Archive for April, 2015

Quoted in the Grove:

While fame impedes and constricts, obscurity wraps about a man like a mist; obscurity is dark, ample, and free; obscurity lets the mind take its way unimpeded. Over the obscure man is poured the merciful suffusion of darkness. None knows where he goes or comes. He may seek the truth and speak it; he alone is free; he alone is truthful, he alone is at peace.
~Virginia Woolf

The artist, like the God of the Creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.
~James Joyce

The artist must be in his work as God is in creation, invisible and all-powerful; one must sense him everywhere but never see him.
~Gustave Flaubert


Posted from the Grove:
Below is a link to a guide sheet for all the documents available in There.com. Authors and merchants in There will find this page useful.


Prewritten for 04.30 @6pm PT/9pm ET:  Winter Lake


 A short cartoon, a brief history of Man’s rise; a grim vision made palatable by animated humor. “Man”


@Writers Platform:
Glass Table: Three by BriarRoseEve

The Cook

He handed keys to the boss today, said they’re all yours now. Folded back against the chair easy with a smile that crept slow like chocolate melts down warm cake. Boss laughed like so many falling cards. Handed them back, didn’t know what to do with all those nameless twists.

Don’t know your name, something old fashioned and fine like oak and mead with a sugar melt, took and fixed those keys steady, soundless. Held one, rolled it like a loved coin between fingers. Master key. Second long wait, slides two more keys cross the ring. Men’s room. Ladies’. They gathered in your palm like fists pushed slow through raised dough.

Snack room, turn, careful. Glance up, bit of a grin in dark violin eyes. Remembers a door, key fits, clicks snap. Supply room. One like the others, not quite. Maintenance. A dozen more, no labels, silver gold bronze small dents scratch sharp edge spots mark. One you never found out which lock it freed, a mystery. Five more hummed by like notes discordant but sweet, just a hint of dismay. The end, the inevitable, final end.

He handed keys to the boss today. Slipped out with that slow chocolate smile.

Should have been a blues singer.


I Wonder

If I could see your eyes right now, would they seem like the sea?
Deep and caught in sunlight bright, a turquoise mystery?
Or maybe touched with gold and green, like forest nymphs in shade,
Or even dark as the vast night, immersive and star-scathed.

I wonder how your laughter sounds, how does your face light up,
And when you smile would my heart soar like cotton swept in gusts?
Your voice I dream would swing through me like melodies that lull,
The quaking heart and stormy days, the thunder that shakes all.
Your lips might sear my wondering soul, yet tenderly and kind,
Your hands might light a spark that burns this innocence that binds.

And through the days I wonder how our bond would face the time,
What dreams we’ll meet, what lands we’ll see, what obstacles we’ll climb.
And will we last until winter has gathered out so cold?
And will we warm each other’s soul until we’ve withered old?
I’m sure your smile will be the same, your laugh will stay so young,
As once in days we fell in love, through seasons come and gone.

I wonder now so many things, but know this with my heart,
Someday I’ll meet you, my sweet love, and no longer be apart.


The Garden

I cannot say just when it grew, this garden full of vibrant hues
But I will tell you why it breathed, what gave the plants their blooming wreaths.

I think the laughs, the joyful days, brought sunlight where once shadows stayed
And gave the fledgling doves their warmth, and mended wounds were once was hurt.
The steady trees, they listened well, even if wind brought storms to yell,
And wavered not, but gave a home, and strength to those who were alone.
And the lush ferns, like emerald gems, outstretched their leaves like open hands,
And gathered rain without a frown, not letting go nor letting down.
The innocence and honesty, was born from life that came to be:
The fawn that learned to skip and run, the jay that sang its first sweet song.
And wonder rose as each new day, brought stories new to share and say,
As bumbling bee and whispering wind, went through with tales that had no end.

