Terza rima is a three-line stanza using chain rhyme in the pattern ABA BCB CDC DED. There is no limit to the number of lines, but poems or sections of poems written in terza rima end with either a single line or couplet repeating the rhyme of the middle line of the final tercet. The two possible endings for the example above are DED E, or DED EE. There is no set rhythm for terza rima, but in English, iambic pentameter is generally preferred.

There is also an adaptation of the form to six-syllable lines that has been named piccola terza rima.[

This a form that was used  by Dante Aleghieri in the Divine Comedy and Geoffrey Chaucer in “Complaint to His Lady”. Also John Milton, Lord Byron (in The Prophecy of Dante), Percy Bysshe Shelley (in his “Ode to the West Wind” and The Triumph of Life) and Thomas Hardy. More contemporary poets include W. H. Auden, T. S. Eliot, Robert Frost, and William Carlos Williams.



True love is for the purest soul,
and in that, there’s no denying,
for true love puts you in control

to leave a true heart sighing.
There’s but one magic born of love,
that does not require buying

secrets whispered by a dove,
for love can just be given,
a present from the One above.

So, earn your love while you are livin’
and give as good as you receive.
Love is something to have faith in.

Yes, trust in love, it will not deceive.
True love is for those that believe.


(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2019


We will be moving the INFORM POET feature to fill the Wednesday slot left by the hiatus of the POETIC BLOOMINGS READING ROOM. The READING ROOM will return in due course. We look to avoid any direct conflict with RLB’s form explorations at Poetic Aides. In place of the INFORM POET on Fridays, there will be an inspiration offered for you to stretch your literary legs under the label, FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION. It could be a verbal nudge, a block of words, or it could be a photo prompt, for a few examples. You may respond in whichever way pleases your sense of order. You can remain on a poetic tear and write in verse. If you would like to try your hand at a little flash fiction, then your prose is welcomed here. Maybe it inspires a lyric… the license is yours. Give your muse a ride! As always, we appreciate your efforts here at POETIC BLOOMINGS.


We’ve reached the fiftieth edition of the POETIC BLOOMINGS READING ROOM.

It has been said through this process that some featured poets were new in the scope of poetry for our readers. Marie Elena readily admits she is not a “student” of other poets or their poems (I’m sure as much as she’d like to be). But, that is good, for it is the thinking behind establishing this space. It persuaded our poets and guests to read the works of someone lesser known, or a popular poet’s lesser known brilliance. I appreciate you all for walking this path with us. I hope it spurred you on to read more of a certain poet. There is so much beauty in their words.

For our fiftieth selected poet, I offer two works of one who was completely unknown to me, and admittedly, I stumbled upon his words accidentally when I clicked on a wrong link. I am so glad that I did! His literary interests can be mirrored in my feeble abilities. Rabindranath Tagore (1861 – 1941), was a Bengali poet, novelist, musician, painter and playwright who was instrumental in the direction of Bengali literature / music. His verse is profound, sensitive, fresh and beautiful. He was the only Indian and the first non-European awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature (1913). His poetry is considered spiritual and his appearance gave him a prophet-like aura in the Western world. The elegance of Tagore’s prose and the magical sense of his poetry are still largely unknown outside the confines of Bengal. The two poems chosen truly gripped me and brought me to embrace his work. The first, “Parting Words” is his look at what his death would be like. The second selection, “A Hundred Years Hence” speaks of his poetry’s following long after his voice becomes silent. Both of these are reminiscent of Dyson McIllwain’s “If My Words Should Die”


by Rabindranath Tagore


When I go from hence
let this be my parting word,
that what I have seen is unsurpassable.

I have tasted of the hidden honey of this lotus
that expands on the ocean of light,
and thus am I blessed
—let this be my parting word.

In this playhouse of infinite forms
I have had my play
and here have I caught sight of him that is formless.

My whole body and my limbs
have thrilled with his touch who is beyond touch;
and if the end comes here, let it come
—let this be my parting word.




by Rabindranath Tagore


A hundred years hence
Who it is
With such curiosity
Reads my poems
A hundred years hence!
Shall I be able to send you
An iota of joy of this fresh spring morning
The flower that blooms today
The songs that the birds sing
The glow of today’s setting sun
Filled with my feelings of love?
Yet for a moment
Open up your southern gate
And take your seat at the window
Look at the far horizon
And visualize in your mind’s eye –
One day a hundred years ago
A restless ecstasy drifted from the skies
And touched the heart of this world
The early spring mad with joy
Knew no bounds
Spreading its restless wings
The southern breeze blew
Carrying the scent of flowers’ pollen
All on a sudden soon
They coloured the world with a youthful glow
A hundred years ago.
That day a young poet kept awake
With an excited heart filled with songs
With so much ardour
Anxious to express so many things
Like buds of flowers straining to bloom
One day a hundred years ago.
A hundred years hence
What young poet
Sings songs in your homes!
For him
I send my tidings of joy of this spring.
Let it echo for a moment
In your spring, in your heartbeats,
In the humming of the bees
In the rustling of the leaves
A hundred years hence.


