I would like you to welcome our co-host who has risen to the top of our craft. She is a very talented and highly prolific poet. Her work is always exceptional and her accomplishments in poetics are very telling. She is very good.




It has always interested me that some of the most difficult circumstances of my life have ultimately fed my loves and my work in the world. I guess that’s grace. Edgewood Farm in rural North Carolina taught great work ethics, our days spent in tobacco fields, milking cows, growing food and learning to entertain ourselves productively. Naturally, music provided a rhythm for our labors, harmony kept us friendly to one another, and lyrics introduced rhyme, the basics of many formed poems. Some songs fed desires in us, like “Faraway Places” recorded by Bing Crosby, Perry Como, Willie Nelson—everyone had a go with it. That song fed wanderlust in me, but I never dreamed I would travel to those places other than in imagination or in books. Music and reading kept me engaged, nurtured by a mother who looked on poetry as a way of seeing clearly and a musician father who dreamed bluegrass dreams. I loved that farm but couldn’t wait to get away from it, ironic in that my poetry goes back to it so often now. In hindsight, each life challenge has prepared me for the next challenge or opportunity.

I began writing stories and poems in elementary school and won National Student Press awards in high school, was editor of both yearbook and newspaper, learning to compose with a camera, all of which was handy as a teacher sponsoring those activities. My English BA is my “reading degree,” while the MFA in creative writing years later is my “fun degree” and an ‘attagirl’ to myself for enduring the marking of literally thousands of student papers while teaching in high schools, community colleges, and universities. But slowly, I began to travel to faraway places, usually as a student or a teacher with students. It was good for my soul and my words. I matched places to go with what I taught: Shakespeare= England; Mahfouz=Egypt—like that. As a theater director and teacher, I had to act in community theater and write plays; if they were musicals, I had to write music and compose lyrics. How else is a teacher to retain joy and the life of the mind?

Just when the heart was going out of teaching for me, I was invited to China to teach English writing at Shandong Teachers University, where I stayed for two years, traveled a great deal in Asia, and met and subsequently married a colleague from the USSR. Those travels in Asia led to teaching Asian Studies and American literature at the NC School of Science and Mathematics in Durham, which naturally led to more travel on scholarship in Japan, Malaysia, Singapore, India, Korea and Thailand, later becoming academic director for teachers’ programs to China, Vietnam, and Cambodia. That girl in tobacco fields wouldn’t have imagined this life. I guess I needed to travel far away in order to come back home purposefully.

I wrote a few teachers’ guides to literature for Penguin and published poems and articles in professional journals during my 40 years being super-teacher, but my creative work was largely on hold until 2011 when Nancy Posey, my conference buddy and fellow writer, directed me to the April PAD at Poetic Asides. There I “met” such generous and skilled writers—Walt and Marie and Iain and De, and, well, most of you. And see, here you all are, my “faraway places” mapping words each week to keep me traveling. These days, I work as a church musician. I play organ, piano, and tinker with autoharp, dulcimer, and psaltery. I sing with a group called Stringfellows and send poetry or fiction out every now and then so I don’t forget resiliency through rejection. My recent poetry has been published by The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Bay Leaves, Emerge Literary Magazine, Prompted and Beyond the Dark Room, Poetic Bloomings: the first year, Final Draft, Pinesong, KAKALAK, and Writer’s Digest. I’m at home in Bahama, North Carolina with my husband Vladimir and two pushy cats, Warren and Flora. I welcome you travelers to visit me. Bring a song.



Prompt #148 – “BACK TO SQUARE ONE” – Find a poem you have written early in your writing adventures (or one with which you’re unhappy). Take the three best lines from that poem and use them in a new poem. Please include a link to the original poem if it is available.



Songs start in his heart,
gentle melodies that trip
from his fingertips, composed
with every emotion and notion
that says what flows as sound
goes around. In his head it plays,
it says love will linger; find a way
to keep the music alive. He strives
to express in a tender ballad
what his heart needs to sing,
for in his song are words
and once heard the lyrics stay.
It plays in ways only love knows.
And so it goes. And so it goes.

© Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014

Lines from my poem, “Composer’s Tableau”



From “Defying Gravity”

My thoughts about gravity have shifted
over the years, my stars shining
a little closer to home…

The whole poem is available at The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature


Time has a way of easing bulk
into new formations,
massive peaks sloughed
to mumbling mountains
sanded to slope-shouldered
mounds, surrounding valleys
round as matrons’ hips,
meadows finely furnished
by eroded topsoil
headed downhill.

Some blame winds,
ice and rain, terrain,
weather engineering change,
lake-to-desert development,
forest-to-plain reconstruction;
mud and snow
avalanching downward,
taking trees along, create
a balding pate of earth
soon to be redecorated
with wild flowers.
Some call it fate.

We carry time’s pull on us,
the weight of years hanging
limp as saddlebags.
We think to thwart this fate
with diet, exercise,
with maintenance,
with cosmetics, surgical
lifts and temporary tucks,
gravity grinning
at our attempts to
manage re-landscaping,
our foiled imaginations
stuffed into life’s sheath.

We reassess our shifting
acreage as if we watch
a beloved pet grow old,
a beloved star grow cold—
with a heart and eye
for bovine usefulness,
feline resourcefulness,
songbird trust and praise.
We exercise forgiveness
and radical acceptance,
a different kind
of beauty.

© Copyright Jane Shlensky – 2014


In two days, we will embark on Poetry Month. Many site will be doing special prompts or challenges to occupy our collective muses in April. We will continue to run our normal schedule.

The Sunday Seed Prompt and the Wednesday INFORM POETS will follow their pre-arranged routine. A special page will be posted in the menu tabs where you can post poems written for other sites, but you may wish to share with a larger audience here. We welcome your work and will help promote it. Please include the site for which it was written and an idea of what the prompt was.


The pleasure of working with such a varied group of talented individuals gets better by the week, with the current co-host being Iain Douglas Kemp. Your poetry and view on the world are in a class few attain and I thank you Iain for your contributions and support of poets and poetry. I look forward to future works and the continuance of your podcasts, a pure treat!


The Sunday Seed had us looking at emotions in the colors of the spectrum. Some interesting color coding took place here and it is a joy to read and reflect such a wonderful array of poems. The task, as our co-hosts are finding, is indeed difficult to decide on only one poem.


This poem is a playful and colorful piece of wonder. The artistry in this conveys a bit of mystery and offers a glimpse at pure whimsy. The story has potential to be a terrific children’s story. Marilyn Braendeholm’s “The Man in the Mummy-Colored Coat” earns my BRILLIANT BLOOM.


It’s that raincoat.
Spies wear coats like that.
Must be undercover, I think.

Hovering about
Muddy trenches.
Pigeon stained.
Slightly crusted
Stiff to the wind.

“Are you okay, Mister?” I want to ask.
His skin is petrified dark.
There’s an Egyptian mummy
in the Louvre that same colour,
sort of like burnt oak bark.

Mummies’ve their plumbing drained,
my plumber explained to me last year.

He told me, put soda down the drains.
Do it once a week, he said, “but it’ll kill
your son’s pet snake.” Pete’s sake, said I.

That stupid stripy snake
slipped straight down
the bathroom sink hole.
Little stinker stuck himself fast.

Had to ring up a plumber.
One who loves snakes.

Pop my clogs and bless my socks, I thought.
I approached the man
in the mummy-colour raincoat.
He’s a statue.

I blame it on the alchemy
of winter’s waning light,
but I swear he’s eyeing me

with a questioning expression,
as if to ask, “Are you okay, Lady?”

