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



We’re taking the minimalist view of poetry for today’s “form”. We won’t be counting syllables or getting over-bearing with rhyme. Today’s “form” is the Aubade which is more theme based. The Aubade is a poem written to celebrate the dawn. A good example of this type of poem is The Sun Rising by John Donne.



Call her Aurora,
first light of day. She dapples
maples, and petals of roses
with drops of dew. You do not
see her; she stays behind
the scenes. Her work sings
for itself in tunes of robins,
in glee of golden finches.
Subdued at morn, dawn is pale.
Peer out your window;
your face will break
into a smile. That is her style–
a new day dawns on you.

© Sara McNulty




Another sunrise crests the treetops,
another day to celebrate life
expressed in words and rhymes
and at times, a song or two.
Memories of friends met and connected to,
a slew of poems to remember them,
to hold them in heart when their presence
starts to fade. A parade of word warriors
seeking to hold the flank and to thank the gods
above for the love and guidance; a space dance
of a free and easy spirit. The music of life plays,
I hear it in every rustled leaf, in the coo
of a newborn infant who can’t help but make it.
I take it as another day of life afforded to me.
I see the new dawning with fresh eyes.
It is wise to greet each brand new day,
breaking your own record; your personal best.
All the rest is purely gravy!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

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229 thoughts on “INFORM POETS – AUBADE

  1. MARJORY T on said:

    What a neat subject, and great examples.
    Am going with my first thought of:


    The dawn comes quietly
    slipping slowly toward day
    turning off each star’s light.
    Gently the breeze rocks each star to sleep
    and song birds sing a star’s lullaby.
    When the last star winks off,
    the sun rises beyond the hills
    to bring the day


  2. Pingback: Hello, Goodbye | Vivinfrance's Blog


    “Make it dark, make it grim, make it tough, but then, for the love of God, tell a joke.” ~ Josh Whedon

    My mind was entombed
    In the dark night of my soul.
    Then it dawned on me …


  4. Sara: What a lovely picture you paint with your words!

    Walt: The music of life plays, indeed. Thank you, Mr. Conductor. 🙂

  5. I like both of your poems, Sara and Walt, but I smiled at the headings as well…Sara’s Sunrise and Walt’s Awakening is er…um, brilliant!!

    Walt, I really like the line ‘It is wise to greet each new day’ and Sara, LOVE the lilt of the first line ‘Call her Aurora, first light of day’!

    Breath of Days

    Like a grand, golden trumpet the sun heralds break of day
    Beneath heaven-set timing zephyr-violinists play
    The birth of time’s fresh offspring fills the hills of earth with praise
    As all creation sings a hymn to the Maestro of days

    The table on the east lays out its feast of daily Bread
    The poor and rich alike are at the mercy of time’s Head
    The wise will recognize Love’s grace that grants the sacred ‘yes’
    That lights the day that lights the way that none have traveled yet

    The crimson lily blushes and the brook in yonder mead
    Like pink platinum ribbon binds the green bank to its thread
    The woodland bursts with jubilee where feather-throated throng
    Without a care gild dawn’s young air with nature’s purest song

    How lovely is the hope that spills beyond the reach of earth
    Save in the prayer that climbs the air that chimes with virgin birth
    Ah, holy, holy, holy brims from lowly hearts of men
    Where Hallelujah overflows time’s cup of woes again

  7. flashpoetguy on said:


    An eggshell dawn cracked across the heavens,
    Infusing morning clouds with new-day gold.
    Rising early from sleep, storm-tossed from dreams,
    We sip hot coffee on the back porch deck
    And marvel at the rays of yellow high roads
    Streaking like gifting fingers from the sun.
    How good it is to be alive, you say,
    To once again witness God’s Creation.
    We are blessed. Coffees at rest, we hold hands
    While high above us birds flock a halo
    Around the brow of the rising jewel.


  8. Unfortunately I can’t get these to hold their formatting.

    A Bit of Sriracha Red

    Earth turned and faced the sun, like
    lovers turn into each other’s arms –
    morning hung light with clouds deep
    as thickest sleep, while the horizon
    ruptured into a silver fleck,
         like a trout I once saw, it spun that
         same silver flash — coaxed by light
         and slipped away into my shadow.
    But this sunrise had no Sriracha-ruby hue,
    no awe-struck dawn; just an honest, modest
    start of day, bright rightness in the air.


    There are more at https://foundlines.wordpress.com/2016/05/25/a-bit-of-sriracha-red/

  9. Oh! You had me with the opening. And then the surprise ending:)

  10. Dawn. For not being a morning person, it’s one of my favorite topics.


    Dusk is the threshold
    to the dawning of new dreams.

    Dawn is the opportunity
    to make those new dreams a reality.


