FOUND poetry is all about taking words that were not meant to be a poem in their original form, and turning them in to a poem. These words/phrases/sentences   come from newspaper articles, snippets of overheard conversations, recipes, interactions, letters… basically any written materials can offer “inspiration”.

The wording is not changed but your use of line breaks and cuts or by adding or deleting text, thus imparting new meaning. The resulting poem can be defined as either treated: changed in a profound and systematic manner; or untreated: virtually unchanged from the order, syntax and meaning of the original.

Pay attention to the world around you. Inspiration can be found wherever you look for it.



Read all about it.
The sweetest memories,
mystic & marvelous surprises
beyond measure
feed your imagination.
Dextrose; maltedextrin
treats await you inside.
Part of a healthy diet,
celebrate, discover; delight.
Entrance, intrigue and delight,
balance is key (Good to know!)
Just stand there
with your mouth open,
tremendous things are in store.
Greetings to you! Visit us anytime!

(Also processing egg and wheat that are shared!)

(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014

***Poetry found on a SweeTTarts Hearts bag!


Sara has shared two examples of Found poems:

Found Poetry 1 – InForm


that on any given day
you may be rattled.
Allow fudge served
with marshmallow fluff
to calm you.

from flowing clouds
hiding loud fire alarms
that you think are chasing
you. Take a deep breath
from an open window.

that you are hurt,
disturbed, and overcome
with grumpiness. Erase
emotions that nag at you;
talk to a friend.

your unfortunate lack
of tact and resiliency.
Stop shouting obscenities
at every opportunity.
Turn on soothing music.

a happy mood instead
of brooding over boredom.
Walk like a child, and people
will perceive you as a wrapped-
in-happiness person.

(C) Copyright Sara McNulty -2014

***Taken from Real Simple
(from a monthly column)


Found Poetry 2 – InForm


He takes pride
in his aptitude
with a firearm,
giving a thug 24 hours
to leave town.
Thug refuses to oblige,
draws his gun, but is fearful,
frazzled underneath false
bravado. He ends up dead,
par for the course.
Marshall is the consummate
cool hero, cowboy hat dipped
low on forehead, a personal
sense of justice.

(C) Copyright Sara McNulty – 2014

***Taken from, The Atlantic
Article on Elmore Leonard


On my tour of places where wonderful poetry is proffered by extremely talented poets, I find myself in the Northwest United States where this incredible transplanted New York poet prefers to pose her purple penned poetry in Portland, Oregon. Her screen name (if you haven’t guessed) is “purplepeninportland”, but we know her as the incredibly gifted and prolific poet, Sara McNulty.





After taking two short story writing classes at NYU, I concentrated on that genre of writing for several years. One day, in 2009, I came across Robert Brewer’s, Poetic Asides in Writer’s Digest. A purple pen ignited in my head, and I knew all I wanted to write was poetry. Five years later, I still love reading and writingpoetry. When Creative (Poetic) Bloomings came along, started by two poets I greatly admired, Walter Wojtanik and Marie Elena Good, I found a new garden in which to grow. I am a Poetic Sites Addict, but am trying to cut down. I have gained confidence, support, and great virtual friends.

Voices in Verse is a poetry group that meets at a local library once a month. Memberships is growing, and we all take turns reading. They are a diverse, wonderful group of people.

My work has been published in: The Avocet; Poetic Bloomings; Brevitypoetry; Underground Voices; Flashquake; Still Crazy; Writers Digest 79th Annual Poetry Competition; Fifth Annual Writer’s Digest Poetry Awards; Poetsespresso; Melisma; and The Oregonian.

On a personal note, My husband and I, both born and bred in Brooklyn, New York, have now been living in the Pacific Northwest for five years. We love the life here, and wish all our east coast friends would join us. We share our home with two rescue dogs, one from New York of unknown breed, and one from
Portland, a dachshund with issues. In June, my husband and I will be married for 35 years, after knowing each other two months. You never know!



The color and timber of our expressions are what makes our poetry sing. We give life to our words, sometimes in a very human way. We give feelings and emotions to inanimate objects, painting wonderful new portraits, the vignettes of our muse.

Use the device of Personification (examples: Love Waits or Time Flies…) Make this the title of your poem and write what it means to you.




A sad lament sent forth
from deep in the bowels,
are the shrieky howls of my heart.
It started when the recently departed
moon crept between the reaching branches;
twiggy fingers pointed skyward and the melody
heard in whispers and whistles betwixt the thistles.
Love decided to hide inside the boisterous beating ballad
of that cardiac crooner and the sooner it was through
it would have a clue; my heart can’t carry a tune.

