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.


WOW! It’s been a busy & eventful week playing co-host. I’ve attended tea parties, birthday parties & cotillions, walked about in nature and… been dumped on… again & again! Despite that last part, thank you for letting me tinker in the garden, because it’s also been a very reading & rewarding week and I have thoroughly enjoyed it.

Tasked with the difficult assignment of selecting just a couple of poems forced me to read & reread, and read yet again – a luxury I rarely take the time to do. It was a great experience, viewing the world through everyone else’s eyes – so many different and interesting perspectives! After much consideration, below are my own choices for this week’s Brilliant Blooms.

Thanks again! It was an honor and a pleasure! 🙂 – PSC


One of the best aspects of selecting a Co-host each week is that I get a break every so often as the strength of my “poetic partner” comes to the surface and becomes the voice of the Garden, allowing me to rest my “vocal cords”. Pamela did an outstanding job and her work and dedication  have truly shone. She has taken the reins and given us a journey we’ve enjoyed. Thank you Pamela!


My choice for the prompt was certainly a different take on the subject. And the poet has made a triumphant return to the Garden with his BLOOM earning poem. Damon Dean (sevenacresky) equated love to a prison sentence, and on occasion we all have to “do the time”. I loved this offering, Damon:


You’re free.
You’re free indeed.
The shackles of that worthless love are gone.

Good riddance too.
Don’t call. Put down the phone.

You’re through.
Her words are traps.
She’ll take it all, heart, guts, and bones.
You can’t be freed alone,
if you aren’t freed,
from that damn phone.

© Damon Dean – 2014



I found this obnoxious little form by chance, but since we yearn to learn new things, it made our rotation. The rapid-fire rhyme had a quirky feel to it, but our poets did step up to put some savory verses on the table. And yet, some were able to take the quirk out of their pieces making the flow and message come together nicely. As Pamela has set the precedent, I have two Tyburn that qualify for recognition. First, Hannah Gosselin’s light play becomes a beautiful dance beneath the stars. Shall we?


Daylight fading – twilight…midnight now;
sea of white glows, moonlight – insight grows.

Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014

Then we have our resident patriot and warrior who presented with honor and a vision which is the way he seems to live his every day in service and faith. Earl Parsons takes the second part of this bloom with this poem. (Even in spite of rhyming syrple with purple in another poem – 😉 )


Nighttime warfare lighting sighting strong
Bravely standing fighting righting wrong


© 2014 Earl Parsons


Although this prompt seemed to lend itself so easily to humor – and many folks captured the humorous aspects of this assignment very well – my choice for this particular bloom was a serious and sensitive piece. While it included those requisite “worst things you can say to someone who was just dumped”, it also contained wise (and kind and morale boosting) advice, as well as beautifully subtle indications of the passage of time (so necessary for the healing process) and some lovely metaphors.

(Despite a couple “typos” – of ‘your’ instead of you’re…)

My bloom goes to Priti for the poem “It Will Get Better”. Beautiful work, Priti!


I could see the red flags
It was about time
Glad your blinders are off
and your reading all the signs
There is really no magic formula
Just smudge some sage in your snow
Salt your wounds with sunburn
Let raindrops melt and flow
Your stronger than you think you are
Find a way to forgive
Somehow it will, get better
Just trust that it will —



Tyburn was a tough assignment, to be sure, and I was amazed at the number of excellent poems that were offered up – in spite of its restrictive limitations. Many folks managed to transform this quirky, seemingly comedic poetic form into something serious and heartfelt. Some folks really rocked this challenging form, which made this decision a bit more difficult.

If I can choose only ONE blossom, I select the sweet, lilting, musical & romantic Tyburn that takes me to an old-fashioned cotillion. Congratulations to Susan Schoeffield for her poem “Shall We?”


