Knights of the nebula pond?
Kingdom Gone, return.
Witch and wizard, wave thy wand!
Tamarind taciturn...
Knight errant by lightning struck?
O for help to call!
Cult black magic, I've got truck!
Luck, best drop that ball.
Stuck with indecision?
O plight of prisoner.
Seeress, here is worst vision!
Reality, blur!
Chained atop the atoll wild?
Mother, stillborn child.
Young lovers unreconciled.
Slaughterhouses tiled.
Mild, art thou, O fickle Fate?
Helpful is such hate!
Intellect, be not ingrate!
Gold, go to the gate...
Wait a second, Fortune.
In what hole ought I fill?
Tomb of pharaoh? Trick or tune?
Boon, how to pay bill?
Where then to dig? Why split my wig?
Swine, bequeath to pig!
O dark matter, space is big?
I don't give a fig!
Garden lost from ancient times?
Wind, rattle those chimes.
O for boxes about mimes.
Drop upon, my dimes...
Mariners immemorial?
Land ho? Not just yet.
Ergo, editorial?
Poisonous thy pet.
Forget? O river Lethe, thy sheath!
Belladonna, bequeath?
Mistletoe, art best in wreath?
Hollyhock, thy heath...
“Ink Artist Kat Von D Baptized, Leaves
The Macabre Behind”
“It’s never been clearer, there's a spiritual battle taking place” —Von D. Kat tossed materials that celebrated witchcraft and the occult: Tarot, books, her favorite dark chapeau. Trends go, or end in extreme measures. Sheep roam, following any shepherd. A spray of paint flies hither and yon from the needle of her ink gun.
true tutorial
a moving memorial
to editorial
Peppermint Christmas angels were doing the cha cha cha.
“What else can you do?” Asked a pinecone name of McGraw.
We can do the petootsie dance, and we can tease our maw.
“What else can you do?” asked a prissy critical macaw.
“We can twirl and spin, and we can make delicious coleslaw.
We can play racquetball and we can spot an editorial flaw.
We can peel potatoes in a fancy way if you get them raw.
We are pretty talented,” said the angels, and we can draw.”
News media’s job is to report what happened
Tell me
WHO
WHAT
WHEN
WHERE!
Please refrain from editorializing
and, certainly, from undue sanitizing
We do not need a lot of commentary
from folks who want us to believe the contrary
FROM THE LEFT,
FROM THE MIDDLE,
FROM THE RIGHT!
Scrupulously tell us the truth, I say.
If I want a journalist’s opinion, for goodness sakes,
I will read the editorial page.
Or, skim through the pages of USA Today.
Hey, I am not stupid.
I heard what was said.
I can figure out the WHY!
written July 4, 2021
By George P. Lumayag
https://georgelumayag.weebly.com/
Users learn English grammar when ICT is used.
Microsoft Word can check the misspelled words,
It even reminds the users' choppy words,
Google Doc can detect the wrong structure of words,
And Grammarly.com can recommend suitable words.
Writer's original composition can be justified when Turnitin is used.
They can not publish their journals if such papers violate the rule.
The online creation tools offer young minds become prolific writers,
SketchBook provides creative students to become digital editorial cartoonists,
Photoshop enhances student-users to become digital pic lovers,
And Weebly.com offers them to become online digital layout artists.
Learners can improve their speech when Youtube.com is accessed.
Learners can enunciate English accent through parroting the Youtube channel,
They can learn tenses of verbs on Youtube Language tutorials,
Therefore, they can learn English on Youtube.com
Artificial Intelligence can be the English teacher,
So, ICT is very much related to English teaching.
Wednesday Blasts Intrigue now,
Constantianus Flinches Inventory
Wednesday Atomizes Flutteriness now,
Dulcitius Plunges Editorial
Tuesday Bursts Giggliness now.
Tribunas Implements Snakes
Saturday Annihilates Disappoint now,
Maximianus Observes Zones
Your 'exclusive' story is dying
~ Time to send wild rumors flying
Day 6
Omniscient Editorial
The knock on the door made everyone's head turn .
Youngster
" Mama"
Youngster Mama
" Bruce , you forgot your lunch sweetie "
Youngster
He frowns a little as he looks her up and down not recognizing his mother.
Narrator
Youngster questions his mother's appealing look , stops in his tracks and takes a step backwards. On his 4th step back , he turns to Inquisitive teacher
Weather
The Sun is out it seems
Teacher hears a lightening
Youngster hears birds chirping
Youngsters Mama hears echos
Youngster
" That's not my Mama, look at her eyes and she's not singing "
Teacher Inquisitive
Confusion overwhelmed the look out of Youngster, she grabbed her hands out ,
" what?"
Youngster Mama
" Now you know the rule's , dont you run from me, look's like we got another participant"
Second Narrator
The lights in the classroom start flickering on and off , the kids start screaming.
Youngsters Mama starts running madly
TO BE CONTINUED.....
