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


Consider this quote of summer:

“Every summer, like the roses, childhood returns.”

~Marty Rubin

Every summer since I was young, I’ve always felt a sense of exhilaration; of rebirth. It was as if I was being dipped in healing waters. I recall the annual excursions our family would take to a local state park on the Lake Erie shore; how it was an escape from the everyday hum-drum. Summer arrived and the hope of beach days was a treasured anticipation. Every summer, we returned to being children – if only in spirit – and remember how good life was and could be again and often.

What does Rubin’s quote say to you? Tell us about a summer moment when you embraced your youth in a good way. (You can write a poem of roses, if that’s your wish) Return with us in the beauty of summer days.

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    I sit along the shore, mesmerized
    by waves in their cyclical samba
    rolling and trolling on the lake
    of hopeful dreams. Screams of children
    playing in the surf, scattering –
    chattering in an endless drone
    screeches and squeals, peels
    of raucous running and splashing,
    flashing sunshine from their gleeful
    eyes. Skies, blue and reflective
    subjected to the whimsy of wide-eyed
    wonder under the spell of tides.
    There comes a lull, children
    amassed like seagulls, charging &
    retreating. Bleating like sea birds,
    indistinguishable in their spirit.
    You can hear it in the children’s joy.
    We are all children, every gull and buoy!

    © Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016


    He sees her image at the beach –
    every summer.
    Memory always brings him
    to stand
    where they were young and had first made love.

    © Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

    Barefoot in the Garden

    When the leaves fall
    They take with them another summer
    While we stoke echoes and recall
    Fragments of pictures

    The leaves are green now
    Kissed by sun and strummed by summer’s
    Then we almost forget how
    Soon the hour strips the

    The undertow that seals the ebb
    And flow of flower-
    Scatters petals, pink, yellow, red
    Like when we were a

    Then almost we forget the number
    Of summers
    And for the briefest glance it seems
    Like nothing much has

    (forgive me for being more absent than present for a wee while, more gone than home this week and next week gone for vacation)

  4. William Preston on said:


    mainly means heat,
    sweat, bugs, and mowing grass;
    a hard season to like, except
    school’s out.


    Summer is the open door
    through which I walk and reminisce
    about the joys of first amour:
    the thumping heart, that first sweet kiss.

    I lift my feet from spring’s demise
    and place them down in summer land
    where gazing in your sea-blue eyes,
    I thought I saw a life to plan.

    We walked the gardens all abloom,
    rose petals waved as we skipped by,
    we built sand castles in the dunes,
    swearing love at summer skies.

    Now seasons come as come they will
    they stay awhile and off they flee.
    The scent of summer’s with me still.
    I treasure all inside of me.

    This heart that ached for her return,
    These garden beds where flowers nest,
    This summer lesson I have learned:
    Thank God for joys with which we’re blessed.


    Summer Child

    Regardless of age
    Inner child
    Finds joy come summer

    Spanish Camp

    Such a nerd
    Spanish summer camp
    Learning words
    New feelings
    A week with my first real crush
    Both languages failed

    Okauchee Lake

    That lake was everything to us,
    bathtub in the summer,
    a shortcut to town during winter,
    source of food and fun.

    darkly deep, muskie wide at one end,
    shallow, bluegill small at the other,
    a squiggly channel in the middle,
    looking like a misshaped dumbbell.

    Economically poor,
    but we didn’t know it,
    we all had a boat of some kind.
    Mostly, they were rowboats,
    aluminum if your dad had a good job,
    an Evinrude motor on the back if
    there was a rich uncle somewhere.

    That lake had its mysteries,
    ate a human or two every year,
    sucked them down into the weeds,
    next to the cars it swallowed every spring,
    the ones driven on to the ice in March,
    at the American Legion ice fishing jamboree.

    In late spring, early summer,
    before vacationers’ traffic clouded the surface,
    you could drift idly,
    see the ancient tree stumps below,
    wonder what the land was like before the floe.

    If you had a motor,
    or a young person’s energy,
    you could get out to Stumpy Bay,
    or to Stone Bank,
    where the best fishing was.

    You’d see birds of every type,
    small crabs near the shore,
    could stare at the cloud-filled sky,
    see where it joined the water,
    and if you stayed out late enough,
    watch that lake swallow the sun,
    waiting for the star show,
    catching a night bonfire up the hill.

    That lake was everything to us,
    and I bet, on still days,
    it served as a mirror
    for God’s morning primp.
    There are 10,000 lakes
    in the state next door,
    even more up north, in Canada,
    but we only needed one,
    and it made us richer than we knew.