A chance
to dance,
As music plays, a chance to dance grows
and with the song, perchance, romance flows.
© Susan Schoeffield – 2014


If allowed to “bend the rules” a bit, and place TWO blooms in one vase, I’d like to add Connie Peter’s fluffy, scruffy, huffy, puffy cat. In just a few words, and carefully counted syllables, Connie paints a complete vignette, capturing perfectly the cat’s attitude & appearance. Congrats, Connie!

Come here silly, fluffy, scruffy cat
Slowly came and huffy, puffy sat

© Connie Peters – 2014



The numbers had been trending all weekend and it was clear the first thought had become the best thought. And so I take pride in announcing the new title for our growing garden is… CREATIVE BLOOMINGS. As Marie Elena had observed, the “S” on the end of BLOOMINGS makes this a very distinctive “non”-word. In all searches connecting the words BLOOMINGS and POETRY provides one response, POETIC (now CREATIVE) BLOOMINGS.


The second most popular choice was the original name POETIC BLOOMINGS. This will be retained as the title of the poetry arm of our site. POETIC BLOOMINGS will continue with the SUNDAY SEED (our weekly Sunday prompt), INFORM POETS (our journey into poetic forms), BRILLIANT BLOOMS (a change from BEAUTIFUL BLOOMS, our “award” to the selected favorites for the week). All features here (DAISY CHAIN, BOOK SHELF, RECOLLECTION pages) will be retained. And there are at Marie’s estimation two more POET INTERVIEW features to be executed from our original group. After these, we will be branching out on occasion to tap other voices in the poetic world. These will be proposed for the third Thursday of the month when we have one lined up.

Under the CREATIVE BLOOMINGS banner, we will feature a “page”  for art work (your paintings, sketches, drawings and cartoons) you wish to display here. These will be in GARDEN GALLERY. PHOTO PHOCUS will be where your collections of photographs will find a home. Send us your artwork or an album with a title for your group of pictures and a brief artist bio. A link to your blog will be helpful! These can be sent to the e-mail account ( ) at anytime. We will post these when they are presented. Your submission will be considered your consent to post them on our pages and use them in possible future Photo Prompts.

Information about the trustees and guest poets will follow later this week. These are scheduled to begin when February arrives. Please be mindful, this is a major undertaking and work in progress. There will be glitches and bugs along the way as we expand. But, we’re in this for the long haul. Our success or failure will hinge on our continued support of our chosen crafts.

We have announced that the flash fiction site, FLASHY FICTION has joined under our new banner to become FLASHY FICTION FRIDAYS. See the announcement.

The changes a coming quickly, so visit often to keep pace!


We’ve immersed ourselves in water for this prompt and the words flowed as if the floodgates were open and left to run free. And yet we made our choices:


I have a partiality to the seashore and this vignette seems hauntingly familiar to me. Marian had captured the scene precisely. It spoke to me in hushed tones and my heart was touched by this poem.

Photo Credit: Walt Wojtanik

Photo Credit: Walt Wojtanik

This photo is exactly your poem Marian!

An obvious choice for my bloom.

 At the Edge of the Sea by Marian Veverka

She stoops and bends her knees,
draws her hand along the still-wet sand
The tide is turning and the sand
for the moment is newly-born.
She cannot resist the small shining
shells peeking from its surface.
Carefully she slips her hand beneath
them and draws them out.

This sky so intensely blue.
This solemn sea, the sea-gulls
wheeling, crying.. The waves
breaking on the sand without a sound
For a moment all of it is hers…
then gently, she lets it slip
from between her fingers.


It’s a pleasure to award my final “Bloom” to RJ for this poem. For me, this piece has its own magic in the form she chose; in the alliteration and assonance it contains; and in the allusion to dance, an art form that is, in my mind anyway, well suited to this poetic form. In addition to that, the poem places the reader in the orchestra pit, alluding to the passive-active involvement that readers have with poems as they read (or hum) along. In short, this poem works on so many levels, including the playful point of view that RJ often brings to her work. In my opinion, this poem, like the poet herself, is a treasure.