    All night long, the sea rocks a weary sun
    to sleep – her red head that slips
    onto his lap at the end of her
    day’s work rests wrapped
    in his wavy arms.

    But as blackness gives way,
    the sea pushes a fired-up sun
    to her star potential, and I revel
    at the ways she runs her young rays
    through his new blueness in gratitude.

    ~ Nurit Israeli

  12. connielpeters on said:


    R esplendent birth of morning sun
    A nd appearing now in shining light
    D azzling diamonds in the dew
    I n my backyard, not just a few
    A brilliant display of common weeds
    N ew dandelions spreading seeds
    T hen they dull as sun proceeds

    Break of Day

    “Break of Day,” we say –
    And let me weigh in on that.
    Or not,
    For if the scales tip further,
    They may break with the day.

  14. Walt and Sara, loved your offerings and honors to this magic time of day.
    Here’s one from a moment Tuesday morning on Lucas Pond…

    Kayak Dawn

    A waning moon,
    white fading spot,
    hangs above the lake’s west bank,

    Green pines that line the levee
    gradually glow in golden hues,
    and seem to spread their limbs
    to catch the warm.

    I cast my line skyward,
    toward the lowering orb.

    In a slow descending arc
    my bait flies, and falls,
    and the silent splash it makes
    sends shimmering circles back to me.

    I shiver,
    for the sun behind me
    is kissing my neck,
    as the kingfisher rattles
    his morning song.

    (c) Damon Dean 2016

  15. This beautiful poem is so visual – I feel I am riding on the kayak too, seeing the sights, hearing the sounds… Love the musicality and the images!

  16. RJ Clarken on said:


    Pink is a beautiful color, because it is one of the colors that the sun makes at twilight and in the dawns. ~C Joybell C

    I was snoozing while watching TV late last night,
    while the talking heads were doing their newsy-ish thing. Headily somatic.
    A sliver of silvery moonlight
    (or maybe it was just my neighbor’s backyard motion sensors)
    awakened me: Why? It shone really bright.
    Regardless, (because sleep, perchance…) I fell back into a deep slumber
    until bits of pink and rose peeked through the vertical blinds, like a dancing sprite.
    I opened my eyes, and hoped the magic might last. Headily chromatic.
    But the rising sun changed hues, in its usual morning rite.



    When I was young we’d visit dawn.
    It lived in the hills east of Kentucky Lake.
    We’d drive to my grandmother’s, visit, sleep
    a few hours, drive through stars to the water.
    A little boat, we’d cut across the slow darkness,
    a trembling experience. The deep buoys, lit
    white for the barge-pushers. Cold droplets, wind
    of our passage, and the unaccustomed hour.
    The sky lowered before sunrise, became
    a ceiling and the stars, anomalies.
    Frogs would become birds, heron silhouettes
    for the sun to rise behind. A mauve room.
    Dawn was a candle between knotty hills,
    a little gesture, disappearing into daylight.

  18. A tremendous view of dawn, Barbara. A great story. And the image of the candle burns brightly! Welcome Back.

  19. Dawn was a candle between knotting hills- what a unique thought. Lovely poem, Barbara.

  20. Late to the party. 😉
    Following by email now, in hopes of staying caught up.

    Aubade with a Broken Song

    The day’s got yolk
    on her face again, all orange
    yellow sun-splotched and watched
    by gossipy doves, first loves
    who wish they’d slipped away
    while the sky was still a scrim.

    There’s a slim chance
    she’ll voice herself in full
             (voice herself a fool)
    today, syllable her way to
    more than maybe
    but less than silence.

    She slants. She rants
    in crimson dress, her early
    light rays laser sharp and
    pleading. She’s reading

    the moon
    (the stars, the indigo sky)
    the riot act, the how and why
    and where
    –withal of wandering.

    She’s done
    squandering her gifts
    and bearing busheled light,
    fighting back the dark.

    She’s on fire,
    one unspoken
    broken spark.

  21. Pingback: Aubade with a Broken Song | Whimsygizmo's Blog

    She’s Glowing
    (an Aubade)

    I will abide
    by the edges
    of night

    Watching white blue
    my horizon

    And wake the greens
    of grass and trees

    She’s glowing now
    to light my path
    and twinkle dew

    While the dogs
    their leashes
    stop-sniff, stop-sniff

    So much delight
    with a simple
    break of night

  23. Walt, I love your “parade of word warriors.” 🙂
    And Sara, those last lines! Your play on words, that breaking smile. So great.

    Earliest Morning

    Cruising the coast highway
    from Del Mar to points north,
    the rolling Pacific, to his left as it lay.
    The westernmost mountains to the right,
    the shore and sand giving up the night,
    not another soul yet on his road,
    marveling at the complex dawn,
    colors both soft and bold.
    so many layers, varied tones.
    Black becoming purple begetting rose,
    future yellows and gold but a notion,
    some time to go before the sun
    took its first glimpse of the ocean.

