Poetic bloomings and R.L.B. PAD COUNTDOWN: T-MINUS 1!”       “Write a cycle poem”


And the world goes round
and day turns into night
the seasons come and go
and all things seem to cycle
Begin. End. Begin. End. Begin
Generation after generation
and there is some comfort
in knowing things go on.
Yet, I wonder if our sun gets
bored with this constant
going around or grumpy
like we are annoying gnats.
And I get up with the sun
and go to sleep with the moon
again and again and again
until I don’t
and then, the world goes round
and day turns into night
the seasons come and go…


poeticbloomings and RLB Pad countdown   “Write a hope poem”

“Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.” – Desmond Tutu

We have little need of hope
in the good times and even
besmirch its honor at those
times by hoping for more
good times, good things, good feelings…

But let the hard times roll
in like a plague of locust
eating away our happiness
then we call on hope
good times, good things, good feelings…

Sometimes, I think we don’t
know what hope really is
it is tied too much to comfort
of the physical and not spiritual
good times, good things, good feelings…

Hope is not a dream, a wish, a longing
belonging only to the ephemeral things,
but of the, and in the eternal things

Retired Captain of the Brendan’s Watch

horizon-1836480_960_720mindlovesmisery   Your line for this week by Dylan Hughes

“Most spoke of the low but omnipresent rumble of water, or its dulcet lap against a hull, but that was not how he missed the sea.”


“Most spoke of the low, omnipresent rumble
of water, or its dulcet lap against a hull,
but that was not how he missed the sea.”

He missed the salty tang on everything
that dusted his world in white, riming it
with crystals that aged wood and metal.

He missed the pelagic menagerie
gulls, petrels, gooneys, gannets, coots
bobbing, skimming, flying, diving.

He missed the camaraderie of seafaring men
the shared stress, danger, depending on
each other, likes, fights – like a family.

But most of all he missed the solitude
of the endless sea, sunrises and sunsets,
the feel of eternity of wave after wave after wave…


“Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.”

Poetic Bloomings   SEXTON’S ROOM
“The black room took us like a cave” Anne Sexton
“Nor did I wonder at the Lily’s white.” Sonnet 98, William Shakespeare
Title is a quote by Sexton.


The black room of my depression,
cave of safety. I did not want to leave.
Its velvety softness bumped my skin
caressed my fears… safe here, safe here,
black the background of my dreams
the color of the air, the scent of roses
wilted, dry on a coffin cover.
Could death be this still and quiet
like lying under a coverlet of down
with soothing blackness all around?
Opening my eyes I saw the flower
entwined in my fingers on my chest
and did not wonder at the lily’s white,
but closed my eyes and… slept.

Coal Train

Poetic Bloomings – Octometer   and Twiglets – Night Train

I hear its rumble
late in the evening
not round the bend yet
horn sounds an alert
to cars just ahead
in vigorous spirts
as the arm comes down
authoritative, curt.

I don’t see the train
I see men’s faces
smudged black as jet
from the black-gold veins
deep in the earth’s crust
men and machines reign.
You best stay alert
in that dark and dirt.

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.