The destructive power of water has been heavily on display with the two major storms hitting the southern US. The rains and winds are outrageous and certainly a cause for concern. As we’ve seen its abilities to destroy, we here in the garden know it’s healing and nurturing strengths.

Wikipedia defines:

Rain is liquid water in the form of droplets that have condensed from atmospheric water vapor and then become heavy enough to fall under gravity. Rain is a major component of the water cycle and is responsible for depositing most of the fresh water on the Earth. It provides suitable conditions for many types of ecosystems, as well as water for hydroelectric power plants and crop irrigation.

As we continue our cycle of growth at Poetic Bloomings, write on any aspect of rain. Perhaps, find an article in your local paper or a magazine and use it to write a “found” poem that is rain-based. Stay safe, stay dry as possible and write your poem.


I’m All Wet Limerick

I love gentle rain (yep, you bet),
but I do not like floods, tears, or sweat.
Love lakes, streams, and seas,
and love raindrops that freeze.
But I most love my liquid assets.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020



The thunder storm rages.
The lightning flash illuminates,
littering the scene with brilliance;
it’s impact was haunting.
The rain in a rivulet runs,
a remote  pool of lifeless tears
in need of one sad and lonely heart.
The price paid for love lost.


We talked about the type of poems and forms we liked to write to some success. We are able to express these quite admirably.

Realtors have a saying they use when showing a house. “Location, location, location!” It becomes very important in where you choose to reside. It can also provide the inspiration you need to succeed in your poetry.

Tell us where do you do your best writing? Do you have a dedicated space in which you write? Is there an area outdoors that inspires you to pen your poetry? Can you write anywhere, anytime? Sitting at a desk or reclining in a chair? Living Room or Kitchen?

What conditions do you prefer? A little noise? Dead silence. Early morning or later in the evening? Give a glimpse at your process. Maybe it would inspire someone to try something different. Either way, where you write can influence what you write. Do tell.


A Quatern is a sixteen-line French form composed of four quatrains.

  • It is similar to the Kyrielle and the Retourne.
  • It has a refrain that revolves to a different place in each quatrain.
  • The first line of stanza one is the second line of stanza two, third line of stanza three, and fourth line of stanza four.
  • A quatern usually has eight syllables per line. It does not have to be iambic, or follow a specific rhyme scheme.




In a poet’s heart is beauty,
it is through a sense of duty
that a true poet will express
what all poetic hearts possess.

This fact one cannot refute, see;
in a poet’s heart is beauty.
Romantic words to rend his soul,
the feelings wrought will not control

the depth of expression within.
To deny this muse is a sin.
In a poet’s heart is beauty.
Lightness of words, sad or moody,

bring delight to such expression.
They lift souls from their depression
never sounding harsh or haughty,
in a poet’s heart is beauty.

© Walter J Wojtanik



In the evening, when day is through,
the sun retreats to a place where
slumber awaits her brilliant hue.
Night is her time to seek repose.

And so, in her tired escape,
in the evening when day is through,
star-crossed lovers beneath the moon
hold each other ever so close

and share their dreams. It always seems
that it draws out a kiss or two
in the evening, when day is through.
Seductive sounds surround them so.

Yet sounds, like sunsets, seek repose
as morning approaches once more.
But to be sure, romance returns
in the evening, when day is through.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2020


We’ve reached a milestone! This is the 300th Sunday Seed posted under the banner of Poetic Bloomings. This doesn’t take into account the various INFORM POET offerings or your considerations on the Friday prompt. In our comings and goings, this poetic garden has continued to flourish with the most expressive of blooms imaginable. Marie and I have you all to thank for making it so.

So let’s begin this new “century” the way we began the first. Today, I resurrect our first prompt, “It Starts With a Seed”. Here’s the flash back and Marie’s and my original poems for that prompt. Our new efforts will follow in the comments section along with your fine new poem.


Every garden starts with a seed. A small part of the big picture; a beginning. And so we begin at Poetic Bloomings.

The prompt for this Sunday reflects that idea. Write a “seed” poem. It could literally be a seed of a plant, of an idea that sparks a greater effort. It could be the beginning of a life, or whatever you feel would be the start of something big. Get started. That’s a beginning in itself.


** Marie Elena’s poem:


One edges, tidies, snips, and trims,
Who knows nothing of dreams and whims.

One scatters dandelion seeds,
Who understands a daydream’s needs.

By Marie Elena


** Walt’s poem:


Hearts ablaze in an unquenchable fire.
It is desire of the highest power.
It has been left to burn unattended.

It was a cold ember, a lump of coal
sparked with the excitement of a single touch.
Now burning brightly; love inflamed

by Walt Wojtanik.

Happy poeming to all, and enjoy this “Garden Walk” with us today, every Sunday, and continuing throughout the week.


If you wrote to the original prompt, reflect back and maybe use it to re-write a companion poem, or use a form to reconstruct it into a new poem. Whatever you do, plant it here for a fresh new bloom of brilliance.


