POETIC BLOOMINGS

POETIC BLOOMINGS, a site established in May 2011 and which reunites Marie Elena Good and Walter J Wojtanik to help nurture and inspire the poetic spirit.

Archive for the category “Poetic Bloomings Reading Room”

THE POETIC BLOOMINGS READING ROOM #28

The sky’s the limit for this week’s highlighted poet in the POETIC BLOOMINGS READING ROOM. Damon Dean is a genuinely gifted poet whose expressiveness and point of view span the spectrum of life in a very keen way. His work is always a destination, whenever and whatever prompt is offered; you know the quality of work you will discover there. He continues to share his thoughts and splay his heart for the world to take a piece and be enlightened by it. Here I give you Damon Dean’s poem, “Rising”

RISING

Something rises in my heart
but then I know, not only heart,
but mind as well.

And then I know, it’s in my senses
too, and in the things I’ve known
as well as wondered,
and the blend of
thought
emotion
word
constrained,
no, not constrained, but trained,
by syllable and rhyme,
converge, sometimes
like ripples leaping rocks
or gasses from a geyser
or lava from a cone of porous stone,
or like the sigh of morning wind’s first breath
on tender meadow grass,
the early kiss that moves
dew drops to quiver–
and a poem appears.

And poems appear,
like nature’s voice
like commentary on the warmth
or judgment on the cold,
or tunes hummed by the middle seasons,
autumn, spring,
as if they were two grandmas holding
children in their laps,
and poems appear,
and like a kiss,
like lava from the heart
the poet feels
a satisfaction
in the rise.

And something settles in my heart,
but then I know, not only heart,
but mind as well.
A poem appears.

© Damon Dean

Written for PROMPT #219 – THE RISE (AND FALL) OF POETRY

Read Damon Deans work at

https://sevenacresky.com/

An interview with Damon Dean by Marie Elena Good

https://poeticbloomings2.wordpress.com/2013/10/17/poet-interview-damon-dean-sevenacresky/

THE POETIC BLOOMINGS READING ROOM #27

Another of the long string of contributors here at POETIC BLOOMINGS is Connie Peters. She had joined us from the very beginning after we first “met” her over at Poetic Asides with Robert Lee Brewer during the April P.A.D. Challenge in 2009. She, the master of Acrostic poetry, has a vision quite refined and defined by her strong faith and her heart for humanity. Connie is also one with an interesting story told in snippets of her poetic wile. She continues to be a strong voice in this poetic community. I am presenting two of Connie’s works, showing her clear vision and her appreciation of the gifts apparent in this life we share. Here are “The Moon” and “Clarence and Marie” by Connie Peters.

The Moon

The moon sat on the mountaintop,
as if it were going to camp there.
Reluctantly, it disappeared,
perhaps searching for poets to inspire
for a romance to rekindle,
or a lake to admire its own reflection.

from PROMPT #192 – THE NIGHT, THE MOON AND THE MUSIC

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Clarence and Marie

“Tell me what you’ll need,
and I’ll show you how to do without it,”
said the kind old man
who lived across the road.

But he and his wife did a lot for us
(a young couple and a baby)
living far away from home,
our friends and relatives.

They became our second parents,
inviting us over for holidays,
running us to Bible Studies,
offering us help and encouragement.

We lost each other over the years,
but we’ll always be grateful for them.

offered for PROMPT #176 – “THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

Find Connie’s work at 

http://enthusiasticsoul.blogspot.com/

Marie Elena’s interview with Connie Peters is at

https://poeticbloomings2.wordpress.com/2012/01/18/web-wednesday-connie-peters/

A link to Connie’s Memoir Project Chapbook, “The Party’s Started”

THE POETIC BLOOMINGS READING ROOM #26

Now, this next poet has been a favorite for quite some time. And the selected poem fits her persona extremely well. She, of the purple pen (formerly of the Great Northwest) and back home in her East Coast digs, Sara McNulty has always been equated with “Alice Through the Looking Glass” (in my mind’s eye, anyway), as you would see on her blog’s background wallpaper. But beyond that, her experiences well documented through her poetry, have made her an inspired poet to say the least.  Sara had held fort as the Co-Host of POETIC BLOOMINGS when life had forced its will on Marie Elena, and quite a partner she had been. She honors our pages with her works to this day, always supportive and gracious. Here in true form, Sara channels Lewis Carroll in her poem, “Into A Tale.”