Note: Purely fiction, although this poem is inspired by a statue near Town Hall. (c) Misky 2014



I don’t think I have ever had such a difficult job as this. Choosing one poem from so many wonderful poems and by so many fabulously talented poets is a mammoth task that I did not undertake lightly. If I had realized how hard this would be I might have declined the invitation to co-host! I certainly do not feel worthy to sit in judgment of writers who I admire and respect, so this made reaching a decision all the more difficult. As the week progressed I made notes of the poems that really stood out to me, that truly spoke to me. After all this is a very subjective judgment and beauty is in the eye of the beholder. There were several front runners, some late comers threatening the peloton and others that just kept calling me back, but as in many endeavours in the end there could be only one. I steeled myself for the agony of choosing just one poem to rate as, at least in my view and on this occasion, “better” or as I finally thought it should be termed, my favourite. This done I am delighted to announce Jerry Walraven’s “Periwinkle in our shoes” as my Bloom for the week.


We mistake this beauty
as a backdrop,
a static scene
against which we play
out our small tales,
believing our foibles
are somehow grander
than grandeur
until some place
shocks the system,
forcing the eyes to open
themselves to the majesty
of an oak
twice our wingspan
which captures our life
in one of its branches.
So we stand,
oak bark against our cheek
and periwinkle in our shoes.

© Copyright Jerry Walraven – 2014




A Burmese form of poetry, Than-Bauk compresses rhyme, and syllable count into a short three line statement to express a thought. The “step rhyme” posed a challenge in a four syllable span. But as always, you have risen to the occasion with exceptional work, poets. With the tease of Spring in the air, Claudette Young’s Than Bauk introduces an early look at the season.

Yellow daffies;
Bright daisies sway;
Bee sees targets.

© Copyright Claudette Young – 2014



As I said before, being in a position where one is asked to judge one’s peers and in many cases I feel, my superiors is far harder than writing poetry. I am no expert on form – I usually shy away from writing it, but I know a good poem when I see one. I saw many, so many that it made judging them seem an impossible task. In the end I decided to make my mind up based on how much I felt the rhyme was well made, combined with the sentiment speaking to me beyond the mere words on the page. There were several candidates in my short list but in the end a choice had to be made and that choice is “Praying on Superiority” by Michelle Hed.


Every and each
lording speech shows
the leach in wait.



In view of the Haiku’s popularity in the West, and the rising interest in Asian poetry, it’s surprising that the Than Bauk is not more popular. Than-Bauk, conventionally a witty saying or epigram, is a three line “climbing rhyme” poem of Burmese origin. Each line has four syllables. The rhyme is on the fourth syllable of the first line, the third syllable of the second line, and the second syllable of the third line.



Wait for hours;
these showers pour,
flowers will grow.

© Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014




Beware the sword
of the lord who’s
grown bored with you

© Iain Douglas Kemp 3/14


The tour of co-hosting poets reaches across the pond to Almeria, Spain by way of Scotland. This multifaceted individual is as well verse in whatever undertaking he attempts. A poet, photographer, musician, cook, adventurer, ailurophile (cat lover) and on and on… This is a man I consider the “brother I’ve never met” in that I live vicariously through his exploits. Of course our co-host this week is Iain Douglas Kemp.


Poet, Drummer, Photographer, Musician, Cook, Educator -  Iain Douglas Kemp

Poet, Drummer, Photographer, Musician, Cook, Educator –
Iain Douglas Kemp

Iain Douglas Kemp lives and works in Almería, Andalucía, Southern Spain. He has been writing (on and off) for over 30 years. He considers himself a Writer first and a teacher second. He teaches English as a Foreign Language at a small private language school near in Almería from October to June and at St. Hugh’s College, Oxford in the summer months. He is currently studying for an MA in Applied Linguistics and TESOL. His influences include Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, Wes Magee and Stevie Smith and twenty thousand song titles.

Publishing credits include the short poem “visual echoes”, published by Barbara Subraman/Gypsy Art Show in the visual poetry/music collaborative work “GAZE” in January 2010. In May 2010 the poem “Peregrine” was recorded for podcast on the ‘Born Free Foundation’ Web site by Virginia McKenna, the first time this has been done other than for the poet in residence!

