“True silence is the rest of the mind; it is to the spirit what sleep is to the body, nourishment and refreshment.”  –  William Penn

What soothes you? What is it that puts you in a state of comfort? When all else seems to be crashing down around you, what offers you hope?

Take us to your happy place and let’s see if it works for us!


Hot tea
roaring fire
soft robe, warm from dryer
smooth jazz
hot bath
hand-in-hand, strolling path
good read
white wine
heavy snow on soft pine
porch swing
easy chair
deep pillow
earnest prayer 

© Copyright Marie Elena Good -2013




The savage breast is soothed in arms
of music’s hidden devil charms,
a lilting soft melodic touch
that keeps a soul quite safe from harm.

A respite from life’s stress and woes,
all meant to ease where e’er it flows.
a tune of beauty to start this bloom;
the seed, its rhythm sows.

I seek this music in my life,
symphonic sounds to lessen strife.
Placate my spirit – lift my heart,
enhance this dance of life!

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik -2013

Pen, proszę (Sleep, Friend)

After years of struggling with various sleep disorders, our good friend and Poetic Bloomings host, Walter Wojtanik, is being treated for extreme exhaustion. Our prayers and well wishes go out to him tonight.

The following poem was written by Dyson McIllwain. It expresses what I would want to say, but could not express so well. Thank you, Dyson, for your tribute.


(By Dyson McIllwain)

Treading to keep your head above water,
catching a lungful from time to time.
Going down too many times to count,
but you struggle to survive. You remain
alive with the words that drip with the emotion
that has always been your forte. Drowning in a sea
of night sweats and  blankets tangled, and things
that go bump have you stumped as your sleeplessness
offers only anxiety and paranoia. Hold your breath
and allow rest to resuscitate your muse.
You’ve abused yourself far too long. Be strong
and let nature heal what it has destroyed.
The king is not dead, he merely sleeps.
We think it is about time.

“You can’t keep a good poet down. Best wishes and thoughtful prayers for Walt Wojtanik an extraordinary poet who has fallen prey to his demon. He will surely bounce back.”

Yes, he surely will. Rest up, Walt. We got your back.


I blame the heat.

Rants and raves abound on other “private” sites about poetry. Read private as “closed group” of poets who have become acquainted on certain sites to develop this craft we
propose. Where claimed as supportive and nurturing, there appears to be a bit less of that out there.

There is a certain process for which we all as poets strive. Developing and instructive, yes, supportive and sharing. We all want that I’m sure. And though finding success through recognition or possible publication is the end game, it should not over-ride the process.

The truth is, we are poetry sites. We are not truly a “garden”, or a “street” or bloody brothel, although it’s cute to think so simplistically. As our masthead says, “Poetic Bloomings is a blog to nurture the poetic spirit in a supportive and inspired way. All poets are welcome to add their “poetic blooms” … bring the beauty of the written word to the world, one expressive bouquet at a time.” And so we will remain.

We propose poetry. It was mentioned early on in the planning of this site for a POSSIBLE anthology if the support and commitment were there. There are no promises offered here. We are “Unconditional Poetry” in a pleasant setting without any one voice dominating the conversation. Every voice is important. HOWEVER, rancor and vitriol are not AND will not be tolerated here. There is an editorial policy in place here that has never needed to be used and I hope it remains so. As Marie Elena and I have stated, we are here to suport and promote you the poets who have chosen to post to the prompts at Poetic Bloomings or wish to follow their development.

All poets here know that as fact and I’m sure appreciate that. So if you need reminding, click the WELCOME and re-read our introduction. We’re all gifted poets. That is our badge of honor. Enjoy the process. The payoff is the exposure to your and other poets finery.

ON A SOMEWHAT PERSONAL NOTE: Marie Elena is the most caring, nurturing and supportive person I’ve never met. But the friendship that has evolved from our association with poetry is very strong. That’s all we’ve ever needed to say about it. You are all aware of her manner and temperament. So take any criticism of her here or at any other blogs with a BIG grain of salt. One of the finest human beings and poets I’ve ever had the honor to share not one, but two blogs with. And that loyalty extends to each poet here with the above idea in mind.

That being said, we welcome you to post to the Week #13 prompt for a Goal-oriented poem.

This Wednesday will offer In-Form Poet with a new poetry form highlighted.

Saturday, we present our “Beautiful Blooms” selections for the Goal Poems.

As always, a new “Seed” will be planted every Sunday. Poem to the People!


A FRIEND INDEED – Prompt # 10

In the states, we will celebrate our independence day this week. Around Buffalo there is a celebration that spans from Buffalo to Fort Erie, Canada. Called the “Friendship Festival” it pays tribute to our Fourth of July celebration and Canada Day (July 1). Write about a friend and their influence on your life.

As a “wild-card” prompt, write an Independence Day poem. (For our friends outside of the Continental US, write about the big celebration from your locale)

Marie Elena’s Good work:

Changed for Good

“We’re just friends,” you said.
“We’re just friends,” said I.
And I believed you,
And you believed me.

“We’re just friends,” you said.
“We’re just friends,” said I.
But you doubted you,
And I doubted me.

Came tickles and pokes,
And glances and notes;
Then gazes and hugs,
And lingering goodbyes.

“I love you,” you said.
“I love you,” said I.
And I believed you,
And you believed me.

“I love you,” you said.
“I love you,” said I.
No doubt on your part,
No doubt upon mine.

“For richer, for poorer,
In sickness and health”
Eternally altered,
Our lives intertwined.

