Blue depths draw me in Mesmerizing blur of light No blue Monday moans Light upon water Immediate uplifted spirits this morning
June is bustin' out all over All over the bodice of her dress Old ladies stand around and gasp While the guys would like to grasp Her display of amplitude with a caress June is busting out all over Feelings are getting quite intense The town is equally divided No one is undecided But gentlemen keep climbing on her fence Because of June!
She really understand me, and that’s not easy.” –Brian
1. seek the favor, support, or custom of
2. try to gain the love of (someone), especially with a view to marriage.
Liz said she loves the “State of Woo”. She never defined exactly what that is but it seems to be when two individuals meet and are attracted to each other. Each day is a wonderful discovery into an unknown package of delights. You want to know what is in the package and unwrap each layer with anticipation and appreciation. Inevitably you fall out of woo and reality seeps in.
His tender looks start to glaze over or develop an acquisitive gleam.
Her soft laughter turns from trilling to shrilling.
What once enchants eventually annoys.
As projection of perfection morphs into perceived realities the idealized one no more exists.
Focus shifts from no faults to magnified imperfections.
Many people flee the decay of their fantasies without waiting to see if its replacement may be a more worthy object of affection.
Enjoy it while it lasts; the sun will set on the state of woo.
Alphabetical or numerical Dewey Decimal or Library of Congress No matter how I sort it Today I'm out of sorts
Reprinted with permission from the Scuttlebutt, Volume 6, Number 10, 20 May 2021, Carl Snow, Editor
To the Men Who Fly
Ralph G. Fallert was a WWII Navy Seabee. We presented his poem titled Scuttlebutt in our 16 July 2020 issue. The following verse was written overseas during World War II, while he was with the Seabees, briefly on American Samoa and then for a longer time on Espiritu Santo in the New Hebrides. Following Espiritu came a period of about a year back in the States, then transfer to Armed Forces Radio Service and again assignment overseas—this time on Iwo Jima.
A graduate of Duquesne University and native of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, Mr. Fallert spent 40 more years in broadcasting, including 18 years as an announcer on radio and 19 years on TV stations in Pittsburgh. We’re presenting another piece—one of the few serious ones he wrote during his active-duty service, To the Men Who Fly. His daughter, Christine Fallert Kessides, has consented to let us reproduce his poem.
Dedicated to the Airmen of World War II
You who tread the Milky Way
And traffic with the stars
Have wrought a bitter beauty
In the cruel face of Mars.
You loose the pennants of the soul
Against the wind and sky,
And live the ancient dream of all
Who ever yearned to fly.
You know the feel of freedom
We covet in the birds –
Like thought released forever
From the fettering of words.
You wheel about the courtyards
Of castles in the air,
From whose great cloudy battlements
The earth seems twice as fair.
You soar into the sunset,
Are one with the stars at night,
And we stare unbelieving
At the miracle of flight.
From trammeling of earth you soar
To the purity of space
Where the soul drinks in a freshness
Like a breeze upon the face.
You bear aloft a thousand hearts
As singers do with songs,
And make it seem that far from earth
Is where the heart belongs.
But not for now the beauty,
Not for now the joy,
For now your skills are focused
To punish and destroy.
But soon we pray is coming
The peace for which we thirst,
And of those who’ve earned its blessings
You stand among the first!
Copyright 1989 by Ralph G. Fallert (b. 1914 d. 2002.) By permission of Christine Fallert Kessides.
As interpreted from the upstairs window as I was riding my stationary bicycle one morning
As he was leaving, he knew he'd miss her so he paused to gently kiss her. With one chaste peck he touched her lips It wasn't enough he grabbed her hips. Their kisses deepened their bodies connected a need for more was resurrected. Not enough! their senses cried so the pair went back inside.
Only the lichen stands out in the foreground as fog quickly swallows the invader. Does it turn him into lichen?
Was your mother like Joan Crawford's Mommy Dearest? Did she vacuum in pearls and high heels like June Cleaver? Was her style more Mama Bear--hairy and swatting you when you needed it? Was she a soccer mom with a minivan and elitist ideals? Were either of you an accident of birth? Do you worship the ground she walked on or were you happier to walk away?
Jean Marie has finished off National Poetry Month by re-writing poems from two poets (and my poems are one of the two re-written poems that she created.)
The big one and the little one sat together in peace. They were different, yet the same Live, love, learn, leave. That was all it was enough.
I have to tell you to your face this is not the appropriate place to celebrate Great Poetry Reading Day You've read this poem, now slip away to where the great poems may be found by poets of more literary renowned.
He lumbers across the Florida golf course snapping at any who dares cross his path His bite is much worse than his roar or his hiss. The sun warms his scaly back but not his cold reptilian heart. He doesn't care; Nature made him that way. He only sheds crocodile tears.
Key West is for the birds so many different sounds are heard Roosters crow any time of day while pigeons coo, always on display screeching gulls snatch fish or bacon anything left out may be takin' Squawking pelicans line the pier whenever a fishing boat draws near In the butterfly house on Duval pink flamingos screech and call while soft spoken doves are underfoot along the path they quickly scoot Waterfowl also quack and honk Very at home in the Republic of Conch
So the first (and possibly most confusing?) part of World Heritage Day is that that actually isn’t it’s a formal name. What is popularly known as World Heritage Day is actually called The International Day for Monument and Sites and was established in 1982 by the International Council for Monuments and Sites, or ICOMOS. This organization was established on the principles set forth in the Venice Charter, otherwise known as the 1964 International Charter on the Conservation and Restoration of Monuments and Sites.
The organization was founded after a need was identified to protect these valued locations, and it saw the coming together of experts from hundreds of related fields. These include architects, engineers, geographers, civil engineers, and artists and archaeologists. Each year they work to help ensure that some of the world’s most beautiful sites and important cultural monuments remain preserved for future generations.
Since it’s inception it has grown to include almost 10,000 members in over 150 countries all over the world. Of these 10,000 members over 400 are members from institutions, national committees, and international scientific committees, all working together to save important sites and identify new ones that need to be added to the watch list.
In 2021, the University of Virginia dedicated the UVA Memorial to Enslaved Laborers
What makes amends? Which message sends Enough! so that the conflict ends,
Every spring is the only spring, a perpetual astonishment.
~ Ellis Peters
Crocuses were the early explorers establishing a beachhead amidst the melting snow Daffodils sent up periscopes of leaves before committing flower heads and blooms Weeping willows wept tears of yellow green flowing down long slender limbs Grasses staggered their emergence in scraggly patches of green and brown Violets and vinca minor provided purple notes of color Cherry blossoms reigned briefly before ceding to the rapidly advancing red-buds and dogwoods. Tulips provided the first notes of saturated colors. Late bloomers competed with the early iris. Many trees are throwing up pollen on cars, sidewalks, ponds, and membranes. Other trees have the bare ends of winter. Each wave approaches, swells, explodes, and then recedes Followed immediately by the next wave of flowering plants.
Thoughts-- drips becoming rivulets merging with creeks flowing into rivers creating puddles and pools backing up stagnating dry washes until new thoughts replace them in drips drops and drabs. It all flows downhill renewed re-energized unstoppable cataracts rapids hopping skipping, tumbling over rocks and occasionally themselves.
To celebrate, enjoy a brew If it tastes good, then make it two Poets, preachers and just plain sinners All agree that it's a winner Except to me, its just a waste I've never been able to acquire the taste. Cheers!
People are like Easter eggs of many different hues some you find immediately others found with clues A few of them are basket cases some of them are rotten some of them just roll arouond others lie in cotton You cannot always judge the egg by the color of it's shell Pretty is as pretty does You need the taste and smell
Cannonade of gusts Aimlessly butcher branches Warfare windblown style.
I tried to write a Zombie poem but all my thoughts went numb Maybe the Zombie ate my brain which is why this poem is dumb. Last night while I was fast asleep, he dined upon my brains leaving a mass of noodled thoughts like limp spaghetti strains