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 “Sunday Seed”


As we near the holidays, a lot of people seem to be in a hurry – rushing here, rushing there, rushing the holidays, the hustle and bustle is a major tussle and they complain when the seasons zip by. Well, let’s put a stop to all that. We will enjoy family and friends and be thankful before we go headlong into Christmas.

It seems year after year, manufacturers and advertising companies bypass this most important day in November. And believe me, we have more than plenty for which to be thankful. Think of an aspect of the day that brings you joy. The gathering of friends and family is top of the list. Maybe the televised parades, or the multitude of football games. The food always takes center stage, so that may be your inspiration. Even if you wax on the post-turkey nap, it’s all good. (But I will thumb my nose at Thursday evening “Black Friday” excursions!) After it’s all over, we can turn our sites to the next big thing (Christmas music will start playing the day after in some locations.) You may think it’s a little early to offer the Thanksgiving prompt, but I think it’s about time it got equal time!



Lucky, lucky me
Log cabin nestled in pines
My name on his lips




For all I have I give thanks.
I have amassed some material things,
some necessary, some out of want.
But I can’t be thankful for all these,
as pleasing as they might seem.
And along with that, I’ve gotten things
of which I had dreamed for a while
for all that I have I give thanks.

A family that started with two and grew
with the addition of two more.
A roof and a floor, and what’s more,
daughters who have learned the values
into which they were instilled.
Strong willed and not taking crap
and still be soft and caring and daring
and for all that I give thanks.

Two men who have been added to that
who are exactly what I had hoped for my girls.
Respectful and loving, passionate about life
and compassionate to others. Brothers
than neither of my girls ever need
but accept as such and so much more;
the core of two more that started with two,
and for all that I give thanks.

Speaking of two, We’ve been through a lot,
and we’ve got more coming down the pike.
But that has only caused a spike in the love
that we have shared as we care for each other
through afflictions and sections of rough road.
It served to goad us into being better people
to each other and our gathered children.
For all that I am thankful.

And the best blessing has been announced
for a June arrival and the survival of
familiar love is assured. And my word,
this grandpa to be can see great things
in this kid’s future. Love and nurturing,
learning the skills needed to make a life,
to be respectful and loving and passionate.
For all that I give thanks.

For this poetic life and the ‘family’
who have accepted me with my weirdness,
and treat me with respect and reverence,
(although I don’t know why.)
And I mentioned life, in spite its strife
and speed bumps, taking my lumps
when deserved, take my word,
for all that and more,I give thanks!

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018



We’ve all heard of the rise and fall of empires and sports “dynasties.” We know what goes up, must come down. In “Fiddler on the Roof,” they sang “Sunrise, Sunset.” 

But, by now you may be getting a little tired of fall. So, today I’m looking to get a rise out of you. Let’s write a “RISE” poem. Be it getting up in the morning,or going up or expanding like bread dough, tell us of your rise in poetry. Or even write of your rise to poetry. Look up and see where poetry takes you!


Spirit bestows it –
Worship swells from the Wellspring.
Oh my soul, take part!

Would that this poet
rise up and sing like the king
after God’s own heart!

© Marie Elena Good




poetry becomes my joy 

it takes me to exotic places

quixotic spaces and

lifts my heart bringing smiles to faces

as I struggle with an amusing muse

it is something I’ve gotten used to

I refuse to be down when poetry is around,

writing or reading, I’m not needing 

anything more to lift me off the floor. 

Poetry has been my joy.


(c) Walter J Wojtanik -2018


Here we are in the early stages of October. We anticipate the fast-approaching holidays and the end of another year of life. And in the process, we invariably have to deal with the weather inherent with the autumnal times at hand. Right now, rain is the order of the day. Nuisance and heavier downpours fluctuate and we wait for it to end. It reminds me of the phrase, “save it for a rainy day.”

So, we’re saving something. But what and FOR what? We could be seeding a nest egg to buy something. We could be building good grace to save our souls. Scraps of fabric for a patchwork something or other? Tell us what it is and how you plan on disposing of it.

And if you’re feeling ambitious, give us a rainy day poem, or rain, or reign all over your page. Don’t save any words for the next poem. Use them now! (You’ll find more!)



They’ve not been gone long.
Just a few month’s time.
Sometimes I hear her laugh.
His voice, singing,
“I don’t buy sugar  —
Just touch my cup.”
Her coffeemaker’s sizzle.
His, “Go Bucks.”
Her, “I love you.  —
You know that.”
His drums.
Her sigh.

I clutch these sounds —
Secure them to my heart,
And listen to its beat.