  8. connielpeters on said:

    Childhood Summers

    When I was a kid, my country neighborhood
    reverberated with noises of barefoot children
    running over green grass,
    tarred and graveled roads,
    through rocky cold-water creeks,
    and even pine-needled forests,

    playing ball, badminton, croquet,
    Hide and Seek, Sardines, Statue,
    Little Red House on the Hill,
    Hopscotch, jump rope, and Four Square,
    pretend games of house, submarine, space ship
    and Gilligan’s Island and Man from UNCLE,

    riding bikes and the flying jenny,
    building dams in the creek, roller skating,
    flinging crab apples on flexible sticks,
    swinging on swings and vines,
    rolling down hills in cardboard boxes
    or inside tractor tires, walking on stilts,

    sharing a watermelon at Pappaps
    and spitting seeds at each other,
    licking Popsicles on a 90 degree day,
    snacking on plums, apples, grapes,
    elderberries, and blackberries
    right off the tree or bush.

    Looking back on it reminds me
    to keep “having fun” on my to-do list.

  9. Earl Parsons on said:

    Summers in The County

    Way up North in New England
    The County was where I was raised
    Long cold winters were the norm
    Even got snow in on a couple June days
    So we really cherished our summers
    No matter how short they might be
    They’d arrive whenever they arrived
    But that was never too early for me

    Summers in The County were great
    They brought mosquitoes as big as cats
    And they could carry your cat away
    I think I have a picture of that
    The No-see-ums would buzz in your ear
    And they lived up to their name
    Killing the little annoyances was
    A time consuming and often futile game

    County summers brought warmer waters
    As long as there’s no more floating ice
    Of course, it was only warm to us
    After a long winter, the water was nice
    Out come the bikes and motorcycles
    We pack our snowmobiles away for a while
    Helmets and face shields are mandatory
    Unless you want lots of bugs in your smile

    County summer’s the time for a suntan
    Flip-flops with socks and cutoff jeans
    No sun screen to cover the pasty white skin
    We got suntans by whatever means
    The drive-in meant weekend gatherings
    No matter what was up on the screen
    No one went to watch the movie anyway
    The drive-in was the place to be seen

    I loved growing up in The County
    Four seasons as distinct as could be
    Summer was my absolute favorite
    It was a time to be loose, wild and free
    But a life here and there relocated me
    The bones no longer can handle the cold
    Still my memories of summers in The County
    Mean more to me than silver or gold

    © Earl Parsons

  10. Earl Parsons on said:

    Of summers long past
    In a County far away
    I remember well

  11. flashpoetguy on said:

    I am so impressed with the poets who post their poems here.

  12. I’ll add this to my blog, later. For now…a quick shadorma…


    Each weekend
    we’d escape the farm
    to trade one
    type of work
    for another, setting up camp…
    which was s’more fun!

  13. I’ll confess I spend a few minutes last night with a glass jelly jar catching fireflies in the field across from my house. Wife thought my cheese had slipped off my cracker, but she had fun watching me!

    • We’re never too old to chase fireflies. I remember using the old glass peanut butter jars and then jabbing holes in the lids with knives or ice picks. I don’t know if those holes really helped, but in our “summer folklore” it helped keep the captives alive longer.

  14. Pingback: Poems: Summer Child & Spanish Camp – Wanna Get Published, Write!


    Chunky pastels–
    blue, pink, yellow.
    Children draw on
    a sidewalk, or outline
    game squares. I recall
    holding fat pastel
    crayons, whirling colors
    together as child art.
    Some kids jump rope,
    a fancy one of different
    strands with plastic
    handles. We used
    basic rope–thick–like
    clothesline. I remember
    counting how many jumps
    I could do without stopping
    or stumbling. Outdoor
    summer games created
    new worlds to explore,
    and were endless fun.
    I don’t see as many street
    games in play with groups
    of children. That is a shame.
    I appreciate my childhood
    years; they fell during a period
    of outdoor socialization,
    which we took as normal life.

    Drip, Lick, Ah

    There’s something about summer
    that makes your toes wiggle
    and your inner child
    wants to come out and giggle.

    You want to lay out in the hammock
    and read a good book,
    or watch the clouds,
    now take a good look.

    Oh, the food taste better
    in the great outdoors…
    watermelon dribbles down your chin
    and the barbecue, here is yours.

    Hot days are made for water
    and cold ice cream or popsicle treats
    and lazing by the river with friends
    listening to the beats.

    So let the food dribble,
    you’re outside…
    go ahead and wear
    those food stains with pride.

  17. Pingback: Summer Home | echoes from the silence

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