We rely on our five senses (six, if you count “common”) every day. And through sight, sound, taste, touch and smell (sometimes, common), we navigate from sun up to sun down. But here’s where I do my impersonation of Chubby Checker, again! We’re going to twist the sensations in an uncommon way. For example, take a smell or aroma and write it as if you can see it, or taste it, or feel… you get it. The feel of sight. The taste of a tactile meander. Even the absurdity of common sense can be conveyed in poetic ways. Give it a twist and write a different bit o’sense.


I Hear You

The song of love
when your eyes go soft.
Questions that beg response
in the furrow of your brow.
in the setting of your jaw.
Sincere contrition
in your entire countenance.
Lines from Moonstruck
in the sudden glint of your eye
and grin of your lips.
“You look good,”
in the slight lift of one brow.
More clearly than your voice,
I hear your face.

© Marie Elena Good, 2019



The sun spills over the horizon
like a bowl of savory broth,
golden, hot and delicious,
filling the nostrils
with an aromatic awakening.
Partaking in her fullness, delectably
shaking one to the core of reason,
seasoned just right
until night fall again
and the bowl awaits a second tasting.
A hand raised to bid her farewell,
a tender touch to the moon’s lumbered gait.
A solemn sleep, another sunrise to await.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019



FOUND poetry is all about taking words that were not meant to be a poem in their original form, and turning them in to a poem. These words/phrases/sentences come from newspaper articles, snippets of overheard conversations, recipes, interactions, letters… basically any materials can offer “inspiration”.

The wording is not changed but your use of line breaks and cuts or by adding or deleting text, thus imparting new meaning. The resulting poem can be defined as either treated: changed in a profound and systematic manner; or untreated: virtually unchanged from the order, syntax and meaning of the original.

Pay attention to the world around you. Inspiration can be found wherever you look for it.


PICK-UP IN AISLE 13, by Walter J Wojtanik

Take a few extra moments, be good to yourself.
Your satisfaction is always guaranteed.
There, near the produce introducing
her light aromatic blend. Just don’t breathe
in the spray. We stand behind your fresh taste;
we never waste paper (from responsible sources)
and of course, it makes ordinary meals extraordinary.
No Preservatives.
No artificial colors; flavoring.
Savoring it with every last bite.
What are you hungry for tonight?
No doubt about it, we love our midnight snack;
she’s more of a “morning person”.
Shake well. Satisfy your ravenous craving.
Massage pouch until desired consistency,
bring your meat to room temperature.
Put into a 350° pre-heated oven,
it’s easy to get off. Feel it working;
know you’re protected.
Serve hot; refrigerate after opening. 


Poetry FOUND on the packages in a grocery store.


This American poet, writer, and editor won three Pulitzer Prizes, two for his poetry and one for his biography of Abraham Lincoln. During his lifetime, Carl August Sandburg had been regarded as a major player in modern literature. His appeal as a poet was unmatched in his day, perhaps because the scope of his experiences connected him with so many sectors of Americana. On his death in 1967, President Lyndon B. Johnson observed that Carl Sandburg was America. He was more than the sum of the voice of America, and poet of who possessed strength and genius. Today’s poem is Mr. Sandburg’s, “Who Am I?”


Related image


by Carl Sandburg

My head knocks against the stars.
My feet are on the hilltops.
My finger-tips are in the valleys and shores of
universal life.
Down in the sounding foam of primal things I
reach my hands and play with pebbles of
I have been to hell and back many times.
I know all about heaven, for I have talked with God.
I dabble in the blood and guts of the terrible.
I know the passionate seizure of beauty
And the marvelous rebellion of man at all signs
reading “Keep Off.”

My name is Truth and I am the most elusive captive
in the universe.


Next Wednesday will mark the 50th entry into the reading room. At that point we will take a brief respite from the Reading Room for some other feature (undecided as of yet).

Also I will be posting the instructions for the next phase of the July P.E.O.D Challenge next week.


Many of us are inspired by music. A catchy lyric that stirs our souls, or a melody that haunts or lingers seems to transfix thoughts that become our poetry. We’ve written based on a line or a title of a song to great effect.

Image result for fred and ginger

But, we neglect the dance. Until today. We ask you to write a “dance” poem. It could be about a specific type of dance, or just the art of dancing itself. And whether we’re dancing on eggshells, or dancing around an issue, our chance to dance can be inspiring in itself. So put your best foot (and poem) forward, and show us your moves.


As we put up corn,
we listen to jazz, and dance
hug and hold and sway.

© Marie Elena Good, 2019



Find romance
looking for love in places
those traces of love will dance

Take a chance
those two hearts can beat as one,
ours beat bolder to enhance

What the world needs now is love.
It will fill your lives sweetly.

Romance lives
in almost hidden spaces.
But, believe the joy it gives.

Look within
to find all that your lives lack,
love gives it back once again.

Love will dance.
It possesses the power
to heal hearts . Find romance.
Love will dance.