The endecha is a 16th-century Spanish poetic form with the following guidelines:

  • Quatrain (or four-line) poem (or stanzas).
  • Rhyme scheme: abcb
  • Seven syllables per line for lines one, two, and three.
  • Line four has 11 syllables.



In the dead of night she comes,
For years she had been unseen.
Soft as a whisper, she was,
and now she has escaped from within his dreams.

A gentle soul of lost love,
in search of an equal soul.
He claimed her heart for his own,
but it seemed that her fears had taken their toll.

Once afraid to give her love,
she searched so long for its touch.
the softest of caresses,
the sensation of passion needed so much.

She’s lived in his soul so long;
became a part of his heart.
loving her there from afar,
unconditionally from the very start.

Does she know the depth of love,
that reaches for her through time?
The one true sip of his heart?
The taste of love’s nectar so true, so sublime?

If their love had ever been,
they’d feel its pulse to this day.
But sadly, love not explored,
will languish for a time, and then fade away.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2020


A prompt that came to me while watching my favorite show, House, M.D. 

We are writing about a house or a home. It could be a house we live(d) in, a house we wished was ours, a supposed haunted house … it might be our home and the people in it. There is a difference between a house (the building) and a home (the environment in which we prospered). Choose one about which to wax poetic. A house is not a home, but could make a great poem.


Home is Where I Watch the Buckeyes with Dad

As August slips into the back side,
and daylight is squeezed
into fewer hours,
I miss the distant sound
of drum cadence,
bringing in a new season.
In just a couple weeks,
Dad and I would have had
our decades-long ritual
of gathering in front of the T.V.
and saying (as though it is a surprise),
“Can you believe it is already
the first game of the season?
Didn’t the season just end?”

It didn’t matter whose home we
were in,

until it did.

Those final years, he became too frail,
and it became harder,
and then impossible,
to get Mom out the door.
So we would haul food to their place,
and hope Dad could stay awake
and out of the bathroom
for most of the game.
We hoped he could enjoy it
a fraction of what he used to.

The lamp that was part of each home
Mom and Dad called theirs
now lights my front window
as I write poems
about football
and marching bands
and drum cadence
and Mom
and Dad.

Because poems
and their light
are all that remain.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020



Brick by brick we assembled
this life we’ve come to know.
Mortar provided strength,
but little else to solidify
these emotions. A devotion
cemented and inflexible;
an expected result of
living and learning
and burning all bridges behind us.
If they find us outlined in chalk,
the talk would be that we wore you out.
But I doubt your facade would crumble
as easily as that. Pointed and level,
every detail possessing its own devil,
dishevelling all your efforts
to build it better. Give yourself room
or your doom will be certain,
veiled by a curtain of doubt.
Maybe brick by brick is flawed
Each terra cotta block is rigid and hard
not like some wind-blown house of cards.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2020

Also, Happy Birthday to my wife Janice, today!


We all find our niche where our poetry is concerned. Sometimes we dabble to bring a diverse voice to our work. Sometimes we realize that we do one form or subject better than others. In this discussion, talk about what kind of poem you find easiest to write. Maybe someone has told you that you seem to excel at a certain kind of poem. You might write to one poetic form better than others. Don’t write a poem here, we want to know what makes our writers the passionate people they are.  What do you do best? Tell us about it!


The “rondine” is very similar to the rondeau.  

  • 12-line poem
  • 2 stanzas
  • 7 lines in the first stanza; 5 lines in the second
  • 8 or 10 syllables per line, except in the 7th and 12th lines
  • 7th and 12th lines are a refrain
  • The refrain comes from the opening word or phrase of the poem


I USE MY WORDS, by Walter J Wojtanik

I use my words to express my heart.
Words that live deep within me,
and I hope that you can clearly see
by the way my love songs always start.
So, with all the feelings I impart,
with all the thoughts there’ll ever be,
I use my words.

For love invades like Cupid’s dart,

quite sent straight to you, straight from me.
And as I proposed on bended knee
with feelings that came from deep in my heart,
I use my words.


We’re writing water or waterways today. Your inspiration will come from one of these four sources. There are oceans of lotions, land of a thousand lakes, river of dreams and streams of consciousness. Try to find a different view of water like those above. Write your poem with that in mind.


This, a watershed
moment; a lightbulb moment
if we let it be.

(c) Marie Elena Good, 2020




The sky is clear,
pristine and calm.
The breezes soothing.
No storm could invade,
nothing to throw shade on this new day.
It is early and the swirling
surf is crisp,
the waves lap the shore
tasting all flavors within.
I begin, board in tow,
steps deliberate.
Slow. No one near;
the sky is clear.
The surf beckons,
it reckons to take me
for the ride of my life.
My board is waxed and
it wanes in the bob of eternity.
The waves and me,
I paddle to the crest
in waters way over my chest.
Well over my head instead.
Giving me all that I can take.
I watch the pipe form.
I think I’ve made a mistake.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2020