The next Guest Host to join the ranks bears the screen name “sevenarcesky”. This is in fact a guy whose poetry is very visual and expressive and has been enjoyed here regularly. When asked to host this week, Damon Dean didn’t think he had done enough to have earned the honor. But he was wrong. He’s done plenty.




“I have always enjoyed my writing journey for various reasons. It keeps my heart open to wonder. It keeps my mind poised to imagine. It brings to my soul the satisfaction of amazing discoveries about nature, people, and myself. But my greatest delight in writing is to share those excursions of heart, mind, and soul with others. Poetic Bloomings has been the first venue outside of friends and family that I’ve really had a chance to enjoy that delight.
“Alongside my passion to write for children, poetry fits nicely into my endeavors. My wife and I are retired educators living in southeast Arkansas. A five-year old granddaughter adds inspiration to my writing pursuits. I enjoy the encouragement that comes from networking with writers in forums and groups like Poetic Bloomings. You can find more about my writing journey at my WordPress blog, .”


PROMPT #158 – “TOTAL RECALL” – Think back to your younger days. Write about your old room, or a room in your house, apartment, etc. It could be an alcove where you found solace. Use as much detail: paint color, size,shared or single, photos, posters, anything that takes you back.



The corner of the basement
made this cellar dweller a happy fellow.
A couch and a TV kept me entertained,
I remained sequestered – not a cell
just a well appointed joint
concrete walls and all the room
I could claim. Bamboo curtains
became dividers. Hot summer nights
were alright; it stayed cool below.
Pages torn from sports magazines
papered the walls,
all I needed to flee to a quiet spot,
I got a lot of peace to go with it.
A record player and my LPs;
all the music to please.
Books stuffed in every nook,
it took half the summer to read them all.
A green and serene place,
a guy needed some space of his own.
My sanctuary, my library, left alone
with my thoughts and ambitions.
Now that I’m grown I remember
the best pad I ever had back home.

(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik



The Room On West Main

One small bedroom,
shared by two.
Two boys
pubescent, stinky, raw.
The room too small, perhaps.
But on the wall where other boys my age
had posters of the latest rage
(i.e. the Fab, or Hendrix)
I had a larger-than-life Einstein, who
propounded words so profound
I thought that they were new.

And swinging from the ceiling
on fine fishing-lines,
three Revel models,
F-4 Phantoms, flew
like those I saw and knew had dropped the bombs
on evening news.
A cousin over there, I knew, in Nam
had probably heard them, heard them zip through air
and felt them bust the jungles open wide.

Upon the other wall were Navy ships—
destroyers, carriers, and subs—
bought at the five-and-dime with aromatic glue
and enamel paints in colors suggested on the box.
Grey plastic crafts that sailed upon an upright sea.

Our bunk beds were too short, but I gave
tops to my young brother. In the cave below
I relished my advent toward bold manhood
with dreams based on words on the wall.
I know—and on hormones that flowed like tides.
I’d never seen the ocean. Or the sea.
Or been upon a beach, in Alabama or in Nam.

Our window to the front yard, it was small.
Breezes of summer heat flopped a vinyl shade,
and teased a sheer valance.
Our door led only to a long, long hall between
our bath and bedrooms and the closet at the end.

The room was small. I left it soon.
Excited that my Nixon gave the vote to me,
I became a Young Republican.
That year, my birthdate drew a number in the draft.
One-hundred sixty-three.
The Clarion-Ledger clipping,
faded, but never laminated,
still lies deep in my billfold.
It reminds me, now,
how small a room
can be.

(C) Copyright Damon Dean