In light of Ian and the devastation left in its path, let’s write of weathering storms. We may write about hurricanes, blizzards, electrical storms, or storms of life. When trouble blows in, what does it look like? How do you cope? Or, maybe you are the storm? 😉 Grab your galoshes and words and wade on in.

Marie’s Haze


I’m not observant.
You’d be amazed at how much
blows over my head.

I’m like memes that say
“I was today years old when”
I fin’lly noticed ‘this’.

It often seems like
thoughts swirl around in my brain,
and can’t seem to land.

And obvious things
don’t click … until they do.  Like
Dorothy’s last name.

© Marie Elena Good, 2022

Walt’s Weather


The storm begins.
The mist of a drizzle.
Drip, drip, drip,
then a deluge.
That’s read tsunami.
The storm is upon us,
will we weather the storm?
Nothing can stop it!

(c) Walter J Wojtanik - 2022


Now Autumn is here and the seasons have changed and to everything there is a season. A time to be born and a time to die. A time for every purpose under heaven. We are inspired by these truths. We will write “A TIME TO _________” poems. Turn, turn, turn!


A Time to Hear

Don’t speak.
Don’t read, or write.
Quiet the background noise.
Then, listen for The Still, Small Voice.
Listen long. Relish your God.

© Marie Elena Good, 2022

(My first Parsons Appreciate Form. 😊 )



To every word, learn, yearn, turn
and write what your heart offers.
Your coffers overflow with a wealth
of expressiveness, an excessive mess
Of sound same games. Names
become fodder for verse and you nurse
your poetry through every nuance 
of absurd words. You gird your loins 
and coin a phrase or two and you come to view
life in terms of verbiage. It becomes your time
to rhyme. There is a season and a purpose 
to everything under heaven.

(c) Walter J Wojtanik - 2022


Summer is ready to slip away quietly. Not with any parade or marching band. It just beats a hasty retreat. And with its departure, we herald in the autumnal equinox. So we will write autumn poems. But…Your poem will present the essence of autumn, full of descriptive language and imagery. Replete with the colorful sights and aromas. However, your poem will NOT contain the words Fall or Autumn anywhere in your verse. Not in the body and not in the title. We will know it is an autumnal poem by your words alone (as long as none of the words are Fall or Autumn – or any derivation of either!) Take us into the season which is upon us… whatever it’s called.



Smacks of death, say some.
But I smell Mom’s pies. Hear Dad’s
marching band pre-games.

Feel crisp air against
my sometimes still-a-bit-tanned-
from-summertime skin.

Marvel at the sky’s
puffy white and charcoal clouds
in deep blue setting.

Relish the jewel-tones
gradually gracing trees,
begging wonderment.

Enjoy leaves crunching
beneath the tires of my bike,
or cute-boot-dressed feet.

Experience leaves
raked in a pile over my
head, then jumping in.

Savor the taste of
a hardy stew with biscuits,
or bowl of chili.

Memories bring smiles,
like the Robbins Avenue
Pizza (a rare treat),

enjoyed on our porch
after walking home from a
nighttime football game.

Smacks of death, say some.
But my senses are filled with
what I’ve fallen for.

© Marie Elena Good, 2022

(An extraordinary piece, Pard! IMHO!)



The sun's glow doesn't last long past seven,
and all the splendor of Heaven descends
in a rapid cascade of color and shadow.
Archangel's wings stir the winds of change
and coolness becomes the shroud that engulfs you
in hues of crimson, and rust, and brown decay.
The scents fill your nostrils; burning leaves, stew
brewing, and you wish you could capture it all 
in your imperfect words. Birds prepare to head south, 
without much to carry but their songs. 
Before long, winter will approach, encroaching on all 
who mourn her sorry demise; her eyes, vacant and sad.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik - 2022


Every day we inch toward the edge of a precipice. Summer is on the downward spiral. Daylight is a waning commodity. It seems we’re living on the edge of something. We’re looking over the edge to write our poems this week. Edge of sanity, edge of reason or the edge of a ledge, what fuels your poetry? Give us a view from your lofty position. It’s true. We’re living on the edge.