© Marie Elena Good, 2018



SAVE YOUR WORDS, Walter J Wojtanik

Sir Edmund Hillary had it pegged. I scale my mountain of poetry because it is there. I write poetry because I can. I write poetry because I can’t sing or dance. I had given my voice a chance to entrance and entice others to emotion. I reach into my heart and write how it feels. It is as real as breathing. I am seething with the life force of words.

Who brought me to rhyme is a mystery. My history with words stemmed from a debilitating shyness in my youth. The truth is I would stammer and stutter, but my words seemed to flutter on the page. At that stage, it was my saving grace. I’d never lose face unless my words failed me. From romantic to farce to fantasy, I would fancy expressing my soul with words. Neruda thrilled me. Langston Hughes was my soul. McKuen and Lennon spoke in emotions I could only imagine. They were mentors all. I save my words for poetry’s call!

Sparrow whispers in sweet song
long after nightfall,
Mountain shadows slumbering 




THE SLASH OF RAIN, Walter J Wojtanik

The sun flashes in bright glimpses
between misted clouds
and tendrils of barren tree branches.
The slash of rain cuts deeply,
seeping into serenity’s slumber. 


Photo: Shutterbox - Public Domain

Photo: Shutterbox – Public Domain

Hey Pandora! What’s in the box? Good or bad, there’s something in there dying to come out. It could be a blessing. It might be a curse. The photo itself may inspire a totally different thought. Use your ekphrastic abilities to let us know. What’s in the box?



Out of fear
(or worse  —  indifference)
she waited too long
to unlock the trunk she daily
avoided. Tripped over. Pretended wasn’t there.

Summoning the courage, she unlocked it.
Discovered a long-lost page.
Dulled.  Faded. Not easily read.
Less easily understood.

For times had changed,
and, therefore,
the truths that had shaped them.


As she tried to examine
and understand,
she began to question


Perhaps wrong paths had been taken.
Destructive habits had formed.

Perhaps what was true, then,
was no less true, now.

Perhaps times change,
but truths remain.

Perhaps it was up to her
to unlock



© Marie Elena Good, 2018





No one knows.
And the best-kept secret remains as such.
How much is it worth to know things
that your heart can confirm,
but you cannot communicate,
this declaration of fact lies hidden.
Distance spanned and water
under the bridge between then and now.
How do you live a life with this burden?
They couldn’t know; you gave no indications,
your stagnation and debilitating fear
brought you here with nary a lead.
But indeed, you have known.
You will carry it until you’ll have grown
feeble and cold, just an infarction from
the chill’s permanence; it hides in residence.
Do you declare to the world and hope the rooftops
can handle your exuberance,
your happy dance long buried?
This fact prompts you to wonder
that if under this guise you can reprise
what your heart conceals, the real feel of its mystery,
your history until now untold and you let the story unfold.
Touching secrets with probing fingers,
the memory lingers. You held the best vantage point
in the room to see all before you,
a chance at a glance always revealed.
Though you were in close proximity,
you chose to let fear dictate and seal your fate.
Never a clue did you expose. You chose to fade,
finding comfort in your invisibility. Indignantly,
you held your nerve and your secret this long.
It can’t be wrong to release your burden and breathe again.
No one knows.
You wonder if your existence evaded detection then.
You are certain that it does now.
Unseen for all these years, no one could know.
Your memories melt flowing onto a page
as you engage your feelings.
Poems written of your smitten past,
and at last you come clean.
It’s not as if these poems will ever be seen.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2018



Here’s the quote:

“Nothing is impossible, the word itself says, “I’m Possible!”
~Audrey Hepburn

Image result for audrey hepburn

How is the impossible even possible? We wonder if we are capable to achieve great things because they seem daunting, haunting our every thought and action. “What’s the use?” we ask. We think we’re setting ourselves up for failure.

But, take this quote from Audrey Hepburn, star of the silver screen and a World Ambassador. From humble beginnings, she rose to her status in films such as “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” “A Nun’s Story,” and “My Fair Lady,” to name a few. Once retired from acting, she took on the challenge presented by third world countries, focusing on the starving and sick children. Always charming, always a loving soul. For Audrey Hepburn, she made the impossible, possible.

So, what’s possible for you? What do you consider out of your league? What have you or do think you can achieve?? Write a “possible” poem. Or an “impossible” poem. Or a hopeful dream … something you’d like to do but haven’t yet. Something “bucket list” worthy. Impossible? Positively possible!



Castoff the conception that curiosity
killed the cat.
Inquisitiveness is
the origin of opportunity.
Actually, cultivated curiosity
converts to curiositunity,
and curiositunity
attracts astounding actuality.

© Marie Elena Good, 2018




I started writing at thirteen,
lyrics for a song I hacked out
on the old organ we had at home.

Melody first, a little loop
of sound full blown into a
song, my first attempt.