His work was included in the anthology “Prompted” and “Poetic Bloomings – The First Year”. In 2013 Virginia McKenna recorded his poem Thunder Birds which was first published on Poetic Bloomings. He is a member of the on-line poetry group “The Baker’s Dozen”.

He became known amongst on-line poets after contributing to the first Poetic Asides PAD challenge in 2008. He regularly records his poems for podcast and last year did a summer series of guest poet podcasts, recording poems from some of our favourite poets in the blogosphere; something he promises to do again this year. He is also a musician and singer/songwriter, playing drums, percussion and blues harp

His blog includes cookery, music and travel and of course his cats! It can be found at


PROMPT #147 – THE SPECTRUM OF EMOTIONS: We live in a colorful world. At times we are awed by the beauty resident around us as it is represented by the spectrum of light. Emotions are the same way. Think of the phrases “Green with envy” or “Red with embarrassment”, we often use color as a metaphor to describe our emotions. Find one, or better yet make up a color metaphor of your own and back it up with a poem.



You wait below the surface,
the gentle idle of a loving heart.
You keep me alive as I strive
to put words to your prowess.
I am powerless to stop
the unbridled flame once ignited.
You have lighted my soul
showing every corner in brilliance,
this dalliance of expression
shows itself in shades and tints:
lavenders, and lilacs, violets
and amethyst. This tryst is grape.
It is orchid. It is the magenta that flows
in the throes your insistence.
A longing dance waged closely;
the deepest hue is reserved for you.
My passions burn brightly; rightly
in the brushed velvet of night.
A purple mistress is my passion!

©Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014



Colour Me Happy

Like a kaleidoscope prism
refracting bending
and twisting the light of truth
the light of reality
emotions have coursed like rainbow hued blood
through the body
through the mind
through the soul
into and out of depression
up to and down from soaring giddy heights
but the blues reached out to get me again and again
the red rage of anger flared though my red hair
and spat the vicious venom of the green eyed monster
at all that I envied
those that I aspired to be
those that seemed immune to the ills and burdens of this world
the blackest moods would weigh me down
and then suddenly hitting a purple patch
I was inspired
on fire
only to fall
sinking like a stone
and cowering in the corner
the yellow bellied coward
who dare not
could not face the world
the truth
the self
hating with the blackest heart all those who inflicted pain
who trod me beneath their boots
and then suddenly
there was a flash
a crash
a lighting strike
out of the blue
a rainbow of dreams and schemes
came pouring forth – nothing there to hold them back
the dam had burst many years too late
but better late than never
the black dog was dead
the blues were washed away
and all that remained was a bright pure blinding
white light of joy
as finally, after so very long in the dark
I was not a shadow seeking shy violet
but full of life
full of energy
full of confidence
colours flowed from my mind
from my fingers
magical swirling technicolor pictures
were drawn by the words from my lips
and I stood proud and declared:
if colour me you will then
for my spectrum knows no bounds

©Iain Douglas Kemp 3/14


Salvatore Buttaci has continued the excellence that has been the foot print of every co-host before him. Putting his own stamp on the position, Sal has been both friend and mentor to our poets. It has been a pleasure to share the stage with him. Thank you Salvatore and Salute!


Stage actors can kick start their performance by calling for a line. Sometimes we can kick start our muse with a nudge from a line or two. We had given you lines to use in your poems this past week, and you have risen to the bar and leapt beyond it. In our search for the BRILLIANT BLOOM recipients, Salvatore and I have come up with:


The economy of words, concise and direct, can often express better than a flourish. The way we trim out the superfluous to find the essence of what it is we want to say, can go a long way to achieving this end. This was done here beautifully in De Jackson’s poem “Drawing Shade”, my pick for the BRILLIANT BLOOM.


Evening is a shroud,
but not divided.

