For Inform starters, I offer a form that I had developed a while back. I consider it a Japanese form, molded after a haiku. Read below for its discovery and presentation.


I had received a reiki treatment in the not so distant past for some various aches and ailments I had been experiencing. Reiki is a therapy often described as palm healing or hands-on-body healing in which a practitioner places hands lightly on or over a patient’s body to facilitate the patient’s process of healing. Reiki combines the Japanese and Chinese word-characters of “rei” (spiritual or supernatural) and “ki” (vital energy). A basic idea held by those who practice Reiki is that this vital energy can be channeled to support the body’s natural ability to heal itself. However, there is no scientific support to these claims that this so-called vital energy actually exists, or that there is conclusive evidence Reiki is useful for any health-related purpose. That doesn’t mean it’s a harmful practice.

As Ann Baldwin, (a professor of physiology at the University of Arizona and a trained Reiki master, or practitioner) states “Reiki can do no harm — the worst thing it can do is nothing.”

In spite of all that, I felt better after my treatment. Relaxed. I felt no stress and no anxiety so for me, that “nothing” was something.


Reiki as a poetic form? In homage to the haiku, I envision the Reikiku in that vein – a seventeen syllable channeling of energy or spirit to ease one’s heart, stress anxiety or emotion. Untitled, is written in four lines with a 5,5,4,3-syllable count. Any rhyme incorporated is purely discretionary. It begins with the trouble you look to ease and works toward that end.

My example of Reikiku:

weariness of heart
finds its peace through love
within oneself
peace will come.


searching for some truth
I discover it
buried within
truth lives there


 Another Wednesday and another foray into poetic brilliance. Today we see through the eyes of Thomas Moore in this brief poem of the wonders of the world about him in “If You Have Seen.”

 It appears to be the 42nd poem on the list.

Thomas Moore


by Thomas Moore

Good reader! if you e’er have seen,
When Phoebus hastens to his pillow
The mermaids, with their tresses green,
Dancing upon the western billow:
If you have seen, at twilight dim,
When the lone spirit’s vesper hymn
Floats wild along the winding shore:
If you have seen, through mist of eve,
The fairy train their ringlets weave,
Glancing along the spangled green;–
If you have seen all this and more,
God bless me! what a deal you’ve seen!


We are the sum total of our parts, and that is a fact. We go through life walking, talking, thinking,  planting and growing, knowing that we are capable of many things. We’ve been given many gifts.

As poets we see what is or can be possible and write it in expressive ways. It says a lot for our perception and the direction of thoughts and dreams.

But, the sum of our parts? We have eyes to see, ears to hear, hands to touch, arms to hold, etc. And therein lies our prompt.

This week I ask you to take a phrase or word that includes a body part and make that the title of your poem. Some examples: Isn’t He Handsome, Get a Foothold, Facetime, I’ll Be Back, Eye of the Storm,… you get the picture. You are not necessarily writing about the part, more so the inference of the phrase or conjunction of words. This is a bit of a twist on a common prompt. I know our poets will do extraordinary things with this. You’ve proven it by your body of work! You stand out, but never stand apart from the rest of our cohorts. Raise your voice and sing the Body Electric.



He was handsome.
Excellent mind,
when it mattered.
Nobody more well-

Clearly he had the world
at his fingertips.

Then came the diagnoses:
and they were many,
and they were hard to stomach.

This unmasking of
high impact issues
caused setbacks.
He felt he was
plunging into limbo.
No more spearheading projects.
No more chairing committees.
No more researching solutions
at breakneck speed.

But then good news was delivered!
He’d been misdiagnosed all along!

The moral of the story?
Though I try bloody hard to be humerus

It’s all in vein.

And you know what else?
For as long as you have breath,
you’ll never not see noses
in diagnoses.

© Marie Elena Good, 2018



The “doctor” is in.
Caring words for a troubled heart
in a dosage that will impart a remedy
for any ailment or malady. Encouraging
healing in the hearing of his verse,
no nurse can massage and soothe
what this Doctor of Poetics can touch
with gentle compassion, a fashion
which has not been taken to heart
since the aching had started.
Injecting humor to induce laughter’s medicine,
and after that, prescribing in rhyme
for the times when his words aren’t so apparent.
It is inherent to his purpose, to do no harm
with the words that warm and placate.
Giving a clean slate to a heart so caressed
by the worded wonder of a true poetic healer.
A great deal, just be sure to follow the warning:
read two poems and call me in the morning.