(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014




Peonies puffed out their chests,
roses nodded royal heads,
and pansies pranced,
smiling at attendees
as the dance began.
Violets in their velvet coats
remained bunched together,
too shy to glide
onto the dance floor.
When bluebells
rang in a waltz, three kind
camellias came to the rescue,
slowly fanning out around
the stiff violets, coaxing them
onto the floor. Sunflowers
scattered seeds of confetti.
The dance was a success.
Violets now eagerly await
the next Flower Ball.

(C) Copyright Sara McNulty – 2014

We welcome Sara McNulty as our co-host this week and invite you all to plant your poems here!


In the course of the revamping of the CREATIVE BLOOMINGS site,the most incredible (but not surprising) addition has been the selection of a weekly co-host to help lighten the load. In its third week, and it has been an exponential success. Sharon Ingraham has been more than accommodating with her poetry and supportive commentary. As Paula and Debi had begun the process, Sharon has taken up the torch and continued to shine its light on our poets, being a brilliant beacon in all facets for our site. I thank Sharon for the privilege of hosting this week with her. She surely made this week her own! And we’re all better for it! OH, BTW, WISH SHARON A HAPPY BIRTHDAY TODAY! WHAT A GLORIOUS WAY TO CELEBRATE… FRIENDS AND POETRY!


Speaking of brilliant, we offer the designations of our BRILLIANT BLOOM “award”. For the prompt, we presented you with a choice of titles to inspire your muse and you had all risen to the occasion (as per usual!). The choices were (as our hosts have come to learn) not as easy as it may seem. But here’s what has been selected:


To highlight the initiative she has shown, I relegate the top spot to Sharon’s choice.

SHARON: I must say, I don’t envy you this task…there were so many worthy poems this week (as I suspect there are most weeks) – I selected David de Jong’s “True Blue” to receive a brilliant bloom. His piece about the chief’s appaloosa spoke to me in every line and I found myself returning to read it again and again. And I love what he had to say in response to a comment about his work, “If only one person relates, understands, or is moved by something I have written – I feel blessed.” His poem certainly did that and more for me.

TRUE BLUE by David De Jong

Long before the rail and the smoke of trains,
Gained in trade from his brother on the plains.
The chief’s appaloosa, his prized, True Blue,
Quiet afoot with speed to follow through.
They chased the buffalo, white tail, and griz,
Fished the creeks and rivers and called them his.
True Blue was faster than any he knew,
His striped feet glancing the earth, as they flew.
His mane was braided, with shells and feathers,
From eagle’s wings and albino tethers.
The sky shimmered off his coat, aqua blue,
With shadows and spots in magical hue.
When the chief called his name he’d run beside,
And nuzzle his shoulder begging to ride.
They road the ridges the crests and canyons,
Danced on the beaches, of seas and oceans.
They hunted; winter, spring, summer, and fall,
Found the start and the ending to them all.
Fastened each color to arrow by hue,
Placed them in a quiver to keep them true.
Each day the sun rises and comes to view,
He pulls back the bow and releases blue.

(C) Copyright David De Jong – 2014



The poem I have selected is by a poet who has been noticeably absent from most poetic sites he has frequented. But, he has come back with a vengeance. If this is what he considers “easing back” into his poetic endeavors, we will be fortunate to read some great work. As I had mentioned, Sharon has been very active in her host duties, and this piece was also singled out by her for an “honourable mention” so we were certainly on the same track with this selection. My choice for this BLOOM is Iain Douglas Kemp’s “Culture Shock (On the transportation of Phil Ochs to the modern world).


or “On the transportation of Phil Ochs to the modern world” by Iain Douglas Kemp

Call it “Peace” or call it “Treason,”
Call it “Love” or call it “Reason,”
But I ain’t marchin’ any more, – Phil Ochs

The Man, the hero, (well my hero anyway)
Stepped out of the time machine
He looked around
He looked up and down
He marvelled at the new
He harked back to the old
He whispered, he screamed, he cried:
But what about the songs we sang?
What about the marches we marched?
Where did it all go wrong?
Why have so many innocents died?

He wondered at technology,
He longed for simpler times
He was undone by the misery
And all the endless crimes
But he stood tall and sure and stated once again
We are only as strong as the weakest of men
We are only as free as a padlocked prison door
But why oh why did they not listen?
Why did they not learn?
Why does brother still kill brother?
Why are the poor still trodden down?

And I looked the great man, the voice of reason, in his eye
And I told him I didn’t know
I told him I was ashamed that I hadn’t done more
I said that in the end I had given up
I ain’t marching anymore
And he laid his hand upon me
And he spoke so soft and sweet and raised me from my knees
To stand upon my feet
He said I too, I think would have given up
No more to fight the good fight, I fear
Please, won’t you take me home now?
He whispered through his tears.