Silence gathers loud
over time,
as distance rhymes
its rhythm with

Love lies;
buried are the truths
we thought we knew
by night.

Morning is a cloud
rain spent, heart bent
to that
higher place
where we
always laugh and dream.

© Copyright 2014 – De Jackson



First of all, I truly enjoyed myself reading all the poems submitted in response to this week’s prompt. I have never been to a poetry site that could boast so many excellent poets as Creative Bloomings can. I must say I look forward to each Sunday’s prompt and Wednesday’s poetic form. It affords poets an opportunity to practice their craft. As for this week’s prompt, I have selected Hannah Gosselin’s poem “For You” because of its outstanding word choice and the unobtrusive rhythm that keeps the poem moving from start to finish.

–Salvatore Buttaci

FOR YOU by Hannah Gosselin

The sun’s gone once round
and I dream of your earthen chrysalis,
how spiraling roots embrace you
building a sanctuary of your bones,
now pearlescent
now egg shell white-
now an ivory cathedral flowers from the tangles
where you, in a preferred cover,
were once lovingly cocooned;
your heart’s rhythm released its drum
and given to Gaia
a new song has risen.
Fortune was mine
in having the privilege
of calling you friend.
The knowing rain fell hard
the day I prepared loam
making inky the soil
and nearly a year gone since,
the water, it visits me again.
I anticipate the coming of color,
there, where love lies buried
I look forward to the blue surge of blooms
like an angel visiting my soul-
forget you, I never will.
For now, I nurture this place of grief,
this tender place of truth within;
I honor it with light
a single flickering flame,
a lone votive burns for you.

Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014



Poets seem to have a preference of what they like and don’t like about the process of poetry. The loose expression of free verse can be liberating to some. Others need the discipline of form to achieve the poems that are in their heads and hearts. Some work well in rhyme; others despise it. Some are bothered by syllable counting; some embrace it. Some poets seem to be undeterred by any restriction. The poet I choose for this honor appears to fall into that category. I applaud his understanding of the Nonet form, but more importantly for the body of work he consistently provides here at CREATIVE BLOOMINGS. This BRILLIANT BLOOM goes to Benjamin Thomas for “Anchor of the Soul”

ANCHOR OF THE SOUL by Benjamin Thomas

Thankfully hope does not put to shame,
All those who trust it’s sweetest frame.
An anchor of shipwrecked soul;
When broken, battered, cold
Keeps you warm, consoled.
In times of need,
Fear or bold.
We need

© Copyright 2014 – Benjamin Thomas



My choice of nonet winner is “Painted Face” by Sara McNulty (purplepeninportland), especially because of its emotional impact. How difficult it is to find true love! The woman falling for the inanimate object of a handsome man in a painting poses the Big If: “if only he could step / through canvas / and touch / her.” Is the man with the “piercing green eyes” any less attainable than those she has loved who have not loved her in return?

–Salvatore Buttaci

PAINTED FACE by Sara McNulty

She stands transfixed by man in painting.
His piercing green eyes seem to see
all the secrets locked inside
her, and how he can help
melt all her troubles,
if he could step
through canvas
and touch

© 2014 Sara McNulty


We congratulate De, Hannah, Benjamin and Sara for your selection.

We applaud all our poets for your outstanding poetry!


MICHELLE HED (Photo Credit:  Keith Hammerbeck)

(Photo Credit: Keith Hammerbeck)

Today’s guest is Michelle Hed, a long-term friend from Robert Lee Brewer’s Poetic Asides.  I was drawn to her poetry there, but later discovered she is an artist of diverse means.   It was my good fortune to win her book, Natural Musings, in a Suess poetry contest held by Linda Hofke of Lind-guisticsNatural Musings pairs Michelle’s beautiful nature photography with her poetry.

