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Tuesday, January 24, 2012


Precious Life

we land softly
onto a safe runway
my passengers
should be vacationers
but this Mercy Flight
will save famine victims

doors open to fresh air
a tiny child looks at me
then points to a stilled figure

I raise her body
onto my chest
as light as a rag doll
and hold in tears
of sincere apology

our efforts failed
too late the takeoff
too long a flight

attendants approach
to finalize her journey
I recoil back and wail
“not yet”

the Grim Reaper
proved a little too eager
for this precious life



This poem came out of Ed Woods membership in an Aviation Museum and a story told by a Boeing 747 pilot who was involved in an airlift of famine victims from an African country.

International aid had been given but was not distributed in a timely manner, leaving the vulnerable in a desperate position.

Airlifts to air force bases in Europe were arranged as quickly as possible.  A Boeing 747 has 400 seats, but due to the starvation of these people, five children could fit into one single seat.  One aircraft had approximately 1400 people on board desperately trying to take them for medical attention.

This poem reflects one such flight. 

Thursday, January 19, 2012



Morning to morning, the old dog said,
that is the way the days all grow
together. Knowledge will not sliver
the channels of time. The rain will rain
and snow will snow, each to its season.
Rivers will wander off to the seas,
trees reach into the skies to twist
tatters of sun around ribbons of wind.
All cycles turn, each with its own
texture warped in the passage of days;
each day is a separate fibre that may
be remembered, but after its passage, lost.

That is the way that a life is shaped:
morning to morning, the old dog said.

Jeff Seffinga

Tuesday, January 10, 2012


      Reflection in Time

It's late night
still I'm not asleep
the silence evokes memories
charms the evening breeze.

My mind in reminiscent mood
sees fleeting moments from the past
suddenly, the roar of revved up engine
breaks my dream-like trance.

I want to paint in words
these enchanting moments
of my youthful fantasies
a picture, in dreams appear.

What beauty is there to see
when all is loss, naivete gone
now dreams are made in gadget box
like laptop, just a simple touch?

I wish I could go back
to my youthful days
where toys were made in tin cans
built sand castles by hand.

Make folded paper boats which float
and race along muddy canals
these made me really laugh
and taught me what real art is.

A glimpse of dawn now appears
the yellow rays over the horizon
another night has passed
people age, time passes, clocks tick.

I will now rest and sleep
my tired, aging body
so that tomorrow
I can face another day.

I pray that all is not lost
what progress brings
I am still the same
my ingenuity, not the mirror I see.

Copyright(c) Albert Magsuci
                    Bahrain    January 10, 2011

Sunday, January 1, 2012


Happy New Year to you all.  It is January 1, 2012 and I thought it might be nice to start the blog off with a Narrative Poem I wrote several years ago.  It is one of my favourites as it tells a story.  I personally love writing narrative style poetry and rhyming poetry the best.

Hope you enjoy it.


A house steeped in sorrow, looking unsightly
Harry’s home, born there seventy years ago in May
the Flannigans, Mother, Father, Sister, all dead
died young, decent people, death- by motor car.

Harry lives alone, except for Sammy
in fifty years he’s had several cats at home
never married, his mind affected
by the terrible crash which snatched his whole family.

Harry alone survived the accident
damage to his face and ears with loss of hearing
an ugly scar running from eyebrow to neck
disfiguring his former good looks.

Old Harry, friendless, alone  except for “Sammy”
went to bed one night, all doors and windows bolted
sleeping soundly as his custom was, never dreaming
in the basement, danger lurked waiting till he slept.

His bony body, snug in his boyhood iron bed
Familiar place felt secure
Unhearing ears on sleeping man
Did not hear the creaking stairs.

An intruder filled with hate and anger
intent on grabbing valuables to sell for cash
to feed his addiction to crack cocaine
Steadily mounted the stairs.

The hidden knife in dirty tattered jeans pocket
betrayed his awful motive in coming there
old Harry, defenseless and frail, lying so still
seemed to taunt the mind of the crazed dope addict.

Harry awoke with a start, uncertain of the danger he sensed
his sleep crusted eyes focused in the dim light
not seeing clearly the awful presence hovering near his bed
the steel blade clutched in hands that shook

Sammy lying beside him, claws extended, was no match

yowling filled the stillness of the upstairs bedroom
hunting knife plunging into arched orange body
crimson blood spattered on white crumpled bed sheets

In spite of hard, difficult and trying times in Harry’s life
loss of family, good looks, hearing and no wife or children
the will to live in him continued very strong
he tried to fight against the younger person

Harry watched in horror as the hand came closer to him
his mind still groggy with insufficient sleep
his only thought, escape the smelly vile man
who held the blood stained hunting knife.

His blood mingled with that of Sammy,
As he took his last breath
Together in life, together in death.

©WilmaSeville 2009

Read at Philpot, my Nov. 15/09 party, ArtWord/Arbar April 3/11, my party, April 10/11, Puddicombe Farm 2011 and published by John Stiles in England..