Welcome to Poetic Bloomings! - New visitors are encouraged to check this link for information about Poetic Bloomings. Thank you for joining our "Garden Walk."

Saturday, May 28, 2011


Inspiration can be found wherever you look. Here is a case in point.

This provocative shot is one of many ground compositions Marie Elena’s daughter, Deanna Marie, has photographed.  None of Deanna’s photos are “staged.” She simply frames what she sees on the ground, and takes the photograph. 

What does this photo say to you?  What memory does it stir? What mood does it illicit? Is there music in its composition? Or, is there a thought it provokes?  Survey what the eye sees, and write where it carries you.

Marie Elena’s attempt:


she walks the path assigned her
softly detaching

Walt’s effort :


Decay in increments; comes alive.
When seen through a poet’s eyes
something lies beneath the surface.
Crusted flakes of paint appear
as the fragrant petals of rebirth
when written in metered verse.



    impersonating snow
    vibrant and white
    the blossoms fall
    from the comfort
    of tall trees
    and rest their velvet selves
    on the pavement
    of our street


  2. forgotten rose petals

    shadowed beneath a colorless void, pink

    silk on pebbled memories

  3. Their soft presence upon the weathered
    stones reminds me there is a place for
    delicacy and beauty even among the craggy
    paths of our everyday existence
    And I rush outside to feel the puff of their
    feathery presence on my skin
    reminding me of the glorious spring day
    when the tree near our house bloomed pink
    and I knew though winter had lingered too long
    spring had moved in and tossed winter away
    creating in me a joy that all would be well again.

  4. The subtle twist of entropy upon our fragile lives. All that’s done, undone beneath it’s lofty hand. Castles built in sand at low tide now gone high. Noble ramparts swept beneath the waves. Each lofty goal and all possessions claimed, are such as these, sandcastles that await the tide.

    Entropy a faithful friend that never leaves our side. Lives painted in illusionary hues will chip and fade. Dreams lived unattended to flutter in the wind. And yet amidst this passage of entropy’s delight, hope stands out like colors that just refuse to fade.

    And from that hope we dream once more,
    find strength to build our faded world anew.
    Not simply as before but something new. And though we curse our teacher’s name, for all we once held dear now past. To it we owe the honor of our new dreams built this day. And so I bow to thank you, Oh entropy old friend

    Tim Snodgrass (blogspot won't let me log in for some reason)

  5. Aging Gracefully

    Peeling away
    Truth revealed
    Beauty Remains

    Rose Petals

    "He loves me,
    he love me not."
    Two pink petals
    resting on the aged,
    cracked ground.
    The truth exposed,
    she thought.

    Beauty Revealed

    Years of enduring and
    sacrifice etched into
    flaking, cracked skin.

    Pale pink cheeks
    illuminating the joy
    found within.

  6. Memorial Day

    You came home from war
    Like a thief in the night,
    Stealing time and hope.

    I was a wailing nest
    In the cleft of a mountain,
    Dreaming of beautiful falling.

    Your name was etched in concrete,
    Weathered by an echo of bells,
    The resounding toll paid in full.

    I set a place for you still,
    Stored up in my heart
    Where there is room.

    Please come to the table.

  7. He loves me.
    He loves me not.
    Each petal a coracle
    Sailing frozen seas.

    A temporary memorial
    Of once colorful love,
    Flakes into scales
    And black dust.

  8. a Cinquain inspired by the photo. However, it will not post with the proper spacing, thus it does not appear in true Cinquain format.

    narrow, trodden
    cracking, winding, decaying
    makes for difficult travel


  9. In Taormina there is a balcony
    on a corner where the Vespas pause
    before they roar uphill to the Roman Stadium.
    On that bacony stands an old man
    his chest sundried like a tomato,
    in a grey cotton vest. Behind him
    the darkness of his room framed
    by bougainvillea. The stucco peels
    in the glare of the morning sun.
    I pass below the balcony
    where he stands thoughtfully
    and in that moment something occurs.
    We leave Taormina.
    I never see the old man again
    but in that moment I conceive
    the need for a loneliness like his.

  10. Pink Amidst Gray

    Chips crumble on decayed wall and fall
    Gray catches the eye sucking you into gloom
    Lines like veins run through cracked paint
    Rose petals give a touch of beauty and hope
    So much like life, so much like poetry

  11. Chipped

    C hipped paint dry and forlorn
    H ope hides itself in rose petals
    I ntricate yet simple, the grand mundane
    P ale pink blazing compared to gray
    P atterns emerging in veined lines
    E very day we unwittingly walk by clues
    D escribing God’s grace and beauty

  12. House

    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.

  13. Who believes
    he will be 

  14. Old ladies' faces in need of moisturiser,
    young men's hands with psoriasis.
    Flaking pastry-like scent of mustiness.
    Maybe when this paint was laid on thick
    it was by someone in the sun
    lovingly maintaining a treasured home.
    Where are they now?
    How long ago did they sit at a table
    glowing with polish and laden with food,
    sharing a meal with their intimate family
    discussing the beauty of the pink roses
    in the cut glass vase between them?
    Now the earwigs feast on detritus
    rose petals ignored for the tastier treats.

