A log of the magnificent journey across the vast sea of my imagination.
A log of our magnificent journey.
|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 ▼
Always helps me get away from the daily stress and served as inspiration for
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 ▼
|On a cold winter day,
aroma gives notice
Grandma's baking gingerbread
made with molasses
and overflowing love,
while children laugh and play
with snowman in the yard,
until their mom calls them in
to trim the Christmas tree
and savor scrumptious meal.
Once again, we enjoy
the magic of family
gathered 'round the hearth.
Mistletoe and moonlight
stoke romantic embers
to keep the family growing.
|Good morning, Darling!
How are you today? I eagerly await receipt
of your most intimate thoughts, impressions,
fantasies, doodles, giggles, fears, and tears.
Please do not forget that I am always here
to comfort and support.
Have no doubt. Your deepest secrets
are safe with me.
|The dandelions make me gay.
Their yellow blossoms brighten day
among the cow pies on display
in farmer's plot.
They serve emotional buffet
when gut's in knot.
Some people label them a weed,
but I afford such rot no heed,
because the Man Upstairs decreed
there is no skew.
Equality is guaranteed
within His view.
|Grandpa Pete looked to sky and wondered when
the rain would come.
For years, he fought this dusty regimen
as mission's drum
kept driving him to work the arid field.
In fervent prayer, to God he appealed
for some relief
in his belief
the land could bring a worthy yield.
Last year, he finally gave up his stance
and passed away,
concluding perennial spirit dance
he had each day
with dilapidated barn, its roof caved in.
The rotting walls remain through thick and thin
for all to see
of Grandpa and his steadfast grin.