POETIC BLOOMINGS, a site established in May 2011 and which reunites Marie Elena Good and Walter J Wojtanik to help nurture and inspire the poetic spirit.


Were you headstrong and confrontational in your youth? Now? Were (are) you a rebel? What was it that triggered your resistance? What did you rebel against? How did you?


Alternatively, “Rebel, Rebel” was the title of a David Bowie song. Search his other titles and see if one would inspire you as the title of one of your poems and write it. See a partial listing below:


Love You Til Tuesday

Space Oddity

The Man Who Sold The World

Diamond Dogs

Young Americans



Let’s Dance

Rebel, Rebel

Suffragette City

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  1. LET’S DANCE, by Walter J Wojtanik

    Come let’s dance.
    We’re taking a chance on love.
    Day in and day out, we hear life’s music,
    and I am like someone in love, a great feeling!
    Can you imagine you and I dancing on the ceiling?

  2. William Preston on said:

    NB: for anyone learning more about this rebel, please see:


    He gloried in dangerous capers,
    confounding the jeers of the japers.
    From the east to the west
    he flew on with great zest,
    and got the Vin Fizz in the papers.

  3. Rebel Without a Cause

    Is it genetic
    that rebel gene
    that dares to speak up out
    that dares to be different
    that is disillusioned
    filled with angst
    wants to change the world
    or at least its own world…
    my gene was just confused
    I was a good girl
    followed the rules
    born into a time
    of antiestablishment
    the ‘man’ was wrong
    war was evil
    (all war I questioned)
    free love
    (really, nothings free, I thought)
    but, somehow, there must
    be change, any change,
    a 180 degree change
    So, if my generation
    changed so much
    why is there such
    anger and hate
    and rebels
    wanting to change
    the world?

  4. I HATED LESSONS, by Walter J Wojtanik

    My folks saw me as an impresario,
    a scenario I did not share.
    I didn’t care to learn from a master,
    so the faster I ran from there the better.

    I would let her go through her paces
    and make her faces as I clunked
    and clinked through torturous
    scales and chords and my folks

    couldn’t afford to waste their cash
    (and me my time) for a flash of a future
    I had no interest in. I would begin to refuse
    the lessons I would not put effort into learning.

    I was afraid I was working my own timetable.
    I would sneak to our eighty-eight keyed monster
    and pick with two fingers and revel
    as my sounds would linger in my head.

    My musical talent was not dead,
    only in deep hibernation.
    Yet, the syncopation that played in my mind
    was mine to discover. Long after lessons

    had ceased, I had pieced together melodies and lyrics,
    music and words never heard but in my brain.
    Again, I was able to teach myself where others
    were not given the chance to succeed.

    I loved to learn,
    but hated going for lessons.
    But I am thankful for my musical progression.
    It lead me to poetry.

    • I didn’t mind piano lessons but hated the ‘concerts’ required. That’s why I quit – wish I hadn’t. Good on you for teaching yourself and being a poet.

    • William Preston on said:

      Love it, especially the use of “musical progression>’

    • “My musical talent was not dead,
      only in deep hibernation.
      Yet, the syncopation that played in my mind
      was mine to discover.”

      This beautiful piece is wrapped up in these few lines. The sense and cadence and lovely word choices playing your present and future. Love this, Walt!

    • A talent awakened all on your own!

  5. .


    My creative mind’s been busy,
    thinking about revolution,
    or maybe the idea of it,
    the impulse to rebel now and then,
    maybe always, though
    it’s not about the youthful cries for
    freedom from invisible chains,
    not about political demands for
    change, for the pure sake of change.
    No, I’ve been thinking more about
    living joyfully,
    being happy all the time,
    doing something radical,
    like being nice to everyone,
    polite, helpful, compassionate.
    Every day, my body gets closer
    to its expiration date.
    Sooner or later,
    this physical self won’t exist.
    There are only so many sunsets,
    so few full moons to enjoy,
    yet so many other people
    to enjoy them with along the way,
    to share kindnesses, large and small.
    My body’s a bit of a wreck,
    definitely well-used,
    feeling more like
    ninety-five than seventy-five,
    but it’s still my good fortune
    to have not died young.
    Now, I have no fear of dying,
    but death waits for all of us,
    the transition to another realm.
    My body might be bruised,
    sometimes broken,
    but my spirit remains
    healthy, whole, complete.
    No matter the temporary condition.
    there need not be
    collateral damage to my soul.

  6. Earl Parsons on said:

    Golden Years
    (David Bowie 1976)

    It’s a miracle I made it to my Golden Years
    If you knew my past you’d wonder too
    I was known for questioning everything
    And taking chances as if I thought I were

  7. Little Rebel

    I credit my aunt for squelching
    my rebelliousness early on.

    As children, my cousins and I played
    all over our country neighborhood.
    A favorite place was in the creek
    across from my cousins’ house.
    We liked to play Gilligan’s Island,
    tornado warning when we kicked hard
    splashing water everywhere,
    and we built dams to make deep pools.

    Usually we played all as a mob,
    but this particular day I was alone.
    I decided to work on the current dam.
    I was only about six or seven.
    My aunt spied me and told me
    to not be in the creek alone and
    to get out until one of the older kids came.

    I was furious that she didn’t think I was
    big enough to play without supervision.
    I turned to her and hollered, “Rat! Rat! Rat!”
    I expected her to get mad and yell back
    or call my mom and tell on me,
    but she laughed.
    It was my first taste of rebelliousness
    looking and feeling ridiculous.

    Of course I stomped off,
    which is what she wanted.

  8. American English

    American English is clearly a rebel,
    against which I must rebel!
    And while we’re on the subject,
    why do we subject ourselves
    to such madness as homographs?
    Just for laughs?
    And who invented them?
    (Eye roll) What a gem!

    Well, I think not.
    And through all this thorough thought,
    I’m fraught with not knowing
    Who thought up homophones.
    Dim watt!

    And silent letters, and
    those that change the sounds of others, too.
    I have no clue. Do you?

    And rules? Hardly more than flukes!
    Like the whole “i before e” thing,
    albeit cutely rhyming,
    is the height of forfeiting
    the rule books.

    Now let’s talk contranyms.
    For instance, weather means to withstand,
    but also to wear away?
    Well may I just say
    only a contrary soul would assign
    opposing meanings to the same word.

    I could go on, but you would just yawn,
    and the point would be forgone.
    So for now, just know
    English brings me woe.
    Whoa …
    It’s plain to see why. *sigh*

    © Marie Elena Good, 2019

  9. Authority Brings Out Red

    I believe I was born hating
    authority. Can it be?
    A dichotomy. For how does
    a sensitive child rebel?
    Well, I divided the rebelliousness
    into a pie chart – 40% parents,
    20% teachers, 25% bosses,
    and I’ll toss in remaining
    15% to rude people, and those
    who hurt ones I love.

    With all of my rebel, rebel,
    I seem to have a penchant
    for poor choices. I can be
    impulsive to a fault, though
    less so now that I am a supposed
    sensible senior (in a torn skirt).

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