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 |    A log of the magnificent journey across the vast sea of my imagination. |
 A log of our magnificent journey. |
| Diamonds in night sky buy romantic dreams, themes to fantasize, lies that never die. Notes on Raay (or Rei) form of poetry: ▼ |
Sun rises, sun sets, tide comes in, and tide goes out. Dolphins dance in surf and chase my worries away while living on island time. |
| The smell of coffee, orange marmalade sunrise, and the meadowlark's song imbue my heart with happiness. |
 Stoically stalking, Reaper roams banks of the Styx with ax to spread woe. Character in crape cunningly creeping across to cook his éclair from frothing phobia and fractious fingers of fear-- fee-fi-fo-fum. Yum! Traipsing through the trees to a tryst with victims lured into his trusty traps. Leave no doubt. There'll be unalleviated grieving on All Hallows Eve. |
 He climbs his way to top without a solid plan to lay foundation for the daily grind alone. Treadmill goes 'round until he's back where he began to reap rewards of trudge anonymous, alone. Poet's note ▼ |
| Petite young woman with curly blond hair pulls up in front of Bates Motel after long day on road. Norman greets her with a shy smile and extends warm welcome before handing her key to unit number six. She finds the room comforting with spotless furnishings and homestyle quilts, but her main concern is a soothing hot shower and a good night's sleep. She disrobes, steps into tub, closes curtain, turns on the tap, and lets hot water flow over her body. Suddenly, curtain is thrust open, and slasher commences savage attack, as blood spurts all over wall and runs down drain in gurgling vortex, which matches the sounds coming from her throat. Next morning, room number six is once again spotless, as it awaits the next unsuspecting guest. This scene is repeated over and over and over again in a futile attempt to satisfy Norman's psychotic hunger, like the Venus flytrap, ready to feed again.  |
| Some words begin to drive emotive flow from heart to page through poet's pen until relief is found in core of pensive thought with kick of apple tart to bring creative juice where spirit's feast is found. Author's note: The Cyclus is a twelve-line treasure gleaned from Viola Berg's Pathways for the Poet. The name is reference to the cycling syllable counts, as described in the following link: http://www.poetrymagnumopus.com/forums/topic/1001-visual-verse-or-shape-verse/#c... . |
Welcome aboard the good ship “Fantasy,” where words become ballistic thrusters, boosting us beyond the bounds of reason’s gravity on a trajectory to deepest inner space. Without knowing why, we must travel. Secured by bonds of universal uniqueness, we rocket into unknown zones to find insight and understanding. When the words flame out and fall away, inertia propels our adventure into the outer reaches of imagination. We fly across a universe of imagined meanings to discover truth buried inside our soul. Subconscious phantoms explore those dark caverns deep into the night to shed a light of awareness upon God’s secrets. In reading and composing, we learn lessons to help us navigate through rocky shoals and propel the rocket of life into the future. Inspiration IS the response, as creativity begins to flow-- tumbling and rumbling in spite of all the grumbling and stumbling. Beyond the price of pence, the true reward is discovery. 36 lines of Free Verse poetry. |
| When the sun goes down, the curtain goes up on Satan's nocturnal operetta, where spirits of the night join their voices in a chorus of cacophonic extravaganza, as miasmic vapors billow forth across the haunted landscape. Creepy crawlers, attracted by the pandemonium echoing around the mausoleum, congregate among the tangled vines of ancient blasphemies, slithering, gyrating, and swaying in a mesmerizing ballet choreographed by Satan himself, until the rising sun drops the curtain of light on the stage of this Bacchanalian festival. |
blue jay contemplates delicious golden banquet spring's lavish bounty |
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