As the saying goes, “The bigger they are, the harder they fall.” Another states, “It’s not how far you fall, it’s how high you bounce back.” Today, celebrating the “one week anniversary” of the First Day of Fall (Autumn) 2018, we are considering the word “FALL.”  Be it the season, or the process of hitting the pavement, we are looking for a FALL poem under the following consideration:

During the two week period between Sunday October 14 to and including Saturday October 27, we will be conducting a Mini-Poem-A-Day Chapbook Exercise in preparation for the November Poem-a-Day Chapbook Challenge being conducted by Robert Lee Brewer over at the Poetic Asides poetry blog. Each poem will be included in your final effort.

Your Mini-chapbook theme will be “AUTUMN” with a daily prompt being something in that regard. Today’s poem title will be the title of your chapbook and will be the first poem in your mini-tome. All successive poems in the challenge will have a relation to or be driven by this first piece in some way beyond just being a Fall poem. Also you will be required to use a line from the previous poem to thread the string. So think about your title and write that poem today, and we’ll play poet in a major way starting on the 14th.


Fall of My Heart (Sonnet for Autumn)

Way back, when I was just a little girl
My heart fell hard and fast for autumn’s charms.
As summer ends, the joys of fall unfurl,
With football, marching bands, and pumpkin farms.

Drum cadence seems to beat within my chest
As scarlet, gold, and ginger grace our trees.
The scents of burning leaves, and apples pressed,
Or baked ‘tween flaky crusts, give me weak knees.

When sun shines full in autumn’s deep blue sky,
Or harvest moon looms larger than my home,
It simply leaves me breathless. My-oh-my,
I cannot paint my fondness in a poem.

I have this wish –  believe me, it’s sincere –
I wish fall lingered ten more months per year.

© Marie Elena Good, 2018



AS THE DAYS DWINDLE,  by Walter J Wojtanik

I hear Roger Williams play
as the days dwindle –
and we’re searching for kindling
and strong Oolong tea brews.
The leaves become the hue of a barn fire,
they take a flyer and are tossed;
lost upon them is their imminent demise.
Gracefully, they drift past the window
as Roger Williams plays.
Tree branches sway in the breeze
pleased to be rid of the molting
vegetation in sad celebration.
The falling leaves of red
and gold embossed with
nature’s time stamp, to be trampled upon
and piled up, hours wiled away –
kids at play. And Roger Williams too.
Summer kisses soon forgotten,
hands once sun-burned and gnarled
beat a retreat and go away, winter’s song
plays. But, I miss you most of all my darling,
when Roger Williams plays.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018



The Viator poem form was invented by Canadian author and poet Robin Skelton. It consists of any stanzaic form in which the first line of the first stanza is the second line of the second stanza and so on until the poem ends with the line with which it began. The term, Viator comes from the Latin for traveller. An example of Skelton’s form may be found in his excellent reference book, The Shapes of our Singing*, and is entitled Dover Beach Revisited.

An unpublished example of the Viator is included below to illustrate how the line travels through the poem, its repetition adding weight to the process described. The repeating line is highlighted.


THE TRUE NORTH, by Walter J Wojtanik

I grew up very near the border with Canada,
and at times I feel Canadian by osmosis.
The influences of their media
had a profound affect on my upbringing.

I remember singing “O Canada” at hockey games
(I grew up very near the border with Canada.)
Or when the games were televised on Saturday night.
At the end of day, I sang both anthems when they’d play.

Many shows would entertain and remain to,
long after I had grown. You would have known
I grew up very near the border with Canada,
by the True North knowledge I would amass.

Now, my attraction is due to my daughter.
She married a Canadian gent and went
to live in Ottawa in the Great True North.
She grew up very near the border with Canada.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018



In Skelton’s poem, a rhyme scheme of A-B-B-A is used. I have yet to find that this is required, but you can incorporate it into your own poem. My example:



There is no reason for concern,
we will surely find our way.
No matter what the people say,
we’ll grow in all that we will learn.

Our eyes will see these visions bright,
there is no reason for concern.
We’ll be inspired at every turn,
as the harvest moon fills up the night.