And in the darkness, in the long cold night
I hope, I dream, I cry for wisdom and fortitude
For courage and great strength
But when history is my witness
And I see that all I did was ‘ere in vain
Then I too will leave here to be free of the sting,
The agony, the shame.

We did not listen to our poets nor hark our minstrels words
And on and on we spiral down
With each advance
With each new toy
We make out world a little worse
But much worse by far is the truth
For we do not listen still.

(C) Copyright Iain Douglas Kemp – 2014



To complete her trifecta, Sharon has offered a poem for consideration for the form BLOOM. I defer to her wisdom and initiative.

SHARON: I’m not sure if I’m to pick a bloom for the Luc Bat (from) or not but in case I am, my choice would be Susan Schoeffield’s lovely “Rough Waters”. Such skillfully woven wordplay blended so seamlessly in this challenging form, the form practically disappears. Knowing how difficult I found the form and how hard some of the other poets were finding it, I’ve determined that this was not only a wonderful read, but an impressive feat.

I concur with Sharon again, and thus Susan’s BLOOM.

ROUGH WATERS by Susan Schoeffield

Waves pound against his boat.
The need to stay afloat is strong,
well aware his swan song
could be sung before long and be
shared with a callous sea.
He knows he cannot flee or save
this seafarer so brave
from the watery grave that waits.
Yet, still he contemplates
how to deny the fates that clutch
his soul. With Neptune’s touch,
the spirit loses much, and breath
succumbs to looming death.

© Copyright Susan Schoeffield – 2014



Before we delve into our weekly foray into FLASHY FICTION, be sure to read Marie Elena Good’s (yes, she’s back for a visit) interview with the multi-faceted poet / artist Marjory M Thompson. In her inimitable style, Marie brings Marjory to light in this delightful conversation!

Image 2-20-14 at 5.52 PM


This week, we are doing a bit of self-discovery. Hone in on three of your personality traits. Create three characters out of them, naming and describing them. The three are in a doctor’s waiting room; one of the three is terminal. Write this scene. For the full prompt and posting, CLICK HERE.


UPDATE:      New photos have been posted to William Preston’s collection

in the PHOTO PHOCUS page.


The luc bat is a poetry form of Vietnamese origin. Luc-bat means “six-eight”, in that the poem consists of alternating lines of six and eight syllables. In this poem the rhyme scheme presents itself at the end of every eight-syllable line and rhymes on the sixth syllable of both of the next two lines.

Here’s how the first few lines of luc-bat poems appear in rhyme:


In an example from 2010:


Against the muted sky
shades of gray fill my eye and show
all that I need to know.
The lesson makes me grow surer
that all I ask from her
are thoughts that are as pure as she,
and all she asks from me
is the wisdom to see her soul.
Oh, learned one, control
every step towards the goal I seek,
for I am truly meek,
and I pray for this weak moment
to show me I am bent
on becoming the gent whose heart,
although miles apart,
can offer just the start it needs.
It has planted the seeds
that will grow past the weeds and fly
against the muted sky.

© Walt Wojtanik 2010




6/8 BEAT

It started with a beat.
The rhythm moved your feet and you
found yourself lost. It’s true,
with the first “Love Me Do” it seemed
that no one could have dreamed
of four who would have teamed on stage
to perpetrate this rage,
turn a historic page; music,
melodies and lyrics to give
words by which we could live above
all else, words laced with love
and all we need is love, for sure.

(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014


I was so taken by this poem by Sharon, that I rushed to include it for the Sunday prompt. Upon re-reading it, I realized it was Sharon’s example for the Luc-Bat form. Sharon, I apologize for my error. I will include the poem here as it should have been.

(for Farley, my wolf)

You amble now so slow
and I can see you grow old ‘fore
my eyes, wolf I adore
Moving carefully, you’re on ice
snow’s bad but still quite nice,
soft should a sacrifice be that
last step which lays you flat
Frail, a misstep, a fall splat down
break a bone, oh dear hound
I fear to see your mound, your grave

I fear I know I won’t be brave…

(C) Copyright Sharon Ingraham – 2014


This week, I have the honor of presenting one of the more truly gifted poets around. Her work has been an inspiration to me since 2009, so that says something. And I find it fitting that in my “tribute” to Gordon Lightfoot last week, I wrote “If I could, I would have been Alberta Bound”. In a way, I have done just that, tapping Edmonton, Alberta for the work of one of the Great White North’s wonderful wordsmiths. I give you Sharon (S.E.) Ingraham.




