It’s Valentines Day! Write a love poem. Or a “Hallmark” poem!



My love for you is deep,
yet my words steep in
tepid water.
No flavor; nothing to savor.
They begin, but fade,
delayed by … what?
A depth I can’t reach,
though I beseech them.
A well with no bucket.
A spell I can’t cast.
My tone, a droning bore.
I wish my words would


to the level of love.

© Marie Elena Good, 2021



Were it not for you, I’d probably squeak by in this life,
Without your guiding light, I’d lose my way,
Not every day, but enough to notice it.

Were it not for you, I’d be okay,
But just okay and not the man who is made better
When your light shines upon him.

Were it not for you, I might find myself
alone, in a quiet home with nothing
but these four walls to talk to.

Were it not for you, I would never have known
How to truly love, and never know what it is
To be truly loved by one so true, were it not for you!

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2021


Narrative poetry is poetry that tells a story.

In its broadest sense, it includes epic poetry;

some would reserve the name narrative poetry for works on a smaller scale

and generally with more direct appeal to human interest than the epic.


An example of a narrative poem would be

The Raven

by Edgar Allan Poe




She had come to leave his heart
they had been apart numerous times,
but as they ended, he sought solace in rhymes.
Words and verse of how she had come to depart.

She was a gentle soul, a vision for his eyes
soothing and healing, appealing to his senses –
he stood unprotected, without defenses,
anguished by the sound of her cries.

He felt tears welling as well,
for he could tell she would not be returning.
In his heart of sadness, he was yearning
for love to be enough, but it was instead a hell,

a fiery disposition, a fatal condition
that devoured her in ways neither expected.
Again rejected, a warrior with his love unprotected
a painfully unconditional contradiction.

To his fate he was resigned for she would be bereft him.
Life did things in its due time
as he realized that there was no solace in rhyme.
He waved solemnly as his fallen angel had left him.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2020



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


I’ve been looking for this place for quite a while and it was right here where I left it. And that’s not all I found. Waiting at the gate with all the patience of Job, is Marie Elena Good! What better way to rekindle the poetic fires than to unlock this gate for perpetuity and pick up where we left off. We are excited to rejoin with each other and all of you, as we had from the beginning of our poetic journey, in tune and ready to resume our quest in the best garden for verse!

In our absence, we have lost some friends who have gone to their Peace. Salvatore Buttaci, Andrea Heiberg and Vivienne Blake were regular contributors to this site and I’m sure their spirit will rise again to celebrate our new endeavor. May they Rest in Peace.

So let us begin again, and as long as we’re on the subject of peace, we will offer this prompt for your poetic consideration. Peace and joy can be found in the written word; found by those who read them, and found by those who write what dwells within.

Write a poem about the peace that poetry brings to your glad hearts! Write of the joy it brings to you. Or write a piece about how much you love to pen your poems. Return home in peace and love and joy. And Good Lord willing, we’ll stick around this time. We promise as best we can!





The garden gate parts,
releasing sweet aroma
of former florae.

She softly steps in,
breathing the beauty that binds
virtuous voices.

The presence of peace
silences the restlessness
grinding at the gate.

Now bejeweled with joy,
renewing friends and florae,
she picks up her pen.

© Marie Elena Good, 2018




We look for truth in every eye
and know it when it shows.
We search for peace in every heart,
for a true heart really knows.

For in the heart, we love what’s dear
to fills us all with joy.
And in love and joy we find that peace,
every man and woman, girl and boy.

We do not choose the ones we’ll love,
for love will touch each soul.
We do not choose what gives us joy,
it’s out of our control.

But somehow we find that spark of peace,
and with it comes understanding,
that without love and without joy,
our peace will not be withstanding.

Search yourself to find your truth,
your eyes will not deceive you,
then look into your heart and see,
true peace will never leave you.


(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018



Today,  I ask you to write a love poem. Not for your spouse or significant other. Not to your children or parents. Not to a lost love. I want you to write a love poem to your favorite character in literature. Or Television show or Movie. A variation of this… write the love poem to yourself as that character you admire! Even though the “love” will be unrequited, spill the passion. Write the love poem! (Don’t worry, no relationship will be harmed in the execution of this exercise!) 😀



A Vagabond Stole My Heart

Oh Ben, how you quicken
my heartbeats. It sickens
me to see you stuck
in Mississippi. They do not
appreciate what a great man
you are. Those baby-blues
can spark a fire. Clara may suit
you for a time, then her charms
will pall. You will tire of her,
and her interfering daddy and brother.
They will smother you in the end.
Why don’t you pack up
your belongings,
bring that sweet pouting mouth
out here where air is clear,
and a woman waits
with open arms.

