about
    an invasion of giant rats
    that soon will overrun the Earth
    “they’re coming” he tells the walls
    “they’re big as dogs
    billions of hungry rodents”

    but all he gets for his troubles
    is laughter from attendants
    and a committed life sentence
    where he keeps a watchful eye
    so sure he is, “oh, the rats will come”
    he tells the padded walls

    “they’re huge as dogs
    they’ll eat us all alive
    we’ve got to stop them”
    and even though they say
    his fears are groundless
    sightings now report
    the madman is not mad

    for now the giant rats
    roam elsewhere but “very soon”
    (says the truthsayer)
    “you’ll find them in your beds
    racing up pajama legs

    we can’t escape them
    why didn’t you listen?
    it’s too late now”


  10. Wm Preston on said:


    Buddhists speak of yin and yang;
    Christians shout about good news;
    Muslims mutter beneath minarets,
    and there’s no arguing with Jews.

    Babel’s tower should have stood
    although, it’s true, I meant to confuse,
    for none of you find me now
    while wailing at walls and waving in pews.

    © copyright 2014, William Preston

  11. Wm Preston on said:


    Then, it stood
    amidst the wood
    and witnessed banners flying:
    its walls could naught but quake and grieve,
    for, rooted there, it could not leave
    the imminence of dying.
    Now, see it stand,
    so small, yet grand,
    reproaching and denying.

    © copyright 2014, William Preston

    NB:The Dunker church stands on the battlefield at Anteitam Creek, near Sharpsburg, Maryland. It was in the midst of the fighting on the Union right on 17 September 1862. The Dunkards,German Brethren, were pacifists.

  12. Wm Preston on said:


    When Ruth and Gehrig struck the ball,
    giants were striding on the earth:
    most any ballpark was too small
    when Ruth and Gehrig struck the ball;
    they caught the wonderment of all
    save hurlers wondering at their worth
    when Ruth and Gehrig struck the ball.
    Giants were striding on the earth.

    © copyright 2014, William Preston

  13. Wm Preston on said:


    Weary of wear and talk of looming war,
    I rock sedately, moored once more at Pearl;
    my crew are aboard, though some have gone ashore
    to pass the night in Honolulu’s whirl;
    my guns are capped, and shells are stored below,
    for ammo isn’t needed now, not till
    we raise steam again and leave this lee.
    Companion ships are also lying still:
    Nevada aft, her topside lights lit low,
    and West Virginia, off the bow. And so
    the others. We are here, home from the sea.

    Now I wonder as the night proceeds:
    will morning bring another day of peace,
    or will the world forget again the deeds
    of men and ships who died, that war might cease?
    Sometimes I ponder oceans we have crossed
    since 1914, when my keel was laid;
    the war to end all wars had not begun
    and gilded dreams were not yet terror-tossed
    to rubble. Have you pondered? Have you prayed,
    or is the destiny of all of us fore-played?
    Will we ride the tide, and greet the rising sun?

    © copyright 2014, William Preston

  14. Our city made national news this week. Not much of a famous moment in history, except for the people I live around. And not for a good reason, I’m afraid. Some days I feel torn apart at all the lives I know, rich and poor, that are in turmoil around me – and aware that we rarely see more than a glimpse of the struggles. I’m angry today – I’d probably write this one differently tomorrow. For what it’s worth…

    Broken Heart

    Another senseless shooting in Elkhart,
    a troubled young man killing two women
    before the cops shot him, at a store in
    the upscale part of town. Hundreds took part
    in a vigil last night, to try to start
    the healing, to enfold the next-of-kin
    in love, to say that violence won’t win
    in what we call The City With A Heart.

    Two weeks ago, a poor kid was murdered
    in a church parking lot here in the hood.
    He got a vigil, too. Just a small one.
    It wasn’t national news. We all heard
    drugs and shrugged. The TV knows there’s no good
    press unless it’s a white kid with a gun.