The beauty that this sight displays,
will glow as long as it will burn.
There is no reason for concern
when all the stars come out to play.

The evening chills me and I yearn
for a crackling fire in the hearth,
as seasons change across the earth
there is no reason for concern.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018


*This link is to a review of Robin Skelton’s book from Jim Wilson’s blog “Shaping Words.”




When we had to close the Poetic Bloomings garden gate, one of the things I missed most  was interviewing our poets.  Though we can learn a great deal about one another from the poems we share, there is something much more intimate about sitting down one-on-one with someone, focusing only on them for a bit.  I get much satisfaction in presenting them to you.

Today, I’m pleased to present one of our original Bloomers and long-time poet friend, Earl Parsons.

MARIE ELENA:  Welcome, Earl!  If memory serves, we met back in 2009 for The Writer’s Digest April Poem-a-Day challenge with Robert Lee Brewer.  Is that right?

EARL:  Actually, I started in the PAD challenge in April of 2008. I may have been an unknown entity at that time, don’t you know. Still, I was there and made it for a few more PAD challenges. I actually made it through most of the ones I started, but it was a struggle due to my job as an Insurance Adjuster who covered a 44,000 square mile area, and never knew when and where I would be from day to day. But, that’s a subject for another book of poetry.

MARIE ELENA:    44,000 square miles?   Yikes!  It’s a wonder you were able to have any life outside of work, let alone a writing life!  Well, I’m glad that isn’t an issue for you anymore, and we can reap the benefits here at Poetic Bloomings!

EARL:  I will say that I was so happy when Poetic Bloomings sprang forth. I feel at home here, and the challenges spark my brain. I’m very happy y’all are back together.

MARIE ELENA:  Thank you for your kind words, Earl.  We love what we do here, and are thankful for poets like you.   So, what was your first experience at writing poetry?

EARL:  That came about ten minutes after I understood that words can rhyme from time to time and a rhyme with time is a timely rhyme. In other words, I started my poetry journey at a very young age. How young? I couldn’t say, but I was told that in kindergarten I could already put rhymes together, and often would, depending on what was happening around me.

MARIE ELENA:  Kindergarten, eh?  I can relate! My “ear for rhyme” was mentioned on my recently rediscovered Kindergarten grade card!  Our mutual claim to fame, Earl!

Was Robert’s site the first on which you posted publicly?

EARL:  Publicly and regularly, yes. I had, however, put writings on the Internet sporadically here and there, starting around the time of 9/11.

MARIE ELENA:  Knowing your love of country, it doesn’t surprise me that 9/11 flooded you with thoughts for which you needed an outlet.  Do you remember what (or who) sparked your original interest?

EARL:  When I was very young, it was just plain fun. When I reached my teen years, it was still fun, but I found that girls really like it, too. The more I got into music, especially what we now call classic rock, I found that poetry was the basis for most every song that I liked. Poetry was one of the things that helped me win my true love’s heart. And as an adult, I find poetry to be a place to release all the passions in my soul.

As for someone that first sparked the interest, I can’t say who was the first spark, but now it is my family, my country, and my God that provides all the sparks I’ll ever need.

MARIE ELENA:  What is your goal in writing? Is it simply to enjoy the experience, or is it to be a published author?

EARL: My actual goal is to arrange words that paint pictures, tell stories, capture memories, stimulate laughter, or produce tears. I strive to draw the reader into the poem and strum their emotional strings into a beautiful song. I want my writings, especially the ones I write for God, to touch those that need to be touched, because I believe that anything written for the glorification of God is intended to be read by someone in an effort to further His kingdom on this Earth.

MARIE ELENA:  I couldn’t agree more.

EARL: That said, I would like to be published primarily for that purpose. Trouble is, I fear rejection, but know it’s a part of the submission process. Hopefully, I’ll get over that fear shortly.

MARIE ELENA:  I suspect many (most?) of us struggle in the same way.  I wonder if it helps if we see ourselves as writers/poets. Do you consider yourself a poet?

