Saturday, April 29, 2017

THE MYSTERY OF FLIGHT 19

The Bermuda Triangle has always held a
fascination, and the fate of Flight 19 is
one of its mysteries.
Submitted to Poets United, Poetry Pantry
April 30, 2017



Five pilots of the Navy’s tried and true
Took off on a mission routine
The Florida sun was shining
There were high hopes for Flight 19

They’d completed part of their journey
When the lead pilot called to say
His compass had malfunctioned
And he feared they’d lost their way

And so no one really knows
What happened to the flight
In the last communication
They said “No land in sight”.

What  followed was a massive search
The outcome was as feared
All five planes and 14 souls
Seemed to have disappeared.

Two rescue planes had been dispatched
To try to find the flight
Before another day had dawned
One of them, too, had vanished from sight.

The searchers found no oil slicks
No sign of  debris was seen
To explain the mysterious fate
Of the search plane or Flight 19.

The Bermuda Triangle is legend
For ships lost and never seen again
She still holds fast the destination
Of the search plane, Flight 19, and their men.

Thursday, April 27, 2017

A LIMERICK


Frank asks us to write a limerick,
a 5-line poem.   Who can stop at one?

Submitted to dVerse Form For All
April 26, 2017



There once was a girl named Sally
Who lived in the Silicon Valley
She took a big chance
And got some implants
And now she's called Silicone Sally.

   ***
There once was a fellow idiotic
Who kept company with animals exotic
When asked who he was with
His friends propagated the myth
"Who gnu?", they all said, "He's quixotic".
   ***




Wednesday, April 26, 2017

THE MOUNTAIN

This week's Midweek Motif challenges us
to consider a grain of sand.
Submitted to Poets United
April 26, 2017

Once I stood atop the mountain
The mistress of all I surveyed
Ah, how sweet to survey my kingdom
For which I’d so dearly paid

Then sands shifted on the promontory
Which it seemed I had only just gained
And I found myself in the valley
With the mountain before me again

I vowed I would conquer the mountain
It seemed I’d climbed time after time
And grasping familiar footholds
Once more I began to climb.

**********************

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

THE BELONGING PLACE

Paul has asked us to feature community in our
Tuesday Poetics this week. I'm overcome with
nostalgia, which occasions this bit of prose.
Submitted to dVerse Poetics Tuesday
April 15, 2017



The indigenous aboriginals of Australia call it their belonging place … that place where they had their beginning.  My belonging place is that part of middle Illinois where I spent my childhood, wrapped in the unconditional love of my parents, and the safety of the surrounding community.    I close my eyes to a kaleidoscope of sights, sounds and smells etched forever in my soul.  I see still my mother’s garden, and the fields that stretched to the horizon in regimented rows of corn, golden waves of oats, fragrant fields of clover and alfalfa.  I hear the contented lowing of the cattle, the rooster’s morning crow, the nighttime hoot of the owl in the elm tree outside my window, and the snuffling grunts of the pigs at their feeders.  I smell the fragrance of the lilac by the yard gate, a wondrous blend of coffee brewing and bacon frying in early morning, the pungent smell of freshly turned earth, the unmatchable smell of new-mown hay, and the smell of sunshine on my sheets and pillow.

My belonging place was peopled by the good-hearted and hard-working farm families of our community, most of whom attended the same little roadside church and whose children attended my one-room school.  There were no locks on doors, no daily newspapers to bring us news of murder, mayhem and disasters.  Our news of the world beyond our little community came from the evening newscast on the old console radio beside my father’s rocking chair.  We went to bed at nightfall and got up at dawn.   The faces of those dear folks who peopled our community will remain with me always, and I am blessed.
******************

Monday, April 24, 2017

MEMORY'S DOORWAY


Grace brings us Quadrille #31, a challenge
to write a poem of exactly 44 words using
the word “still” or a form thereof.
Submitted to dVerse
April 24, 2017
*************

After all this time
you visit me still
in my dreams.
I hear you chuckle,
calling me Bay-Be
in the old teasing way.
Wrapped in your arms
once again,  I am loved
and secure.
I  don’t want to wake up
and be alone again.

The stillness of night
Opens memory’s doorway
And there we meet again

****************

Sunday, April 23, 2017

A WOODLAND TALE




Just a light-hearted little rhyme on
a beautiful Sunday morning.
Submitted to the Poetry Pantry at Poets United
April 23, 2017




Deep in the woods where the sunshine speckles
You might find the girl, nose dusted with freckles
She had no worries about fashion trends
All the creatures of the woodland were her friends..

Sometimes she climbed high in the mighty old oak
And listened to songbirds as they spoke
Or she lay on her belly in the tall, green grass
And whispered to caterpillars as they’d pass

She talked to the fish in the forest pool
She had plenty of time; there was no school
The fairies had granted all her wishes
No cleaning house, no doing dishes

She ruled her world with an iron hand
There were no bad guys in her land
She played lots of games, and was always the winner
… But playtime was over when Momma called her to dinner.




************************

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

THE SEARCH FOR HOLY

Poets United Midweek Motif asks us to
consider that which is holy.
Submitted April 19, 2017




Somewhere in the great what-comes-after, He-who-knows-all
must look upon our fractiousness, our failure to love one another,
our careless use of our wonderful world and the gifts herein, our
frantic search for the meaning of life, and shake His weary head
at our obtuseness, for that which is holy is all about us.   It is in
the innocent faces of  children, the sunrise and sunset we take for
granted,  the opening of a flower, the fragrance of Spring rain,
cool breezes on a summer day, the touch of a loved one, the tides
of the ocean, the flow of rivers,  the gift of music, the pristine
silence of new fallen snow, the glorious colors of autumn, and
the miracle that is life.   There are many avenues to the great
what-comes-after, if we but take the time to be still and allow
the peace that passes understanding to settle upon us.

wisdom in silence
blessed assurance for all
if we but listen