(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2019


Octameter, is a poem made up of 16 lines (stanzas of 8 lines each). Each line has a syllable count of 5. The set rhyme scheme is: a/b/c/d/e/d/f/d  g/h/c/g/i/g/d/d. This seems an extremely convoluted rhyme scheme, so your poetic license will not be revoked if you use your judgement on choosing a different pattern, or forgoing the scheme all together, I’ll have no problem with it. We’re about writing poems here, so get to it!

An alternate rhyme scheme: a,b,c,d,e,a,b,a  a,b,c,d,e,c,d,c



A GENTLE MAN, by Walter J Wojtanik

Gnarled and twisted hands
calloused and sore, more
used to hard work than
to life’s sheer kindness;
blood, sweat and tears, mere
offerings. Blindness
to those who shirk work,
their thinking, mindless.

A gentle man, he
gives of his worn heart,
more used to love than
life’s absurdity.
His mangled hands touch
her soft purity.
Her love is timeless;
fills him with fineness.


The alternate take:

WALTER CAME TO CALL, by Walter J Wojtanik

Walter came to call,
and all would come out
all about the place.
What he had to say
didn’t phase the folks.
No one took the fall,
and they all had doubts
when Walt came to call.

Walter had a plan
and every man knew
all that Walter said.
They hid it quite well
and acted quite dumb.
So when he was through
Walter went to bed.
It’s what you would do.



This week’s poet is regarded as one of the greatest British poets, and his influence remains in his widely read works. Byron’s magnum opus, Don Juan, ranks with John Milton’s Paradise Lost as two of the most important poems by England’s honored poets. The masterpiece was an epic of its time, and had roots deep in literary tradition. Even though it was shocking to early Victorians, it  concerns itself with its own contemporary world — social, political, literary and ideological. We present one of the best romantic poetry verses by this great author. This is Lord George Gordon Byron’s “THY DAYS ARE DONE”.


Lord Byron


by Lord (George Gordon) Byron

Thy days are done, thy fame begun;
Thy country’s strains record
The triumphs of her chosen Son,
The slaughter of his sword!
The deeds he did, the fields he won,
The freedom he restored!

Though thou art fall’n, while we are free
Thou shalt not taste of death!
The generous blood that flow’d from thee
Disdain’d to sink beneath:
Within our veins its currents be,
Thy spirit on our breath!

Thy name, our charging hosts along,
Shall be the battle-word!
Thy fall, the theme of choral song
From virgin voices pour’d!
To weep would do thy glory wrong:
Thou shalt not be deplored.


As we sprint through the year, it is clear we are inspired to complete the race with little trace of wear and tear on our muse (or our bodies). We’ve stepped into August as Summer rolls along and the air is strong with carnivals and county and state fairs.  (Our County Fair is in full swing at this writing). They have their own appeal. Games and food, attractions and displays, crowds and music abound. And speaking of music, you can hear live bands, and some recordings. You’ll even hear calliope music. And it is fitting for this prompt since Calliope in Greek mythology is the Muse who presides over eloquence and epic poetry.

So, here is the prompt: write a memory of one of those events (carnival, County or State fair) or of any aspect of one of those. Was there a certain ride you enjoyed/hated? A game you played or an exhibit you looked forward to seeing? A food you savored? Or did you just enjoy being out with the crowd to people watch. There is so much there from which to choose. Revive the fun and have a great time in rhyme. Meet us at the fair! We’ll see you there.



Summer Fair

“Let’s rhyme,” he says, and so I do
of summer fairs and barbeque,
with marching-band parades uptown,
and small-town smiles all around.
The carny folk that drew you in
with big stuffed prizes you could win,
but off you’d go with some cheap toy
you’d carry home, but not enjoy.
Yet nonetheless, you’ll reminisce,
and I will guarantee you this:
That you will wish you were still there:
that child at the summer fair.

© Marie Elena Good, 2019



Walking the tract over miles of midway,
the day starts early, ends late.
It is a great day for the Fair.
Aromas waft from the food trail,
and odors prevail near the animal barns.
Rows and rows of chickens and cows,
goats and colts and fillies.
Silly displays and a day’s worth of fun,
sore and tired feet when the day’s done.
Arts and crafts and artifacts,
historical reproductions and representations,
stations to buy and sell, hucksters from hell
and carnies fill the bill. And the games?
Bingo-like “I-Got-It” and a lot of chances
to romance her with large stuffed dust collectors.
But now of days, my chance taking comes to this,
do I want Louie’s Pizza, or a barbecue chicken dish?
Both come with a suggestion of indigestion!

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2019


The “Lannet” is a form of sonnet, consisting of 14 lines.

There is a strict syllable count of 10 per line.


Only internal rhyme is allowed.

There is no requirement of meter for a Lannet.





Two hearts afloat upon love’s endless sea,
bobbing free in currents of emotion.
There is no lake or ocean can compare
to the freedom there. Two hearts float in love.

Above is an endless sky full of stars.
Hearts navigate by their chart position,
a condition driven by the love shared.
They are spared rough tides; they ride the current.

The rough torrent cannot put them under,
it’s a wonder love keeps their heads above
water. They ought to thank their lucky stars,
they are adrift uplifting each other.

Hearts at sea are free to be. Their journey
can lead them to distant shores and much more!