This gorgeous photo and verse are taken from her book.  I offer them here as a tease. 😉  We’ll talk more about Natural Musings shortly.


confectionary dream –
Jack Frost blew his breath
across the land

Continue reading


A nonet has nine lines. The first line has nine syllables, the second line eight syllables, the third line seven syllables, etc… until line nine finishes with one syllable. It can be on any subject and rhyming is optional.

line 1 – 9 syllables
line 2 – 8 syllables
line 3 – 7 syllables
line 4 – 6 syllables
line 5 – 5 syllables
line 6 – 4 syllables
line 7 – 3 syllables
line 8 – 2 syllables
line 9 – 1 syllables



They say time and tide waits for no man,
and things happen in their own time.
But, we find this rule of life
follows the course we’ve set.
As we love and breathe
we will go on.
When we’re gone,
love lives

© Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014 



Unrequited love breeds loneliness
A stumbling through life’s darkened rooms
Ice shards through the wounded heart
A hollowness of bone
Glazing of the eye
Unending night
Stone-sharp tears
© 2014 Salvatore Buttaci


Poet and Flash Fiction Writer - Salvatore Buttaci

Poet and Flash Fiction Writer – Salvatore Buttaci

One of the first poets that I had come to rely upon to inspire my own muse, honors us with his presence this week as our co-host. A writer most of his life, you couldn’t go wrong learning a thing or two from this retired educator (I’ve taken much from his work – all lessons well learned!). Of course I write of Salvatore Buttaci.

In Sal’s words:

Salvatore Buttaci is a retired English teacher and professor who has been writing since childhood. His first published work, an essay entitled “Presidential Timber,” appeared in the Sunday New York News when he was sixteen. Since then his poems, letters, short stories, and articles have been widely published in The New York Times, Newsday, U.S.A. Today, The Writer, Cats Magazine, Creative Bloomings, A Word with You Press. and elsewhere in America and overseas. He was the 2007 recipient of the $500 Cyber-wit Poetry Award.  

 He is the author of two flash-fiction collections published by All Things That Matter Press:

Flashing My Shorts available at

200 Shorts available at

 His book, A Family of Sicilians … is available at .

 If Roosters Don’t Crow, It Is Still Morning: Haiku and Other Poems (Cyber-Wit Publications) is available at

 In 2001, Pudding House Publications included his work in the Greatest Hits Series with his chapbook, Greatest Hits: 1970-2000.

 His latest poetry chapbook, What I Learned from the Spaniard… is available at


Visit Sal’s blog site at

He lives with his wife Sharon in West Virginia.


PROMPT #146 – “LINE PLEASE!” – Use any or all of these lines in your poem. Or use one as your title.

“Evening is a shroud”
“Shared, but not divided”
“Over time and distance”
“Love lies buried”
“Where we always laugh and dream”



Darkness covers all,
cloaking everything enveloped in her sad embrace.
Her face is hidden, masked and concealed,
not to be revealed in the muted moonlight.
Even stars bright lose their luster, remaining
only a cluster of distant orbs. Evening absorbs
and devours, leaving a pall over the crowd.
Evening is a shroud.

(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014



Over time and distance
I contemplate the love we knew,
Replay those happy days
Now shadows in my memory.

It’s so hard believing
Love lies buried beneath the years
We walked the world as one,
Certain love would last forever.

You are somewhere out there.
I am adrift on lonely seas.
Evening is a shroud
Do you likewise mourn for our love?

The promises we made,
Meant to be shared, not divided,
Have all been tossed away,
Ashes in the barrel of time.

These nights I go to sleep
Where we always laugh and dream
And once more renew vows
We one day swore before God.

© 2014 Salvatore Buttaci


Another week of superb poetry and guided by the wonderful hand of my co-host Hannah Gosselin. “Sweet” always seems to be the adjective that is applied to the honored poet from Maine and it fits, but her demeanor is only part of who she is. An extraordinary poet and artist! Thank you Hannah, for another great week at my side.