On Edge

A young mom stands.
The four-year-old boy at her feet
sits in his unseen labels:
She holds one end of a leash.
The other is attached to a cute backpack
he wears, as he fidgets in a small spot of dirt
in an otherwise flawless lawn of the public library that is, 
today, being used as a venue for celebrating diversity.  

The morning is perfection.  
People of different cultures and languages together,
sharing their talents and being offered a public voice.
This mom does not move from her spot
for hours.
The darling boy pays no attention to the speakers
the music
the dancers
other children.
His focus is only on his patch of dirt.
He sits in it.  Lays in it.  Plays in it 
with his hands and feet.
Feels it with his cheeks.
He pulls a bit of the grass around it,
increasing his speck of space.
A woman with a long dress gets close.
He reaches out to touch the fabric.  It is the only thing
I see him pay attention to, besides the small patch
that grounds him.  
His momma tells him
don’t touch the dress.  

When I am leaving, I approach her. 
She stiffens. 
I smile.
“A sort of sandbox, I see,” I say.  
She tells me nothing soothes him quite like
a patch of cool dirt. 
She tells me his labels.  
I place my hand on her shoulder briefly,
and assure her she is a strong, good momma.
She says the only other woman
to approach her this day sternly told her, 
“I pay taxes for this grass.”

© Marie Elena Good, 2022



In the distance, a rumble,
a tumble of thunder as the truth approaches.
Standing on the edge, the storm is here,
a torrent of rain coming to wash away the mud
and slime slung as the truth keeps brimming
to counter the lies pushing to level the people. 
Its ferocity will shake the world,
a swirl of wind in forceful retribution.
The solution is clear. Hear what you choose; 
what your heart wishes to believe.
Seek shelter from the storm.

© Walter J Wojtanik, 2022


The James Webb telescope has seized our attention and imagination, with its ability to capture images from the far reaches of space. To find today’s poem, let’s look to the cosmos. Planets, stars, asteroids, comets, light, life … stretch your mind to its own far reaches, and grab the poem that is there.


What The James Webb Telescope Can’t See

Exposure to the vastness of our world
reveals the limitations of my brain.
As gleaming glows of galaxies unfurled
have come to light, I cannot even feign

to grasp a tiny bit of what exists,
or visualize what else may be out there.
For as the search continues to persist,
we’ll surely find more great unknowns elsewhere.

Here’s me, my feet fixed firmly to the ground;
my tiny world spills full with those I love.
My eyes and heart lift up to God, spellbound
at what He made that I can scarce dream of.

This God who spoke unending realms to be,
sees fit to whisper words of love to me.  

© Marie Elena Good, 2022

“When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars which you have set in place: What is mankind that you are mindful of them? Human beings that you care for them?”
~ Psalm 8:3-4



Hear the sounds in a rundown garage,
a hodge-podge of music and mayhem,
giving Creedence to the revival.
Clear water runs deep. But, who can sleep
while the travelin' band is assembled.

Life resembles the ramble-table they provide.
It cannot hide. My baby left me
up around the bend. Looking out
my back door I wonder who will stop the rain.
I heard it through the grapevine, but
before you accuse me, let's run through the jungle
as long as I can see the light.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik - 2022

A Found Poem written from the song titles (in italics) from the Creedence Clearwater Revival’s album, “Cosmo’s Factory”. A different take.


Simon & Garfunkel

Think the Simon and Garfunkel mega hit of the sixties. Silence has a sound. It is up to us to describe that sound. What do you hear as the sound of silence? Is it eerily strange or quietly cacophonous? What sounds do you consider silent? Take the challenge and make us hear the noise!


Ears to Hear

She sits in silence,
listening for God to speak.
But she hears no one.

She sits in darkness,
watching for God’s appearance.
But she sees nothing.

She grasps at the air,
trying to feel God’s presence.
But she feels nothing.

She raises her voice.
“Abba! Father! Where are You?”
He, soundlessly, speaks.

She closes her eyes,
absorbing His attention,
knowing who He is. 

