swingersYou are swinging your child or grandchild in the park on a crystal clear day. Write a two stanza poem. The first stanza, from the child’s point of view; the second from the adult’s view. Or you can be an observing bystander watching the interaction between the two. You can make the poem about any kind to give and take between child and parent/adult. You can build a sand castle together, or you can be taking a walk. But make it two from different points of view!



“Higher Daddy, higher!”
in the air I soar, I’m a flyer!
My wings are small, but if I fall
you will catch me! I can see a lot
from high up here; I can see clear
to the slides. I love the park
and the rides you give me. I live
to fly free with you close at hand.
You’ve helped me to stand,
you’ve helped me to walk,
as soon as I could talk, it was you
I called. When night frights came,
it was your name that sent them away.
And today, you help me to be that flyer.
“Higher Daddy, higher!”

“Oh Little One, how you’ve grown!”
Had I known you would be such a wonder,
I would have stayed under your spell
for well over the time we’ve had together.
Whether you walk, or talk, or cry,
you will always fly where love lifts you.
It is a gift you give to this tired, old soul.
And I know when my days are through,
it will be you who carries my spirit forward.
Always headed toward the sun, the one who flies
where my eyes will  fail to see. You fly with me.
We had our ups and down; smiles and frowns
were the masks we wore. And all that is
in store for the coming years, may hold some tears
but will fill my soul, oh Little One. How you’ve flown.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2014



We paint pretty pictures with the words we choose, saying with magnificence what others say simply. How we use these colorful words and the colors of our world adds much to the lives we live. They give it a flair that cannot compare to anything else on the planet. And so, our poets have used a wide spectrum to write what their hearts see in vivid hues.

And as we explored a “new” variant of the Sonnet, the Lannet provided another tool in our arsenal of verse. For those who curse syllable counts and internal rhyme, this was not a form for you, but I applaud your efforts to at least “taste the Brussels Sprouts” before declaring your disdain! Let us get to the Brilliant Bloom awards, then!

Of the colorful and descriptive poems presented I have chosen to highlight this piece by Dr. Nurit Israeli which celebrates life through the color red.

Shades of Red by Dr. Nurit Israeli

I choose red.
No, not the crimson red of blood,
though you told me how much
of it was lost during that long
and arduous surgery.

No, not the rebellious red of
raging cells turning your body
into a combat zone, or the
hospital’s Code Red, warning
of some unforeseeable danger.

No, not even the red of the roses
on the side table by your hospital
bed − misfits amid the chromes and
barren whites, their sweet scent
challenging the sterile antiseptic air.

No, not those reds, but the fiery red
of the lipstick you put on once
you ascended from anesthesia:
Bold. Daring. A red stamp of life
on your still pale face.

Yes, this is the red I choose –
the vibrant red of the lipstick on
your sore lips. Like a red sun coloring
the morning sky with the promise
of a new day, your red lips assure.

(C) Dr. Nurit Israeli, 2014


The sonnet-like form Lannet gave a twist to the traditional fourteen lines of its predecessor. The poem selected for the Bloom is a beautiful interpretation of summer’s dying days. Jane Shlensky’s “Dog Days” earn this honor.

Dog Days by Jane Shlensky

A Southern August promises thick dust,
humidity that swelters, melts to mud,
sometimes a hurricane to menace us,
for August is august as hinges oiled.
The heat lays yard dogs down, hangdogs thick weeds,
shakes people by their scruffs and makes them sweat.
Seed heads hang low knowing that fall is nigh,
though sun declares there’s time to wreak its power.

We pant after refreshment, pond or pool,
and lap at puddles left by random rains.
We look to skies, measure their depth of blue
to calculate the slant of morning light.
We welcome winds that scratch at waiting’s itch.
We hear September’s distant howls at night.

(C) Jane Shlensky, 2014




The “Lannet” is a form of sonnet, consisting of 14 lines. There is a strict syllable count of 10 per line. It has NO END-LINE RHYMING SCHEME. Only internal rhyme is allowed. There is no requirement of meter for a Lannet.



Two hearts afloat upon love’s endless sea,
bobbing free in currents of emotion.
There is no lake or ocean can compare
to the freedom there. Two hearts float in love.

Above is an endless sky full of stars.
Hearts navigate by their chart position,
a condition driven by the love shared.
They are spared rough tides; they ride the current.