EARL: In the real sense of the word, no. I don’t know the forms very well. I couldn’t name but a few poets outside of Frost, Seuss, or Silverstein. In a discussion of poetry, I’m lost. So, no, I don’t consider myself a poet.

Now, when it comes to storytelling or entertaining, maybe there’s something there. I find it easy to write situational poetry, patriotic or political verse, or creative family historical pieces. In fact, I find it easier to put poems together than it is to actually write about things that interest me.

When it comes to writing poetry for children or God, I’m there. In fact, when I finally got serious about poetry about 20 years ago, many of the poems were spawned by the daily devotionals I was writing at that time. My target audience for the devotions, poetry, and dramas back then were teens and children, because I was headlong into the youth ministry at the church I attended. I have enough devotions and poems to fill a half dozen books, if only I’d get the nerve, or the faith, to submit them.

MARIE ELENA:  I had no idea you wrote more than poetry, or that you wrote for children and teens.  That’s fantastic!  I must say I find it very interesting that, as a prolific writer of poetry, you don’t see yourself as a “poet,” simply because you are not (pardon the coming pun) well versed in poetry and poets.  If anyone comments on this interview, I would love to hear their take on the subject. Perhaps we could have a discussion out here on that topic.

Excuse me just a moment, Earl.  Hey, Walt!  What do you think?  A topic discussion someplace in the garden, on occasion?   

Okay, Earl, if there is one thing I know you would call yourself, it would be “devoted  husband.” You’ve been happily married a good long time to your lovely wife, Kim.  How did you meet?

Earl and Kim

EARL:  Kim and I met at the NCO (Non-Commissioned Officers) Club at Scott Air Force Base in Illinois in the late 80s. We were both working part-time jobs; I as a bartender and she as a waitress. We worked in opposite ends of the club, but her bartender refused to make strawberry daiquiris, so she was instructed to come to my bar and have me make them. And that’s how the whole thing started.

As we became close friends, my feelings went a little deeper. I would take register tape and write poems on the back for her to read after her shift. She inspired me to write more and more and we became closer and closer, until, eventually, we fell in love.

MARIE ELENA: Oh, if that isn’t the sweetest thing!  And how did you propose?

EARL: On one Saturday morning I went to the mall on the way to meet her for breakfast, and stopped by the jewelry counter. I put the engagement ring in a brown paper bag with what I bought from the store, and popped the question when she opened the bag. And, to my total amazement, she said “yes.”  We just celebrated 29 years together, and are hoping for many, many more.

MARIE ELENA:  How fun! Congratulations on your 29th Anniversary! What would you say is the secret to your relationship longevity?

EARL: The secret to our success is definitely our relationship with God. We were both Christians when we met and got married, but we were not living a life that was honorable or acceptable to Him. We eventually realized how much we needed to get back to God and brought Him into our lives. Since then, He has blessed us much more than we ever deserved.

Every day with my wife and family is the best time of my life. I never want to find out what life would be like without them.

MARIE ELENA:   I’m happy for you and Kim, and of course, your children. A contented family life can’t be beat.

Now I’m going to turn the tables on you to ask, what is the hardest issue you have ever had to deal with, and what measures did you take to get through it?

EARL: I would have to say the nissen fundoplication in October of 2016. In simple terms, an NF is a Stomach Wrap, where the top portion of the stomach is wrapped around the esophagus and tied in place. This helps prevent heartburn and reflux, and can reduce or eliminate the need for medication. In my case it eliminated all the meds I was on for the problems I was having. But things just went wrong from the beginning. I spent 12 days in ICU and was transferred (life-flighted) to New Orleans for another 15 days. Kim was with me all the way, and my children were in and out as much as they could. I would write a book about the ordeal, but I don’t remember a whole lot of it. I do know, however, that a lot of people were praying for me, and God heard those prayers. As the prompts progress, you might read a poem or three that spawned from those 27 days and the time during the recovery.

MARIE ELENA:  Many of us “Bloomers” were aware and praying. What a relief, when we finally saw you out-and-about on Facebook again.  And speaking of prayer, I know you are a man of great faith … a believer in Jesus Christ.  How did you come to know Him, and how has your relationship with Him affected your life?