It seemed as if it’d live always, forever going through its days,
Until the laughs stopped passing by, and leaves fell down with withered sigh.
The storms soon came without an end, and molded roots, and drowned its friends.
And weeds ensnared the life that once, had flourished with its endless trust.
The songs had ceased, the doves had gone, and shadows chilled and hid the sun.
And the large trees that once had stood, had fallen into rotten wood.

Sometimes I pass where it had been, the garden who had been my friend,
And missed its songs and shining tales, and all the ways it had prevailed.
But if I listen very close, beyond the rain of its dark ghost,
I hear a beat, a silent creep, of seeds still breathing, growing deep.
And wonder if some day may come, it’ll shine again its radiant sun.


Prewritten: victory, confession

Greymane: His Waste

Madman dancing darker dreams somewhere in his head
The silence of his sorrow hanging limply by a thread
Confessions wrapped in guilty laughter worn about his waist
He hides behind the voices his insanity embraced
Weak from hunger, cold and tired, naked and afraid
He searches through his frightened mind for wounds that he might trade
Imprisoned by the shadows he sheltered in his soul
He chains himself to nightmares built with memories he stole
Tormented by his wretched fear and torn by his defeat
He weaves appalling passions in his ribbons of deceit
He screams an invitation to the agony he’s found
and runs from what he’s left behind him shattered on the ground
His madness whispers victory he’s painted with his sin
He’s left a piece of who he was wherever he has been


~whitefeather: “Confession / Victory”

Starting tomorrow
professing my confession
starting tomorrow
giving up my profession
staring tomorrow
embracing my transgression
starting tomorrow
victory from obsession



It is always a spiritual victory for me when I am able and available to give the multiverse my soul’s confession. Freedom from life and death, enlightenment is present, and it is the end of suffering… love you…


~BarTalk:  just.us


Impromptu: vociferous, bellowing

~Greenie: Spent

Silently she screams
crying deep inside
sobs bellowing deep
so loud they cannot hide

Vociferous and cruel
wrenching forth with heat
leaving her so empty
spent and feeling beat


~Greymane: Abrasive

There was an old lady so blatant and proud
They tossed her in prison for crying out loud
Her boisterous nature, abrasive at best,
put the patience of everyone else to the test
She snored like thunder and yelled when awake
for even her whispers made the ground shake
She bellowed her pleasure while screaming in vain
the vociferous thoughts that her head can’t contain
Confusion controlling the clamorous crone
She rages when happy and riots alone
Lost in the chaos of anger and hate
she lives in a world that her passions create


~BarTalk: not-a-haiku times two

~ . ~

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Quoted in the Grove:
The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.
~Vladamir Nabokov

The shortness of life, I keep saying, makes everything seem pointless when I think about the longness of death. When I look ahead, all I can see is my final demise. And they say not for seventy or eighty years. And I say, Maybe you, but me, I’m already gone.
~Elizabeth Wurtzel

Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We shall get there some day.
~AA Milne

Lord, let me live until I die.
~Will Rogers


Posted from the Grove:
There has been a setback for Piffin. Give her a place in your thoughts; send her your strength.

This week’s Post & Review is devoted to the writings of Wordgrove authors …


…and their influences

Time, by The Burned
From whitefeather’s paz: Passages of Time (Read her poem, same title, bottom of this page)



Prewritten for Thurs (04/23) @6pm PT/9 ET is: confession, victory


@Writers Platform

Glass Table: Four by Greenie

A Little Sneak

throw my arms around you
and kiss kiss kiss you so
sneaking a tickle to your ribs
and then a Belly Blow!