Looking at the words
scratched onto a page
of spiral notebook paper

tattered and lined
random thoughts
of a future love long gone.

It had form and meter,
it had rhyme, my reason,
a poem of sorts on my page.

A poem never to see 
the light of day for years,
dead ended in a rusted file cabinet,

along with every other lame attempt
of poem and prose that
had me believing I had talent.

Maybe talent, but nary a whiff
of confidence to show the
work that was even at this early

date, very personal, a glimpse
of my inner self, the now me
in miniature, immature,

but with a dream.
To see my words light up
the pages of this book of life.

The flesh was willing,
but the spirit was weak,
my ambition was a wishful thought.

I wanted to write in the worst way,
and that was what I did,
in the worst way.

As the years passed,
I still tried to convince myself
that I was a writer, a poet

a composer, an untapped
resource in a disconnected
reality, a dreamer

working for his hearts desire.
Hard work, hard words
mired in the muse of my mind.

But determined to live
according to the dictates
of my nightly mystic visions.

I dusted off my file cabinet,
shooing the dusty webs from the 
hidden treasures long buried.

I sent my words into the world
unsure of their worth,
afraid of their power.

Given to the eyes of
others of a write minded bent, 
sharing similar uncertainties

of their own. They labeled me,
tattooed me with an identity.
They called me poet.

The name I wanted;
the name they offered.
Nothing is impossible.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018


As you have seen, you can always count on me to challenge your muse every now and then. And it all adds up. I wouldn’t ask you to go out on a limb without testing it myself as well. The equation is simple: Prompt + Inspiration + Perspiration = a formula for a near perfect poem. There are no wrong answers.

What do numbers have to do with poetry, you ask? We use meter and rhythm to pace our poems. We count syllables in Fibonacci and Haiku/Senryu/Boketto. We number 14 lines in a sonnet. But that’s still not the point. Again with phrases and compound words, we will find our inspiration in the inclusion of numbers.

Think in Numeric Poetics and secure your title. Examples? Two-by-Two, A Hole in One, Three Times a Lady, 76 Trombones … That is the basis of our poems this week. Think of a phrase with a number connotation and write your numeric poem. You do the math, or your number’s up!


“And if someone overpowers one person, two can resist him. A cord of three strands is not easily broken.”  ~ Ecclesiastes 4:12

A Cord of Three Strands

They began, young.

Lovely and in love
Healthy and hopeful
Playful and promising
To have and to hold
From this day

Forward, fast
Furiously fading
As Alzheimer’s attempts
To dilute and damage
Life and love
Strongly seduced.

Promise prevailed.
“All my love, and love me always”
In illness and health,
Held by God’s hands
And the cord of three strands,

Against all
Ashes to ashes
Forever co-mingled
In the perpetual presence
Of the One who,
Singly, and synchronously,
Breathed life
And an always love.

© Marie Elena Good, 2018

Forever my love to Mom and Dad, now eternally at rest, in the presence of the One.  




I was born the third child on the third day, the third Walter in the line of familial redundancy. Not a junior, not a numeral, and after my father’s funeral, the last Walter standing. No three-star General commanding multitudes of minions. Just a man with a penchant for poetry, be they tercets or haiku, I am true to the test of three.

A third birthday was ushered in by the death of three, rocking my world at an early age. Holly, Valens and Richardson – mother’s sons all, taking the fall in a stormy Iowa sky. I can’t remember if I cried, but the music died all the same. Later the same year we saw the first of three Walter’s falter and perish and a cherished name was diminished by one, survived by two “sons”. Three seems to be my number, lucky or not, but it’s gotten me this far in the line of three.

The trinity guides
and provides me a purpose,
three steps onward

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2018


When last we met, we had a play on parts of the body. And an interesting prompt to say the least. And as always, your poems were the most!

But this week, we will use these parts in a different way and in a way none of us have imagined them. Most of them are used in a very defined way. We see through eyes (some through the eyes of a poet’s heart – shameless plug), we hear through our ears, our hand (and in many ways our skin) have the sensory pleasure of touch. Our mouths taste; noses smell. The five senses come to mind.

Disney’s Pocahontas

Here we will be putting our minds to the task. A few years back, Vanessa William had a hit with the song “Color of the Wind,”  from the soundtrack of the Disney film “Pocahontas.”  Hard to visualize, isn’t it? So here’s finally the rub. We want you to present a poem that uses the senses in a totally different way.

What is the sound of sunshine? What is the taste of your thoughts? How does tree bark sound? Do you get it? Choose a sense and twist it in a way we would not imagine. And if it starts to make sense, go with it. Bring it over. Come to my senses.



