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


Another  few quotes to spark your poetic heart:


“I know I am but Summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year” ~ Edna St. Vincent Millay


“Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.” ~ Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets


“Summer is only the unfulfilled promise of spring, a charlatan in place of the warm balmy nights I dream of in April. It’s a sad season of life without growth… It has no day.” ~ F. Scott Fitzgerald


Choose a quote and let your poetry grow beautifully from that inspired seed!


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  1. Earl Parsons on said:

    The Salvation of Summer Stories

    “Those stories were the sound track of my summer with you.” ― Sarah Addison Allen, Lost Lake

    In the summer of our lives we live beyond ourselves
    If these walls could talk, oh the stories they’d tell
    Stories of adventures, risk takings, and fun
    About life lessons learned and challenges won
    Still others not glorious or even close to successes
    In fact, all too many were nothing but messes
    Yet for those that survived we’ve stories galore
    Hopefully there are still more stories in store
    As we look back on the summer of our lives
    It’s a wonder to some of us that we’re still alive

    © Earl Parsons

  2. Earl Parsons on said:

    This is my story
    At least what I remember
    You got a minute


    “I know I am but Summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year” ~ Edna St. Vincent Millay

    On the Hard Points of Pebbles

    Feels almost prehistoric now,
    it was that long ago. I was
    paid a pittance for watering
    the neighbour’s gardens.
    Every evening I spilled the
    coolness of water in gulps
    on potted carnation blossoms.

    The scent swept the air
    with warm syllables of clove
    and sticky honey. And I can
    still feel my bare feet on
    the hard points of pebbles.
    Each step a chattering sound,
    the disapproving tut of tongues

    as I looked up at his window.
    Curtains drawn. He was away
    for the summer, and he took
    all the magic with him.
    I dreamt of his smile.
    I dreamt of his words.
    Even beggars dream.


    © Misky 2016

  4. Honey and clove. Good scent to go with a heartache.

  5. William Preston on said:


    “I know I am but Summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year” ~ Edna St. Vincent Millay


    Summer love
    is easy, Mother said,
    but the test
    is winter:
    love that lasts in the crunch times
    must be genuine.

    Remembering Summer

    “Green was the silence, wet was the light”
    ~ Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets

    There would have been occasional planes
    dragging sound across the blistered sky,
    and there must have been some birds around.

    Stormless days (and nights without stirring
    relief) clump together–slick pages,
    tacky with sweat and Nehi Orange.

    Days with dust to breathe and the nights thick
    with suicidal gray moths beating
    against the window screen while I read.


    Summer is chiefly the smell of green
    walnuts lying bruised among hailstones,
    strong, bitter and clean in the aftermath.


    “You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.”
    ― Ray Bradbury, Zen in the Art of Writing


    These tidbits stirring in my martini glass?
    Neither olives nor orange bitters
    Nor the swirling zest of lemon peel.
    Alone, slouching on my bar stool,
    I pour a cascading gin fall straight,
    firewater unadulterated,
    clear of life’s embellishments that cloud
    my head where words and phrases brawl
    within the roped ring behind my bloodshot eyes.
    “Take me! Take me!” they say, and I try hard
    in my poem-making stupor to not to see double,
    but to dive headlong into the lines
    yet unformed that stagger on unsteady feet.
    Under the surface I toast a promise
    to stay aloof from the sobrieties of life,
    so adept at laying waste those happy hours
    when disjointed language learns to swim
    in the harshest waters and survive.


  8. Pingback: The never life – Poetic Bloomings | Freya Writes…

  9. Here’s my link
    And here it is as well. My inspiration was E.E. Cummings’ poem, Anyone lived in a pretty how town.

    seasons pass so hither and thither

    as we walk about with our heads laid down

    searching screens for ideas anew

    all-while forgetting the me and the you

    all-while forgetting the me and the you

    we are in front of each other

    with our vacant plate faces

    searching for something in far away places

    searching for something in far away places

    that bag, that car, that three bed, four bath

    as if our existences only have meaning

    beyond our own souls, so parched and keening

    beyond our own souls, so parched and keening

    is nothing worth having, we ignore the truth

    the truth of the empty have-it-all journey

    hurtling prone on a rubber-wheeled gurney

    it’s no life, I tell you

    it’s death in suspension

    all while we’re forgetting

    the me and the you

  10. connielpeters on said:


    “Summer’s lease hath all too short a date.”
    ― William Shakespeare, Shakespeare’s Sonnets

    In Colorado, we wait forever for summer
    Then in a blink the aspen leaves turn gold
    And the wind whispers winter threats

    Oh, Edna

    Why would one want
    to be all seasons?
    Winter is cold and stark
    with people cowering
    indoors with fires blazing.
    Autumn, brilliantly coloured,
    is the twilight of the season,
    the nearing of hibernation
    and death.
    Spring, the rebirth,
    is young and new,
    but frought with rainy days
    blown all a-twitter.
    Summer is sultry and mature,
    fully blossomed,
    with long days
    and hot nights.
    So, why should I want you
    to be all seasons
    when summer is so perfect?


    “…the month of June trembled like a butterfly.” ~ Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets

    The month of June trembled like a butterfly.
    Slow and tentative, living for the moment.
    Summer plays on sultry days and nights
    that frighten or arouse, a shiver of wind,
    a breath across a moonlit sky trying to
    resuscitate her ever-waiting heart.
    Beneath the stars, she is June,
    fluttering in butterfly kisses.
    As she trembles, she wishes
    for a never-ending night!

    © Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

  13. When Red Cedes To Gold

    In June the first red rose did bloom,
    and splashed vermillion on canvas of green
    erasing vestiges of May rain’s gloom.
    You fed me strawberries crowned with cream.

    In delicate breeze, fevered bodies cooled.
    We tip-toed in aura of palest pink.
    Our lives entwined, our hearts did rule.
    Two minds that did not wish to think

    beyond those electric sparks we felt,
    when eyes did meet, when skin did burn.
    We had no right to plan lives not dealt.
    When rose became gold, lust’s lesson was learned.

    Though time has passed, those days remain
    forever embedded in heart and brain.

  14. I did manage to post this, but when the pain meds wear off from the finger I sliced,
    after I fell, I will have to see how much I can do. Will not be commenting for a few days.

  15. “The quarrels of lovers are like summer storms. Everything is more beautiful when they have passed.” ― Madame Necker

    Twelve Words

    Please forgive me.
    I forgive thee.
    Thank you.
    I love you, too

  16. Pingback: Poem: Oh, Edna – Wanna Get Published, Write!

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