    Sunset gets all the press, he thought.
    (probably due to advance sales agents)
    Oh, sunset has its own virtues,
    if one likes that garish kind of thing,
    beach goers gathering in hoards,
    oohing and aahing,
    pretending to see a green flash,
    quickly dispersing to watered down happy hours.

    Dawn gets little notice, no great raves.
    A shame, really, but also a grace, one to savor.
    It might not be the same
    If the marketers got a sniff of it,
    folks setting alarms, out in bunches,
    making it a crowded game,
    flipping down their shades at the first sign of yellow,
    probably adding some kind of Bloody Mary rite to it.
    No, let the dawn stay hidden,
    a gift for the early risers ,
    like those who pull over
    and write an ode to its beauty.

  25. William Preston on said:


    From pink clouds and from orange sun
    the great blue heron flies to me;
    it beats its wings in stately glee
    as night concedes that day’s begun.

    The bird asserts its right to be
    for it, like Earth, is not to shun.
    Pleased, it settles along the run,
    a study in tenacity.

    • William! Welcome “home”! Glad to
      See you here adding your brilliance!

      • William Preston on said:

        Thanks, Walt. It indeed does feel like coming home. I wondered why I hadn’t seen postings from you at PA, so I started looking around. I’m glad the “garden” is being tilled again.

        • It was over due, and I’m feeling excited by the response. Something in this group that seems non-existant at the old stomping ground. People are here to share poetry. I like the non-competitive and supportive feel here. I cannot say I get that vibe much anywhere else any more. Not casting aspersions on Robert Lee. It just doesn’t seem the same. Plus, I’m the new “bartender” at dVerse Poetry Pub, so my slate is pretty full! Like I said, glad to see you back among us!

          And the best part about POETIC BLOOMINGS is having Marie just be poet and back contributing again, not being burdened by the structure behind the curtain here. Sara has fit in beautifully and I think both her and Marie’s poetry has gained much by that change. And let’s face it, my work suffers when I don’t have my poetic partner (and BFINM) close by in some capacity!

    • It is good to see your stunning rhymes again, William.

    • I have learned so much from you, William — you, master of rhymes…

    • William, had wondered where you were… so glad to see your name and poem this morning. Love the great blue herons and your words describe his character and dignity perfectly. Esp “stately glee.”

    • BILL! Seeing you here makes my smile all the wider. 🙂 Love your offering, and especially “The bird asserts its right to be.” Lovely!

  26. Walt and Sara thank you for the beautiful beginnings to inspire us. Aurora is a perfect title and I love how you played with her behind the scenes. Walt those first lines gave me a smile for the whole poem😊


    The light of day remains asleep as I am roused from slumber.
    Another day beckons; beacons of light first emerge to greet me.
    Morning begins on cautious feet, a new dance to the dawn.


    In the morning mists I hear a whisper,
    a gentle call that lures me from my sleep.
    Soft and soothing sounds; a prayer, a vesper,
    the dawn of day – a piece of life to keep.
    Freshness of the air is getting crisper
    as I awaken, breathing life in deep.
    Morning mists do bring me to discover,
    there’s a brave new world outside these covers.

  29. “Mary” (Entry from the journal of Mary of Magdala)

    This morning
    This mourning broke me.
    Reality pierced my soul,
    Left a gaping hole, with fears
    No tears can fill.

    This morning
    His eyes haunted me,
    As I already strained to recall
    The implausible love I saw in them
    Before the cross.

    This morning
    I longed to once again see myself –
    Me as he saw me –
    The me he presented to others –
    Instead of the wretch I see in me.

    This morning,
    In darkness of mood and day,
    I made my way to his tomb.
    My heart and breath halted
    As my eyes assaulted my senses.

    This morning
    He was gone.
    I was even robbed of his lifeless body?
    The cruelty of this was agonizing
    And my wounds grew deeper still.

    This morning
    I wept harder and longer and deeper
    Than I ever have before –
    Not even at the cross, for I was too traumatized
    For tears.

    This morning
    I saw men? Angels? Someone – something – angels –
    At the head and foot where he had lain.
    They asked me why I was weeping.
    How could I explain such pain?

    This morning
    I turned and saw a man – the gardener?
    He asked me the same question the angels had.
    “Woman, why are you weeping?”
    Once my closed throat allowed me to speak,
    I begged of him, “PLEASE sir, where have you put him?”



    This morning.
    Mourning broke.
    Light rose from darkness,
    Spoke my name,
    And I will never be the same.

    © Marie Elena Good

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