We’re all famous, even if only amongst our poetic comrades. Our “best selling” poetic collections are all the rage and to know a bit more about the authors, we flip to the liner notes on the back cover…
This was the premise of our prompt. What we envision is splayed out in the comments for this week’s poems. The poems/poets chosen for our BEAUTIFUL BLOOMS are:
MARIE ELENA’S BLOOM:
This week, I just couldn’t NOT offer my Bloom to Andrew Kreider for “When the running stopped.” That quirky tell-tale humor baits and elates, while he craftily spills who he is. But it’s the understated wisdom of it all that I find completely beguiling.
Thank you, Andrew. This piece will stick with me.
When the running stopped (by Andrew Kreider)
Just before his final race, Andrew Kreider
made two calls, one to his lawyer,
the other to his spiritual advisor.
Whatever was discussed can surely explain
only in part the bizarre circumstances
of his subsequent disappearance
the anonymous gift of one thousand copies
of Anne Lamott’s “Bird by Bird” to the
Elkhart High School English department
the establishment of a state-of-the-art
penguin hatchery at the heart of
the Potawatomi Zoo
and the sudden appearance of
Garrison Keillor’s face carved into
the side of the Swiss Valley Ski Resort.
His garage was populated with
medium duty power tools
(not the really dangerous kind)
and a wall of guitar amplifiers
loud enough to make even
Pete Townshend soil his drawers.
Some say Kreider never took life
seriously enough. In truth, he probably
cared more than he could bear.
This collection must be read with a smile,
for as Kreider knew all too well, in the end
we are united not by our triumphs but by our flaws.
WALT’S BLOOM:
Although this poem reads like a foreword/dedication it is an expressive tribute which put our poet on a good path toward any successes she may envision. The vision is clear and success is what we believe we can achieve (even if we haven’t gotten there yet). Nessa Jay receives my BLOOM.
I WOULD LIKE TO SAY A FEW WORDS OF THANKS
TO MY GRANDMOTHER (by Nessajay)
First, I would like to thank her for growing the cherry tree
that gave me so many afternoons of finding heaven
through sunlight shining through green leaves
climbing to hunt red jewels staining my lips with
the same sweet that made the birds come back
year after year and trill out their gladness for life.
I would like to thank her for teaching me to play jacks
speak sign language make tamales mix salsa dance salsa
dance samba play samba reggae on old buckets and
love the world how I find it.
I would like to thank her for driving me to the beach and
to the desert in her souped-up El Camino with turquoise rims
that she converted herself to run on vegetable oil, so it poofs out
the carnival scent of frying dough everywhere we go
and when my grandma hits the hydraulics, everyone points
and says look at that old broad and her broad smile sparkles with
the sunlight bouncing off the hood and she always stops for
hitchhikers because she has Shaolin training and can
disarm any foe so why be afraid?
I would like to thank my grandma for listening to me like a lake
deep and unruffled for always having a bed made for me and
my sisters and all my cousins and for giving us a little money
every time we come around and unwrapping the right story
from her life at the right time to help us place our own
vignettes within the mosaic of our family history
world history universal mystery.
I would like to thank my grandma for raising goats
but not eating them and never forgetting
to bring something small for each grandchild
from her trips to Cuba, Brazil, Nigeria, Morocco, Prague,
Mexico and for dedicating her best last book
of poetry to me and for putting my 8th grade Winter Formal
picture on the jacket of her underground smash hit album
of Smokey Robinson covers.
I would like to thank my grandma for sitting with me
silently on the porch swing just nibbling on the subtle shifts
of sunlight’s colors and angles for waiting
til she turned 80 to start smoking a tobacco pipe
and waiting til her great-great-granddaughter was born
to leave this planet
and I want to thank her for
leaving us a little sign behind
when she left
that everything would be alright
because she crossed over smiling
and humming an unknown song
Marblehead Lighthouse (by Marian Veverka)
It rises from its sturdy base, its walls
Gleaming white in the sunlight.
Tourist climb the narrow stairs
Admire the great beam, quiet now
In the daytime, ready to guide all
Mariners as it has done for almost
200 years through fog and darkness.
We grew up to the deep bass call
Of the foghorn, fell asleep to the
Giant beam of light as it circled
Through the darkness, guiding all
Sailors away from the peninsula’s
Rocky shore.
This is what we have left, here on the
Peninsula. The land too rocky for a
Good crop, the Whitefish gone, the
Walleye & perch clinging to survival
And the great limestone quarry which
Once brought hundreds of workers from
Eastern Europe to Ohio, now on its last
Layers of stone, the steel mills closed
Automotive industry down-sized
The construction industry –the last hope –
Now also not what it used to be.
So we welcome the tourists that come
To admire our lighthouse, built in 1822, the
Oldest continually operating on the great lakes.
We hope that they will dine in our restaurants,
Buy gifts and souvenirs in our small shops,
Perhaps party a bit in the local taverns before
Boarding the ferry to the islands where summer
Is still a continuing party. The fishing is good,
The water-parks are open, the lake is, as always
Beautiful.
A Reminder (by Vivienne Blake)
At the bottom of our lane is a crossroads.
Stop at the Eastern arm of the X
and reflect on the bravery of the airmen
who were downed on D Day 1944.
Five flags point the way –
British, French, Australian and US of A
and the fifth, the roundel of the RAF –
to five polished granite stones.
Each bears the name of a member of the crew.
On the sixth of June each year,
we meet to remember them
with music, stories and flowers.
Later, across the little country road,
a multinational mixture toasts their memory in wine