A Storm Brews

I watched the play of the lighting thru the darkened skies
Thought of animal passions and piercing eyes
of a cool wit and charming grin
passions meeting, making my head spin


A Petal At A Time

I open myself
A petal at a time
Showing the world, and you
This heart of mine.
One petal shows the pain
Another , how I like sunshine
And walks in the rain.
Slowly I bloom
Open a little more.
You glimpse me here
On a distant shore.
A few more petals open
More of me shining thru.
My wit, my humor,
My skies so blue.
No longer a bud
Not quite full bloom
My petals move
Taking up more room.
I am stronger now
Tho delicate and rare.
You handle me
With such gentle care.
My leaves unfold
More petals grow.
Show you the me
I need you to know.
More open now
I show my face
I look around
In this big space.
My heart revealed
My petals spread
I see you there,
I feel such dread.
My petals contract
And cover me new
I try to be open,
To think of you.
Petals move and
wave about
So hurt I am
So full of doubt.
My tender heart
Open and true
Questions me
Not you.
I sway in the breeze
Bending to and fro
Did I show more
Than you wanted to know.
I open myself
A petal at a time
Showing the world,
And you.



My passion for you burns within,
setting my soul afire
Aching there to share with you,
the depths and heights of desire…

My lips to suckle deep within,
blazing trails of heat
Yearning there to share with you,
your passions full to meet…

My hands to smooth atingle your skin,
quivering leaps to touch
Unbound there in sensuous needs,
to spill… ever so… much…


Prewritten: audition, tarragon

~Greymane: Appeased

The queen had grown weary of mutton and mead,
insisting the cooks were to blame
She fired them all as she loudly decreed
they be banished to live in their shame
Replacement auditions were held kingdom wide,
the queen tasting all they prepared
Her judgment so harsh on the ones who had tried
That soon there was no one who dared
The days turned to weeks and the weeks turned to years
and still no replacement was found
The queen passed away in a pool of her tears
and soon a new monarch was crowned
The queen had a daughter much plumper than she,
her palate more easily pleased
With tarragon biscuits and half moldy brie
their ruler was finally appeased
It pays to be picky for what it is worth
but of gluttony try to beware
The new queen was happy but grew in her girth
while eating the nastiest fare
She grew so immense that the people would joke
soon she would outgrow her throne
A sad story told as the villagers spoke
how she died in the kitchen alone


~BarTalk: the godcry


Impromptu: note on a bench

~Greymane: The Bench

It was hard for him to believe another year had come and gone so soon, yet here he sat again. The time always seemed to pass by so quickly considering how all the lonely moments dragged by so slowly. It was always the same here, the cool river breeze blowing softly on his face, the same gentle song echoing through the trees from the same birds that scurried about their day nearby. This had been their spot, this bench beside the river. For fifty-three years they had returned every spring to the spot they had first met. Now it had only been him for the last six.

It hurt somewhere deep inside, but it warmed his heart even more as he tried to remember some of the good times that time had swept away. The pictures he held in his memories were growing ever fainter as the years danced by.

He watched the couples walking the river path hand in hand, wishing he had paid more attention to the moments they had spent together while he had had the chance. He smiled as a single tear ran down his cheek and dripped down on the bench filling the furrow of a heart surrounding familiar initials that was carved long ago by a young man who had been quite smitten at the time.

“Another year,” he whispered to himself shaking his head softly. He realized he had been sitting there a very long time as the park lights were on. It was time to go home. Twilight eased into darkness and he drew his scarf tight against the chill evening breeze.


~whitefeather: Park Bench
There is something beautiful about the early mornings in the park. The quiet stillness of life waking up. It is here on this bench, I would sit and watch you play. Feeding the ducks small pieces of bread, chasing them and laughing.

If I sit here quietly, I can still hear your giggles… and see the sun shining down on your beautiful cherub face. A golden halo glowing around your hair. Hard to believe you would have been 25 today.

In my darkest times, this place is my sanctuary. With memories of you…


~BarTalk: found at twilight


Writers in Residence:

~BriarRoseEve @WG Bench
Six books embrace the bench in WG’s NE corner. Six by Briar, and we’ll let the one in front will serve as their introduction. Three this week leaves three for next week, dinner and dessert.

Hijacked Bench

skyline canvass rickety wood
staring far into the abyss of
terra bytes and painted pixels
I peppered you today
with conversation
so many thoughts
scattered wild abandoned
now caught
beside you
around you.

