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