The rough torrent cannot put them under,
it’s a wonder love keeps their heads above
water. They ought to thank their lucky stars,
they are adrift uplifting each other.

Hearts at sea are free to be. Their journey
can lead them to distant shores and much more!

(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2014


The Lannet form was created by Laura Lamarca.


During your travels today/this week. Listen for colorful words that we all use to spice up our language. Fill your poem with the spectrum of this laguage. It could be a poem about a color, or just some very descriptive adjectives that help say things in a bold way.



A wide array of tans and beiges,
all with names that span the range.
It’s strange that all these lighter browns
are found to be so different.
Vinyl siding in all shades has made
me quite perplexed; quite sicker.
My house once green for all these years,
is now a lovely “wicker”!

(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2014


Nearing completion of my home project so I’m still a bit behind. But better late than never with the Blooms!


The Fear, Phobia and Foibles prompt came down to two choices. So to save myself some consternation, I award both a Bloom!

First is Sal Butacci’s “Phobias”:

PHOBIAS by Salvatore Butacci

It’s not that I’m afraid to yearn.
It’s just that life is filled with strife
And everywhere it seems I turn
The dream I dream is just a dream.
I want so much to find a way,
Put aside my fear, not hide
From life, enjoy the night, the day.
But just as I am feeling brave,
Satisfied that fear has died,
I feel myself in dizzying waves,
that trembling hand, those words “I can’t.”
It’s not that I prefer to sleep
Under blankets, under sheets.
I’d rather fight and face the matter,
Be a man and take the chance
Somehow I might, in that brave stance,
Prove with another’s help or not:
I’ve nothing to fear but you know what.

(C) Salvatore Butacci, 2014


And Susan Schoeffield’s “The Rising Tide”

THE RISING TIDE by Susan Schoeffield

A sadness swelling in my breast
deprives me of most needed rest.
My mind replays an endless spate
of hurtful words imbued with hate.

Hostility drips from the tongue
with venom nonchalantly flung.
If someone dares to disagree,
we scoff at such simplicity.

How easily we victimize
through rage’s aim to minimize
another person’s point of view,
while more debasing words ensue.

Though coated in a thick veneer,
unpleasant truths are crystal clear.
With ev’ry vile, demeaning post,
this growing hatred I fear most.

© Susan Schoeffield


For the INFORM POET – MONOTETRA, I loved the flow and tightness of Sara McNulty’s “Friends In Summer”

Friends in Summer by Sara McNulty

One week goes by like a quick breeze
Friends 40 years, we speak with ease,
laugh and cry over memories,
like planted trees, like planted trees.

We drove along Route 101,
views of beaches in dazzling sun.
We browsed antique shops, missing none.
Did we have fun! Did we have fun!

Side by side we rocked on a swing,
sipped on drinks through late evening.
We wondered what new years would bring.
Our hearts did sing, our hearts did sing.

(C) Sara McNulty, 2014



And great work again poets for your poetic finery!


The monotetra contains four lines in monorhyme. Each line is in tetrameter (four metrical feet) for a total of eight syllables.The last line contains two metrical feet, repeated. It can have one stanza or many stanzas.
Poem format:

Line 1: 8 syllables
Line 2: 8 syllables
Line 3: 8 syllables
Line 4: 8 syllables with repetition



A weeks vacation, just in time,
a chance to lose myself in rhyme,
collected words expressed; sublime.
It’s on my dime. It’s on my dime.

I read a bit to set the mood.
Repeated passages sound good;
a self-adjusting attitude.
My mental food; my mental food.

My muse excited, set to go,
a rant poetic starts to flow.
And where it ends, I do not know.
Enjoy the show. Enjoy the show.

I write because it’s what I do,
oft penned soul searches through and through,
the rhymes are many; regrets few,
I ask, would you? I ask, would you?


(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2014


Deep inside of us all, we have that one thing that makes our knees shake and stomach churn. We yearn to let confidence take hold only to find we were sold a bill of goods. Write a poem about one of these. It could be yours or one of a friend. Maybe it was something you’ve read that piqued your interest. Afraid of crawly things? Fear of public speaking? Anxious to take on new things? You don’t like flying (one of mine)? Face the fear and post it here!