  15. elishevasmom on said:

    The Day the Earth Stood Still

    The comment most oft repeated
    when bad news arrives is,
    “This happens to other people.
    This can’t happen to me.”
    Which is what I thought when
    my mom called and told me
    that my dad has cancer,
    and they are only giving him
    one month, maybe two.

    Ellen Evans 1.19.14
    “one moment in time” for PB

  16. Colors of Love
    (6/1974 CJB’s death)

    The doctor said, “I’m sorry” and my knees buckled
    then somehow his parents and sisters and I
    were outside the hospital in a circle, holding each other up.
    In a small tree a multitude of little grey birds
    flitted from bare branch to bare branch singing their hearts out
    and it comforted his mother – I just vaguely wondered at
    such a happy sound when my world had gone so quiet and grey.

    I lay alone on the bed as waves
    of disbelief washed over me…
    I felt detached from body, time
    numb, a heaviness pushing on my chest
    that seemed to belong to someone else.

    I was cold
    in this grey
    dull place
    my face
    a frozen mask
    of hurt.

    Then, I felt
    a small, warm hand
    on mine and turned
    my head. A tiny frown
    drew her brows down over bright
    blue eyes and the sun caught her golden hair
    as she patted my hand and said, “It will be OK, Mommy.”
    And the colors of love shattered the grey and I knew it would be so.

  17. Everyone seems charged up for this day’s challenge. Good for you. Walt, I’ll be interested to see what you have in mind for the future.


    Tarmac, dry with light breeze,
    Charcoal landing space for the past;
    Relief, fear mixed in equal portions
    While waiting for truth to step out
    And face us—our little group.

    Wheels descended, wings steadied,
    Before tires squealed with touch-down;
    Waiting never seemed so long or rapid;
    Door opened to darkness stepping down
    Stairs meant for livelier feet.

    His girl, one set of parents and a brother,
    Belonging to him, if he was home at last
    To take up life again, though never a
    Normal future for one with fear-hollowed
    Eyes and hands used to gripping bamboo bars.

    The last to descend, a stranger, exuding
    Distress at open sky, confusion locked
    Tight within measured steps, eyes straight
    Ahead to see little but the back of the man
    Ahead, no longer known by imposed nickname.

    He did not see our little group, could not
    Imagine our presence waiting there for him;
    He would have passed without speaking,
    Had his mother not broken and ran to him,
    Engulfing him in arms of love and acceptance.

    His nickname letters were invisible now,
    Known to all who cared, and he who
    Could not envision freedom for himself.

  18. elishevasmom on said:

    Right This Minute

    When my mom first told me
    a month ago that
    Daddy had been
    diagnosed with cancer,
    the initial thought was
    that he had about a year.

    I could handle that.
    I told friends that I
    would rather have
    cancer take him
    in one year, than
    his Alzheimer’s
    take him in ten.
    I’d cared for
    Alzheimer’s patients

    But that assessment
    was also one of personal
    It would give
    me time to
    grapple with his

    That diagnosis
    was just a preliminary
    finding—a chapter
    heading, as it were.

    Mother called on Thursday;
    “it is all over him inside”.
    That hit much harder
    than if she had said
    “metastasized”. Hers
    was a much more
    personal measurement.

    And as much as I would like
    to be there
    so we could rock each other
    in a comforting embrace,
    for now
    it must suffice that
    the hug be from a distance,
    and with my words.

    Ellen Evans 1.19.14
    “one moment in time” for PB

  19. Marjory MT on said:

    I’m not too up on history with its dates, names and places. So I picked, as some others did, a spot of personal history.

    REVELATION (1972)

    summer day,
    son had been sick
    now he’s on the mend.
    We’re half way round the world.
    New town, new job, new markets,
    new coins, new foods, seeking new friends,
    new doctor – the routine things to do.
    Shared family history, illness of the past.
    Few tests run, music, other noise made,
    as son sits, plays ignoring sounds.
    Phone lifted, appointment set.
    “I have a deaf boy here.”
    Day’s hot, I run cold.
    Outside alone
    down my face
    the tears

  20. 4 June 1989, Tian’an’men Square, PRC

    Since April, students gathered there
    to grieve a man who championed
    the rights young people longed to have,
    to speak, to write, to move, to be
    an individual Chinese.

