Wizard of Hot Air

Poetic Bloomings – There’s no place like home


There are things which are out of our control
destiny, fate, karma or providence
call it what you will, that’s your only choice
because suddenly life is upon you
and an evil wind has blown you away
you find yourself where you’d rather not be,
like Oz, where reality has taken
on a shimmer and shine of fantasy,
delusion likely, hallucination
so you bluff your way through with arrogance
hiding behind a curtain of bluster
dreading the day of reckoning, unveiled
seen for what you really are, a nothing
no magic, no power, just a common
little man who desperately, frenziedly,
just wants
to go home
again, too.


Islands of the Stars

Asteria | Athenian red-figure amphora C5th B.C. | Museum of Fine Arts, Boston

Asteria’s Myth  here
In Greek mythology, Asteria or Asterie was the Titan goddess of nocturnal oracles and falling stars.

Poetic Bloomings

In the golden age of Olympia the land of earth was all one piece floating on unbroken water. Far above, where the gods and goddesses ruled from Olympus, Zeus, who thought of himself as a chick magnet, sat and ogled the ladies. Some ogled back which boosted his ego even further. Some played coy, but, hey, he was a god, a pretty good catch, so they didn’t resist. He was the man, er, the god.

Then, Leto’s sister, dropped by the palace and Zeus fell in lust, I mean, love with her also. “Asteria,” he said, “You are the brightest star in the heavens. Come, let our love shine even brighter.” (I know, he wasn’t the smoothest guy on a throne.) Asteria, predictably, was underwhelmed by his charm. “Uh, Zeus, bro-in-law, ain’t no way!” she replied. “Yes, way,” said Zeus. Well, you can see how this was going. She ran from him. He chased her. She was faster so he turned himself into an eagle and swooped after her. Asteria said I’d rather die than be with you and turned herself into a quail and dived into the sea.

Asteria was no fool. She knew being a quail wasn’t going to stop Zeus so she turned herself into land that rose and was encircled by water, the first island. It  was named Asteria, ‘the island which had fallen from heaven like a star’. After that whenever a dying star plunged toward earth she guided it to the sea where it became another island


In the style of Percy Jackson

Nearing the End, I Ask

Why be afraid of death
It is timeless – death
it may be nothing, like
counting backwards from
100, 99, 98 97 then nothing

You should be afraid of life
rather, afraid you won’t live
that you’ll squander living
on the wrong things,
on the wrong people,
for the wrong motives

So many voices here in
the land of the aware
live for yourself
live for others
get all you can get
give all you have away
live and let live

What is this living all about
so quickly it passes
then flares out

Why is it important
to leave a mark on this world
a remembrance
that lasts, maybe, a generation
or if longer
may change from respect
to tear down the statues
ban the book
heroes to villains and back again

Are we here to learn,
to teach, to become better
humans or to show that
no amount of time perfects
only changes the landscape

What is this living all about
so quickly it passes
then flares out

Where Poetry Originates


PoeticBloomings – Found Poetry
“Pay attention to the world around you. Inspiration can be found wherever you look for it.”

William Carlos Williams’ jotting ideas
for poems on his prescription pad
language he heard spoken
informal, unadorned, direct.
So much depends.
That’s a poem?
It’s not fancy enough.
So much depends
these words beguile
so much depends
the wheelbarrow,
the rainwater,
the chickens,
is what’s important.
A bit of magic

Gwendolyn Brooks’ poem-portraits
The Bean Eaters in Chicago neighborhood
almost gone, fading into obscurity
even as we read, nothing but trinkets,
beads and receipts
dolls and cloths,
tobacco crumbs,
vases and fringes.
Poetry should reflect
everyday lives and language
concerns, the joys and satisfactions,
daily life, but also of tensions that plague
If you want a poem
only look out a window,
see in a new light.

Found poetry taken from The Lune Link, By Susan Karwoska



RKRussell prompts
This first prompt is an ode to my love for caffeinated morning beverages, coffee, espresso, energy drinks (if that’s your thing), whatever you use to jump-start your days. Write about a situation where you wouldn’t make it through without caffeine.

It is a ritual, a holy ceremony
this getting up in the morning
putting on the coffee. A percolator
you say makes the best. I’m afraid
my taste buds are not that refined.
I just like the taste, first taste of coffee
in the morning.
I smell it first, then sip until
it cools enough to take a gulp.
I can’t contain that silent ahhhhhh
of breath that accompanies
that first cup as I drink
in the silence before you get out of bed
drinking in the quiet as much as the coffee.
It is a grace this ritual of coffee.


Ryan K Russell “is a professional football player in the NFL, a published poet, author, and artist”.  He has started a prompt page. Also, check out this young man’s poetry and his first poetry book “Prison or Passion.”  I bought it and recommend it highly.

Breathless Goodbye

I think
how odd it is to sit here
by your bed with these
others as you die breath
by ever lingering breath

I watch
your chest, the slight rise
and fall as you force air
into lungs that resist
neck stretched, mouth open

starts to sing, others join in
“I come to the garden alone”
but no words fall from my lips
I just watch your face, your chest

I realize
at some point that I’m holding
my breath, body tense, staring,
watching, waiting to see if
there will be a difference when

You leave
a slump, a relaxation,
a last word, a vision, but, no…
nothing just the stillness
of your chest. Not even a sigh.

I think
we’ve touched you, held your hand,
kissed your head, sang and prayed
but I don’t know if it was for you
or to comfort ourselves.

I only know
that somewhere between
that vast microsecond
of breathing, not breathing
the what was you was gone.

RIP O. J. Bailes

Dance of Poetry

PoeticBloomings  PROMPT #256 – SAME OLD SONG AND DANCE

I shyly made the first move
holding out my hand
you reached for me
fingers touching fingers
pulling me to you
we danced.

I kept trying to lead
but you’d have none
of that, steering me
in every move,
every nuance,
making each step

count. We were a rhyme
repeating patterns,
meter that set the pace,
rhythm the music
that moved across
the page.

We took a bow,
my partner and me,
it was team work
that finished the dance,
muse leading and me
following step by step.