The “doctor” is always in. 

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2018


We will be re-introducing our study of poetic forms here at POETIC BLOOMINGS. A form will be highlighted every Friday. You can respond and comment to the form as usual, or try to incorporate the form in your response to the Sunday Seed. The first form will be featured on Friday, Aug. 31st. Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle!


 Today’s poet of choice is one of the best known poets of the twentieth century. In the Reading Room, we will not “rage against the dying of the light”, but the poem I present to you does address the “comings and goings” of life. Written by Dylan Thomas, please read, “Deaths and Entrances.”  It shows up as the 20th poem on the list.

Dylan Thomas

Deaths And Entrances 

by Dylan Thomas

On almost the incendiary eve
Of several near deaths,
When one at the great least of your best loved
And always known must leave
Lions and fires of his flying breath,
Of your immortal friends
Who’d raise the organs of the counted dust
To shoot and sing your praise,
One who called deepest down shall hold his peace
That cannot sink or cease
Endlessly to his wound
In many married London’s estranging grief.

On almost the incendiary eve
When at your lips and keys,
Locking, unlocking, the murdered strangers weave,
One who is most unknown,
Your polestar neighbour, sun of another street,
Will dive up to his tears.
He’ll bathe his raining blood in the male sea
Who strode for your own dead
And wind his globe out of your water thread
And load the throats of shells
with every cry since light
Flashed first across his thunderclapping eyes.

On almost the incendiary eve
Of deaths and entrances,
When near and strange wounded on London’s waves
Have sought your single grave,
One enemy, of many, who knows well
Your heart is luminous
In the watched dark, quivering through locks and caves,
Will pull the thunderbolts
To shut the sun, plunge, mount your darkened keys
And sear just riders back,
Until that one loved least
Looms the last Samson of your zodiac.


The “AND I QUOTE” prompts will take a quotation from some random person of note and be the basis for our poetry. We’ve used this idea to some great effect in the past, so if it ain’t broke…

Today’s quote:

“If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this
thing is to be remembered.” ~Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe

You are asked to write about something you’ve forgotten. Write of something you wish you could forget. Or write a memory that has stayed with you for a long time that even “without a note,” you’ve remembered.



It’s not so much in the forgetting,
nor even in the retrieving.
See, it’s in the connecting.
Though my brain is smallish,
that which is stored


is far too often not perceiving
that which is stored


The nerve!
Apparently my data is shy –
certified tongue-tied.
Unwilling to bond with
or respond to
the other facts and files
in my brain’s adjacent aisles.
They may as well be miles apart.

Oh the trials that stem
from data that scatters.
It matters.

© Marie Elena Good, 2018




My memory is dotted with crisp images
that have ingrained into the depth of my soul.
I have no control over them; they lay dormant,
only to bubble to the surface when I least expect.
Trying in vain to relinquish these old feelings,
I reel with remorse, this sad course I contemplate
leaves me silent and still and alone.
And so, I am left kneeling in supplication,
a broad brush of despair paints me.
Pagliacci’s clown cries out from within, making a spectacle
of my mirth and mired muse. My resolution
refuses to take hold; these memories dominate me.
It is too late. Love languishes.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2018


Today’s highlighted poet: our second selection in the Reading Room, gives us this poem. It was written by Robert Frost, and is entitled, “Mending Wall.”  It is the 47th poem on the list.


Robert Frost

Mending Wall

by Robert Frost


Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
‘Stay where you are until our backs are turned!’
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
‘Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.’ I could say ‘Elves’ to him,
But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father’s saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’


We’re all here because we are creative people. Some of us in more ways than we admit. But none is no more and no less talented than the next. We achieve our own level of “greatness.”

And we flaunt it, as we should. There’s a difference between pride (one of the seven deadlies) and accomplishment. Baseball legend Dizzy Dean was known to say, “It ain’t braggin’ if you can back it up!” More times than not, others lift us up to those lofty standards and sing our praises. That’s the community we have created here at POETIC BLOOMINGS.