INTO A TALE

I stepped inside the pages inked
in vibrant shades that seemed to wink.
A caterpillar sat and smoked;
he blew out words, but did not choke.
The March Hare asked me to decide,
did I want tea? I stepped inside.

Such strange creatures I ran into,
a cat that vanished right on cue.
A rabbit who was always late,
a queen whom you could not debate.
Back at home, I told my teacher
of those I’d met, such strange creatures.

(C) Copyright Sara McNulty

This poem was presented for the INFORM POET – WRAPPED REFRAIN

 

Sara McNulty’s works reside at her blog,

purplepeninportland

Read Marie Elena’s interview with Sara McNulty at

https://poeticbloomings2.wordpress.com/2011/11/09/web-wednesday-sara-mcnulty/

THE POETIC BLOOMINGS READING ROOM #25

In today’s installment of the POETIC BLOOMINGS READING ROOM, we open the book on one of our longest standing participants here in the garden. His story is a fascinating read when splayed out in his poems and prose, and who knows what else that describes him. He loves his family and his country, and that big eared mouse down Florida (and California) way. Proud of his military background (as are we) and could be considered a patriot. His faith  has been his saving grace and shows itself in almost everything he presents. And his heart is on display clearly in the works of poetry he has offered here at POETIC BLOOMINGS and other sites with which you are familiar. He has traveled a very diverse road and we’re happy he has chosen to share his heart here. In the 25th edition of the PBRR, it is appropriate that I give you Earl Parson’s “The Road”, from Prompt #190 – Going For The Gold”.

THE ROAD

No medal
No trophy
No gold at race’s end
No winners
Or losers
More road around the bend
Through summer
And winter
The road goes on and on
No heat waves
No snow days
A champion must stay strong
Motivation
Determination
A challenge we will meet
Achievement
Celebration
Life’s road will not defeat

© Earl Parsons

Earl Parsons’ work can also be seen at his blogs:

The Outspoken Patriot

Walk ‘n’ Talk’n’ Christian

Marie Elena’s interview with Earl Parsons can be viewed here:

https://poeticbloomings2.wordpress.com/2018/09/27/poet-interview-earl-parsons/

THE POETIC BLOOMINGS READING ROOM #24

This next segment of the Reading Room will feature past poems (selected randomly) from our contributing poets at Poetic Bloomings and all of its subsidiary sites. In true garden style, we had started with a seed to spur our growth as poets. Back in May of 2011 Marie Elena and I embarked on this journey to provide a place for poets to propagate their poems. We’ve come far in nearly eight years of service. In that span, we had ventured into different re-incarnations of this site, going from POETIC BLOOMINGS, to CREATIVE BLOOMING. From PHOENIX RISING POETRY GUILD to POEMS OF GARDEN GNOMES. But Marie and I have proven, you can go home again. We had come to agree that it was time to kick start the original site in (most of) its glory.

So for this piece to ponder in the Reading Room, I offer Marie Elena’s first attempt for our very first Sunday prompt at POETIC BLOOMINGS – “It Starts With a Seed – Prompt #1”. Her poem is entitled: OF DANDELIONS AND MANICURES

OF DANDELIONS AND MANICURES, by Marie Elena

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

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

 

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Again, I ask all contributors to confirm our permission to re-post your poem. A simple “yes” or “no” response in the comments here will suffice. As always, you retain all rights to your works. We only serve to help promote it. A link to your current blog/website would also be appreciated. Thanks, Walt.

 

THE POETIC BLOOMINGS READING ROOM #23

We close out this segment of the Poetic Bloomings Reading Room with a poem by Emily Dickinson. Listed at # 12 is “If Those I Loved Were Lost”.

