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”


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


We’re all here because we are creative people. Some of us in more ways than we admit. But none is no more and no less talented than the next. We achieve our own level of “greatness.”

And we flaunt it, as we should. There’s a difference between pride (one of the seven deadlies) and accomplishment. Baseball legend Dizzy Dean was known to say, “It ain’t braggin’ if you can back it up!” More times than not, others lift us up to those lofty standards and sing our praises. That’s the community we have created here at POETIC BLOOMINGS.

The majority of us have established a “blog” in which to showcase our stories or photos. We display our artwork. We proffer our poetry for those so inclined. What do you call your “special place?” What is the name of your blog? What do you call it? That is the title of this week’s offering. Give us the name of the site that touts YOU! What inspired that name? We’d be happy to know that. And for the last line of your comment, give us the URL of this incredible cavern of creativity. We’d like to visit whatchamacallit!

But you may also be saying, “Walt? What if I don’t really keep a blog?” Well, think of what you’d call it if you did? Write what your dream site would be, and maybe we can help you make your dream come true.



They say a picture paints a thousand words.
The pairing of the two gives me delight.
And if a picture paints a thousand words,
Then picture this:  a picture painted write.

The pairing of the two gives me delight –
A complement of image with my words –
Appealing to my mind, and to my sight.
Perhaps a picture paints a thousand words

But here is what I try hard to pursue:
I strive to bat a thousand, with a few.

© Marie Elena Good, 2018

My little blog, Pictured Words, may be found here:  https://picturedwords.me/




The poet’s heart is a sanctuary,
a haven for the emotive side
of life. Love is a common thread.
It is said that love grows
through the eyes of a poet’s heart.

Compassion is expressed in the actions
we perform to the benefit of others
needing its caress. We feel best
when we give to the cause, no applause
through the eyes of the poet’s heart.

Nature sparks our muses, it chooses
who embraces her realm,
at the helm is the Grand Master,
providing inspiration for our words
often heard through the eyes of a poet’s heart.

Also dwelling is the telling
of who we are, from whence we came
and where we’d like to be. We see ourselves,
dusted off of the shelves of life
written through the eyes of a poet’s heart.

Our hearts envision what our eyes refuse to see,
through the eyes of a poet’s heart.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

Through the Eyes of a Poet’s Heart @ www.wojisme.wordpress.com


If poet friends tell me anything, it is how much they miss POETIC BLOOMINGS. It has not been quite the same in all its regenerations. That’s because something important was missing. Correction: SOMEONE important. Well, that’s been rectified. SHE’S BAAAAACK! Starting Sunday, August 5th, 2018, MARIE ELENA GOOD reunites with Walter J. Wojtanik to revive an old, but friendly place to poem. POETIC BLOOMINGS will pick up where it left off and we will reseed this plot of fertile ground to return to posing our poetic pieces. 

Marie and I are simplifying our approach. We will drop the SUNDAY SEED (our prompt) every Sunday. There will be interviews when the spirit moves us and the INFORM POET will be incorporated into a prompt every now and then. So please consider returning to “The Garden,” The Best Garden for Verse, and allow Marie and Walt to host you in this journey. We’d be honored as always.



She did not come to my doorstep,
there was no notification that she was lacking.
All I knew was that we had performed together
admirably, and we knew we could do it again.
I never met her, this friend,
but I always knew in the end we’d still be a great pair.

Here she was, sweet as a ripe pear,
encouraging and nurturing, a light step
and a sledgehammer heart. A friend
indeed when a friend was lacking.
“I miss the process. Can we try it again?”
she messaged asking if we could still work together.

It surely didn’t take much for me to get her
enthused, for we DID make a great pair.
I have no qualms of firing those synapses again.
A garden themed poetic place where we step
in tune with other like minds, not lacking
the ability to find the words to pose. Widespread friends

who, when the day ends
feel better for the time together.
No heart leaves lacking;
a community beyond compare.
And from that very first step
it felt good to walk the garden again.

