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 |    A log of the magnificent journey across the vast sea of my imagination. |
 A log of our magnificent journey. |
“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 |
| The military tradition-- Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines-- all work to fulfill their mission and guide their lives by what it means. From Sergeant's greeting at boot camp, intended to get your attention, to the confined foxholes so damp, beyond civilian comprehension. From the battle of Bunker Hill to Fallujah and beyond, we continue to fill the bill and never fail to respond. |
| I am dancing with a moonbeam on joyful spree of reverie, where wishful thinking reigns supreme. So many possibilities to fly away without delay upon enchanted summer breeze. Notes on Onda Mel form of poetry ▼ |
| Something in the wind takes me to another time, another place, where tides seduced and skies were blue. Something in the wind takes me to the sandy shore where seagulls flew and ocean breeze caressed my face. Something in the wind takes me to another time, another place. Notes ▼ |
He served his country with honor on military mission to defend our values. Today, he fights arthritis instead of Viet Cong. Bouncing grandson Toby on his knee, he tells alluring tales of where he has been, from Sicily to Singapore. On Sunday, he goes to church and prays for successors' safe return. Then, he watches football on TV and sips a beer or two. Although he spends a lot of time sitting on the couch with his constant companion Arthritis, his thoughts are always with those on the front line. |
| As the shadows of nightfall crept across the meadow, Rebecca rose from the rocking chair on her porch and prepared to retire for the night. Suddenly, an eerie sound coming from the nearby forest caught her attention. She knew hearing music in the woods at night was a bad sign, but it was such a pretty tune. Stepping down from the porch, she tried to identify the source. Just like the Pied Piper did in Hamelin with his magic flute, this mystic melody entranced her and led her deeper into the wilderness. As she traversed through the evening mist settling over the trail, she was accosted by a cordon of ghouls, each with the visage of a wolf and talons for hands. They enshrouded her with a tarp and carried her farther along the forest trail. Eventually, they removed the tarp when they arrived at the perimeter of an enclosure, where a group of spectral waifs danced in a circle around a huge vat. The stench of burning sulfur emanating from the bubbling substance in the vat permeated the entire enclosure. Presently, the circle was broken by two of the ghouls carrying a young man writhing and screaming in the grip of their talons. The screaming intensified as they dropped their victim into that vat of boiling fluid. Suddenly, a tall figure cloaked in black appeared beside Rebecca and asked, "Are you ready, my dear? Your turn is next." Quickly, the ghouls' talons tightened against her arms until they pierced the skin. ******************************************** 252 words Prompt: She knew hearing music in the woods at night was a bad sign, but it was such a pretty tune. |
| It's the little things with which we can relate-- the way a robin sings upon the garden gate, the creases in your hand, the pebble in your shoe-- with vision to expand and make poetic stew. |
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