EARL: As a young child, I threw a fit at the end of summer vacation with my grandparents, and ran off and hid in the woods because I wanted to stay in the country with them. Well, my mother signed me over to them and they raised me. My grandmother was a drug addict, in that every time the church doors were open, she drug me with her. And I’m thankful that she did.

In Vacation Bible School at the age of seven, I said the prayer of salvation, and again in the next VBS, and the next VBS, and the next VBS, and so on. Of course, at that age I understood the Bible stories, but didn’t really grasp what it meant to be saved. As I grew older and into my teens, our youth group would cross the border into New Brunswick for good old gospel concerts. I truly loved these concerts, but had problems when the invitation rolled around. I would sweat and jitter and cling to the back of the seat in front of me, but usually I would just walk out into the atrium and check out the records and other merchandise. That way, I could escape the conviction I was under.

And then came THE concert. It was so crowded that when the invitation started, there was nowhere to go. First the group sang, “The King is Coming,” and the sweat poured off of my brow. Then they followed up with, “I Wish We’d All Been Ready,” and that did me in. The conviction of the Holy Spirit broke me where I stood, and after squeezing through the others in the row, I went forward for real.

A few years ago, I wrote this about that night:

I Wish We’d All Been Ready (by Earl Parsons)

An evening quite some time ago
A concert in New Brunswick
Woodstock, if I’m not mistaken
On a cold Canadian night
The music played
And the crowd praised the Lord
Me included
Although not sure I belonged there
Until the end
When the invitation began

“The King is Coming’ started
And the pressure mounted
My hands began to sweat
Then my brow
And down my neck
My heart rate increased
As they made their case
For heaven or hell
If only I could make it through
This song, I could go home
But then,
It went on
Verse after verse
Word after word
Eating at my lost soul
Calling me to repent
And give in
To a Savior
That I needed to know
But didn’t
Or wouldn’t

Then it ended
The song, that is
And several people bumped their way by me
On their way to the front
Answering the call
The call I was fighting
Could I go home now?

Then the voice over the loudspeaker said
“Now is your time … your time to answer His call”
Then another song started
More powerful than the last
A song that hit me hard
A song that broke me down
A song that started my feet moving
Toward the front
To accept Him
Once and for all

“A man and wife alone in bed
She hears a noise
And turns her head
He’s gone
I wish we’d all been ready.”

“I wish we’d all been ready”
A sad song of truth
About those left behind
When the eye twinkles
And He returns for His own
To take us forever
With Him
On high
That’s where I’ll be
Because thanks to that night
And that song
I am ready
And I pray you will be too

As for how my relationship with Christ has affected my life, He has touched every aspect of it, even in the times that I relied on myself instead of Him. He has blessed me beyond anything that I deserved, and continues to bless me in so many ways. I owe it all to Him, and one of these days, I’ll be able to thank Him face-to-face.

MARIE ELENA:  Thank you for sharing that, Earl.  I also want to thank you in this public forum for your service in the U.S. Air Force.  Look how handsome! I’d like to hear how that came about.


EARL: Honestly, my time in the Air Force started out of desperation. I didn’t complete the proper courses in high school to qualify for college, and, honestly, I don’t think I would have been a good college student anyway. I wasn’t the keenest when it came to studying and all that, way back when.

It was nearing winter in Northern Maine, and I needed a job. Walking down Main Street in Presque Isle, I came upon the recruiters offices. As I looked at each recruiting poster, I eliminated one branch after the other. No Navy for me because I couldn’t swim. No Marines because I wasn’t tough enough. No Army because I didn’t want to be shipped directly to Viet Nam. But the Air Force … now that’s a branch I could handle. And I did for over 20 years, with most of that time spent overseas.

I served under Presidents Ford, Carter, Reagan, GHW Bush, and Clinton. Serving under President Reagan was a blast because he was the most respected and relatable CIC in modern history. President Carter gave us the largest pay raise. And GHW Bush was respected because of his history in uniform.

MARIE ELENA:  Twenty years. Wow. Did you ever end up being shipped to Viet Nam?  Where else did you serve?

