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 |    A log of the magnificent journey across the vast sea of my imagination. |
 A log of our magnificent journey. |
| Snowflakes sparkle on the ground, Icicles decorate the maple tree, Lacy frost adorns the window pane, Endowing us with Yuletide joy, Nature's gift of the season Transmits a song of love. North wind nips your nose, Inspiring indoor escape, Garnished with holly and mistletoe, Hung with special care To reinforce Mother Nature's grand theme. |
| Big sky of Montana evokes spiritual inaugural for many ordinary folks. Much like a Holy telegram, the vision stirs and registers a little bit of who I am. Notes on the Onda Mel form of poetry ▼ |
one more day wonderful to be alive in sunshine or rain there is joy in my heart for each and every day I shall be forever grateful Notes on the Octet form of poetry ▼  |
| When Elmer Gantry praised the Lord, his congregation sat entranced, as air crackled with Gospel zeal down the hallways to his sermon. Immoral sinners felt the heat when Elmer Gantry praised the Lord and promised they would burn in Hell for indulging carnal desires. They were cautioned to tread softly and not do anything foolish, when Elmer Gantry praised the Lord in tone so sharp it made them quake. Heaven's field of fragrant daisies awaited those who would repent and fill the plate they passed around while Elmer Gantry praised the Lord. Notes ▼ |
| Sunday morning church, where bells are ringing and folks are singing, "We shall overcome!" Sunday morning perch beside the dumpster, abandoned youngster prays that help will come. |
| The old house reeked with the musty milieu that comes from neglect. Dust clouds and cobwebs greeted us as we mounted the front steps to the porch. For some reason, my grandfather Abaddon Webster had bequeathed the old place to me in his will when he finally succumbed after spending the last years of his life in a nursing home. My new bride Monique and I decided that refurbishing the two-story New England structure with quaint gables and a wrap-around front porch would be a better investment than pouring rent money into an apartment. Since the place was obviously without electric power, we had purchased some nonperishable provisions and lanterns to tide us over until we could get the place straightened out and have the power restored. When we entered the main room, we were relieved to find protective coverings spread over most of the furniture. We made our way to the kitchen and deposited the bags of supplies on the table. Then we set about exploring the remainder of the house. Removing the coverings from the furniture in the den, we found rich upholstered chairs and sofas adorned with strange embroidered glyphs in gold and silver on a burgundy background. The walls were covered with shelves full of all manner of tomes, ranging from tales of high adventure to strange writing in alien gibberish. “The Testimony of the Mad Arab” proclaimed “The wolves carry my name in their midnight speeches, and that voice summons me from afar with unholy impatience,” and warned of horrors that stalk about and lurk in wait at the door of every man. “The Book of the Dead” told of profound secrets handed down from generation to generation by worshippers of the Ancient Ones. “The Maklu Text” cautioned that incantations shown therein “must not be shown to any but the properly instructed, and when used, the markings must be burned utterly, and the ashes buried in safe ground where none may find them.” Needless to say, these writings were a bit disquieting and dampened our enthusiasm for the refurbishment project. Thinking a good night’s sleep would refresh our resolve, we fixed some savory strawberry jam sandwiches to eat and then retired to the bedroom on the second floor. I removed the dusty old bed coverings, and Monique spread fresh satin sheets with a lavender fragrance over the mattress. In the security of each other’s arms, we extinguished the lantern and went to sleep. Somewhere in the night, Monique nudged me and asked, “Did you just hear something in the attic?” |
| Hallowe'en, a night for waking dead folks, crammed full of creepy cuisine. "Trick or treat!" kiddies shout in unison in pursuit of something sweet. Children scream when skeletons suddenly jump up in frightening scheme. Party starts with Frankensteins frolicking and ends with some tasty tarts. Ghastly scene, which we all love and cherish, becomes happy Hallowe'en. Notes on the Treochair form of Irish poetry ▼ |
| Remember the brave and all that they gave to stop the tidal wave of brutal tyranny. Remember the cost in precious lives lost when opposing paths crossed on beach at Normandy. Remember the gore when so many more never saw the war past that bloody shore-- a day of agony. Remember their names etched on that wall. They answered the call and gave their all so we can be free. |
| TXTNG cryptography befuddles me. It's not EZ 2 C value in such cultural debris. It's so cheesy. My GF K8 has such an obsession, she falls into a ST8 of depression if she can't TXT. She's so perplexed, I think she needs an intercession. Notes on Fabliau ▼ |
| Before rooster crows, bugle blows, "You gotta get up! You gotta get up! You gotta get up in the morning!" and recruits hit the deck a-running, while drill sergeant barks commands, and thus begins career of military regimen and selfless service to nation's purest values, career of distant duty, maintaining vigil to keep enemy at bay and ensure the flame of freedom keeps burning for all to see. |
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