POETIC BLOOMINGS

POETIC BLOOMINGS is a Phoenix Rising Poetry Guild site established in May 2011 to nurture and inspire the creative spirit.

PROMPT #177 – “A SPARK OF IDEAS”

Create a poem inspired by a line in a Margaret Atwood poem: “We Are Learning to Make Fire!” You determine what your “fire” is and tell us about it:

WALT’S FIRE STARTER:

WITH WORDS

I’ve learned to walk with words,
stroll with their sounds and rhythms.
Within them I have found my purpose,
to write in the verse that lives buried deeply.
I may stumble and fall, but all-in-all
I pick up where I left off and carry on.
On a poetic journey of life,
I learned to walk with words.

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik, 2014

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88 thoughts on “PROMPT #177 – “A SPARK OF IDEAS”

  1. Kevin Wojtanik on said:

    I found a fire deep down inside,
    In a place where dreams do hide.
    To find some joy, if I could
    and satisfy my thirst for wood.
    To create a piece, only I can
    to know I made it by my hand.
    But by chance my dream should slide,
    It could always find the fire outside.

  2. Cousin? You looking to walk in my garden? A great entry to start us off. Didn’t know you had time for rhyme! (You’re very good with wood.) Walt.

  3. William Preston on said:

    A NEED FOR MUSIC

    Music plays
    and shares the ways
    of all that greens and grows,
    for love loves song as Earth loves sky
    and longing loves a lullaby
    and children love the snows.
    Through good and ill,
    oh, play on still,
    voicing my joys and woes.

    copyright 2014, William Preston

  4. Heartache

    Heart that never loves
    never breaks
    Stronger still will be
    Mended heart that knew love
    It’s inevitable you see
    Frozen heart will thaw
    By passion’s flame tardily
    Broken seams mended
    Ardor returns tenderly

    I wrote this today to fill both prompts, Poetic Asides and here. Inevitable was the prompt from Robert and I felt this works also because of passion’s flame thawing frozen heart.

  5. SPARKS OF WONDER IGNITE

    Sitting here in the center of the universe
    Lost in the spiral of revolving worlds,
    I wonder what time it is in my humdrum life.
    How late? How fleeting? And where is the light
    At the end of this ubiquitous dark?
    Sparks of wonder ignite from the spitting fire.
    Reflections bombard one another;
    Memories remind me to keep my wagon hitched
    To the Creator of the seen and unseen,
    To weigh my life against the infinite,
    To rub two sticks adrift in the passing finite
    So that friction will create bright epiphanies
    That will spring me to my feet in glad eureka.
    This much I know: without the good fire now
    We run the horrid risk of unending torrid flames
    From devils’ tongues licking dry our innocence.

    #

  6. The Fire in My Soul

    Darkness and silence for a thousand years,
    in the grave, rotting away, flesh betrays bones
    and bones, dem bones, they rattle in the dark
    to some ancient rhythmic melody of fallen
    from grace.

    Confusion wrinkles on the brow, chaos of thought
    with words that melt and run into bewilderment
    “that sandwich looks dangerous, I mean, delicious”
    and grimaces of chagrin and fear knot your chest.
    Losing it.

    So many ways…stroke, dementia, ALS, Picks, death
    to lose the words, or mangle them, befuddled,
    a slow shrinking of cells and self, an unbecoming,
    sucked into some black hole of no escape, no hope,
    can’t communicate.

    That is the fire that burns along the nerves, that screams
    in the long night, that fights for every moment to sit
    with fingers poised. Words tell. Words explain.
    Words paint and words acquaint kindred souls.
    Don’t silence me.

  7. Smoldering

    You can’t force
    a fire to glow
    when all you have
    to throw on it
    is drenched.

    So we learn
    to hold hands
    with cancer
    as it grips her
    ashen skin,
    her paper fingers
    too soggy limp
    to hold ours back.

    Another night
    darkens in the struggle
    for a spark upon
    wet coals,
    while continual stinging
    from smoky fear
    sets only our eyes
    ablaze.

  8. A Decant of Quietude

    So much seems strange tonight;
    as night is a stranger to daylight.
    So strange. Uncharted. Unknown.
    And I light a candle, thick and squat,
    cold and white, and it decants slowly
    into a molten spread of quietude.
    I listen. I wait. I watch as he fills
    a wine glass with sweet words he’d
    never think to say. That glass filling
    with giddy expression, that candle
    light-hearted with fire, and I am
    thinking, wondering, are we learning
    to make fire. And then we burn.

    “We are leaning to make fire.”
    – Margaret Atwood

    p.s. I’ve started a new blog at http://selmasiri.wordpress.com

  9. Darlene Franklin on said:

    CYCLE OF FIRE

    Inspiration strikes imagination
    Sparking a blaze of ideas
    An apple a day finds a teacher
    Miners’ mail order brides
    Fire consumes air and breath and time
    Hosed by closures and bombed by rejection
    Breakers dug by doubt
    Flames
    Burn
    Low
    A spark of inspiration jumps the break
    Lights an imagination conflagration

  10. Darlene Franklin on said:

    I learned to walk with words. . .our shoes for the journey. Love it, Walt.

  11. Pingback: Last Sightings | Metaphors and Smiles

  12. Last Sightings

    Plumes of crimson fire…
    two Bluebirds feed on sumac,
    red-brown chest patches
    beautifully matches wild fruit –
    soon they’ll seek shelter from cold.

    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014

  13. Just saw three eating berries on my Burning Bush. They are beautiful – as is this poem.

  14. connielpeters on said:

    Some beautiful poems here today.

    Fire

    The fire, more extensive
    than the universe,
    fits quite snugly in my soul,
    longing to be released
    in speech, deeds and poetry
    to set the world ablaze.

  15. Pingback: A Decant of Quietude | Who Is Selma Siri

  16. Post-PAD Predicament

    Sparks rise
    but the poet’s
    muse cries.

    Thoughts blazed
    but the fingers
    aren’t fazed.

    Flames spread
    but the poor muse
    is dead.

    © Susan Schoeffield

  17. Pingback: Post-PAD Predicament | Words With Sooze

  18. One Poem

    One poem leads to others,
    notebooks pile up
    crammed with writing
    and crossing out.
    You venture into
    a poetry blog. First,
    you only read other’s
    work, afraid to bare
    your words for fear
    that no one will read
    them. Or worse, they will,
    and find no substance
    in what you have written.
    Finally, it is time.
    You post a poem, see
    your name, and become
    part of a poetry community.
    You wander through different blogs.
    A fierce fire of desire
    roars in your creative mind.

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