EARL: I enlisted near the end of the war, and actually volunteered to go in country. But, being in communications in the Air Force, I was sent to Okinawa instead. While there, I participated in the setup of communication patches that were used during the evacuation process, which included the ill-fated “Baby Airlift.”

The next conflict came with Desert Storm in the early 90s. At that time I was stationed in Illinois and our unit provided weather data for troop movements. Other than that, most of my time in uniform was during peace time.

My last assignment, however, was working with a joint task force searching and recovering remains from Southeast Asia, Korea, and even China. I was the NCO in charge of the data automation section and never went in theatre, but did work with all of the files and data related to our missing in action and prisoners of war. During my two years in that division, I managed to read just about all of the files on the POWs and MIAs. There were some incredible stories about many incredible people.

MARIE ELENA:  Goodness.  I can only imagine these stories of absolute heroes in our midst.  Please tell me what you struggled with the most.  And can you now look back on it, and see a benefit?

EARL: Maybe I’m weird, but I loved every single day while in uniform. Each assignment brought new and interesting experiences, especially when overseas. My first assignment was in Okinawa, and it scared the living daylights out of this young guy from the country. But after a couple of days there, I loved it. Then came Missouri, Germany, mainland Japan, Illinois, and finally Hawaii. If someone would have told me when I was a young buck in high school that I would be traveling the world, I’d have told them they were crazy. Now, if only I could write that book.

MARIE ELENA:  EARL!  WRITE THAT BOOK! 🙂 And once again, thank you, sir, for your service to our country.

I end all my interviews with this:  If there was only one thing we could know about you, what would you want it to be … and why?

EARL:  I think that there is one thing that most people really don’t understand about me, and that is just how passionate I am, especially when it comes to God, family and country. Most mistake my passion for arrogance or even nastiness. Neither is anywhere close to the truth. My passion is heartfelt, researched, and honest.

Most of all, however, my passion is respectful of others and their passions. That is until things get nasty. I’m not perfect, and sometimes I come back with the same attitude that is pushed my way, but I do try and stay calm and rational. If the dialogue goes south, then I will usually step away.

Much of my passion is contained in my poetry. Some of my poems are direct and to the point, almost to the point of causing angst to the reader. Well, if that happens, then maybe it was meant to happen. The intent of many of my writings is to make people think by seeing the other side of the coin. All too often, however, the other side of the coin rocks the reader’s boat. Hopefully, seeing both sides will spur a conversation and educate at the same time.

In this PC world, I believe more passion is needed, along with more raw truth without the candy coating. And I’m here to write the words that express just that.

In closing, thank you Marie for the honor of being selected for an interview. And, as I’ve mentioned before, thanks to you and Walt for resurrecting Poetic Bloomings. Write on, everyone.


Click here for more interviews



Here, Pablo Neruda speaks of the misery of life in some reaches of the world. If being in such a state and helpless to doing anything about it, being a (hu)man loses its worth. In poem #82 is “Walking Around.”

Pablo Neruda


by Pablo Neruda

It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailor shops and movie houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.

Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.

I don’t want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.

I don’t want so much misery.
I don’t want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.

That’s why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.

And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling. 


Photo: Shutterbox - Public Domain

Photo: Shutterbox – Public Domain

Hey Pandora! What’s in the box? Good or bad, there’s something in there dying to come out. It could be a blessing. It might be a curse. The photo itself may inspire a totally different thought. Use your ekphrastic abilities to let us know. What’s in the box?



Out of fear
(or worse  —  indifference)
she waited too long
to unlock the trunk she daily
avoided. Tripped over. Pretended wasn’t there.

Summoning the courage, she unlocked it.
Discovered a long-lost page.
Dulled.  Faded. Not easily read.
Less easily understood.

For times had changed,
and, therefore,
the truths that had shaped them.


As she tried to examine
and understand,
she began to question


Perhaps wrong paths had been taken.
Destructive habits had formed.

Perhaps what was true, then,
was no less true, now.

Perhaps times change,
but truths remain.