Water Magic by  RJ Clarken

 “If there is magic on this planet, it is contained in water.” ~Loren Eiseley

 You only have to glance at it,
as sunlight glints on its expanse.
Magical enchantment rises

 and then, your gaze just cannot quit,
because you’re beckoned to the dance.
You laugh. You laugh at its surprises

 and by its shoreline you will sit,
in contemplation, dream or trance.
All’s revealed. There’s no disguises.

 You’re in nature’s orchestral pit;
You hum along, your one great chance.
Unscripted time improvises.

 Water’s magic’s celebrated
as you’re wholly captivated.

I thank Marie and Walt for the opportunity to contribute to this site in Walt’s absence. It was great fun but it was just one of those things; a trip to the moon on gossamer wings, to borrow a couple of Cole Porter’s lines. Eventually, the garden comes around right again: it is gratifying that Walt is back at the hoe, even as it is sad that Marie is not. In the garden as in life, however, evolution goes on; there will be exciting times as the garden grows—and perhaps changes—under the hands of all of us who love it.


We’ve dealt with “Noise” this week. And I was drawn to two poems in this regard. One is rambunctious and very expressive in a loud sort of way. The other dismisses noise as an intrusion and the silence becomes deafening in this sense. And so, I offer two BLOOMS for the prompt. I give a BLOOM to RJ Clarken for “Noise” and one to Vivienne Blake for “Noises Off”

by RJ Clarken

Fwwwap fwwwap fwwwap went my lips
as I sp-sp-spit out some pips

and then gave some thought to Onomatopoeia.

I can grrrrowwwl
or meooooowwww
but just how
does a cow
make a mmmooooo
while she’d chew
on her cud?
This is ud-
derly, sud-
denly noise.
Poem ploys
are just scripts
to eclipse

the more serious kinds of POW! erful stuff that just whifffffffs

(pen or lips.)
Damn those pips!

Scritch scratch scratch
rhyme and kvetch
‘til a wretch-
ed verse is penned……
Here’s my zzzzt frnerk wibblesnok quiridingdingding poem, my friend.

by Vivienne Blake

Whoosh and crash outside
as wind and jet-stream coincide.
A clatter from the kitchen
as someone does the dishes.
Wailing violins from the radio –
I could do without the audio
Silence in the ocean
in the world of fishes.
I think I’ll go there.


This poem is, for me, a superb bit of storytelling, even though it deals with a short incident. I was present with the narrator, breathing too, hee hee hoo, hee hee hoo, even though, as a male, I have no idea and can’t imagine what the experience is like. Yet, though Nancy’s skillful handling of sounds and picture-writing (pillows, blankets and goody bag), I was there. More than anything else, however, what struck me about this poem was how the young couple and the older (I presume) narrator were joined in sharing a common experience, as told in the last stanza. I thought this was wonderful work. Hence my proffered bloom.

by Nancy Posey

They’d call in the middle of the night—
I said they could—to ask if they should go.
Pains were coming on schedule,
feeling like I’d said they would,
radiating from the back to front.

They knew. I knew they knew.
They called for reassurance,
unnecessary permission,
a layman’s advice before they risked
calling the doctor after hours
or driving to the hospital, pillows,
blankets and goody bag in tow,
fearful it was just a false alarm. 

Somehow I could tell, when
in the middle of a sentence,
she’d stop. I could hear it
in the silence over the phone.

Get your focal point, I’d tell her,
take a cleaning breath, then breathe:
slowly, in through your nose
and out through your mouth.

I’d hear her shift to the hee hee hoo
hee hee hoo, a panting to handle
more than the early twinges
of a body ready to unload its cargo
after nine months. Go, I’d say.
Call if you need me. You’ll be fine.

Before falling back to sleep again,
I’d find myself breathing hee hee hoo,
hee hee hoo before slowing returning
to breathing–in through my nose–
and out through my mouth. 


As expected, forms that were used exemplify the poets that chose them. It was easy to see where their expression takes root. One poem came center stage a bit more than the rest. The thoughts expressed came cascading in imagery. It was only fitting that the form used was the Cascade. Barbara Young this BLOOM is for you!

by Barbara Young
Where would I stand
If the world passed in parade today?
On the basket-woven ancient cobble,
Or the flat plates of beehive pave?