    What started silent gathered force
    as one after another came
    from campuses across the land
    and what was meant to honor him
    became for leaders “out of hand”.

    The hunger strikers soon were joined
    by millions near the end of May,
    and martial law could not dissuade
    the youth from having just one say
    and building Lady Liberty.

    As troops encircled all Beijing
    a week before that awful night,
    a rainstorm pounded all who stayed
    within the square, a blessed deluge
    that sent large numbers home at last.

    And still the death count is unknown
    of those who fell beneath the tanks,
    of those killed as they ran away,
    of foolish young who tried to stay.
    But word went out in pomp of pride,

    the great rebellion had been quelled,
    the lawless rabble made to heel,
    justice had been restored at last.
    Now China could go back to sleep
    for errant freedoms were reined in.

    My student Hu Long told me how
    it was that he was saved by friends,
    who put him on a train that night
    a bit in shock from what he’d seen,
    how he had tried to understand

    what students did that was so wrong.
    When others came to hear his words,
    he cheered for Deng Xiaoping in fear.
    He’d learned that even friends can change
    in moments; best to toe the line.

    Re-education has a way
    of wedging fear ‘tween brain and tongue,
    of making witnesses go blind
    and deaf; their stories die in them.
    And what I felt would surely be

    a bloodless revolution born
    of youth’s idealism worn
    next to their hearts, nestled in brains,
    was smoothed away as skillfully
    as chalk from slate, as blood from square.

    • William Preston on said:

      This piece strikes me as being an exercise in controlled anger; the voice, perhaps, of one who desires freeing of the soul but has seen too much of life to know that such freedom comes slowly, when it comes at all. It reads much like a class lesson, yet is deeply moving. Wonderful work.

    • “their stories die in them” thanks for giving this a voice

  21. connielpeters on said:

    Rain poured down, creek ran high, July, nineteen seventy seven.
    Next day, Dad checked his minnow trap. Geegosh! It had washed away!
    Felt foolish when he learned seventy-eight souls washed away as well.

  22. Bullied Canadian Teen Found Dead After Posting Cry For Help

    When the screens flickered to life that day
    the spirits of bullied children
    sighed forth as if they had been nesting
    In keyboards throughout the land just waiting
    for a signal

    Some, like Matthew Shepard, long dead and wiser,
    held back a little, despairing for those
    newly curled in the ether
    still imagining their final acts
    could conjure magic…
    Like the latest, Amanda Todd,
    who had fought back as hard as he had

    And, as tightly as he been bound round with
    barbed wire and twine, and left for dead
    in the cold Wyoming night
    He knew Amanda’s bindings, flung through
    cyber-space, were every bit as biting,
    and sliced into her in ways of which he could
    only guess…
    He knew all too well, she cut herself in reality
    to deal with her pain as well, with that he
    was familiar…

    God, he couldn’t help wondering, what would
    it take to carry a message that would
    cap the vitriolic persecution that the young
    seemed determined to carry out against
    other young people
    Were they really suffering from that level of
    neglect that this was how they sought

    Posting vile photos of people they cared nothing
    about on so-called social media until the photos
    went viral; that was a final irony, yes?
    Driving the person slowly or quickly insane…it
    happened more often than not sadly
    Even with all their trinkets…iPods, iPads, iEvery-other-
    darn-thing; maybe he was being too simplistic
    He only knew, the longer it went on, the more
    he felt himself bend to the grief…

    (this is written to a dual prompt…this one and also the words for this week’s Sunday Whirl, a topic I’m a bit passionate about…)

  23. This is an oldie from November that I’m sharing again…I don’t usually do that but given the Holiday tomorrow, this event and the poem I wrote for it popped into my mind.