Care for a read?
Hijacked bench
invites you.


Backstage Romp

Boy you write stars and tarts
windows brimming with
plush toys smirking button eyes glistening
mouth moves smart as
well played cards

But hey I caught one sec
one breath you
turned paused looked
there a pond some black pool swam those
currents eels spawned slick fouled
feasted on
lovely things
you flicked the taste from sick curled mouth quick
no further sound spent
except to the tune of humor
before lights returned your sweet act resumed


I enjoyed the backstage romp.
The love is tender with
no smoke and mirrors just
you. oh

sweet smoky kiss lonely songs play
I think I saw a sad boy laugh



Short Story


i think i slipped
i fell like flowers tossed
marbles spilled
children’s laughs left
in faint memories
but then I found
a gentle hand
and flowers turned
to lush gardens
and marbles changed
to childhood games
and the faint laughs
to something real:

a thousand smiles
of yours


may i laugh
like cannons shot
a hundred firecrackers
set off in blaze
and spice
a steady roll of
rivers thrown
over cool stone
a dozen
bubbles blown
and burst
at once

can i stumble
break free
find somehow
a silly tune
and sing in spite
of flaming notes
dancing on
these shying cheeks

should i not turn
when music plays
a song i love

i found a candy
how sweet

and forgot

where i will not
find again


this place
i knew before
lay bare, exposed
the light struck dead
where shadows played

i saw
the smoke that filled
a cold clear night
gasped away

i heard whispers
a laugh, a grin
some dance, a tale
spain thirty years ago

short story:
the band was gone.


~whitefeather: @Passages of Time

Passages of Time

In my lost memories,
pictures decay

White walls slowly,
fade into grey

A passage through life,
minutes drift

Time’s passing heartbreak,
youth’s 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

~ . ~

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Quoted in the Grove:
It hurts to let go. Sometimes it seems the harder you try to hold on to something or someone the more it wants to get away. You feel like some kind of criminal for having felt, for having wanted. For having wanted to be wanted. It confuses you, because you think that your feelings were wrong and it makes you feel so small because it’s so hard to keep it inside when you let it out and it doesn’t come back.
~Henry Rollins

It is pointless to get your knickers in a twist if a certain person fails to react the way you want. It is best to avoid people and situations that you know drive you crazy. Remember to vote with your feet. If a situation is untenable or unchangeable, walk away.
~Stuart Wilde

Your life is the fruit of your own doing. You have no one to blame but yourself.
~Joseph Campbell


Posted from the Grove:
Piffin continues to recover from her health scare, while Greenie and whitefeather suffered thru bouts of internetus interruptus. Thurs Word Games was a bit flat without them and the evening ended early. If tame by usual standards, it was not boring. Widely traveled and well-read, Odin filled in generously from his history, and this old editor was pleased to feel young and happily in school again. Then came the evening’s grand surprise. High on the horizon, a name appeared onscreen with the shock of seeing a ghost. BriarRoseEve has returned to There and Wordgrove! The commitment to good writing in WG just kicked up a notch. Welcome back, Briar!


A recent visit to the local video store turned up an interesting debate in the form of a movie, titled: Words and Pictures. The question that gets batted around: which of the two arts listed in the title is most useful in exploring the human condition? The setting is the English and Art departments of a prep school; the protagonists are the advanced placement teachers. This editor rooted for the drunk poet, but Juliet Binoche as the artist ice-queen presents a compelling case for an art made up of more than 26 letters. The story holds up well, and the characters’ pain is real. The phones are the right size for the movie to be current, but the story and the debates are timeless.


Aluria sponsor’s a weekly Poetry Jam, and has asked that the following notice be entered in this week’s Post & Review. Anyone with an interest or questions concerning her Poetry Jam, please contact at: [email protected], or thru her club, Dead Poet’s Society.