Walt’s Tale of Brotherhood:


Four abreast, a test
of our mother’s resolve.
That we would evolve
into the men we’ve become
is a testament to her temperament.

We came from the same womb,
shared the same room; bunk beds.
And instead of pulling together,
we fought to tear apart what
was expected of us.

Our fight was not without gain.
Dominance was the grail
in our never fail battle to rattle
our foundation. We were brothers
but our mother’s worst nightmare.

Grown to adulthood, it would stand
to reason that our seasoning would bring
a camaraderie that would meld us
into a band of unlikely souls
filling the holes that gaped our bond.

Now the friends that once tattered the fabric
have become strong and impenetrable,
iron-clad lads with a lot of bad blood
to transfuse. We can all use its soothing balm,
to calm and bring us healing.

Healing from the inside out,
there leaves little doubt that
being brothers brought us to be
the friends we always needed.
Brothers are friends indeed.


In week 5, we used Marie’s daughter Deanna’s photograph to stir our muses to some surprising (or maybe not) results. The submissions were incredible. Unfortunately, we can only select two:

Marie’s choice:

This photo took us so many different places, just as I imagined it would — lovely to desolate, hopeful to bleak, and concrete to visionary. Thanks to all of you who sent me personal messages about the photo’s inspiration. I will pass every one of them along to Deanna.

This week, it was even more difficult than usual to pick one to highlight. I read and reread each poem many times before settling in on Michael Grove’s “Pink Petals.”

I see this poem very akin to the photo itself, in that the interpretation may vary with the eye of the beholder. For me, this is very much a love story, rich with passion, brokenness, vision, uncertainty, desperation, and hope.

Intertwined are beautifully poetic, emotion-laden phrases:

– “dried mud of broken dreams”

– “a firm grasp of persona and spirit and breath and life,
and a glimpse of a vision”

– “pealing and chipping layers of weather-beaten joy”

– “dried hope, damaged by the storms of the past,
and the forgotten rays of the sun”

Absolutely lovely, Mike.

PINK PETALS by Michael Grove

There I knelt
in the center of my frame
as you looked on from
a planer perspective.
But I could see only you
In the center of your frame.

Not all of you
is visible or evident.
A gentle part is hidden
by the dried mud
of broken dreams.

A gentle breeze
might whisk me
out of your frame
while the hidden parts of you
are trapped under the mud.

Yet, I have only
a firm grasp
of persona and spirit
and breath and life
and a glimpse of a vision.

The brilliance
of the blooms still glorified
in their respective frames
are so scattered and wedged
under and against
the sharp contrast
of the peeling and chipping layers
of weather beaten joy
and dried hope
by the storms of the past
and the forgotten rays
of the sun.

There will be
no wind to blow me
off course and
out of your frame.

Gentle raindrops
will fall and free you
from the trap
as we will then
drift away
from this barren ground

Walt’s selection:

This week, I was struck by Nancy Posey’s piece, simply entitled “House.”

I can imagine the flaky decay of the paint as the memories of the past amidst the present of the recently fallen petal of a young bloom. The connection is strong for me, reminding of  the disposal of the family home and the memories that flooded my heart and mind. Nancy’s expressive way has always told a wonderful tale for me, and “House” is no different.

HOUSE by Nancy Posey

Living away for all those years,
she didn’t find the time
during visits home
to see the house, now empty,
she once loved so well,
the front porch, wide as the house,
where she’d play, jumping off
the wall, like Mary Poppins,
harvesting abelia blooms
playing flower girl, long before
she even considered herself
a candidate for bride.

In her absence, she could pretend
the swing still hung
from the same rusty chains, its squeak
music once, evoking memories
of snuggling, half asleep
into the pillowy bosom
where her own mother
and grandmother had once napped.

When word came the house
was scheduled to come down,
making room for the new road,
she forced herself to go there,
to see the now-empty shell,
long void of life, still haunted
by friendly ghosts. And sure enough,
the sidewalk, once sprinkled
with tiny white flower bells,
now blanketed by the fragrant, dusty
petals of the Grandma Sally Rose.


And so our garden is started. “Seeds” of varied types and sentiments have been sown randomly from our fertile minds. A good start for our new adventure. But, now that the dirty work is done we’ll need to water our garden.

Water in its gentility possesses great power. It has healing capabilities, but can also be destructive in nature, as seen recently with the tsunamis in Japan. Write a water poem. It could be the rains of Spring, a lake or ocean, a toddler’s wading pool, even melting ice as a form of water; as long as it’s wet and you can express it, write it.

Marie Elena’s example:

(Or, Graduate Student’s Lament)

Determination: diluted.
Social life: evaporated
Spirits: dampened.

Life is but a mist.
A mere drop in the bucket.

Then Graduate School
rained on his parade.

Pour soul.
I drought he knew
how swamped he would be,
nor how utterly drained
his pockets.

that’s water under the bridge.

His assets, now liquid,
it’s full steam ahead.

Walt’s example:


sun peeks judiciously,
almost suspiciously from behind
darkened clouds. The loud crack of
thunder’s fury hurries through on winds of
change. The day is not a wash. You quash the blahs
 with          the              sing          le up               turn
of a
                                                                           is           defl-
                                                                          ect          ed.
                                                                          The        joy
                                                                           is re-    flect-
                                                                             ed in your


Being Mother’s Day, we’re throwing up a wild card prompt as well. You can also post Mother’s Day poems.