Day#4
Inquisitive Teacher
"What do you mean he comes into your room at night , and touches you ?''
Weather Announcement
Hale the size of gum ball's start to drop as if a meteor of shower's were to greet our entity. The humidity felt overwhelming, exhaustion rushed all
Editorial Omniscient Editorial
Teacher turn's around to see her class group together with big innocent eye's.
She take's a step closer pulling her knotted hair back into place.
Youngster
''When Mama fall's asleep he come's into my room to play a game , he call's it a nice touching game."
Inquisitive Teacher
"What kind of game ?" furrowing her brow's anxiously she inclined. Just then the town alarm start's sounding. Alarming everyone to duck for cover.
Youngster
"Mama's sick and we can't hurt her , I wanna , I need to go home to Mama!" He start's wailing with his hand's in the all crazy , rocking back and forth.
AS A WRITER , I DO APOLOGIZE ON MY BEHALF FOR MY FIRST WEEKLY THRILLER , AS MORE THEN SINCERELY IT'S UN PROFESSIONAL TO NOT CHALLENGE MYSELF AND POST DAILY AS I'M SUPPOSE TO ... I WILL BE MORE DEDICATED TO MY READER'S ..... APRIL LADAWN BELIN International Writer/ Poet
On Myself Get a Grip
When on myself I must get a grip
To certain pages in Bible will flip
Read dearly and in heart remain
In God words are so much gain.
More and more effort I always took
And ended up writing a whole book
Of poems similar to this very one
Am so proud when they were done.
God into my mind has often filtrated
He welcomed me and then educated
Each part of my eager body and soul
Always having been within His control.
Why should anyone write an editorial
Appearing controlling and dictatorial
When God always will be available
Write more poems make you able.
James Mysterious Serious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
Math is great
At some point I could get.
How could I get rid
When it is definitely a need?
I prefer writing an editorial
Than solving a perfect trinomial.
Math is a trial,
Oh! This is crucial.
Math has magic,
But sometimes it's tragic.
Striving for Mathematics,
Optimistic in finding tactics.
When it reach high quantity,
It challenges brain's quality.
Favor with Property of Equality,
Struggling with Conditional Inequality.
Math is a distress,
But it is a need for success.
Sometimes it makes me cry,
But it doesn’t stop me to try.
Struggles are enough,
I now ought to laugh.
Need to be even,
Thinking of my favorite number seven.
Math is use everyday
Though I deny to say.
It makes my brain an aleph-null,
Yet it doesn't makes me dull.
Solving with optimistic
The problems in arithmetic.
Math I learned to love
With the help from above.
Exclusively For You
Have you felt like God sent you a poem before
In a form and with words no one will ignore
People feel as if this poem was written for
From me won't mind receiving many more.
Poems came straight from my heart and me
Don't care how good or better they may be
From God each one was revealed to my mind
And are never insulting or of a naughty kind.
About my poems you may have much to say
I will only accept criticism in a positive way
While a poem do continue to write another
Not worrying whether they are worse or better.
Maybe at Senior Center my poems may be read
Or as an editorial to Brunswick Beacon be fed
And also libraries who are lovers' of literature
My greatest hope is mine will always endure.
In God, will find myself continually abiding
Who to me is my bearer of each glad tiding
And not afraid of where criticism came from
Or how bad my guitar I pick, play and strum.
James Serious Mysterious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
RiverSea Plantation
Bolivia, NC
They may be making a memorial
For when she writes an editorial
Which happens to be way out far
Making her become a rising star.
Her writing is just like an infection
That seems to spread in every direction;
She has hired a new news reporter
Who was caught on a Star Trek transporter.
Heavens to Betsy as well as God forbid
Transporter went backwards; now she's a kid
Who later worked way up newspaper ranks;
Closest competitors were some old cranks.
Why with her pleasant, perfect personality
She is inhibited with Southern hospitality;
Wouldn't you know it between you and me
First three month's subscription is for free.
So since she recently become a Saint
Picture of her they decided to paint
Which will be hung up by them on a wall
And is so big it takes up a whole hall.
I met Elizabeth
during my flirtation with English Literature in 1963.
Another lesbian,
pretty blonde with
soft hands and beautiful legs.
I used to pick up Elizabeth
at the counselling center
where she was trying to be cured.
When the university found her out
they hinged expulsion on her success.
I fell passionately
in love with Elizabeth
with all my post adolescent yearning,
the feel and the look of her.
She allowed me her company
and the freedom to dream.
Her father owned an
automobile dealership in Baltimore.
Well-to-do. I could never meet their expectations.
Part of a disguise for her parents,
she knew I wasn't very good at it.
I followed Elizabeth
doggedly and drove her
where she wanted to go.
When she looked for a job
after she left college,
I drove her from office to office.
An editorial job in a small business magazine,
I was glad when she came out beaming.
Elizabeth had been interviewed by love,
She and the matronly magazine owner
immediately set up housekeeping together.
I could have been a friend to both but I melted.
Elizabeth never wrote me letters.
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