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 |    A log of the magnificent journey across the vast sea of my imagination. |
 A log of our magnificent journey. |
| My uncle Igor spent his days transporting clients from hospitals and hospice homes to the Serenity Funeral Home for processing. There, with that black patch over his right eye, he kept shifting his head at odd angles to get the proper shade, as he applied rouge on the cheeks in an attempt to restore some semblance of vitality to each of those cadavers. He tied his long gray hair back in a ponytail to keep it from obstructing his already limited view. Sweet Melissa Simpson, only eighteen years old, presented a particularly difficult circumstance, due to the damage done in that automobile accident. (When will people come to understand the importance of buckling seat belts?) However, Igor met the challenge head on. Applying techniques developed over the years, he primped, prodded, and poked her carcass in preparation for her final visitation. The stench of chemicals required to clean the remains did not bother him at all. By the time he finished, the young woman appeared ready to wake up from her nap and attend her senior prom in that lavender gown. After his day among the dead, he would stop off at the Frankendale Florist Shop to pick up some flowers for the resting places of former clients. Moonflowers for his beloved wife Auntie Esmeralda. Roses for the more traditional bunch. Old man McAlister preferred geraniums, because that was what his wife planted in their garden. Of course, she was another of Igor's clients. While delivering those tributes, his rich baritone voice rolled across the cemetery grounds and invaded the dreams of residents in surrounding neighborhoods, as he serenaded those who have moved on to a higher place. Last Friday, Uncle Igor made one last trip to the Serenity Funeral Home after his daughter found him unresponsive in his bed. Applying techniques he had taught her over the years, his young assistant Dorothea primped, prodded, and poked his carcass in preparation for his final visitation. Would you be available to serenade him in his crypt? My truck driving travels will keep me away, and his daughter's night nurse job at St. Francis Hospital will prevent her from doing so. 359 words |
Frigid Arctic air descends upon us, wreaking havoc without mercy. Ouch! Notes on the Elevenie/Elfchie form of poetry ▼ Let the creativity flow from your soul!  Dave "The Poet's Place "  "CLOSED - Review a Newbie" Let the creativity flow from your soul! Dave "The Poet's Place " "CLOSED - Review a Newbie" |
| Our military mission supercedes any personal desires we may hold. Whenever we receive the order, we are on our way to whatever waits, prepared to do anything required, however circumstance may unfold to demonstrate American resolve-- one of our predominant traits. Our military mission means Christmas is often spent in faraway positions. Whenever separation burdens us, we get a little Face Time on the iPhone, prepared to do our sacred duty, despite the holiday conditions, to demonstrate our commitment to our vows in the battle zone. Our military mission continues from generation to generation. Whenever the need arises, we drop whatever and go again, prepared to follow patriotic path, despite the risk of conflagration, to demonstrate persistent belief in such a justified campaign. Pattern ▼ |
| The time has come again to celebrate with family the holy night that Jesus Christ was born. We all agree that these special circumstances require solemnity. The church bells ring wherever you may go, snow is falling, and lights are all aglow. The carolers are singing "Jingle Bells" with lots of glee. The Christmas tree is trimmed with red and gold for all to see. The mistletoe is hung above the door for you and me. These holiday traditions bring us cheer and put commercial coaxing in high gear. Notes on the Cavatina form of poetry ▼ |
“Gratitude is the inward feeling of kindness received. Thankfulness is the natural impulse to express that feeling. Thanksgiving is the following of that impulse.” — Henry Van Dyke I am thankful for my full belly after dinner, shared with all my family, finally together again following quarantine decree. I am thankful that we survived the scourge and lived to celebrate another Thanksgiving where traditions dominate. I am thankful for the smell of Grammy's turkey dressing, the feel of all those hugs around the room, and the glow on all these faces, not achieved through lens of Zoom. Notes ▼ |
| Aromas from the kitchen feed the bonds of family, as Mama starts to blend and knead the dough for baking spree. When stench of baby's diaper alerts her in the night, she soothes her cranky customer without a speck of spite. When our creative spirits bloom, the sticky fingerprints adorn the walls of ev'ry room with hue of peppermints. We thank the Lord for all of these and many more fond memories. Notes on the Hymnal Measure form of poetry ▼ |
| Shrill echoes reverberate across the haunted plain, as ghouls gather outside the cemetery gate. Once summoned to atone for their dastardly deeds, they seek revenge on innocent townsfolk, as payment for their unfortunate fate. Finally free to satiate that long-standing lust for redemption, their voodoo chants, raucous rants, and evil oaths shake you to the core. Miasmic vapors billow forth, and ancient blasphemies emerge, as the mausolean hate campaign erupts from the Gates of Hell. The caterwauling lords of chaos will bury a hatchet in your cranium, as they choreograph their undying vengeance. A plan to eat your brains and guzzle all that blood is also on the agenda. Slicing and dicing are their grotesque delight while they wander here and there throughout the night. The ghouls continue their monstrous celebration, until the early dawn begins to bring some light and disperse the darkness covering the madness. As you clear the cobwebs from your dreamy brain, the ghouls no longer celebrate. 161 words |
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