Letter to Ben Quicken (Paul Newman)
in The Long Hot Summer.



Of all the lousy gin joints
in all the towns,
in all the world,
I wish you had walked into mine.
Your accent, it captivates me,
it motivates me to profess my love
and above all else Ilsa,
I think your accent is sweet-ish.
I think you’re a fine dish
(you look a bit like Ingrid Bergman),
and I wish we could share a drink
in a real American Cafe and not some
French sounding hotzy-totzy joint
where the Nazis hang out.
But then I think, when you finally get it.
you would regret it if you stayed—
maybe not tomorrow or today,
but very soon for the rest of your life
(Even though you’re someone else’s wife, Ilsa.)
Just remember this: a rose is a rose and
a kiss is still a kiss and the bliss of seeing you
out weighs the danger of us becoming strangers.
They tell me Lisbon is nice this time of year,
but I just wish you had come here!
We’ll always have our song. Sam played it
for you and he’ll play it for me. I see
Louie is here. Maybe if I take the chance,
it could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship!
 Play it, Sam!

Forever Yours.


The bard Burns penned this appropriate song which we haul out at the end of each year. So I choose to open with this lyric, “Should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind…” When applied to this wonderful place of poetry, it seems a grand impossibility! How could we forget these connections we’ve made here at CREATIVE (POETIC) BLOOMINGS?

The end of another year brings thoughts of hope for wonderful new things to come. It also brings a sadness, my personal loss not withstanding. The passing of my Father-in-Law, John Burkowski is a painfully hard pill to swallow, and although he is at peace, his influence will be greatly missed.

Many have shared their condolences and shared their comfort at his loss. Unfortunately, after discussions with my forever-partner and “best friend” (whom I still haven’t met), Marie, we have determined that CREATIVE BLOOMINGS needs to lay fallow for a length of time. Neither of us are able to continue with its tending right now, with familial responsibilities and issues of rather personal nature. Marie and I will be closing the gates here at CB. We will not be locking the gate however, it will remain at this address, as it will continue to be a beautiful place to read our past renderings. Also, any information about the long-awaited second volume of our anthology will be posted as it nears its completion. (Yes, we continue to push it forward). I personally thank every poetic soul who had graced this place, and our hope is to someday return to its viability! So for now, I’ll say, “Stay well. Continue to pose this poetic wonder and give your words to the world! All this talent can surely stand tall on its own merit. You are all considered friends and you are all greatly loved! I thank you for walking this leg of the journey with us!” ~Walt


When you look up garden terms, you find “family.” For Walt and me, this seems quite appropriate. This has been more than just a lovely place to read and write. Inside these garden gates has been a safe haven for sharing thoughts (both uplifting and sad), well-wishes, and even prayer. It has flourished with encouragement. We all have welcomed one another from the far reaches of the earth. If everyone on this planet we call home treated one another as we have in this little poetic garden, there would be no need for the English words of “hate,” “war,” or “racism.”

Even though I had to leave much sooner than I wanted, it felt wonderful knowing Walt was still tilling and tending. Of course, I completely understand his own need to close the gates. Perhaps there will come a day when we can together open them again. In fact, I feel it in my core that it will happen. Until then, thank you all for being a part of my life that makes me smile with every remembrance. ~Marie Elena


You are the Professor of “LIFE 101”. What is the first lesson you would impart? Write it as a poem!



We struggle to start,
with a passionate heart
and no idea how a plea of insanity
can render all of humanity smitten,
as if bitten by the love bug.
Any amorous slug would suffice,
and never look twice when the first glance
will cover any chance you have
to topple heart over heels.
You will know how it feels
when your mouth gets dry and try
as you might, you can’t fight the urge
as others delight in your plight.
Your hands will sweat, and you will get
tongue tied inside. You will quiver
and shake; make a fool of yourself.
Stutter, stammer and throw glamor out
the window, it is not pretty.
But anything worth while in life is
worth the effort. Make it!
Take it as it comes; accept a little shove.
And above all else, work on love.