Too much time to toil
smells like coffee break.
Too much time to broil
stinks of ruined steak.

Too much time spent mowing
smells of outside, in.
Too much time spent crowing
reeks of haughty din.

Time spent giving speeches
hints of stage-fright sweat.
Time spent strolling beaches?
Stale outlook reset.

Wasted time on druthers
leaves stench day-to-day.
Time spent loving others
breathes in sweet bouquet.

© Marie Elena Good




Trees rustle and sway
and make a day of it.
Leaves, cut by the winds of change
rearrange, only to rediscover
home again. Nestled and rested,
the best place to recline.
But I find it annoying,
a noise toying with me.
It is there, somewhere
near the patch of saplings,
rapping an echo as of rabid canines.
It’s fine, but it hearkens to me,
this bark of the dogwood trees
unleashed. Their bite’s not so bad!

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2018


We are the sum total of our parts, and that is a fact. We go through life walking, talking, thinking,  planting and growing, knowing that we are capable of many things. We’ve been given many gifts.

As poets we see what is or can be possible and write it in expressive ways. It says a lot for our perception and the direction of thoughts and dreams.

But, the sum of our parts? We have eyes to see, ears to hear, hands to touch, arms to hold, etc. And therein lies our prompt.

This week I ask you to take a phrase or word that includes a body part and make that the title of your poem. Some examples: Isn’t He Handsome, Get a Foothold, Facetime, I’ll Be Back, Eye of the Storm,… you get the picture. You are not necessarily writing about the part, more so the inference of the phrase or conjunction of words. This is a bit of a twist on a common prompt. I know our poets will do extraordinary things with this. You’ve proven it by your body of work! You stand out, but never stand apart from the rest of our cohorts. Raise your voice and sing the Body Electric.



He was handsome.
Excellent mind,
when it mattered.
Nobody more well-

Clearly he had the world
at his fingertips.

Then came the diagnoses:
and they were many,
and they were hard to stomach.

This unmasking of
high impact issues
caused setbacks.
He felt he was
plunging into limbo.
No more spearheading projects.
No more chairing committees.
No more researching solutions
at breakneck speed.

But then good news was delivered!
He’d been misdiagnosed all along!

The moral of the story?
Though I try bloody hard to be humerus

It’s all in vein.

And you know what else?
For as long as you have breath,
you’ll never not see noses
in diagnoses.

© Marie Elena Good, 2018



The “doctor” is in.
Caring words for a troubled heart
in a dosage that will impart a remedy
for any ailment or malady. Encouraging
healing in the hearing of his verse,
no nurse can massage and soothe
what this Doctor of Poetics can touch
with gentle compassion, a fashion
which has not been taken to heart
since the aching had started.
Injecting humor to induce laughter’s medicine,
and after that, prescribing in rhyme
for the times when his words aren’t so apparent.
It is inherent to his purpose, to do no harm
with the words that warm and placate.
Giving a clean slate to a heart so caressed
by the worded wonder of a true poetic healer.
A great deal, just be sure to follow the warning:
read two poems and call me in the morning.

The “doctor” is always in. 

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2018


We will be re-introducing our study of poetic forms here at POETIC BLOOMINGS. A form will be highlighted every Friday. You can respond and comment to the form as usual, or try to incorporate the form in your response to the Sunday Seed. The first form will be featured on Friday, Aug. 31st. Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle!


The “AND I QUOTE” prompts will take a quotation from some random person of note and be the basis for our poetry. We’ve used this idea to some great effect in the past, so if it ain’t broke…

Today’s quote:

“If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this
thing is to be remembered.” ~Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe

You are asked to write about something you’ve forgotten. Write of something you wish you could forget. Or write a memory that has stayed with you for a long time that even “without a note,” you’ve remembered.



It’s not so much in the forgetting,
nor even in the retrieving.
See, it’s in the connecting.
Though my brain is smallish,
that which is stored


is far too often not perceiving
that which is stored


The nerve!
Apparently my data is shy –
certified tongue-tied.
Unwilling to bond with
or respond to
the other facts and files
in my brain’s adjacent aisles.
They may as well be miles apart.

Oh the trials that stem
from data that scatters.
It matters.

© Marie Elena Good, 2018




My memory is dotted with crisp images
that have ingrained into the depth of my soul.
I have no control over them; they lay dormant,
only to bubble to the surface when I least expect.
Trying in vain to relinquish these old feelings,
I reel with remorse, this sad course I contemplate
leaves me silent and still and alone.
And so, I am left kneeling in supplication,
a broad brush of despair paints me.
Pagliacci’s clown cries out from within, making a spectacle
of my mirth and mired muse. My resolution
refuses to take hold; these memories dominate me.
It is too late. Love languishes.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

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