  15. Pink Petals

    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

    By Michael Grove

  16. Layers of years
    in strata of dirt;
    prayers and tears
    and lots of road work!


    a gift beyond comparison
    to discover
    what has always been there
    waiting to be found
    little by little the façade is loosed
    the masterpiece revealed
    is the Giver of such gifts

    P. Wanken

    For additional notes regarding this poem, click here: WHAT LIES BENEATH

    ~ Paula Wanken

  18. Petals

    Two petals fall
    unseen on colorless earth-
    mislaid messengers.

  19. As usual, a better wording came to mind as soon as I posted. Here's the revision:


    Blushing petals fade
    unseen on colorless earth-
    mislaid messengers

  20. This will not seem to be to prompt (except for the title) but the photo was in the back of my mind, and directed the way I interpreted a prompt word list.

    The House With Chipped Paint and a Wild Pink Rose

    It is twilight, and the house
    of the old gods is growing cold.
    The Titans turn their Immense Tails
    to the banked fire, butts burrowing into
    the ashy coals like bumblebees in pollen.
    Warmth is sweet against their sagging cheeks.

    Tonight, though, there will be
    no saltlessly bland, digestible supper.
    Rhea has hung up her pots and ladles,
    and ripped off her hair net.

    She leaves the fallen planets, by the front door
    for once, turning the key, leaving it in the lock.
    Through the thick wood, she hears Chronos cry out
    for his ale and biscuit.  The rumble winds
    around the house like a spring.
    This time, she is not afraid of the recoil.  Smiling,
    Rhea pats the locked door, fondly.
    She settles her mantle,
    and departs the universe like a striding goddess.

  21. My good friend DARRYL HARDT wrote the poem pasted below. Blogger was acting up at the time.

    Look Deeper

    Years and sun have taken hold.
    They've pushed me to the brink of old.
    Age acts on all things through time,
    to drag them well away from prime.
    Yet underneath my flaking skin,
    a thing of beauty lies within.
    When seen through all the poets eyes,
    I'm not a thing you should despise.
    I'm flawed, of surface, this is true,
    But I could say the same...of you.

    By Darryl Hardt

  22. Longing
    (a shadorma)

    When she finds
    pieces of herself
    missing, torn
    scattered by
    the wind, she prays they might be
    bright spots, petaled breeze.

  23. "Weathered"

    Some dance for rain,
    their feet beating
    the ground, a precursor
    for falling drops of
    sustenance, or fury,
    hands up to catch or block.

    Me, I stretch for sun,
    opening my heart and
    my limbs for receiving
    heat that delivers a
    soothing sear, locking in
    the flavors of my life.

    Now, rain is not always kind
    and neither is the sun.
    Logic and experience tell
    that one can heal the other.
    But, I cannot abandon
    the love of light for shade.

  24. Rewriter34 - Just wanted to let you know that I loved the story painted within your poem. In general, I'm a sucker for all things Italian, but this poem is truly beautiful :)

  25. What lies beneath

    What lies beneath this faded stain?
    The grain.
    The wind and rain that did this wrong?
    So strong.
    But fleeting beauty, did it know?
    This ancient wall would have us know
    When outward signs appear to show
    Our usefulness is wearing thin
    Ignore the cracks – there’s life within
    The grain so strong below.


    Sun scorched,
    white wood
    hides beneath
    peeling paint.
    Hopeful petals
    land lightly
    bringing life;
    a dream,
    a sacrifice.


    Awakened by Son,
    shedding layers
    exposing bare skin.
    Fragile and free.
    Truth and Life alight,
    softly stirring
    Resonating with Spirit.

    Unpublished work written by Hannah Gosselin © 2011

  27. Jane Shlensky asked us to post the following poem on her behalf. Jane, we're sorry you are still having problems posting to PB. Thank you so much for your patience and persistence. Your work adds much, and we appreciate not missing out.

    Study One: Petals on Pavement

    Nature has a way
    of taking back its own.
    Fire, ice, time,
    and decay
    chip away,
    break down,
    and transform
    energy and matter
    into something
    a seed can love,
    what was into
    what is--layers of
    cracking pavement
    and oozing char
    unlocked and loosened,
    nature's street mosaic,
    petal ready,
    newly opened
    to color, to life.

    By Jane Shlensky

  28. Blooms of Pink

    Blooms of pink are dancing
    in the darkness of the day
    within the chipping layers
    of destruction and decay.

    The beauty of the blossoms
    draw attention to their plight
    as they seek to find a way
    to escape and then unite.

    For one without the other
    leaves the picture incomplete
    and the love they share in earnest
    makes their hearts skip a beat.

    Fly away pink blossoms
    and leave this barren ground.
    A warmer brighter background
    is somewhere to be found.

    By Michael Grove

  29. I'm going to have a hard time choosing my Beautiful Blooms pick of the week. But that's a good thing.

  30. Besides our Beautiful Blooms picks for this week, I simply must express my admiration for all of you. Every piece this week spoke to me.

    Janice: Your balcony in Taormina is stunning. I believe there is a novel waiting to be written.

    De: Written in your usual understated manner, this piece moved me to tears.

    Poetic phrasing that dazzled me:

    Laurie’s “pebbled memories”
    Elizabeth’s “mislaid messengers”
    Barbara’s “She leaves the fallen planets, by the front door”