As a boy, fearless.
I’d hear this voice in my head
that said “nothing can hurt you”!
In the deepest, dankest, darkest
corner under the porch, I felt safest.
Hiding atop of the refrigerator,
finding refuge in the highest branch
of the tallest tree – that was me.
Somewhere along the way
I heard relatives say of how
my grandfather fell from a ladder.
From coma to death in days.
I was a bit swayed but I still stayed
brave, yet vigilant, resilient and sure.
Another grandfather in his eighties
ever the supervisor, also fell from a riser
pitched against the house. Watching his descent
without a means to save him
gave me anxiety I hold to this day.
On a ladder, my knees buckle
and I start to sway, not a way
a builder wracked with guilt
should be. I wish I weren’t afraid of heights.
I might have reached my peak much sooner!
I’m no swooner (when on solid ground.)


(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2014


Things take on a different slant when we give them human traits. And imagined conversations between inanimate objects could be as interesting. Couple that with the simplicity of our INFORM Hay(na)ku, and we are back on track with some excellent (and always difficult) choices.

First for the “PERSON-TO-PERSON” prompt, Michelle Hed takes us outside for this bit of joyful banter.

The Grass and The Trees but Not the Bumblebees by Michelle Hed

“Here she comes!
Where? I don’t see her!

Ah, her feet are bare,
her skin caresses my blades.
What are you talking about,
she is crushing you!
No, no it feels good.

I think you are nuts.
Oh, she is coming towards me,
she has more suet to put in the feeder
that I hold for her.
You mean that box,
hanging by a wire that is cutting into your skin?
It’s not cutting me!
See, she is smiling
she just patted my trunk!
I’m melting.
You are pathetic.

You are just jealous
Because she only touches you with your feet!
I am not!

Oh look, it’s sprinkler time!
Aw, that feels so good on my roots.
Yeah, my blades are soaking it in
and standing tall.
I love that woman.
Yeah, me too.”

(C) Michelle Hed, 2014


The Hay(na)ku form seems to have become a favorite alternative to the haiku, tanka, pi-ku genre of short form poetry. It can express a statement, or linked together become a complete thought. Many were deserving. My choice this week is Paula Wanken’s  Carpe Diemesque “We Are Still Here”

WE ARE STILL HERE by Paula Wanken

Summer is waning.
Daylight hours,

Do not lament.
Enjoy what’s

Here’s proof…we
are still

P. Wanken




ROBIN WILLIAMS  1951 - 2014

1951 – 2014

Your journey has ended,
by your hand and much too soon.
You, the buffoon, the clown, the genius
bringing joy to the world.
But, for what it’s worth, who gave you mirth?
Your torment was an illness,
your illness was your privacy.
In the shadows of a mind so sharp,
that spark of madness run amok.
You had been stuck for a while
and the smile you wore tore your heart
to shreds. We laughed at your brand,
and demanded more of you
but, you had given enough.
It is tough that you didn’t save
some for yourself. We took you
seriously when your dramatics
gripped us. It ripped us as well,
your living hell of which you would tell,
of powders and pills and rivulets
of distilled potions, notions of answers
left un-questioned; too many to mention.
You’ve gone back to the egg.
You have been silenced like Ellen James.
Long did you stand as the grown-up Pan.
You have sucked the marrow out of this life.
There is no Doubt (the) fire has gone out.
It makes us want to shout,
Oh Captain, My Captain!
Thank you for your gift,
we’ve enjoyed it while it lasted.
And in our hearts you will live within a smile.
What dreams may come, you will greet us.
You will meet us with a joke in tow.
We know your journey has ended.
The Genie has been freed.
The Buffoon. The Clown.
The Genius indeed. Oh, Captain,
Bon Voyage!

© Walter J Wojtanik, 2014


I’ve shared this across the web, and I share it here as well…


Hay(na)ku is a poem written in 3-lines, with one word in the first line, two words in the second, and three in the third. These are the only restrictions.

There are already some variations of this new poetic form. A reverse hay(na)ku flips the lines to three, two, and one word(s) for lines one, two, and three. Multiple hay(na)ku can be linked to form longer poems.



into life.
See your future;

offering hope,
bringing you peace.

unfounded, unsure;
face them bravely.

Your aspirations
guide your steps.

moving forward.
Begin your journey!

(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2014



am poet.
Could be verse!

(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2014



In the winter,
the earth

(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2014