Poet: Robert Burnham

Born and raised in Maine, Robert Burnham learned to enjoy the outdoors in any season.  He has camped out in the spring rains, the summer heat, under the autumn colors and yes, even nestled within the snow. He started writing poetry and essays at the age of seven and began a serious life-long love affair with photography at the age of eleven. Currently, Robert is a geography student studying Environmental Science at the University of North Carolina. Read more of Robert’s poetry on his Gather profile.



©2011 Robert Burnham

Today I was in Kiev

Sifting through melancholy


With you on my mind

But I have no flair for

Fashion, nor is style

In my artist’s repertoire

So I left the scarves

And walked past

Orange Dahlias and

Bright Bellis Perennis;

Ukrainian reminders

Of walks in the park –

You and I almost took

I knew you wouldn’t

Follow me here, to

The other side of the world

But the sonorous backdrop

Of your voice

Lingers through the breeze

And windmills

And all is well


You still call me friend


Daily Response: Please include your favorite line in the comment section.

Poetry in the Bible: Ecclesiastes 3:1-8


A Time for Everything

 1 There is a time for everything,
       and a season for every activity under heaven:

 2 a time to be born and a time to die,
       a time to plant and a time to uproot,

 3 a time to kill and a time to heal,
       a time to tear down and a time to build,

 4 a time to weep and a time to laugh,
       a time to mourn and a time to dance,

 5 a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
       a time to embrace and a time to refrain,

 6 a time to search and a time to give up,
       a time to keep and a time to throw away,

 7 a time to tear and a time to mend,
       a time to be silent and a time to speak,

 8 a time to love and a time to hate,
       a time for war and a time for peace.

Daily Response: What is your favorite line from this passage?

Favorite Poem: “The Death of a Ball Turret Gunner”

An exceptional poem leaves an imprint on the reader. My college professor read this poem to the class, and after many years, I still remember it—vividly.

When I started teaching, I had language arts/history blocks. I used poetry to supplement the American history text, loving how we could learn about the past through a poet’s perspective.


“The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner”

by Randall Jarrell

From my mother’s sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.


Jarrell wrote, “A ball turret was a plexiglass sphere set into the belly of a B-17 or B-24 bomber and inhabited by two .50 caliber machine-guns and one man, a short, small man. When this gunner tracked with his machine-guns a fighter attacking his bomber from below, he revolved the turret; hunched upside-down in his little sphere, he looked like the foetus in the womb. The fighters which attacked him were armed with canon firing explosive shells. The hose was a steam hose.”


Daily Response: Is there a poem from school that you still remember vividly? If so, please share it in your comments.

Poet: A.F. Stewart

A.F. Stewart is from Nova Scotia, Canada. She works part time as a writer, hoping for full time, and pays the bills with various other jobs. She is a very prolific and talented writer. Find out more about her and her books on the following sites.



Two blogs:

Gather profile:




Tendrils of matter

winding around light.

A galactic splash

of bursting colour.

Spiralling outward,

onward in the heavens.


Vivid paint

on the universe.



 Daily Response: Please write a note to A.F. in the comment section.

Poet: Marianne

Today I’m featuring Marianne, my friend from across the Pacific. She is a wonderful lady, and you can enjoy more of her poetry here.


Forever mine

forever yours ~

breath upon breath

silent whispers

heart-shaped drops

of crimson flow

fill the cavern of my mind

as I lean into your presence

inhaling the miracle of our love

rivers rushing to the sea

mountains reaching to the sky

stopping time as we embrace

kisses held inside I love you

hands caressing fevered thoughts

brushing hair against long sighs

movements of love

moments of us

divinely appointed

Daily Response: Please leave a comment for Marianne.

Poet: Kimberly Blackadar

My bio 🙂


“The Element of Surprise”

by Kimberly Blackadar


spring sits silently

under suffocating snow

waiting to…to jump


Photo taken by Diane Huizenga


Today’s Response: My little haiku reflects a Minnesotan’s anticipation for the arrival of spring. Are signs of spring evident around you, or like me, are you still waiting…?

Poet: David Wainland

David Wainland lives in South Florida, but was born and raised in the Bronx. He is a part-time published writer and fully retired. His was a professional artist and welded metal for over thirty years. David is working on a novel and posts his writings on his Gather profile.




© 2011 BY David Wainland


Originaly titled My Legacy   

 © 2009


I leave the pages blank

for you to fill my son

In trust to you my words

Now my work is done


When I was ten

and not before

My father knocked

upon my door


In his hand

he held for me

A dog-eared book

of poetry


The spine was weak

the jacket rent

Most pages had

their corners bent


Read these my son

and you will learn

Free men read books

that others burn


When I was twelve

and not before

My father knocked

upon my door


Then turned a leaf

that caught my sight

Kipling wrote of

men that fight


Poe told tales

filled with gloom

Barrett’s love

entranced the room


Longfellow’s rhymes

captured dreams

While Alfred Noyse

sought moonlight beams


The Highwayman

and Gunga Din

The Raven knows

where I have been


My father always

did me proud

He often read

these poems aloud


If not for him

I know not when

My words would fall

from out my pen


He set my stride

upon the trail

Twas not for him

these rhymes would fail


When I was fifty

and not before

He rapped again

upon my door


The books are yours

my life is through

This my son

I leave for you


Eternal lies

my father now

This poem fulfils

a silent vow


When they were ten

and not before

My children heard me

at their door


Daily Response: For this week, the response will stay the same. In the comment section, please leave a message for the poet.