What did we think we’d gain
by bringing all these friends
to tread here in lockstep?
It becomes a reunion, coming to gather,
to be inspired, to cajole and share.
But mostly because we also needed the backing

of those who both of our lives were lacking.
So here we are again,
Marie and Walt, a somewhat storied pair,
very acquainted friends
who’ve never spent time together,
reveling in every calculated step.

Reconnecting has put the pep in our step that was lacking,
poetic pals together again,
with all our worldly and wordy friends beyond compare!

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

Written in honor of this re-commitment as prompted by Miz Quickly’s (AKA BYY) MuhwufSS site.

Repeat and vary, part 3: The Sestina




Among the great memories associated with Christmas, we cannot neglect the wonderful tastes of Christmas. Be it a favorite Christmas cookie, or a superbly cooked roast or casserole, it can trigger a specific thought of Christmas. Maybe it was the gathering of family around grandmother’s table, or a “feast” served  to less fortunate folk in a church hall or cafeteria, it could evoke a sense of Christmas spirit. What is that taste? What was that meal? What was that feeling that came along with your goodwill toward your fellow man? They all reside in that taste of Christmas. Write it!



I have a confession
about my obsession,
I’m a connoisseur you see.
For throughout my travels
I just have to marvel
at the cookies left out for me.

Anzac Biscuits, Speculaas,
Spitzbuben, Palmeras;
with a glass of skim milk are heavenly!
Danske Smakager, Pfeffernüsse,
keep me round and quite obüsse,
filling my parka, perfectly.

Torta Fregolotti and Biscotti,
Kolaczki and Krusczyki;
I eat them all because they’re free.
Nanaimo Bars, Kipferl,
Piparkakut all taste swell
and smell delicious, Golly Gee!But,

I love two cookies both the same,
for me, these two just sing my name.
say them aloud and you’d agree,
Kringlas and Fatt(ig)mann are named after me.
I can’t wait to take my Cookie Pause,
(I can because I am Santa Claus).

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016


An Italian Christmas Eve

In years past, we celebrated
Christmas Eve with our friends
and their family. Big night.
Traditional fish dishes–clams,
shrimp, calamari–and Kathy’s
pasta with braciole, and lemon
chicken. Her sister Roz brought
scrumptious stuffed artichokes.
Grandma Rae cured her own
olives, and I baked pies. One
year, my husband made
minestrone soup. Rave reviews
even from Grandma Rae. Salad
was served last, followed by fruit,
followed by espresso, pie,
and an assortment of pastries
and cookies. If you haven’t tasted
piñoli cookies, you haven’t lived.
Nick played guitar, and the house
was filled with aunts, uncles,
and cousins. What I remember
best is the warmth and laughter.



For most people, the Joy of Christmas begins in the first strains of the music of the season. It puts us in a mood that we carry through the month of December, even though they begin the first of November. We all have our favorites, be they secular or more of a religious vent, something stirs us to get our holiday on with a bit more passion.

Pick a song of the season. (And you are not restricted to Christmas, since Hanukkah and Kwanzaa are also celebrated in our circles). Choose your inspiration as your title or a line in your poem and write  the joy of holiday songs!



A child, a small record player,
and a 45 rpm treasure. “Play
it again. Play Santa Claus
is Coming To Town.” Jewish
or not, every child I knew
envisioned Santa. When
my grandmother–speaking
a bare minimum of English–
visited, I would thrust
the little record at her for
the fourth time, and puzzled,
she would say, “Again mit dis
rekkit?” I think she got used
to it after awhile. Who could
resist the wiles of a child?




You call it magic.
I call it faith; a belief that says
no matter what, you’re on board.
You can afford to extend your hand,
for in the grand scheme of things
the feeling this season brings
soothes your soul. The main goal
of every man, woman and child
is to hold the love in their hearts.
It always starts with love. A love of life,
a love of fellow man, a love unconditional
that positions you to do great things.
Peace on earth in goodwill and love;
the Magic of Christmas, a treasure trove.
You call it magic.I call it faith.
I am Santa Claus, if you truly believe.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

Post Navigation

%d bloggers like this: