ED WOODS

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

Copyright(C)EdWoods2011

NOTE FROM THE EDITOR

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. 

JEFF SEFFINGA

PHILOSOPHER DOG

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

ALBERTO MAGSUCI

      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

WILMA SEVILLE

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.



HARRY FLANNIGAN

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..