Copyright © 2014 Walter J Wojtanik



swingersYou are swinging your child or grandchild in the park on a crystal clear day. Write a two stanza poem. The first stanza, from the child’s point of view; the second from the adult’s view. Or you can be an observing bystander watching the interaction between the two. You can make the poem about any kind to give and take between child and parent/adult. You can build a sand castle together, or you can be taking a walk. But make it two from different points of view!



“Higher Daddy, higher!”
in the air I soar, I’m a flyer!
My wings are small, but if I fall
you will catch me! I can see a lot
from high up here; I can see clear
to the slides. I love the park
and the rides you give me. I live
to fly free with you close at hand.
You’ve helped me to stand,
you’ve helped me to walk,
as soon as I could talk, it was you
I called. When night frights came,
it was your name that sent them away.
And today, you help me to be that flyer.
“Higher Daddy, higher!”

“Oh Little One, how you’ve grown!”
Had I known you would be such a wonder,
I would have stayed under your spell
for well over the time we’ve had together.
Whether you walk, or talk, or cry,
you will always fly where love lifts you.
It is a gift you give to this tired, old soul.
And I know when my days are through,
it will be you who carries my spirit forward.
Always headed toward the sun, the one who flies
where my eyes will  fail to see. You fly with me.
We had our ups and down; smiles and frowns
were the masks we wore. And all that is
in store for the coming years, may hold some tears
but will fill my soul, oh Little One. How you’ve flown.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2014



ROBIN WILLIAMS  1951 - 2014

1951 – 2014

Your journey has ended,
by your hand and much too soon.
You, the buffoon, the clown, the genius
bringing joy to the world.
But, for what it’s worth, who gave you mirth?
Your torment was an illness,
your illness was your privacy.
In the shadows of a mind so sharp,
that spark of madness run amok.
You had been stuck for a while
and the smile you wore tore your heart
to shreds. We laughed at your brand,
and demanded more of you
but, you had given enough.
It is tough that you didn’t save
some for yourself. We took you
seriously when your dramatics
gripped us. It ripped us as well,
your living hell of which you would tell,
of powders and pills and rivulets
of distilled potions, notions of answers
left un-questioned; too many to mention.
You’ve gone back to the egg.
You have been silenced like Ellen James.
Long did you stand as the grown-up Pan.
You have sucked the marrow out of this life.
There is no Doubt (the) fire has gone out.
It makes us want to shout,
Oh Captain, My Captain!
Thank you for your gift,
we’ve enjoyed it while it lasted.
And in our hearts you will live within a smile.
What dreams may come, you will greet us.
You will meet us with a joke in tow.
We know your journey has ended.
The Genie has been freed.
The Buffoon. The Clown.
The Genius indeed. Oh, Captain,
Bon Voyage!

© Walter J Wojtanik, 2014


I’ve shared this across the web, and I share it here as well…


An elegy is a song of sorrow or mourning–often for someone who has died. But, since poets exercise license, they can also write elegies for the ends of things: a life, a love affair, a great year or era, a sports season, camping trip, conversations, etc.

This “form” is more about content, since there is no specific pattern, scheme or meter.



Oh, how you have grown silent,
and your smile less bright. I sit here
listening for the sound of you tonight
but you do not answer. Shall I sit here longer?

Darkness has befallen you, your shadow
is misty mem’ry, you have left me
far too long ago. My mind knows
you have departed, but my heart is numb,

it has gone dumb and unbelieving.
I will be leaving you in peace someday,
the way it must so be. And yet,
I get the urge to repeat this dirge at each sight

of your name ingrained in granite and stone.
I am alone where I sit and I sense a hand,
gentility and frigidity are its markers. Starkness
of reality is what I must face. This place of night

persistent and eternal, this infernal field
where death rests. My chest tightens
and my heart seizes as it releases you,
a memory true and loyal, spoiled

by your sad circumstance. No macabre dance
can placate my soul. This evening has control
of all my senses. Within these iron fences, I sit
my own shadow in this endless night. My fright

is that we will head in different directions;
with me going not where my angel is allowed.
Covered by this shroud of my indiscretions,
errors and terrors inflicted upon my honor.

I am hidden in this forbidden place. My face
in remorseful charade shielded by the mask
I assume. I resume my lament, I curse your cancer.
You do not answer. Shall I sit here longer?

(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014


Written as a response to Thomas Gray‘s Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard (1750).