All poems should be original work; Tmail them to Aluria at the above address. Raps are allowed. Subject will be announced before each Jam. A Buggy will be awarded for the best entry by Poetry Jam’s sponsor. Poets may win more than once. Those winning a Jam qualify to enter the Grand Slam Poetry Jam (to be announced). Poets may enter as many poems as Jams they have won. (Example: win one Jam, enter one poem, win two jams, enter two.) A bundle of prizes will be awarded the Grand Slam winner. Poets will be asked to read their work or Rap at each event. Poems can be read by another if preferred. Good Luck!


A note to Thereins on the prowl for something new: Stop by Writers Platform and check out the evocative beauty of whitefeather’s current photo on display. It is worth a visit. Anyone interested in viewing more of her work can find her @Flickr.com under, WhiteFeather MacBeth. Also note that WG’s Platform Gallery is available to other graphic artists in search of a venue.

The introduction of platform pics led, by natural extension, to thoughts of what else might be done brighten up Wordgrove’s corner of There. The greenway north of WG offered itself immediately as a solution. For writers who dance and the dancers who read, there is now the Black Box Bar, a dance hall with lots of room to chat and a corner for canoodling. Look for it on the greenway on WG’s east end behind Greymane’s Greyed Expectations and The Greyed Escape. Bossa nova is the rhythm on the juke box; the lights are low and the drinks are cheap … it’s BYOB.


Prewritten for Thurs (04/17) @6pm PT/9 ET is: audition, tarragon


@Writers Platform:

Prewritten: a pic

~Greymane: The Journey

They set out to battle unbeatable foes
down pathways that seemed without end
Before it was over their pain would expose
the love that they dared to defend
They wandered past ruins and great fallen trees
through shadows that laughed at their doom
With mystery broken by reverent disease
they hid in it’s festering tomb
The darkness so distant it swallowed them whole
and left them alone in defeat
Insanity gently caressing their souls
by laying their foes at their feet
The centuries wrapping ’round pillars of stone
with tendrils of time so obscene
that never again would they venture alone
to worlds that lie in between
They begged to remember the places they roamed
to dance with their love one more day
When journeys are over and hearth calls you home
the night puts her silence away


~BarTalk: Remnants

The story begins: He left
Unforced agreed no exodus
Moss encrusted memories
Stone cold luv’s statuary
of the She he left behind

Barbed barriers bark out
Gnarled and twisted words
Bared limbs bar the way
Shadows follow creeping
On the road to his escape


Impromptu: renegade

~Greymane: Renegade

He was a renegade rider alone on the plain
Running from fears that he kept on a chain
He followed his darkness into desire
with the devil pursuing spitting out fire
The years were the sentence he could not outrun
The laughing repentance he earned with his gun


~BarTalk: not-a-haiku

seared land prayers for rain
clouds form, refuse their service
renegades on high


Writers in Residence:

~GaryBob @Nutter Fountain site: Wherewithall

I’m on the sunset train riding into a storm
The air is dark, but my past is warm
We fly down the tracks, headlong toward fate
The lamplights are out even though it’s getting late

Where do I go from here? Where do I go from here?

I don’t know what’s next or how I’m getting there
I bought a package trip with an all-inclusive fare
I can vary the course, but the end is set
Though there’s still switchpoints and layovers and I ain’t done yet

Where do I go from here? Where do I go from here?

Pitch black now and I want to get out
But the howling wind outside silences my shout
I’m stuck between potential pain and uncertain bliss
Do I choose the dark, yet known or the darker abyss?

Where do I go from here? Where do I go from here?

The screaming inside, the mounting tension
The horde of regrets too vast to mention
It’s all too much. I can’t wait anymore
I stumble up and pry open the door

Where do I go from here? Where do I go from here?

On the cliff’s edge between inside and lost
This doorway a tollbooth announcing the cost
The ground races back under the barren sky
Nothing left now but to do or to die.

~ . ~

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