The next segment of the Reading Room will feature past poems (selected randomly) from our contributing poets at Poetic Bloomings and all of its subsidiary sites. I ask all contributors to confirm our permission to re-post your poem. A simple “yes” or “no” response in the comments here will suffice. As always, you retain all rights to your works. We only serve to help promote it. A link to your current blog/website would also be appreciated. Thanks, Walt.

Emily Dickinson

IF THOSE I LOVED WERE LOST,   by Emily Dickinson

If those I loved were lost
The Crier’s voice would tell me —
If those I loved were found
The bells of Ghent would ring —

Did those I loved repose
The Daisy would impel me.
Philip — when bewildered
Bore his riddle in!

THE POETIC BLOOMINGS READING ROOM – POEM #20

William Wordsworth was another outstanding English romantic poet. He and Samuel Taylor Coleridge, helped to launch the Romantic Age in English literature. Their joint publication Lyrical Ballads was published in 1798. Here at #16 is one of his most loved poems.

I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud, by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee;
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company!
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

THE POETIC BLOOMINGS READING ROOM – POEM #19

An Irish born writer and poet, Oscar Wilde wrote in different disciplines in the 1880’s to emerge as a successful playwright in the 1890’s. His novel “The Picture of Dorian Gray” is a well known work of his, and he is remembered for his plays and epigrams, as much as for the circumstances of his incarceration and early death. Poem # 22 in our ranking, this is “The Dole of the King’s Daughter”.

The Dole of the King’s Daughter, by Oscar Wilde

Seven stars in the still water,
And seven in the sky;
Seven sins on the King’s daughter,
Deep in her soul to lie.

Red roses at her feet,
(Roses are red in her red-gold hair)
And O where her bosom and girdle meet
Red roses are hidden there.

Fair is the knight who lieth slain
Amid the rush and reed,
See the lean fishes that are fain
Upon dead men to feed.

Sweet is the page that lieth there,
(Cloth of gold is goodly prey,)
See the black ravens in the air,
Black, O black as the night are they.

What do they there so stark and dead?
(There is blood upon her hand)
Why are the lilies flecked with red?
(There is blood on the river sand.)

There are two that ride from the south to the east,
And two from the north and west,
For the black raven a goodly feast,
For the King’s daughter to rest.

There is one man who loves her true,
(Red, O red, is the stain of gore!)
He hath duggen a grave by the darksome yew,
(One grave will do for four.)

No moon in the still heaven,
In the black water none,
The sins on her soul are seven,
The sin upon his is one.

THE POETIC BLOOMINGS READING ROOM – POEM #18

Coming in at number 13 in our random exploration of renowned poets is another repeat “contributor”. This is Maya Angelou’s beautiful treatise to love, “Touched by An Angel.”

Touched by An Angel, by Maya Angelou

We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.

Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love’s light
we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.

THE POETIC BLOOMINGS READING ROOM – POEM #17

 Samuel Taylor Coleridge can be characterized as a romantic English poet/writer. Among his best loved works are Kubla Khan,The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Christabel. The major poets of his time were greatly influenced by Coleridge. It is no better illustrated than by his effect on William Wordsworth who adopted a more conversational poetic voice much like Coleridge advocated. At number 42 is “Frost at Midnight.”

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

FROST AT MIDNIGHT

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet’s cry
Came loud–and hark, again ! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings : save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
‘Tis calm indeed ! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
This populous village ! Sea, and hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams ! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought.

But O ! how oft,
How oft, at school, with most believing mind,
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,
To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oft
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt
Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower,
Whose bells, the poor man’s only music, rang
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear
Most like articulate sounds of things to come !
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams !
And so I brooded all the following morn,
Awed by the stern preceptor’s face, mine eye
Fixed with mock study on my swimming book :
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,
For still I hoped to see the stranger’s face,
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,
My play-mate when we both were clothed alike !

Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the interspersed vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought !
My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes ! For I was reared
In the great city, pent ‘mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe ! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher ! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw ; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

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