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 |    A log of the magnificent journey across the vast sea of my imagination. |
 A log of our magnificent journey. |
“Every moment is a fresh beginning.” ~ T.S Eliot The past is gone and out of sight in life's complex motif, as present time has taken flight without a sign of grief. Today, my life begins anew with fresh ingredients in Mother Nature's potluck stew, including ripe suspense. Notes on the Hymnal Stanza form of poetry ▼ Let the creativity flow from your soul!  Dave "The Poet's Place "  |
| One fine day, as I was searchin' for my Muse, the Storymaster wrote some code that he could use to build a sanctuary for writers, so we could tarry and pull all-nighters, trying to light the creative fuse. May the goblins of gab ignite your conflagration with a gallon of pyrotechnic inspiration. May the witches brew a ton of titillation in the cauldron of your imagination. The folks at Writer's Cramp will test our wits, and Stormy Lady's words will give us fits, but kansaspoet's ghost still lingers here to make it absolutely clear that quality counts in a poetry blitz. May the goblins of gab ignite your conflagration with a gallon of pyrotechnic inspiration. May the witches brew a ton of titillation in the cauldron of your imagination. While the werewolves are howling at the moon and graveyard residents moan their gruesome tune, we'll write it all for posterity, each and every monstrosity, thanks to Storymaster's creative boon. May the goblins of gab ignite your conflagration with a gallon of pyrotechnic inspiration. May the witches brew a ton of titillation in the cauldron of your imagination. Notes ▼ |
| Brian Booker was going bonkers. At work as a customer service clerk for a shipping company, he was constantly besieged by disgruntled customers complaining about misrouted shipments, misquoted rates, delayed deliveries, and all the other factors that applied under Murphy's Law. At home, his wife was always harping about the "to do" list, which never seemed to get any shorter no matter how hard he worked. In between those two harried worlds of persecution was the hassle of log-jammed traffic--bumper to bumper on the way to work, bumper to bumper on the way home, noise, pollution, impatient people, frayed nerves. He needed a break. One day, as he was creeping along in traffic on the way home, inspiration struck him like a bolt of lightning. He saw a huge balloon depicting a dinosaur floating over a used car lot with a banner which proclaimed: MONSTER SALE FISHING CARS DIRT CHEAP A few days alone at a fishing camp on the lake were exactly what he needed. He had vacation time coming at work, and his wife was going to visit her sister for a week. Why not? He flipped on his turn blinker and pulled over into the car lot, where he was greeted immediately by a salesman wearing a flashy Hawaiian shirt, straw hat, and Bermuda shorts, presenting exactly the kind of casual image that Brian intended for himself. After checking out several cars under the enthusiastic guidance of the boisterous salesman, Brian finally settled on an old sedan selling for $500.00. The door panels were rusty, and there were a couple of holes in the floorboard. But the engine seemed to be in pretty good shape. Good enough to get from here to there. He wrote a check, and the salesman gave him a bill of sale. After filling out the paperwork to apply for a new title, registration, and insurance, Brian called a neighbor to help him get the car home. On Saturday morning, as he was preparing for his fishing getaway, Brian popped the trunk on the sedan to stow his fishing gear. There, lying in the trunk, he discovered a man's body and two suitcases. From recent news coverage, he recognized the body as that of a notorious drug kingpin who had disappeared about a month ago. Opening the suitcases, he found one with bags of white powder and the other full of cash. He called the police, and they came out to retrieve the body and the suitcase full of dope. That night, he went to an old dive that he remembered from his bachelor days and found an old acquaintance of questionable repute, from whom he procured a new driver's license and passport. First thing next morning, he went to the airport and bought a one-way ticket to the Cayman Islands. 470 words |
| Through my lens, a soldier's life is portrayed, along with all the sacrifices made. I see such vile atrocities unfold, recording them for others to behold. Sensor captures barbaric carnival, preserved in powerful pictorial. My photographic memory retains the gruesome scenes with battle's bloody stains. When hero's flag-draped casket is conveyed down ramp from C-17 cargo hold in solemn military ritual, I document family's grieving pains. Notes ▼ |
| The ghosts of Hemingway and Poe abide here and cavort with folks like Bonnie and Clyde here. Habitat for adventurous spirits, Huckleberry Finn meets Sally Ride here. Across the ages, tongues of many scholars speak their piece and become amplified here. Their voices echo down fertile valleys from the mountain of books sanctified here. Insatiable curiosities try to have their inquiries satisfied here. History, opinion, and fantasy are washed in the literary tide here. Fantasy writers take eager readers along for a remarkable ride here. These stacks of books form a mystic labyrinth, which will lead you to the truth inside here. Among the congregating kindred souls, Granddaddy met his lovely bride here. Notes on the Ghazal form of poetry ▼ |
| Mary, Mary, standing there in your tie dye underwear demonstrates your fashion flair on cultural balance sheet. Squeezing into Spandex pants for night of trendy dance, ignoring ignorant rants from those who cannot compete. Preparing for party gig, you must find a way to rig giant Dolly Parton wig to make impression complete. In any case, I'll be here to reassure you, my dear, that a stylish pioneer like you just cannot be beat. Notes on the Ochtfochlach form of poetry ▼ |
City skyscrapers obscure majestic sunrise with all its glory, and traffic shreds sanity. I wish we could escape to open spaces where majestic mountain skyline glorifies each day. Notes on the Oriental Octet form of poetry ▼ |
| We send our young away to war across the sea to distant shore and test their mettle to the core with great concern. Our children lose their innocence when evil characters commence subverting moral precedents with brutal deeds. They put their lives in jeopardy, ignoring bloody savagery. We recognize their bravery with grand parades. Notes on the Ovi form of poetry ▼ |
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9bKwRW0l-Qk Always helps me get away from the daily stress and served as inspiration for "Nautical Twilight" The beauty of being me derives from the tangy taste of a ripe sunrise, accompanied by the color crescendo of Beethoven's Fifth rising over yon horizon to herald another nautical adventure, as I sail the sea of life. Tacking against the wind, hauling the sheets as timbers gnash and groan when storms are brewing in the South, my vessel sways upon the ocean's gray rolling hills. Heave the lines, heave ho! When the tempest of foggy cataracts, thumping transmission, and debt distress finally subsides, a lemon drop ray of sunshine peeks through, and I shift the tiller of my little yawl to sail a reach before a following sea with forty feet of waterline making way nicely on a downhill run to forever. The albatross and the whale frolic alongside, as the golden orb continues its stroll across the sky and begins a descent to make way for the next phase in a glorious splash of purple, red and gold. The twilight, like the horizon, is nothing more than a gateway to the next adventure, where the moon and the stars commence their dance upon celestial stage, while ocean rhythms serenade my soul, and constellations mark the path to help me navigate the next leg of the cosmic journey that is the beauty of being me. |
| The medial is numb to shame with camera and microphone to snare survivors' moan and groan. When drama is the horrid game, the media is numb to shame. With bloody wounds and broken bone amid the screaming overtone, victims are approached all the same. The media is numb to shame. With mental wounds as yet unknown, newsmongers shun the healing zone. The bitter truth remains the same: the media is numb to shame. Notes on the Desdansa form of poetry ▼ |
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