Every little thing adds up to the people and poets we are. We are guided by that little spark that glows within each of us. And each breath we take and all that we do becomes a little thing (in the scope of the universe) to spark another person. Together, we make a mighty noise! So, now to BLOOM…


The simple things always seem to be most overlooked. We pay little heed, because we need to focus on a bigger prize. But, when we stop to “smell the roses” we find a pleasure that comes at little cost and has great value. Each blade of grass, and cloud in the sky all become a part of a grand plan. In simple rhyme, this poem by Majory T Thompson conveys this brilliantly.

TAKING FOR GRANTED (T-4-G) by Marjory T Thompson

how easily
it slips into
the things we do.

With only work
you are a jerk!
But, dull is dull,
and what we cull,
when nothing new
we choose to do.

Pick out a day…
we go our way
and seldom stop
to give bold thought –
or find some new
fun things to do.

Things to spark..
to give a lark.
A job begun.
A job well done.
To stand and fight
for what is right.
To give a smile,
to walk a mile,
Smell the flowers,
watch clouds for hours.

Before to late,
let’s celebrate!
Trace a sunbeam,
share pink ice-cream!
a life serene.
When wine and cheese
in moon-light please,
ending those days
in special ways.

We need to play
a bit each day!
A ball to fling,
a song to sing….
So let the child,
quick, bold or mild,
who freely gives,
who in you lives,
expand it’s wings
to do new things.

(C) Copyright Marjory T Thompson – 2014



This task of bloom picking is a joy and a task for sure!! As I commented earlier, “It’s such an honor to bee-keeper-of-the-blooms this week…buzzing from row to row it’s such sweet nectar for the taking.” Truly there’re so many pieces that I nodded, teared up, laughed and sighed to. What an amazing group of poets…I’m honored to have had this opportunity, (thank you, Walt), and I’m humbled to be in community with you all, thank you for sharing so richly.

I arrived, finally, with this decision…RJ Clarken’s “Unlost.”

UNLOST by RJ Clarken

found a
pebble with
a roadmap for
an ant: I traced a zigzag, random line
with my finger, one end to the other
and discovered
how to find
my way

(C) Copyright RJ Clarken – 2014

I really connect with this poem…gravitating toward nature and true-self to find oneself has been a lesson and a blessing and as I stated in the comments, “I just love the way this brings me back to little and close to the ground, well done RJ.!!”



The palindromes submitted were wonderful representations of this form. These poems read the same coming and going, showing the other side of the coin, and giving us slightly different expressions. The transition is the key in these pieces. Here, that pivot point  is used as the title, for my BLOOM selection, Denial by Chi Holder.

DENIAL by Chi Holder

force protective
binding memories covered lightly
sheets caressing her burning skin
guilt deified retribution
recurrent sagas in
in sagas recurrent
retribution deified guilt
skin burning her caressing sheets
lightly covered memories binding
protective force

(C) Copyright Chi Holder – 2014



The timeless-time-spilling quality of this nature painted piece is a vision to this nature-loving heart. The depth of subject appeals to me and the attention to the technicalities of this form was executed well, in my opinion. For the Inform Poets portion, Palindrome Poem I chose Pamela Smyk Cleary’s “Seasons Eternal.”

Excellent work, Pamela!!

SEASONS ETERNAL by Pamela Smyk Cleary

Spring becomes autumn again
green… leaves, glorious color paints nature —
red, yellow, orange, gold,
then white
equinox, solstice
ever-changing, yet
yet, ever-changing
(solstice, equinox)
white, then
gold, orange, yellow, red;
nature paints color, glorious leaves green
again, autumn becomes spring.

(C) Copyright PSC/2014


As always, great work poets!


The odds of Rob Halpin and me posting a prompt for the FLASHY FICTION site simultaneously were astronomical. But we beat the odds. It just happened. Sorry to upstage you Rob!

This week, you’re looking at some historic event with a twist. It involves a family member.

HISTORY AMIDST THE COBWEBS gives the twist and explanation of what your fiction entails. Everyone has a little story to tell. Share yours there.!