S.E.Ingraham, a long-time frequenter of many of the web’s poetic watering holes – Poetic Asides, the Sunday Whirl, dVerse Bar, Poets United, and of course Creative Bloomings (formerly Poetic Bloomings) to name a few…She admits to being a less faithful member of each than she would like, but comes as often as time and health permits. Even being a retired mental health consumer doesn’t mean she’s entirely out of the woods when it comes to either depression or, in the odd instance, mania, and she’s aware of this, and tries to be careful when it comes to getting enough sleep or down time (emphasis on the “tries to be”).

Since Ingraham began taking her writing seriously in 2008, all she’s really wanted is to have her work read and heard. Due to the encouragement of places like Poetic Bloomings where Walt and Marie Elena have been tireless cheerleaders, plus a generous dollop or two of luck, she now has poems in a number of publications, both print and on-line, amongst them: Pyrokinection, Red Fez, Shot Glass, Otis Nebula, Poised in Flight, Of Sun and Sand, In Gilded Frame…She also just learned that her work has been selected by (another very supportive venue incidentally) for the second year in a row to be in their “best of the year anthology” Storm Cycle…

Of other poetry related things over the past year, Ingraham had the privilege of taking part in the Pulitzer Remix Project, writing a poem a day based on “Arrowsmith”, Sinclair Lewis’s award winning novel from 1929. This led to a semi-regular gig reading for the Found Poetry Review, plus ongoing relationships with many of the 80+ international poets involved in the project and its conceptualizer, Jenni B Baker. In additional, a fall online course on Modern and Post-Modern American Poetry taken through Coursera (one of the up and coming MOOC’s) was so good (and gratis) she’s already signed on for next year.

In her life outside of poetry, S.E. (Sharon) is married to the love of her life, Terry – 44 years this month – and they have two grown daughters, Julie and Katy. All of them live on the 53rd parallel in Edmonton, Alberta where it’s, as you might well guess, extremely cold! As of March 4th, there will also be three grandsons in the family as the third is scheduled to be born that day…As well as an extremely loyal but too-quickly-aging border-collie/wolf cross, family mean everything to her.

Ingraham’s work may be found on any one of her blogs:

The Poet Tree House        –         S.E. Ingraham Says        –         The Way Eye See It        –         In My Next Life


PROMPT #142 – “TAKE ONE PLEASE” – Choose from one of the titles below and write your poem based on that thought. Your title must come from this list. It will be interesting to compare your thoughts on the exact same themes.


Culture Shock
True Blue
Where Hope Finds Me
A Waltz of Words
Love Never Ceases



Lost boys never quit dreaming,
scheming of ways to stand their ground
with a new found respect for their abilities.
the agility of a Pan, and the nervous sense
of self not withstanding. Demanding much
from what hope they can muster, they may
get flustered from time to time, but are never
out of the game; never the same, they become
stronger the longer in the tooth they find themselves.
Old gents hold those glowing embers well into their
Decembers. They remain members of life’s fraternity.
Battles waged and lost, and hard-fought victories
over hook handed bandits lands us firmly on our feet,
ready if we chose to roam. But the hope of lost boys will
eventually bring them home when villains are vanquished.

(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014




I knew him and he goes on haunting me.
                                                                     ~Pablo Neruda

In war, odd alliances are forged
We fell together with a common need
trying to hide from death,
from those who would take us both

Language was a barrier yes, but eyes,
eyes speak many translations and together
we formed a bond and trust without
ever exchanging a word…

The morning I awoke and he was gone,
did it seem extra-quiet?…Did I suspect
at once what he had done for me…
I can’t think I did…

The day seemed like any other in our
situation, that is…difficult to explain
or describe
The days were unlike anything we
might have imagined before the tanks
lumbered up our streets
And friends stopped speaking to friends

Hours, or maybe as long as a day later
when I knew he was not returning
I ran through the woods during
the day…I couldn’t think what else to do
Finally I emerged in the dark to find
him hung in the square

I knew then.

(c) Copyright S. E. Ingraham – 2014

I couldn’t resist posting this second wonderful poem of Sharon’s that has touched me dearly with its tenderness and loyalty.
Consider it a Bonus. I love this piece! Walt. 

for Farley, my wolf

You amble now so slow
and I can see you grow old ‘fore
my eyes, wolf I adore
Moving carefully, you’re on ice
snow’s bad but still quite nice,
soft should a sacrifice be that
last step which lays you flat
Frail, a misstep, a fall splat down
break a bone, oh dear hound
I fear to see your mound, your grave
I fear I know I won’t be brave…

(C) Copyright S. E. Ingraham – 2014


Another outstanding bit of work by our Co-Host here at CREATIVE BLOOMINGS. Debi Swim continued to hold the bar set by Paula Wanken last week, with her poetic prowess and encouraging nature. Thank you Debi for a job well done!