If this were the end,
If I were obliged to fit my actions
To my words and judge my fellow man,
Where would I stand?

It’s so damn easy to condemn
The floats of war, the martial brass bands.
Could I sweep all uniforms off the streets
If the world passed in parade today?

Should I slaughter the poachers
And return the elephants to their homes,
Uncage the giant cats to find their prey
On the basket-woven ancient cobble?

Who comes behind
To judge my judgments? And who follows him?
Who would dare be on the reviewing stand
Or the flat plates of beehive pave?


CONGRATULATIONS to RJ Clarken, Vivienne Blake, Nancy Posey and Barbara Young on your selections for the BEAUTIFUL BLOOM.


In the revamping of POETIC BLOOMINGS site, the one constant has been the propagation of poetry. Our poets strive to put their best work forward and it shows week after week. Amidst all the changes and possibilities, we have continued to honor poems that stand out in some way. They may not be the “best of the best”, but sparked a thought or memory or struck a nerve that made their selection for accolades a reality. The three poets awarded this week certainly have come forward to make their points clearly and concisely. So with out anymore delay, the BEAUTIFUL BLOOMS:


To me, one of the greatest books there could be, is the book that hasn’t been completely written yet… the book of our lives. Each “page” and “chapter” tell the tale of us as people and writers/poets. It speaks to our heart and commitment. It reveals our emotion and compassion. And the story is to be continued as long as we are alive. This aspect is beautifully expressed in Susan Schoeffield’s poem, “To Be Continued”. A life well lived, is experienced to the fullest. My BEAUTIFUL BLOOM is presented to Susan for this work.

TO BE CONTINUED bySusan Schoeffield

My life is a book
of stories and verse,
a place where I look,
for better or worse,
to cherish and scorn
these tales I’ve amassed
on pages well-worn
from trips to the past.
The stories untold
hide on a blank page
with secrets they hold
not yet to engage,
but waiting until
the chapter is born
and the keyboard quill
sees a rose or thorn.
With life as the seed
that blossoms to text,
I can’t wait to read
where this book goes next.

© Susan Schoeffield


The prompt this yielded a plethora of excellence. Picking one “bloom” was sheer torture, and I almost reverted to my exercise of a week ago, when I selected two poems for blooms because of Christmastime. The problem with that idea was, two wouldn’t’ve been nearly enough. But Sara’s poem has one feature that I think none of the others had, and that’s the sense of immersion in a book. She speaks of lingering in the worlds created by authors, then trying them on to see if they fit. For me, that comes as close as anything I’ve ever read to describing what it’s like to be totally absorbed in the world proffered by the pages. I presume Sara was speaking of novels, but I’ve had the same feeling in several non-fiction works too, including, of all things, an introductory book on astronomy. I was indeed “lingering” in the world(s) the author wrote about, just as Sara says. Hence this bloom.


Take me out of my reality.
Set me down in another’s.
I will ache with their pains,
empathize with their fears,
and foibles, smile with
their happiness. My viewpoint
of their story will be the only
one that matters. Upon re-reading,
perhaps I will discover snippets missed
the first time around. If I choose,
I can linger in their world, trying
it on, seeing if it fits.

© Sara McNulty


I felt it was appropriate to reprise the very first form we had highlighted at POETIC BLOOMINGS. If you had the opportunity to glance back to the original posting, you will have seen that there were a total of 14 comments on the form. Obviously, that pales in comparison to the respondents we have now. So we re-introduced the Alouette to our growing list of contributors. With the new year and the changes that are taking place on the blog, I chose the poem by Debi Swim celebrating that fact. “Out With the Old, In With the New – Deja Vu” earns the Beautiful Bloom for the IN-FORM POET Prompt.