The majority of us have established a “blog” in which to showcase our stories or photos. We display our artwork. We proffer our poetry for those so inclined. What do you call your “special place?” What is the name of your blog? What do you call it? That is the title of this week’s offering. Give us the name of the site that touts YOU! What inspired that name? We’d be happy to know that. And for the last line of your comment, give us the URL of this incredible cavern of creativity. We’d like to visit whatchamacallit!

But you may also be saying, “Walt? What if I don’t really keep a blog?” Well, think of what you’d call it if you did? Write what your dream site would be, and maybe we can help you make your dream come true.



They say a picture paints a thousand words.
The pairing of the two gives me delight.
And if a picture paints a thousand words,
Then picture this:  a picture painted write.

The pairing of the two gives me delight –
A complement of image with my words –
Appealing to my mind, and to my sight.
Perhaps a picture paints a thousand words

But here is what I try hard to pursue:
I strive to bat a thousand, with a few.

© Marie Elena Good, 2018

My little blog, Pictured Words, may be found here:




The poet’s heart is a sanctuary,
a haven for the emotive side
of life. Love is a common thread.
It is said that love grows
through the eyes of a poet’s heart.

Compassion is expressed in the actions
we perform to the benefit of others
needing its caress. We feel best
when we give to the cause, no applause
through the eyes of the poet’s heart.

Nature sparks our muses, it chooses
who embraces her realm,
at the helm is the Grand Master,
providing inspiration for our words
often heard through the eyes of a poet’s heart.

Also dwelling is the telling
of who we are, from whence we came
and where we’d like to be. We see ourselves,
dusted off of the shelves of life
written through the eyes of a poet’s heart.

Our hearts envision what our eyes refuse to see,
through the eyes of a poet’s heart.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

Through the Eyes of a Poet’s Heart @


There has been a glut of great poems written by magnificent W.W. poets. And then there’s me. But, I digress. Today’s entry highlights one such poet and one of his works. For our first selection in the Reading Room, I offer the poem to you. Written by Walt Whitman, this short poem is appropriately entitled, “To You.”  It was listed as the 79th best poem on the list.

Walt Whitman

To You

by Walt Whitman

STRANGER! if you, passing, meet me,
and desire to speak to me,
why should you not speak to me?
And why should I not speak to you?

Remember, the Sunday prompt remains open for your comments or new submissions.
The Garden gate doesn’t close, not any more. 
can be found at this link.



I’ve been looking for this place for quite a while and it was right here where I left it. And that’s not all I found. Waiting at the gate with all the patience of Job, is Marie Elena Good! What better way to rekindle the poetic fires than to unlock this gate for perpetuity and pick up where we left off. We are excited to rejoin with each other and all of you, as we had from the beginning of our poetic journey, in tune and ready to resume our quest in the best garden for verse!

In our absence, we have lost some friends who have gone to their Peace. Salvatore Buttaci, Andrea Heiberg and Vivienne Blake were regular contributors to this site and I’m sure their spirit will rise again to celebrate our new endeavor. May they Rest in Peace.

So let us begin again, and as long as we’re on the subject of peace, we will offer this prompt for your poetic consideration. Peace and joy can be found in the written word; found by those who read them, and found by those who write what dwells within.

Write a poem about the peace that poetry brings to your glad hearts! Write of the joy it brings to you. Or write a piece about how much you love to pen your poems. Return home in peace and love and joy. And Good Lord willing, we’ll stick around this time. We promise as best we can!





The garden gate parts,
releasing sweet aroma
of former florae.

She softly steps in,
breathing the beauty that binds
virtuous voices.

The presence of peace
silences the restlessness
grinding at the gate.

Now bejeweled with joy,
renewing friends and florae,
she picks up her pen.

© Marie Elena Good, 2018




We look for truth in every eye
and know it when it shows.
We search for peace in every heart,
for a true heart really knows.

For in the heart, we love what’s dear
to fills us all with joy.
And in love and joy we find that peace,
every man and woman, girl and boy.

We do not choose the ones we’ll love,
for love will touch each soul.
We do not choose what gives us joy,
it’s out of our control.

But somehow we find that spark of peace,
and with it comes understanding,
that without love and without joy,
our peace will not be withstanding.

Search yourself to find your truth,
your eyes will not deceive you,
then look into your heart and see,
true peace will never leave you.


(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018