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


We are exploring the Rubai this week (also known as the interlocking rubaiyat)

I’m sure you have some familiarity with the 12th-century Persian work, The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. It uses the Rubai. Another surprising usage of the rubai, is highlighted by one of Robert Frost’s well known poems (“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”.)


The rules of the (rubai) interlocking rubaiyat:

  • The poem is consits of quatrains following an aaba rhyme pattern.
  • The succeeding quatrain picks up the unrhymed line from the previous stanza as the rhyme for the new quatrain. A three-stanza rubaiyat might rhyme so: aaba/bbcb/ccdc. Sometimes the final stanza rhymes all four lines.
  • Lines are usually tetrameter and pentameter.



Alone, this beach deserted now
for winter’s taken its first bow,
omen for geese to begin flight.
Alluring without sounds of crowds.

Wind whips sand, and lone kite;
my eyes watch route ‘til out of sight.
A sting of salt assaults my lips.
Ocean sparkles in brilliant light.

A mist drifts ‘cross my fingertips,
today my toes will not be dipped.
I can throw my ams in the air,
and shout to every gull and ship.

A freeness overtakes me here.
My mind empties of all life’s cares.
Expanse of vastness humbles me,
a brush stroke in this art we share.




There she stood in the shadow of night
where the moon was big and roundly bright,
and there she was wishing on a star,
a reflection of the evening’s light.

It was seven years beyond the bar,
she traveled long and she traveled far,
her journey began within her heart
but the pain of leaving left a scar.

And so she dreamed of a fresh new start,
she couldn’t stand to remain apart,
but reality comes not from dreams,
her wish in sadness did impart.

So in the shadows the moonlight beams,
a love once bursting at the seams
was not the love that lived in dreams,
was not the love that lived in dreams!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016


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  1. connielpeters on said:

    Some friends I knew when our kids were young lost their son yesterday in a car crash.

    At Twenty-Nine

    When death comes knocking for the young,
    When music stops before song’s sung,
    We pause to feel the sorrow’s pain.
    Too soon, the final bell has rung.

    The thoughts surge slowly through the brain.
    It feels like acid through the vein.
    You wonder why the tears won’t come
    Or if the numbness will remain.

    “It can’t be real,” beats like a drum.
    Impossible! It sounds so dumb.
    The sky’s still blue, the days go on.
    Where did this throbbing ache come from?

    The joy and hope becomes withdrawn.
    Tear after tear, the grief does spawn.
    You cry until the tears are gone.
    Then they return with the next dawn.


    If leaves could speak, what would they say
    when summer ends its season’s play?
    What fear would flutter through their veins
    when dewdrops cease to greet the day?

    Would the loss of green bring on shame?
    Would they express their autumn pain,
    let sorrow seep and coat their blade?
    To shriek contempt, what would it gain?

    If leaves could speak before they fade,
    before they tumble to their grave,
    would they plead for one more season
    or in their fall descent be brave?


  3. William Preston on said:


    As I pursue the craft of poetry,
    I sometimes wonder where the muses be,
    for, often, when I wish to be inspired,
    they take themselves so far away from me

    that I suspect they must be feeling tired
    of trying to get all my circuits wired
    so lines and verses pass from mind to page,
    and thus, synapses must remain unfired.

    I wonder if this all is due to age
    or if the muses feel some surging rage
    at always being at my beck and call
    when I would have poetic gears engage.

    If so, they show unmitigated gall
    by leaving me behind a huge eight ball
    as I pursue the craft of poetry.
    I ought to lend them to a music hall.

  4. William Preston on said:

    Sara, your poem exudes a sweeping feel that I find exhilarating.

  5. William Preston on said:

    Walt, I have the feeling of a blues when reading your piece.

  6. Remorse

    some times in the dark of night
    when blackness blots out all in sight
    is when I miss your smile the most
    the touch of you , passion incite

    I try to conjure up your ghost
    with mem’ries of our love, inmost,
    that flow within my empty veins
    where heart no longer cares to boast

    of conquests from a failed campaign
    that I could not control, maintain
    and left me sorrowfully torn
    cursed by a life besmirched, profane

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