Her heart hears His voice
in both silence and sound. He
gives her ears to hear.

She opens her eyes
sees Him everywhere, in
all He created.

The air wraps her up,
blankets her in His shelter,
fills her lungs with Him.

She knows she is His.
She sees and hears and feels Him.
She knows what she knows.

© Marie Elena Good, 2022



Here amongst the evergreens,
a scene I relive every year
with the fear this immortality
will wear off and folks would scoff
at the fat old man in red.
It is said that those who believe
will receive more than material
gains. It is then that the real
gift of the season comes through.
But I listen, here amongst the pines,
and I’m surrounded by a cold silence;
a whispered wisp of unthawed thought
that soothes this wondering heart.
As I start to think of December
I remember echoes of the past that
blast my memory, and there is no
remedy for this reverie. Names
and faces are revisited on this
mental list that have kissed my
spirit and I hear it once more:
the arctic air, frigid and frosted,
in stillness amongst the evergreens
and marks of reindeer paws,
in crystal silence, I am Santa Claus.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2022


We’ve reached our 400th prompt here at POETIC BLOOMINGS. Marie and I (and the majority of you) have been on this journey together. This is an endless trek to the poetic prowess which we all share. So, it’s humorous that I hit this plateau going solo. Marie has another reason to be away for this weekend (no computer, no connection, much desire to join us, but…). That prompts me to offer the prompt of going solo.

Some things in life require us to go it alone on occasion. No shame in that. No matter who is around and available to offer assistance, it’s something you need to handle yourself. Be you a one man band, or a one night stand, however you find yourself doing the job on your own, you’re grown up enough to handle it. Our challenge this week is to write a solo poem.



Here I am
floating by my tin can,
just a man feeling
the girth of the earth;
the weight of the world.
The only space that ever concerned me
was the empty one inside me.
It hides me from this life’s mission.
I keep giving my heart permission to soar
but once more it is left at the gate. And so I wait.
Love, once lighter than air can scare the living
color out of this duller than life fellow.
For all I know, ground control has one goal
and it seems I’m just not getting it.
I’ll forget flying solo, never getting so low
that the ground poses problems.
I’m taking a shot. I’m not going anywhere
if I can’t achieve air! But make it clear,
falling in love isn’t really that bad.
It’s just that the landing always kills me!

(C) Walter J Wojtanik - 2022


Fire. It has many connotations. From desire to destruction, fire becomes the element that carries the most power. Think of an aspect of fire as your inspiration and let it fuel your burn!


Introduced couple.
Spontaneous combustion.
Someone lit a match.

© Marie Elena Good, 2022



Molten heat, flesh dripping
with the perspiration of passion's fire.
Crimson patches with crusted edges;
blisters of the resistant strain of hearts
more to ignite and burn in sacrifice;
the stench of charred skin, 
a blood offering to the gods who pander
to  longing. 
The pyre broils unbridled, arms out-
s  t  r  e  t  c  h  e  d and reaching to
breach the ford between
love and lust. A bridge.
It is what is, from the sanctuary
of solitary souls. Barren.
No one watches,
no one sees from whence smoke rises.
becomes my affliction,
setting myself ablaze for adulation's sake,
an implosion of inward emotions laid bare.
And there, where only ash remains
a powdered stain where once hearts conjoined.

(c) Walter J Wojtanik- 2022


Sitting on our shore and watching a solitary sailboat navigating the Lake Erie waters. Made me wish I were manning the rudder and unfurling the sails for a trek. In lieu of a boat, we’re writing a sail poem (or a sale poem). That’s a bargain for sure!



They’re there at Sayles
selling their sails,
sail sales always prevail!
From here to there
they sell their ware,
so the boats can go 
from here to there.
You can see them 
lined up in a row, 
but without a sail
that’s the only way they’ll go
merrily, gently down the stream.

(c) Walter J Wojtanik - 2022


Apparently you notice Marie’s absence. She’s taking a poetic pause to spend some Nona time with her beautiful granddaughters. She’s earned a Sunday off, so I’m going it alone.


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