Out With the Old, In With the New- Deja vu by Debi Swim

With a backward glance
I surveyed askance
the limping, retreating year.
Then with hope and trust
and my eyes up-thrust
I quelled my quavering fear.

I think you’ll agree
for certain there’ll be
laughter and tears in the mix.
There’ll be hills to climb
then coasting times
for life’s a mixed bag of tricks.

© Debi Swim

Congratulations to Susan, Sara and Debi on your selections!


MARIE ELENA’S BLOOM:  Star Over Bethlehem by Erin Kay Hope

Amid the beauty and charm proffered in response to this prompt is the heart of what the Christmas season means to the Christian community.  For me, the message is no more clear and unassumingly magnificent than in the few words Erin Kay offered at the onset.  Her use of form is effective here, as are her carefully chosen words.

Star Over Bethlehem by Erin Kay Hope

Piercing through
Darkness and despair,
A star, bright in the heavens
To show the way to God’s love,
Manifested in
A newborn

 WILLIAM’S CHOICE(S):  God Rest Ye Merry, Musicians by Jane Shlensky AND Inside Out by Ellen Evans

This being Christmastime, I decided to indulge a little and proffer two blooms. In both instances I was moved deeply by one phrase in the poem: in Jane’s offering it was “imagining a baby’s power / to change the ways we dream”; in Ellen’s, it was “the Temple windows reversed the mien / allowing the inner light to stream.” Both of these images were so strong and clear, seeming to subsume the whole poem is a single breath. Although one poem speaks of music and the other, of light, both, in my view, are similar in that they are about offerings: the musicians gladdening others’ hearts with their songs; the Temple inspiring us to let our inner lights shine and illuminate the way for others. I thought both poems were magnificent, and fit the season.


Each year the list grows longer
as musicians gather ‘round
to pick the songs for Christmas Eve
to greet Jesu with sound.

Each of us needs to hear a few
repeated year on year;
each brings a voice or instrument
and plays it soaring, clear.

Flute, violin, guitar, and bass,
piano, trumpet, dulcimers
make music beautiful to hear;
the harmonies are fulsome-r.

Gesu Bambino, Still, Still, Still,
Ave Maria, O Holy Night,
What Child is This, so many more,
Which carols lift you to the light?.

The goal is always just the same—
to draw hearts to a quiet place
where kindness kneels in worship
with humility and grace.

We want the worshippers to rest,
holding faith like a candle’s beam,
imagining a baby’s power
to change the ways we dream.

Maybe a few will feel a tug
of something powerful as love
and help someone, offer a hug,
live out the peace they’re dreaming of.

We cannot know how we’re received.
We just perform, let music rise.
It fills us up and spills down from
our instruments, voices, and eyes.

We practice ‘til we break our hearts;
we laugh and sing and play,
musicians in a tiny church
to welcome Christmas Day.

INSIDE OUT by Ellen Evans

A tale resides in Rabbinic lore
of ages that have gone before,

of the windows in the Temple’s walls,
and to this day the message calls.

When building windows it’s the norm
with a basic logic to conform.

The progression inward opens wide
to bring the light of day inside.

But the Temple windows reversed the mien
allowing the inner light to stream

from deep within to far and wide
to all those searching for a guide.

And though the Temple no longer stands
the message still speaks to our task at hand.

If we each release our inner light
we can help set this troubled world aright.

Congratulations, ladies.  And thank you to all our poets, whose work continues to light our path here at Poetic Bloomings.



It’s a big surprise waking this Saturday to find Marie missing in action and me taking her place. She had taken ill and we hope she’s feeling much better by this posting. But the reason we are here is to celebrate poetry and the poets who propose it. It’s been a while since I had this task and the one thing that came back to flood my memories was just how hard a task this is. All of our poets are so talented and expressive; we appreciate your efforts in making Poetic Bloomings the loving garden it is. Speaking of being “In The Garden”…


