Quoted in the Grove:
Many women, who do not dress modestly, lead young men astray, corrupt their chastity and spread adultery in society, which increases earthquakes.
~Hojatoleslam Kazem Sedighi
Feminism is a socialist, anti-family, political movement that encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians.
~Pat Roberston
Grown men should not be having sex with prostitutes unless they are married to them.
~Jerry Falwell
~~
Posted from the Grove:
Wordgrove’s Thurs Word Games are almost always productive of good new work. Writing remains the reason for getting together, but it is the private and poignant extras, the emotional highs that come out of the evening’s conversations that make junkies of those attending. Tax time seems a good opportunity for WG’s Word Games to account for time spent on Thurs evenings, of personal costs and value received.
By the numbers, the evening starts at 6:00 Pacific Time/9:00 Eastern. There is an easy laxness about this, as people arrive when they can or want to. Nutters (members of club Wordgrove), who have completed the week’s Prewritten assignment drop their work at this time. The Impromptu writing exercise usually starts on time an hour later. Usually. Sometimes tho that first hour passes anonymously, invisibly; time gets lost in conversation and the real chat starts early. Wordgrove is a club for readers and writers, but it also about words spoken in conversation and about the ideas explored in chat.
Apparently benefiting from the time alone that’s needed for writing, the best of these conversations usually take place after this exercise. Subject matter ranges from sweet to caustic to saucy to woo woo speculation and blind plunges into the wild unknown. No two weeks are ever the same, and the same night’s chat will veer precipitously and cross borders with impunity. It’s often funny, and often about sex.
The liveliness of these exchanges often depends on which open, unwalled-up personalities are in attendance that evening. While the evening’s sponsor is friendly and makes an agreeable and attentive audience, someone with a theatrical spark is needed to open the windows and doors of dialog for others. The evening usually ends on a high note 2-3 hours later after something particularly splendid has been said, when nothing more can be said to top it.
Visitors and new writers are always welcome. Bring a pen.
~
Prewritten for Thurs (04/17) @6pm PT/9 ET is: a pic
http://i300.photobucket.com/albums/nn1/chickletsmile2/leaves_zpsqhqiweat.jpg
~~
@Writers Platform
Glass Table: no new drops
~
Prewritten: elation, dubious
~whitefeather: untitled (qif)
In my lost memories,
pictures decay
White walls slowly,
fade into grey
A passage through life,
minutes drift
Time’s passing heartbreak,
youths beauty does forsake
Mirror’s reflection,
now wrinkled, and bent
Time overtakes like a flood,
pitch black
Death’s silent emptiness,
“tick tock, tick tock”
Does eternity greet with elation,
or dubious devastation
My soul,
like a bird caged in the sky
Whispers of passing time,
a mocking cry
…waiting for me
~
~Piffin: haiku (qif)
Independence Day
With dubious elation
Our forefathers weep
~
~BarTalk: the exit
~
Impromptu: carouse, ostrich
~Piffin: “Stallion”
Pink cotton, candied apples,
Honeyed peanuts, sans shell
A meal fit for a sugar rush king
‘Round we go
Carousing on this carousel
Laughing, stretching for the brass ring
Cricket rides a unicorn
PJ rides a polar bear
Father and mother in swan sled most grand
I’ve wrangled an ostrich
Wind in my hair
Reins in my hand, head out of the sand
A Sunday adventure
In Asbury Park
A champion on my giant bird
Surrounded by loved ones
And when it gets dark
I’ll ride back home without a word
Lost in dreams of my stallion absurd
~
~Greymane: untitled (qif)
There was a drunken ostrich who did nothing but carouse
He danced for the ladies hoping interests would arouse
He told them twisted tales he constructed on the spot
Sometimes he would get lucky, more than often he would not
But come that fateful Friday when she waddled in the bar
He played for her affections with reactions bizarre
She slapped a collar on his neck and whispered a command
he stuck his tail in the air, his head beneath the sand
She climbed upon his feathered back and slapped him on his butt
He took her where she told him to and kept his fat beak shut
He carried her from that day forth but always wore a smile
They say an ostrich never flies but runs a crooked mile
~
~Jessalee: untitled (based on a true story – qif)
vacation carousing
on the costa del sol
scenes arousing
booze takes it toll
fade bright lights
enter boardwalk, sand
wide starry nights
bonfires and…
moving closer, locals now
‘ayeee venaca!’
we run, and how!
smiling drunkenly… whaaa?
a creature roasting
on a bonfire spit
large body toasting
but that’s not it
on our first meetings
now we all spy
as we give greetings
the wings and the eye
opposite ends, how absurd
of the long spit rod
body and head of a bird
how terribly odd
and though these spaniards
were still more smoking
we fought our innards
and hoped they were joking
long neck on the pole
cooking hotly
with the whole
ostrich body
pointing with new fear
‘que bueno’ i say
and grab a cold beer
and let come what may.
~
~BarTalk: not-a-haiku
~ . ~
Wordgrove Post & Review 