    Happy “I have a dream day,” to everyone…embrace the vision.


    Her answer hung in the air,
    a visible cloud of breath
    on that cold first day of December.
    In the year of nineteen hundred
    and fifty-five-striving to survive-
    her limbs were raw-tired,
    hired to weave material
    endlessly through machines,
    hand-stitching for long hours;
    callouses numbed more than just her fingertips.
    A sip of rest in sitting for awhile
    was welcomed after such a long day.
    Her nose cringed with the acrid smell-
    the bus’ diesel odor was thick
    and her stomach sickened with anticipation.
    When the door opened at the next stop
    the men and women filed in
    mounting the rubber-matted metal-steps,
    she noted that seats were filling rapidly;
    her bones ached with the thought of moving.
    And just as she’d suspected
    the inevitable was occurring…
    He stood motionless in front of her-
    he expects she’ll get up.
    Enough is enough.
    Forty-two years has brought her to this spot
    and it will never be forgotten;
    Rosa Parks, proud in her beautiful-brown skin,
    her poignant voice resounding of equality.
    Her answer hung in the air,
    a visible cloud of breath
    on that cold first day of December…

    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2013-14

  24. Pingback: “NO.” | Metaphors and Smiles

  25. Seattle Seahawks Superbowl Bound (2014)

    This game lasted longer it seemed,
    While we ranted and shouted and screamed,
    The noise was intense,
    Insane load of stress,
    But now we can sleep easily. 😉

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2014

    I’m sorry, but I had to. Still recovering from the stress overload. 😉 Apologies to any 49ers fans, I’m just too happy to not write!

  26. Finding your rhythm (April, 2012)

    underground flames begin to burn
    kindling sends signals skyward
    rest upon clouds like shelves
    electricity builds!
    words leaping, ebb and flow
    pedantic care given to each line
    like scales of a beautiful baroque aria
    swans dance with goddesses
    pen coins final words

    heart sighs…content
    passion released
    no lithe limbed lapis eyed lady am I
    instead, I give you my heart
    imperfections and all
    be gentle
    lest your words brush away
    my one final chance to

  27. elishevasmom on said:

    Butterfly Effect

    One of my sons was born
    on May 18, 1980, at 6 a.m.
    local time.
    We were living over seas
    at the time, so it wasn’t
    until several hours later
    by our reckoning,
    that Mount St. Helens
    blew her top.

    I used to tell him
    that his birth was such
    an earth-shaking event
    that it caused a
    volcanic eruption
    half way around the world.

    Ellen Evans 1.20.14
    “one moment in time” for PB

  28. Darlene Franklin on said:


    Rosa Parks sits down
    Bus in southern town
    One act, one day, forever
    Preacher King stands up
    Movement swells, grows up
    One act, one day, forever
    No longer bisected,
    Freedom perfected,
    One act, one day, forever
    Child hears and child dreams
    We can, voters scream
    One act, one day, forever

  29. Death of John Lennon-December 12, 1980

    Outside the Dakota, shots rang out,
    four bullets in the back, John Lennon
    gone. Forty years old, concerned
    with mankind, and a gift for creating
    music and art. He only wanted
    everyone to share his true belief
    in harmony by asking us to imagine.
    I imagined; I believed–for a time.
    How sad he would be at the escalating
    violence in our cities and our world.
    We never did give peace a chance.

    • William Preston on said:

      I never paid much attention to rock performers from Elvis forward, so I know little about Lennon. I did know he was shot, but not that he was a pacifist, or at least sounded like one, apparently. Your line, “I imagined; I believed–for a time,” however, gives me some glimpse of the power his music must’ve had. Thanks.

    • I was driving home from work across the Golden Gate Bridge when his death was announced on the radio.

  30. Wm Preston on said:


    On this day the tears are fact, nary a part of a circus act;
    the redhead has died this day, and so too died a genius for play.
    But sadness seems so out of place; on this day there ought to be clowns.