In reading this week’s poems, I get the sense of exactly what this place means to you all as well. We plant the seeds of this poetic process and your care and nurturing put into words as your poems are all beautifully grown here. The poem that struck me heartily is actually a two-part poem. Taken from the children’s rhyme, our poem givens two sides of the loving process our Creator presents us. “Roses are Red; Violets are Blue, Sal Buttaci, I love your poem” It earns you my Beautiful Bloom:

1. ROSES ARE RED by Salvatore Buttaci

their petals soaked in flower blood
because when they first bloomed
in the first garden that first week
they stood in stemmed rows
asking God the Gardener to give them
beating hearts as He had given
the beasts of land and sea
beating hearts so they would know
life’s painful sacrifice enough
to shed blood when these hearts
would sometimes break
just as He had kindly given them
the dew of tears to shed each morning
as sadly they would long for
the brightness of the dawn
beating hearts to pump blood
that could be shed
this is what these roses asked
and God the Gardener was moved
by their flower prayer
but He wanted that at least
they be spared what pain would come
when Eden was no more
so He compromised and soaked
their white petals in the blood
of His own Son that would be shed
somewhere in time

2. VIOLETS ARE BLUE by Salvatore Buttaci

as if their petals were open hands
gathering into themselves the secret
of the sky and sea
as if strong-stemmed they stood
despite the wind to say their peace
how much their petals yearned for blue
to capture the wildness of the waves
to embody all of what was heaven
how small was their request from a God
Who could do all things
give us the strength of your heaven
give us the majesty of your seas
simple violets are we
let us praise you
and God the Gardener was moved
by their flower prayer
but He wanted to spare at least
these His creatures from
all that sky and sea entail
and so He compromised
took a painter’s brush
with which He soaked their petals
in the richness of His blue
and when His art was then complete
He marveled at the way these violets
these loving creatures He had made
would bob their blue heads towards
His infinite heaven
how they would bow their blue heads
towards His majestic sea


For me, this simple poem expresses the complexity of love. Love, that is, far beyond the love of spouses or friends; love extending to unknown and unnamed others who might chance along a path and see a flower. I think it extends also to love for the whole creation, here represented by a single flower. Finally, it deals with love in the mature sense: that is, love capable of looking beyond the moment to something more permanent beyond, in this case, the sadness that would have ensued when the flower died. Simple, yet profound: that’s how this poem impressed me. Hence this proffered bloom.


I saw a flower along my path
Beautifully bloomed
With heavenly fragrance
I stopped to touch its petals
And experience its scent
And thought about picking it
For you

I left it where it grew
For all who walk that path
To enjoy its beauty
And fragrance

For if I had picked it
You would have enjoyed it
For but a day or so
Before it died
And when dead and limp
It would make you sad
That I had picked it
For you


For my Bloom this week, I choose Erin Kay’s ‘Dance of the Gingerbread Cookies.’  It was at once a tasty, sweet, nostalgic childlike, dreamlike poem that had a perfect ending.
It brought back memories of my own two kids, and the fun and magic of the Holiday season.

Dance of the Gingerbread Cookies

The Gingerbreads have come to dance tonight:
With candy eyes and icing sugar clothes,
Oh what a wondrous, scrumptious, darling sight
They make, all dancing sweetly – there one goes!

The Gingerbreads have danced the night away:
So, out of breath, they climb back into bed;
As morning heralds in the light of day
They’re fast asleep with blankets overhead…

The child in her pj’s taps her chin:
“Why have the Gingerbreads all grown so thin?”

© Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

On that note, I bid to all a good night!
Merry Christmas!  Happy New Year!  Best Wishes for a safe and joyful season of celebration!


MARIE ELENA’S CHOICEThe Onion by Ellen Evans

There is so much to admire in this poem.  The inferred rejection; the reference to simply “Cook;” the emotion; and the transfer from “onion” and “Cook” to “me.”   But what really moved me was the invaluable lesson ingeniously presented.  Ellen, this piece leaves me shaking my head in awe.  This should be required reading for young and old alike.  It is my pleasure to humbly offer you my Bloom.

