Cycle of Love

PoeticBloomings  Channel your favorite classic romanticist [oet and make your case including this line  “…The Rouged Embers Languish Long After Midnight’s Knell…”


Flames, torrid and terrible,
blaze with an exquisite heat.
White hot. Fueled by ironwood.
Like our love, incandescent
conflagration of passion
that slowly burns itself to coals
then ash, and yet the warmth
remains far into the night as
the rouged embers languish
long after the midnight’s knell.
And, love’s comfort endures
till cinders turn to dust.

Brown Mountain Light

Poetic Bloomings   The Pathya Vat is a Cambodian verse form.

A swampy bog
firefox drift-ers
lead her astray

Deeper into
a thorny way
as Janie prays
Callin’ for John

The lantern’s light
was wan as dawn
but she pressed on
into the night.

Lookin’ for John
by lantern’s light
a wretched sight
a tale still told.

(A more recent legend of the Brown Mountain Lights says the lights are caused by the spirit of a heartbroken woman searching the mountain at night by torch light looking for her fiancé who failed to come for her on their wedding day.)

Cobalt and Silver World

dverse   Let’s get elemental! Posted by sarahsouthwest


It was the cobalt blue bottle, that caught my eye, with a silver tassel tied round a domed, ridged silver cap. Just a small bottle, but so elegant, sitting on the shelf of the Ben Franklin Five and Dime Store. Evening in Paris, a name that conjured such a different world from my little town in eastern Tennessee. It just might have been my very first glimmer of things and people alien to me. It scared me a little yet drew me like a magnet. People say the world has gotten smaller. I say the world is a huge and lovely place.

Cobalt sky at night
silver stars that cross her
worlds waiting below.

When you are getting on in years…

Poetic Bloomings   “For the opening prompt of 2020, we’d like you to draw your inspiration from the opening line of a book.”

“When you are getting on in years (but not ill, of course), you get very sleepy at times, and the hours seem to pass like lazy cattle moving across a landscape.”
– Goodbye Mr. Chips, James Hilton


hours seem to pass like lazy cattle
moseying across the grassy pasture
as you chew your cherished memories
like a cud in gentle rumination.
Your eyes slowly close, head nods to the side
as you dream the dreams of your memories
then wake, reach out a hand, but no one’s there
It’s jarring, that wrench to reality.
The hours seem to pass like lazy cattle
moseying across the empty pasture.

Happy New Year

PoeticBloomings   WHAT’S NEW?

“The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.” Ecclesiastes 1:9, (KJV)

The cursor blinks like a metronome
keeping time to a set rhythm
I feel the pressure to make a poem
something of value, some fixed thing
catenary arch, a golden dome

of words that build, hold together, speak
to the past, the future, the now
for don’t we all, each person seek
for something brand new under the sun
yet we’re destined for nothing unique.

Feasts then famine, wars after some peace
floods, droughts, epidemics and cures
as we keep seeking that golden fleece
the world teeters between cycles
of what was. What will be. Time’s caprice.

Same old things dressed in modern textiles
ringing in new year by new year
glasses lifted, toasts and boasts and smiles
for all the possibilities
let not hope ever suffer exile.

At the Bus Stop


The grey city streets and grey granite walls
under a black, wrought-iron fence of a sky
as seen from a misty pane in the bus
was sending me to a dull, somber space
but as we slowed to pick-up passengers
a rainbow of colors and patterns burst
like candy sprinkles on a chocolate cake
into a flamboyant, jovial place
amidst this tired, monochromatic sight…
Umbrellas huddled in bright, lovely hues
flowers, angels, and designs caught my eye
and one stark black in the back of the pack,
an exclamation mark ending the line.

My word list:
Granite, black wrought-iron fence, flowers, angels, black umbrellas, cross

Why Do We Write?

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads “Words To Live By” Imagined By Rommy

“I write to understand as much as to be understood.” Elie Wiesel



It isn’t that I think “I am a poet.”
I am a writer.” I just write.
First for myself. Then for you.
I write because there is a compulsion
of words vying to get out onto
the screen, into the air, into a heart.
It is in the words that I question,
that I mark out, that I substitute
a stronger word for a not quite
exact one. And as I read what I
write, I learn what I mean. What
I feel. I want someone to nod
in agreement. In recognition.
In absolution.
And, someday, all my words
and all your words will mingle
and tell a story of humanity.
Of pain, joy, living, dying,
of right and wrong,
loving and hating,
of struggle and victory…
maybe , finally, the world will understand.