Perhaps it was up to her
to unlock



© Marie Elena Good, 2018





No one knows.
And the best-kept secret remains as such.
How much is it worth to know things
that your heart can confirm,
but you cannot communicate,
this declaration of fact lies hidden.
Distance spanned and water
under the bridge between then and now.
How do you live a life with this burden?
They couldn’t know; you gave no indications,
your stagnation and debilitating fear
brought you here with nary a lead.
But indeed, you have known.
You will carry it until you’ll have grown
feeble and cold, just an infarction from
the chill’s permanence; it hides in residence.
Do you declare to the world and hope the rooftops
can handle your exuberance,
your happy dance long buried?
This fact prompts you to wonder
that if under this guise you can reprise
what your heart conceals, the real feel of its mystery,
your history until now untold and you let the story unfold.
Touching secrets with probing fingers,
the memory lingers. You held the best vantage point
in the room to see all before you,
a chance at a glance always revealed.
Though you were in close proximity,
you chose to let fear dictate and seal your fate.
Never a clue did you expose. You chose to fade,
finding comfort in your invisibility. Indignantly,
you held your nerve and your secret this long.
It can’t be wrong to release your burden and breathe again.
No one knows.
You wonder if your existence evaded detection then.
You are certain that it does now.
Unseen for all these years, no one could know.
Your memories melt flowing onto a page
as you engage your feelings.
Poems written of your smitten past,
and at last you come clean.
It’s not as if these poems will ever be seen.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2018



Eclogue (Bucolic), a short pastoral poem, usually in dialogue, on the subject of rural life and the society of shepherds, depicting rural life as free from the complexity and corruption of more “civilized” life.

The eclogue first appeared in the Idylls of the Greek poet Theocritus (c. 310–250 BC), generally recognized as the inventor of pastoral poetry. The Roman poet Virgil (70–19 BC) adopted the form for his 10 Eclogues, or Bucolics.

Edmund Spenser’s series of 12 eclogues, The Shepheardes Calender (1579), is considered the first outstanding pastoral poem in English. By the 17th century less formal eclogues were written. Marvell’s “Nymph Complaining for the Death of her Fawn” (1681) climaxed the eclogue tradition of combining rural freshness with learned imitation. In the 18th century English poets began to use the eclogue for ironic verse on nonpastoral subjects, such as Jonathan Swift’s “A Town Eclogue. 1710. Scene, The Royal Exchange.”

The poets of the Romantic period rebelled against the artificiality of the older pastoral, and the eclogue fell from favour. The form has occasionally been revived for special purposes by modern poets, as in Louis MacNeice’s ironic eclogues in his Collected Poems, 1925–1948 (1949).




OFF THE CORN HUSKS AFAR, by Walter J Wojtanik

Brother, how well does your corn grow?
Is it free from intrusion, free from spoil?
Does it spring forth from your soil
like a sprite prepared for the dance?

By chance, does the fragrance flourish
in an attempt to nourish the senses,
grown without malice, without fences,
is it a prosperous crop, perchance?

My crop indeed is fine and fair,
see it there across the way?
Do you see it sway when He who made us
breathes life into it with winds full force?

And of course, should its husk
become impaired with a musk prepared
by the harvest’s fast reproach,
would you think it is without remorse?

Yes, your corn does reach long and high
filling my nostrils, filling the sky
with its fine greenery.
It paints the scenery from afar. 


© Walter J Wojtanik – 2018


In the random selection process, we have our first “repeat offender” with the inclusion of one of Robert Frost’s classic and best loved poems, “The Road Not Taken”, number 72.

Robert Frost


by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference. 


Here’s the quote:

“Nothing is impossible, the word itself says, “I’m Possible!”
~Audrey Hepburn

Image result for audrey hepburn

How is the impossible even possible? We wonder if we are capable to achieve great things because they seem daunting, haunting our every thought and action. “What’s the use?” we ask. We think we’re setting ourselves up for failure.

But, take this quote from Audrey Hepburn, star of the silver screen and a World Ambassador. From humble beginnings, she rose to her status in films such as “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” “A Nun’s Story,” and “My Fair Lady,” to name a few. Once retired from acting, she took on the challenge presented by third world countries, focusing on the starving and sick children. Always charming, always a loving soul. For Audrey Hepburn, she made the impossible, possible.