The Onion by Ellen Evans

Once there was an onion,
in the corner
of the bin
pushed aside by itself,
in the dark
until it was picked up.

First, Cook removed
the few outer layers.
They sure were dry
and shriveled
—looked more
like the leaves

swirling in eddies up
the back porch—
but at least
they had protected
the ones underneath.

Next came a few good ones,
moist, pungent, tender,
the way an onion
was supposed to be.
Afterward one
that was spoiled—

soft, brown, rotten-smelling.
“Not even good for
soup, that one,” said Cook.
Then back to a few more
healthy ones, followed by
another putrid one,

a few more good ones
—and so on.
The spoiled ones always
pushed out of the
way on
the cutting board.

And this was Cook’s
experience with onions:
If you take an onion that
had been around
a while, and just
cut it open—

mixing up
the bad with the good
spoiled the good.
All had to be thrown away.
Ah, but take that same onion,
and open it carefully—

layer by layer.
And behold, at the center,
a green shoot starting
to grow.
And Cook says, “I think
I’ll plant that one.”

“Who was the onion?” you ask.
“Me,” I answer.
“And who
picked it up?” you ask.
again I answer.

Funny thing about onions,
how even the
good ones
when you
open them
make you cry.

 WILLIAM’S PICKOn We Walk Earthly Bound by Marilyn Braendeholm

I must confess that this poem enthralled and enchanted me with sounds and images; its contrasts between the “earthly bound” and the birds carried “along on spread wings and piccolo song” left me open-mouthed in wonder. Words are superfluous as I try to describe how much I like this poem and how deep are the feelings it inspires. The prompt produced many excellent works, as I noted in my comments, but this one, above all others, cast a spell.

ON WE WALK EARTHLY BOUND by Marilyn ‘Misky’ Braendeholm

We walk winter frost under steel sky, rain held
in clouds with our sheer desire. We seek to know
that we are alive, to breathe northern cold that scalds
our toes, that bites at our hatted heads and fingers
wrapped in woollen gloves, but on we march, earthly bound
through fallen November leaves, and bracken mournful

of December. And we step chilled to bone toward
bleakest winter. We follow shadowed sky, deeply steeled
to grey, and we know that above those clouds all reigns
blue and clear. The winds swift to carry sun and birds
along on spread wings and piccolo song. We live,
my friend, in two different worlds, but we march on.


RJ’S IN-FORM BLOOM:  August Terza Rima by Vivienne Blake

Once again, there were some amazing Terza Rima poems written. It was really  hard to choose. Three really stood out for me, though, and totally made me say, “Wow!”

One of those was PurplePen’s ‘Christmas in New York.’ Having lived in NY for 14 years, I could absolutely relate – and it brought back some wonderful memories.

Another was Erin Kay’s ‘Dreamcatcher’ for its awesome imagery.

But…I think this week’s In-form Poet Bloom has to go to Vivienne. Her crescent moon and the romance – in a combined Terza Rima Sonnet just resonated with me in a huge way.

Congratulations to all the poets! You are brilliant and I love the amazing way you all have with your words!

August Terza Rima by Vivienne Blake

A garden in the hush of eventide,
all work has stopped, the buds have closed in sleep.
A summer place, we saunter side by side.

Above, a crescent moon is set to peep
shyly on our bliss, both satisfied
and sad the day is ending glorified.

Reluctantly we turn our steps aside
towards the setting sun that dips below
the trees that line the riverside

with red-streaked colour statement. It must go,
to stay away for hours, just to preside
on other summer places we don’t know.

We turn again, prepared to go inside—
as night must fall, the moon will still abide.


Quick note from Marie Elena:  I TOTALLY second William’s and RJ’s choices!  Such amazing poetry this week! 


Amidst all the dashing, we did us some Nashing and word-meaning gnashing.  Results were just smashing and fun for rehashing!

Now, on with the Blooms!

