We celebrate summer with a trek to the beach. The shore beckons us to write a poem on its inspiration. As always, branch out in any direction as you shore up your verse. Write the sights, sounds, smells of the shore. A sunset appeals, as does a sunrise, sea gulls and swarms of swimmers … take the plunge and write it!


High School Years, Snippets with Mom and Dad (Naples Beach, 1970s)

I pick up sea glass,
rub it between my fingers,
this heart-shaped God gift.

My dad finds twin shells,
quietly pockets them, then
makes earrings for me.

Sunset walk with Mom.
She tells me, “You’ll soon prefer
a romantic walk.”

Walking home from Pier,
something stings me on my foot.
Dad carries me home. 

The sun dips itself
into the Gulf.  We give a
standing ovation.  

An early-sunrise-
beach-all-to-myself morning.
A short bike ride home.

Just curious how
many dads would carry their
teenage daughter home.

Turned out Mom was right.
And part of me holds regret
for lost walks with her.  

Wonder if the next
to find the heart-shaped sea glass
saw it as God’s gift. 

© Marie Elena Good, 2022



The tender shore breeze frees my words
from the prison of my mind,
I find my head clears here 
where the skies are the purest blue,
azure, for sure. It seems the cure for 
this muddled muse which at times 
uses rhymes like nickels and dimes
to buy a clue.  But then a stray cloud
plays through and rouses me
to choose the azure blue in lieu
of something ominous. Midday promises
to inspire, the higher into the sky you view.
It offers the truest blue to you.
Purely azure, for sure.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik - 2022


The greatest gift any of us have ever received is of course, this life we live. It is all we are and ever will be. It may not always be easy, but we work at it and make it work as best we can. In all things, we should choose life!

This is the life. It’s a wonderful life. Life is worth living … you’ve heard many turns of phrase concerning life. Find one and be inspired. Give your words the breath they deserve. Choose life! Write a Life poem.



She heard the hard truth:
Treatment might extend her life
to wait for a cure.

Faced with the choice to
treat or go home, she went home
to wait, to go Home. 

© Marie Elena Good, 2022

Delores Graber Good
November 8, 1939 – October 26, 2010



Off to find where the treasure of life is stored. We
travel along the pathways for they shall
lead us along in our sanguine walk.
We will talk to birds speaking in feathered tongues with
nary a misunderstanding nor demanding tone. A
communion with nature, hands held aloft as we walk
to any destination we please for surely that
is where the trail ends and all us friends will be glad. It is
all that we have treasured, doled and measured
to share with all hearts that conjoin, and
as we get older, although our pace may slow,
we will continue to stroll life’s walkway, and
take our pleasures from the bench where we will watch…

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2022 

“Golden Shovel” Poetry

We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch…

from “Where the Sidewalk Ends” by Shel Silverstein


Today’s prompt takes us to our comfort zone – home. Write about home past or present – yours or someone else’s. There’s home plate, home base, home run… anything home will do.


Come Home (Sonnet to Immigrants and Refugees)

So, at what point does one decide to flee
the land where fruit and spice speak Grandma’s tongue?
Where generations of their family 
breathe music, art, and song as through shared lung?

This land (their land) where memories are made:
The land that births their children’s love of life,
where laughter laughs, and prayers-in-sync are prayed,
with rooted norms for husband and for wife.

At what point does their home feel foreign-born,
so much so that they have no choice but leave?
How long ‘til all their colors wilt war-torn?
How long until their soul does naught but grieve?

At what point can one let go of what was,
to feel at home in land of unlike flaws?

© Marie Elena Good, 2022


An unfamiliar place with no trace
of anything you can recall.
So many thoughts and ideas
given birth as your mind unearths
sorrow with little hope for a tomorrow.
Webs cobbled in fine silk
milking memories from misty midnight menageries.
Windows to the world, a soulless place
replacing what once was held dear,
here where love blossomed
and generations of sons 
and daughters grew in tune.
Airy, left in decadent decay – 
a shell of better days
ghosts of confiscated youth 
ripped from the grip our longing hearts
by upstart degenerates and renegades
where as children we once played.
Zombied now and denigrated to
wait for a wrecking ball or an overhaul.
In dreams you find your mind returning,
yearning for what long ago was your domain.
In dreams you can certainly go home again,
but why would you want to?

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2022


“Music is the language of the spirit. It opens the secret of life bringing peace, abolishing strife.”

― Kahlil Gibran

We all have music in us! In some respects, we are our own best instrument. Maybe you play one well or not so much, or maybe you’d like to play one. Either way, you’re with the band. Here’s your chance for a solo! Even if you only sing. Write your instrument and fill our hearts with your music.


To love someone is to learn the song in their heart and sing it to them when they have forgotten it.”  ~ unknown.  Wish I could claim it.

Heart Song

Even David knew the power of music
to the heart of his God –
this God who sang the 
universe into existence.
This God whose angels forever sing of His glory –
from Him, to Him, through Him.
To us.
To those yet to be.
To His universe.
To themselves.  
This God who gave music to birds and bugs
and frogs and trees 
and water and glass and wind.
And (some believe) the very planets.
This God who loved this poet musician.
This One who called him a man after
His own heart.  
This Creator who gave each one of us
our own heart song.
May we sing it back to the Giver
all of our days! 

© Marie Elena Good, 2022


I've aways wanted to learn guitar,
But in that pursuit, I didn't get far.
To me music's always been black and white
And as I'm concerned that's quite alright.
I can't get strung out 'cause of this you can bet,
You won't find me harboring any regret.
The key to my music is at home in my fingers,
That's where my melody chooses to linger.
I no longer desire to play guitar chords,
I no longer fret, nor regret my keyboard.
My song is a part of the Grand Master's scheme.
He gave me a voice, now I wait for my dream.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik - 2022  

(GIVE ME) A DREAM FOR MY HEART  by Walter J Wojtanik
(The title is the link)


Sometimes presumed errors or perceived wrong decisions surprisingly work to our advantage. We cover our tracks by proclaiming, ”I meant to do that!”

But was it something you were meant to do? What was it that you were meant to do, or would have liked to have done?

Turn your self-search into a poem and let us know where it might have taken you.


TOO LATE (a waltmarie)

I ignored your advances. I made you beg my
while you strained to gain my affection …
but I 
couldn’t encourage candor. No, not when you
meant to
lead me to altars and vows, and expected to hear me 
say I 
do, while my panic clearly cried I don’t
love you.

© Marie Elena Good, 2022

Inner poem reads:

but I
meant to
say I 
love you

(Disclaimer:  While most of my poems are based on my life and thoughts, this one is completely fabricated. 😉 )



The poem I meant to write
lived in my soul since I knew
I was meant to write a poem or two.
Or nine hundred. The one blunder
of my existence was my resistance
to refrain from writing rhyme.
So now poetry flows through me,
it knew me long before I was born.
For from that morn on, this gift
has lifted my heart, in part
to touch other souls with no
control over this muse of mine.
I refuse to rest until that one best
poem is written. The one 
that has me smitten.
The poem I meant to write. 
THE one.

© Walter J Wojtanik - 2022