William Shakespeare had written, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” We have come to know this quote, and our prompt has nothing at all to do with this quote other than this: think of a famous poet/writer or another person who has your same first name, and write a tribute or ode to this person. I mean after all … what’s in a name? (If you’re hard pressed to find a like-named poet, choose one you admire, and fire!)



Nineteen Twenty One:
A Black U.S. immigrant
fathered a female,

born in Queens, New York.
His wife came from a home of
voracious readers.

A Cornell student,
he’d majored in chemistry
until funds went dry.

As their baby grew,
she developed a hunger
for education.

Her mother spent long
hours reading to her from the
books that graced their home.

Books on the subject
of science and scientists
sparked interest in her.

She earned her B.S.,
then M.S., then Ph.D.,
in chemistry … this

making her the first
woman to do so.

Now a professor
and researcher, her studies
helped to discover

the relationship
between high cholesterol,
and clogged arteries.

Her groundbreaking work
helped to clarify how the
human body works.

Marie M. Daly.
I had to dig to find her.
A treasure unearthed.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

Information and some direct phrasing from:

Walt:  The research that I did as a result of your prompt ending up helping me discover this amazing woman, right in time for Black History Month.  Thank you!

Marie: We help each other learn and grow. We are a bountiful garden.




Of me!
Of Life!
Of these questions recurring;

Of the endless trains of the faithless
wondering about existence with persistence
and resolve, trying to solve the mysteries, failing;

Of myself,
mired in thoughts profound, that surround
in a confused fog, a lone dog chewing on life’s flavored bone. Alone;

Of eyes that crave the light
of each new day, of each new idea,
of every struggle, the brilliance of wisdom glowing;

Of every poor result left to fester,
of the sullied crowds plotting
allotting me to surrender without recourse;

Of the empty useless years, no rest
on this life quest when I acquiesce to this folly,
no jolly expression left unpunished, unfinished;

Of the terrible doubt
that lingers with words left to languish in these fingers
poetic verses worsen as time passes, thoughts amassed and sequestered;

Of the uncertainty of what life remains
to offer to fill the coffers of one left bankrupt of ideas,
of ideals, of the feeling of relevance and some semblance of honor;

Of day and night awash in memories lost
of doubtless apparitions holding answers to questions unasked
or pondered, wonders of the world we possess and caress with our words;

Of course, nothing comes from nothing
and should nothing become something, we will dream and fly,
an eye on future tomorrows, of joys and sorrows;

Of the visages of things that bring into focus
what hearts envision; of piercing through every heaven,
every hell and the ability to tell the difference;

Of the ugliness of men to cast aspersions one upon the other,
making sister and brother enemies of that hated state.
Return to the sacred plate of communion, a blessed union of souls;

Of me?
Of life recurring?
Of Leaves of Grass and such!


© Walter J Wojtanik – 2020

Inspiration drawn from Walt Whitman’s works – Leaves of Grass, O Me! Oh Life!, Of the Terrible Doubt of Appearances, Of the Visage of Things


38 thoughts on “PROMPT #284 – WHAT’S IN A NAME?


    Some folks knew him as Avon’s bard,
    but Bacon thought he was full of lard;

    to some his sonnetry set a norm,
    so much so that he formed a form;

    his plays have been studied by generations
    of kids who couldn’t grasp the venerations

    that folks like Cole Porter would make
    when he brushed up on him in Kiss Me, Kate.

    He’s associated with pithy phrases
    that line our language like dental braces,

    good for showing off, making one a sage,
    but, as he said, all the world’s a stage.

    As a poet guy he was first among peers,
    even when he wasn’t shaking spears.

  2. Not an ode but a poem after one of his…

    On the horizon was the moon. She fattened, she grew huge and rusty – Jack Kerouac

    Full Moon
    (A Ya-du)

    She called me fat?
    Jealous twat! I’m
    like that fair moon.
    Pretty soon he
    will swoon at the sight of me.

  3. Connie

    When a child, I didn’t know any other Connie’s, except for Connie Francis and Connie Stevens. Both born in 1938, twenty years earlier than me, they were famous actresses and singers. Whenever adults heard my name, they’d mention one or both of these Connies.

    Feeling odd man out
    No other Connies in school
    Couldn’t I be Sue?

    Concetta Rosa Maria Franconero turned Connie Francis, after a rocky start, became a world famous singer and actress. She toured all over the world and sang for the troops and other special groups. She had serious ups and downs in her life, including one night, in her hotel, she was brutally raped. She took seven years off and almost didn’t get back on stage. She won a lawsuit against the hotel for poor security. Thanks to that incident, we now have safer motels and hotels with security cameras, good lighting and door viewers.

    Even from evil
    Something constructive can come
    Thank you, Ms. Francis

    Concetta Rosalie Ann Ingoglia was born to an entertainment family. She took on her Father’s stage name, Stevens. She became world renown. In fact, she lamented that she was a big star all over the world, except for Hollywood.

    No matter how great
    Not everyone will get you
    Thank you, Ms. Stevens

    Now, there seems to be Connies all over the place. I’ve had two of them as close friends. Still, when people meet me, they’ll bring up Connie Frances and Connie Stevens. At 81, they’re both still living and active. It seems I have a lot to learn from them.

    To the two Connies
    Stevens and Francis, I’ll try
    To wear the name well

  4. Sara Teasdale

    An American lyric poet,
    Sara Teasdale, was born
    in St. Louis, Missouri.
    Home-schooled for nine
    years due to poor health,
    she regained her strength,
    and eventually won
    the Pulitzer prize for
    her collection of poetry
    entitled, “Love Songs”.
    She took her own life
    at the age of 48. Why
    do so many poets suffer
    from depression?

    Here is a poem from Love Songs:

    I have remembered beauty in the night,
    Against black silences I waked to see
    A shower of sunlight over Italy
    And green Ravello dreaming on her height;
    I have remembered music in the dark,
    The clean swift brightness of a fugue of Bach’s,
    And running water singing on the rocks
    When once in English woods I heard a lark.

    But all remembered beauty is no more
    Than a vague prelude to the thought of you —
    You are the rarest soul I ever knew,
    Lover of beauty, knightliest and best;
    My thoughts seek you as waves that seek the shore,
    And when I think of you, I am at rest.
    ~Sara Teasdale

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