Masthead Media Group
Chug Cramproll made his heelstand in Buffalou so the story goes.
He sprinkledd sand on a surface
and made percussion sounds to the amazment of an audeince.
The song "Mumbled" was used as his entrance theme.
It's beleived it was remixed to the standards
of Modern sounds to have
a edgey Urban feel. " Jive Talking" Cat Vamp was said to be his manager.
"Scatt " and Bebop accompanied them to the ring. Off the wire these sounds like
"oh-be Doo-Bee" with some "ahh-you ahh's"
the debutting sounds of reasons.
So Right" and Yubbia Yubbah"
modern talking swing grooves.
When asked about that debut he said
" I'm a fool to want you: you know
that's life: thats the way it's gotta be!"
Where's that Crooner man; WWhere's that Crooner?"
Zu Du-dum: ooh we!
ahh wee ah!
OOh-wee!
Categories:
masthead, analogy, celebrity, endurance, guitar,
Form: Ballad
BLOOD-coated
discourse
exposing
features
of BASIC
heathen hearts
INSPIRED
INSTRUCTIONS
for errant humanity
executed by ordinary
vassals served
divine fountain pens
BOLD script
prescribed
BEFORE
our very birth
that mortals should
not turn to ugly fish
LOVELY
red letters
from the masthead
author - Him -
Jesus the Christ
LEAVING ears
news of hope
and Heaven
lightening the pilgrim's
progressive load
ENDURING
messages of love
Mary's virgin womb
a throne room
for the everlasting king come
among us to this
EARTH
a spinning catastrophe
of 1000 miles per hour
and a billion small lights
on a journey home
Categories:
masthead, bible, creation, love, religious,
Form: Acrostic
He sleeps in thunderstorms,
temporarily cocooned
from a fathomless death.
When his ship sunk
he had swam away from a life
to an island in his mind.
He sways hammock-less
as a crashing gale
rolls him inside an acoustic guitar,
a sea-going instrument
that can be plucked
only with lovelorn fingers.
She was a masthead once
one that led him astray.
Red grapes and red lips
had beguiled him.
He ropes her thick black hair
around his waist; makes ready
to tie himself to a rocking mast.
The night sky keeps him searching
in the dark heart of any storm;
a dream ship surfacing once more
and he knowing
he is the sea itself
rushing inward.
Categories:
masthead, poetry,
Form: Free verse
In my room there's a chair
It's not much to see
It has no special flair
I'm sure you'd agree
But to a child of four
It's no longer a chair
But a shiny new car
A fleet stallion or mare
A gateway to adventure
By land or by sea
With billowing masthead
Or sturdy limbs of a tree
Categories:
masthead, adventure, child, imagination,
Form: Rhyme
in sponson's wake of beetled prow,
cold foam formed horizons far,
gray mist above, blue black below,
pitted keel thrum anchored flow,
splintered spar led teakwood jibe
dawn broke on that deeper now,
luff and taut blown by four winds,
hidden rough in burlap skins,
'midship foundered salt and stream,
masthead wound in boatswain's flail,
Orion's bow with sextant cast,
fled the stars from siren's fast,
skyline blurring creased by waves,
underway from hoisted port,
manticore and fading soil,
hempen frayed this seaman's coil.
Categories:
masthead, depression, sea,
Form: Rhyme
Below earth, streams release the arteries
of the undersea teeming with precious
abalone, granite and shells,
as a roulette of lotus defies gravity
soaking on the chlorine of a wind
only piles of sand can bestow…
and gentle the wavelets murmuring
hymns of serenity , somewhat delicate
as ocean mouth is to fish lips in the moist pulse
of swelling spaces for wooden fleets
to beckon the blue.
Like so, guardian of water observes the cruise
of a ship rustling a masthead…
intrusive vessels are aliens
to the underworld: greedy eyes, black hands
that rake mothers of pearl and babes of dolphins.
Fierce dugongs roll along, shaking the basement
of hunters’ boats on inlets
to pound doors of Neptune’s bed,
reflecting mirrors of an island scented
with coconut and tresses of women
bathing along coasts of such innocent gulfs.
Below earth, a divide between friends and foes
is honored; that beyond words,
a sea keeper rises to acknowledge
the kindness of strangers,
if they are kind enough to respect the gift of privacy.
10/2/2015
Chase Trevi's Contest:
Open Sea - Sailing, Creatures, Treasures
Categories:
masthead, care, rights, sea,
Form: Imagism
and lost while wracked in pains of change,
wilted seed in wintered eye,
hands clenching white in advent rage,
knee bones scuppered, bleaching age,
knelt stung as tears run dry,
writ black ink in masthead sky,
and lost now wracked in changing pain.
and wracked in change, in pain,
this protean mood, forgiving none,
stygian moans in loaming brains,
bowing low in time's cruel reins,
for order, seeking melancholic ones,
forget what bones have said to sons,
and wracked aloud in change and pain.
and wracked in pain and changing hue
if not order's sin, then virtue's deign,
above, above, settled up on virgin's crown,
control, like razor’s gleaming frown,
drawn swift upon a throbbing vein,
flared desolate in absolution's gain,
and hue is wracked in pain and change.
and wracked in change’s cleansing pain,
a night buried lost in clouded dawn,
release a grip, unhinged yet grasped,
living bread coughed out and harshly rasped,
as patina streaks down muted pawns,
we love, we weep, we carry on,
and pain is wracked in cleansing change.
Categories:
masthead, addiction, peace,
Form: Free verse
The sea gathered her voice
on the crest of the waves
as dark clouds were herded
by the wind as he raved
in a symphony orchestrated
through elements of sound
composed by the air
from his drafty compound.
By the drum of the surf
on the beat of the waves
a crescendo that climbed
with the sea as she raged
while the wind as the maestro
pulled pockets of sound
from the whistles and moans
as he swept ‘cross the ground.
Soprano! cried the killdeer
Tenor! screeched the gulls
as a baritone foghorn
boomed from the hull
of a ship that swayed
drunkenly atop of the surf
staying clear of the breakers
that crashed on the turf
The ship creaked a response
as it groaned a refrain
but the deft hand of a shipwright
would keep it sustained
for he’d hewn and he’d whittled
great emblems of love
carving an angel for the figurehead
and atop the masthead, a dove.
When the wind stopped his jostling
and the sea spent her ire
the ship slipped back to its haven
of warm hearths and bright fires
where the men mused and wondered
over great tankards of ale
if the hymns and hosannas..
had been but, the wind in the sails?
Categories:
masthead, dedication, faith, imagination, sea,
Form: Ode