    © copyright 2014, William Preston

  31. The London Bombings – 7 July

    Thursday. Not a breeze, the air still and felt possessed.
    Those whispered discarded tickets, and fate arising
    Through cold comfort. Old bones fortune that brings
    A spine’s chill. Everything’s a tangled fear, despising

    That sickly thick scent, and we trundle into Kings
    Cross station. Police block the way but long cries
    Flood the tunnels. Sirens twisting at my sleep. Fate
    Is mine to be late. Missed the train. We blink our eyes,

    Run pale, pressing fear, we’re wrecks. Charred gates
    To the platform closed. Exit bodies, trailing hope
    On a bloodied path, and then more sirens. I’m in a state
    And my stomach swims a drama. What hope this scope

    Of recovery where legs and arms, lost and found, least
    Of all on this sunny day, 7 July, when beliefs possessed.

  32. Pingback: The London Bombings – 7 July | The Chalk Hills Journal

  33. Darlene Franklin on said:

    After I wrote yesterday, I knew that I must speak to THE defining date in my adult life. . .

    Jolene Elizabeth Franklin
    March 13, 2008

    By Darlene Franklin

    wait by
    the phone late
    into the night.
    Tick, tock, my heart grows
    colder with ev’ry beat.
    Will the police never call?
    Mother retreats, perchance to dream.
    Facebook friends join my pain-filled vigil.
    Coroner’s office on caller I.D.
    Time freezes, my heart stops. I demand
    answers–How? When? Not asking the
    most important question: Why?
    It cannot be answered.
    Dead. Three Days. Hanging.
    I disconnect.
    “She’s dead, Mom!”

    • WmPreston on said:

      This almost literally drips with pain. Most effective and saddening writing. The form fits the emotions precisely.

      • Darlene Franklin on said:

        Thank you for hearing the pain. Six years ago now, Jolene’s death no longer consumes me, but I brought up the feelings with batting an eyelash. At the center of who I am today.

  34. Pingback: Inconceivable | echoes from the silence


    Don’t do it.
    The life you’ll create
    will endure
    more pain than you want to know.
    So please—don’t do it.

    P. Wanken

    • WmPreston on said:

      There’s a LOT more to this one than meets the eye, methinks. This poem feels a bit like a powder keg. The title conjures up all kinds of possibilities.

      • I took some liberties with the prompt and tried writing something vague enough that would let the reader go in whatever direction hit ’em. Thanks for the feedback, William.

  36. Saint Nicholas of Myra – 4th Century

    Steeped in truth
    and lined with legends,
    his story begins long ago
    as a Greek Christian Bishop,
    Saint Nicholas of Myra.

    He gave generously to the poor
    and once dowered three sisters
    to keep them from the streets.
    He has a beard and wears red robes.
    They say his remains are buried in Italy
    but are they?

    Moving on we find Odin, dressed in blue
    with a long white beard flying through the sky
    on Sleipnir, his gray, eight-legged horse.
    Together they deliver gifts to his people.

    Through history and countries we can find
    him by other names –
    Sinterklaas, de Kerstman, Père Noël,
    Tomte, Father Christmas, Santa Claus
    and the list goes on
    but we know him as Walt,
    a man with a generous heart and a drive
    that keeps us going.

    (I was struggling to pick one thing in history/time. Well, be in a northern climate and it currently being extremely cold, my thoughts turned to one of my favorite people – Santa Claus! Knowing there is always some truth in myths and legends I did a little digging and came up with the above. So of course, how could I not tie that in to our own self-professed Santa – Walt! Thanks for all you do Walt! Although my voice is often quiet, I’m thankful for all you do to keep Poetic Bloomings ie Creative Bloomings running! Thank you.)

    • Wm Preston on said:

      I’ve read snatches of stories about most of these figures, but I like how you collected them to reveal their true, or current, identity. Seems to me that the generous heart is the sine qua non for all of them, Walt included.

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  38. I read this paragraph fully concerning the comparison of latest and earlier technologies,
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