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 |    A log of the magnificent journey across the vast sea of my imagination. |
 A log of our magnificent journey. |
winter blast transforms the way we think about haiku hook. |
| A barren sheet of paper waits for someone who appreciates and very often orchestrates artistic possibilities, such as linguistic symphonies or dynamic soliloquys, which come gushing out of flood gates, like children run to lollipop or teeny boppers at the hop. Coal-black ink flows and will not stop until scribe's bliss accumulates, and joyful song of meadowlarks emerges from the author's marks, escorting emotional sparks, while sated paper radiates. Notes ▼ |
| Honka! Honka! Honka! All hands to General Quarters! This is not a drill. And so another day begins aboard the USS Kennedy at 0300 hours on Sunday morning. Deep in the bowels of the ship, the steam is hissing, and the turbines are turning, as we proceed at flank speed to meet the enemy. Notes ▼ |
| A shadow hovers over room where final plans are being made for Grandpa's journey to his tomb in solemn funeral parade. Then, the party will commence to celebrate his lengthy life despite the austere influence of caustic economic strife. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6NyzpMpbdzQ |
Our little princess, in her Tinker Bell costume, joins the Unicorn on parade for all to see, celebrating Dogbert Day within the confines of our imagination. Shout Hallelujah! Notes on the Oriental Octet form of poetry ▼ Dogbert Day: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0974084/ . |
| I am the love in a devoted dad’s heart as he firmly reclaims my rusty frame from a pile of abandoned junk and starts to remove all the grime and greasy gunk before earnestly refurbishing by hand. Amidst the vapors of turpentine and oil, he toils with paint scraper and sandpaper. He’s softly humming a hymn as he straightens my bent fender and tightens loose spokes with his wrench. Then a coat of powder blue paint with black trim, chrome handlebars, a well-oiled chain, and pristine tires render my splendor as good as new. I’m the light in a child’s eye on Christmas morn seeing me adorned with a big red ribbon beside the tree with its dazzling light display twinkling brightly and fresh-cut pine fragrance. I am the joy in that child’s voice at my response to his first push against the pedal blocks under the steadying grasp of his trusted dad, oblivious to the snow and icicles on the old oaks hanging over the country lane, putting the crowning touch on my resplendent bicycle renaissance. |
| Eighty years ago, we took a mighty blow which struck our nation to its very core. We must remember that dark December and what the enemy had in store. The evil they revealed against our shield awakened sleeping giant with its roar. Their sneak attack brought a lot of flack when Yamamoto's fleet sailed from distant shore. Unfortunately, freedom is not free. We paid a heavy price in that war. We must remember that dark December and what the enemy had in store. Notes ▼ |
| The sounds of Christmas are in the air, bringing back memories of when we were young and could not wait for old Saint Nick. Tree was cut and decorated with great flair. With carols on the radio, stockings were hung. Then, we hid and waited for midnight tick. Receiving gifts was nice, but today I say the greatest gift of all: one more day. |
| Alas! The days are shrinking and glass of sunlight needs refill. Morass of darkness starts me thinking of passive mood brought by winter chill. What better time to sit and write? Forget the outside misery and let imagination incite poetic wandering therapy. Prompt: "Alas!" from The Collected Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe, page 617 |
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