MARIE ELENA’S BLOOMA Whole New Meaning, by Hannah Gosselin

The responses this week ran the gamut of serious fun to solemn.  I particularly liked two of the more solemn poems, and one of the fun reads.  Getting the opportunity to see William’s choice before even getting a chance to read the poems this week helped me make my final choice … he went with fun, and I chose Hannah’s pensive piece.  A Whole New Meaning is endearingly “Hannah.”  Her love for her husband and adoration of the Christ Child are plainly evident in this beautiful write … so much so, that I had to pause a moment to remember what the prompt was.  Thank you for this, Hannah.  You are such an inspiration to me.

 A Whole New Meaning by Hannah Gosselin

I often call you this,
(more than any on the list),
this one always rises to the top;
spoken softly and sometimes sharp,
depending on the instance
and if you’re at a distance.
On occasion my glance utters it,
soundless words inaudibly slip
lit by eyes enamored-passion’s glow
and yet so swiftly this name changes.
When speaking of the manger,
strangers-wise at His crib-side,
and a telling star plied to sky.
Why, this certainly transforms
four letters are bettered;
we’re beckoned by a Prince
and since the season lingers brightly,
Babe, takes on a whole new meaning.

WILLIAM’S CHOICE:  Breakfast at the Pensione by Jane Shlensky

This prompt surely was a delicious one. We were treated to lunch, supper, and dinner; learned about frappes and shakes in New England; stole some kreplach; went nutty over stotty cakes and butties; and sipped some Sproke. There also were several excellent pieces dealing with inedible matter and the vagaries of pronunciation. It was a fun collection. For me, however, Jane’s poem elicited the greatest volume of laughter and salivation, despite the fact that I never did like flapcakes. The regionalisms are fascinating, and the dialogue she mixes in is delightful; indeed, the laughs could go on all day.


I mix batter for pancakes,
set fruit and jams beside,
“Oh, man, a mess of hoe-cakes,”
yells Felix, grinning wide.
“Not hoe-cakes, these are blini,”
points out Vladimir, excited.
“We Russians eat them teeny
thin, with fruits and sauce inside them.”
“You speak of crepes,” says Dominique,
“as French as Sacre Coeur.”
“Not hardly,” ventures Texas Pete,
“Them’s flap-jacks, that’s for sure.”
“We called the thick ones pan bread,
when I was just a tot,”
says Grandma shaking her old head,
“with honey, syrups, hot.”
“They’s griddle cakes or hot cakes,”
Sadie will have her say.
“Palacinky!” “Blintzes!” “Langos!”
This could go on all day.
I like the sound the batter makes,
the griddle hot as appetites.
“Today I’m making pancakes.
Eat, and call them what you like.”

RJ’s IN-FORM PICKLessons from a miser on triple-couponing by Janice (jlynn) Sheridan

There were some hilarious Nashers and some sweet Nashers, so I really got what I wanted out of the form’s prompt this week!

There were cats and sneezes
and snowmen (if you pleezes.)
There were mashers of spuds
and great poems (no duds.)

But after wrenching rhymes along with wrenching choices, I have to go with Janice (jlynn) Sheridan’s ‘Lessons from a miser on triple-couponing.’ It was hilarious and totally true to the Nasher form, complete with the (aforementioned) wrenched rhymes as well as made-up words or names (Everett McPrudent.!) I loved this poem!

And…I had such fun reading the poems too! I’m sorry I was so slow in getting in my comments, but this was a crazy week at school, with 2 midterms, etc. Anyway, it was great – and I cannot wait to see what everyone does with In-form Poet this coming week

“Lessons from a miser on triple-couponing” by Janice (jlynn) Sheridan

According to parsimonious Everett McPrudent
no one ever graduates from grocery-shopping student

to teacher to expert to grand master of the coupon
(Pardon me, would you happen to have any Grey Poupon?)

without acquiring one of life’s finer pleasures,
(vastly overrated, but of course a great treasure)—

The free procurance of Baluga gray caviar (fragile, defiled)
respectfully espied in the bargain-basement aisle.

Congratulations to Hannah, Jane, and Janice!  BRAVO ladies!