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