So, what’s possible for you? What do you consider out of your league? What have you or do think you can achieve?? Write a “possible” poem. Or an “impossible” poem. Or a hopeful dream … something you’d like to do but haven’t yet. Something “bucket list” worthy. Impossible? Positively possible!



Castoff the conception that curiosity
killed the cat.
Inquisitiveness is
the origin of opportunity.
Actually, cultivated curiosity
converts to curiositunity,
and curiositunity
attracts astounding actuality.

© Marie Elena Good, 2018




I started writing at thirteen,
lyrics for a song I hacked out
on the old organ we had at home.

Melody first, a little loop
of sound full blown into a
song, my first attempt.

Looking at the words
scratched onto a page
of spiral notebook paper

tattered and lined
random thoughts
of a future love long gone.

It had form and meter,
it had rhyme, my reason,
a poem of sorts on my page.

A poem never to see 
the light of day for years,
dead ended in a rusted file cabinet,

along with every other lame attempt
of poem and prose that
had me believing I had talent.

Maybe talent, but nary a whiff
of confidence to show the
work that was even at this early

date, very personal, a glimpse
of my inner self, the now me
in miniature, immature,

but with a dream.
To see my words light up
the pages of this book of life.

The flesh was willing,
but the spirit was weak,
my ambition was a wishful thought.

I wanted to write in the worst way,
and that was what I did,
in the worst way.

As the years passed,
I still tried to convince myself
that I was a writer, a poet

a composer, an untapped
resource in a disconnected
reality, a dreamer

working for his hearts desire.
Hard work, hard words
mired in the muse of my mind.

But determined to live
according to the dictates
of my nightly mystic visions.

I dusted off my file cabinet,
shooing the dusty webs from the 
hidden treasures long buried.

I sent my words into the world
unsure of their worth,
afraid of their power.

Given to the eyes of
others of a write minded bent, 
sharing similar uncertainties

of their own. They labeled me,
tattooed me with an identity.
They called me poet.

The name I wanted;
the name they offered.
Nothing is impossible.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018


Gnomic poetry is aphoristic verse containing short, memorable statements of traditional wisdom and morality. It utilizes proverbs, maxims and common sayings to convey what one wishes to express.  The Greek word gnomē means “moral proverb.” Gnomes are found in literature, from the biblical book of Proverbs to early Greek literature, (both poetry and prose) and onward.

Gnomic poetry is most commonly associated with the 6th-century-BC poets Solon and Simonides and with the elegiac couplets of Theognis and Phocylides, which were used to instruct the young.

Gnomes appear frequently in Old English epic and lyric poetry. Alexander Pope’s Essay on Man (1733–34) offers a more “modern” example of the use of couplets of distilled wisdom interspersed through a long poem.

*Based on information from Encyclopedia



TALES I COULD TELL, Walter J Wojtanik

Oh, the tales I could tell,
if you only knew.
People would stand and cheer,
but, you can’t see it from here.
Never let fear or common sense
stop you or become your defense.
Neither hide, nor hair,
who knows what’s there?
Do you even care?
I wouldn’t dare say for sure,
that there is a need for a cure
It’s your only way out.
Without a doubt, oh,
the tales I could tell.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2018


Going back to basics, this poem expounds on the simplicity of this complex world around us. Russian modernist poet, Anna Akhmatova is one of the most acclaimed writers in the Russian canon. Today we expose you to her work in the guise of “I Taught Myself To Live Simply”, listed number 38 on the Best (85) 100 Poems.

Anna Akhmatova


by Anna Akhmatova

I taught myself to live simply and wisely,
to look at the sky and pray to God,
and to wander long before evening
to tire my superfluous worries.
When the burdocks rustle in the ravine
and the yellow-red rowanberry cluster droops
I compose happy verses
about life’s decay, decay and beauty.
I come back. The fluffy cat
licks my palm, purrs so sweetly
and the fire flares bright
on the saw-mill turret by the lake.
Only the cry of a stork landing on the roof
occasionally breaks the silence.
If you knock on my door
I may not even hear.