We honor the people who have given us worded wisdom in the form of poems, books and music. Through them, we are inspired and motivated to recreate is some small way their efforts. The choices of writing heroes was as varied as the talented poets we have in our garden. Now today we honor some of them with our selections of our BRILLIANT BLOOMS!


One purpose of this exercise was to allow you to shine the light on someone who inspires you. An off shoot of that, is to introduce us all to that new source of enlightenment and inspiration as well as new expressions. In this case the language and word combinations do indeed sing as Claudette Young had stated in the comment on this poem. And this poet is also new to us and her initial offering has made an impression. Hopefully, she will continue to grow in our garden with her contributions of poetry. Cara Lopez Lee, we welcome  you and honor you with a BRILLIANT BLOOM.


He spent 20 years unearthing her past,
A true family myth whom he had not met.
A wellspring of faith, of magic, of war.
A column of fire before Mexico’s poor.
The saint girl healed with curandera secrets.
History revived and laughing with life.
Tortillas and desert, coffee and cactus.
Thick salty pages where heroes still live.
Imagined rancheros and memories of mountains.
The author spreads his feast for the dead.
Not for fame or glory or name softly spoken.
Words of Mexican, Woman, and reason for pride,
In tales that light sparks once quiescent within.

(C) Copyright Cara Lopez Lee – 2014



The tributes were wonderful and it was difficult to pick just one, but Ellen Evan’s jumped out at me from the first. I think what she said about Mary Oliver in particular can be said in general for each of our own personal favorite writer/s – The feeling of awe at a phrase, the way another sees the same world we do, the nudge they give us to write and be better… Ellen my thanks to you for your tribute.


We live in the same world,
you and I.
Not the same universe
but the same world.

For even if I walked by
your side on
your morning
rounds to greet
the waking world,

the eyes through which
you see the wonders
that are there,
and the skills
by which you share them,

are talents I do not possess.
Such gifts exist
in this world
to each of us our own.

But when I stretch
my creative self,
your path is there
to beckon me in its
quiet certainty.

(c) Copyright 2014 – Ellen Evans



In our description of the RISPETTO form, we point out the “respect” aspect of such a verse. The respect many sources say, is usually directed toward a woman. But the “respect” in this poem is very powerful and pays homage to the enduring nature of love. There is beauty in the heart-pain that ripples throughout this piece. This BLOOM is presented to Marjory M Thompson for her untitled poem:

The light still shines within your eyes
reflecting what is in your heart
restating love of days gone by,
a time I thought we could not part.

We danced and sang with friends we shared.
On moon-lite nights we loved and cared.
Eternal troth we thought was ours,
but it was not set in the stars.

(C) Copyright Marjory M. Thompson – 2014





The symbol is universal. Five interwoven colored rings and a gathering of nations signifies one thing. We are well into the XXII Winter Olympics. The thrill of the athletes and the disappointments that are inherent for some do invoke images that inspire. So this is your quest for today. Use the Olympics as a backdrop or basis for a bit of FLASHY FICTION, Give your words a gold medal effort and tell your story. Every one has a little story to tell.

For the whole prompt and to post your FLASHY FICTION,


The featured form today is the RISPETTO.

A Rispetto, an Italian form of poetry, (Italian:: “respect,” – plural rispetti, a Tuscan folk verse form) is a complete poem of two rhyme quatrains. The meter is usually iambic tetrameter with a rhyme scheme of abab ccdd. A Heroic Rispetto is written in Iambic pentameter, usually featuring the same rhyme scheme.

A variation of the RISPETTO is a poem (or song) comprised of 8 hendecasyllabic (11-syllable) lines–usually one stanza.



The love in his heart was a treasure most sought,
and he thought that maybe he could store it up
and save it for a rainy day. There’s no way
he would give away the “wealth” he had amassed.
But alas, love hidden away would decay.
And to this day he pays for not sharing it.
He will die a lonely man, his love will fade,
there in his lifeless “grave” where his heart once lived.

© Copyright 2014 – Walter J Wojtanik



I listen to the night’s sweet sounds
and feel the silky breath of spring
my heart beats in leaps and bounds
like a frightened bird taking wing.

Can it be true that you are gone
and I am left to pine and long
for yesterday, a pale retreat,
before I’d learned of your deceit.

© Copyright 2014 – Debi Swim