Wordgrove Post & Review

Quoted in the Grove:
Impossible is just a big word thrown around by small men who find it easier to live in the world they’ve been given than to explore the power they have to change it. Impossible is not a fact. It’s an opinion. Impossible is not a declaration. It’s a dare. Impossible is potential. Impossible is temporary. Impossible is nothing.
~Muhammed Ali

Listen to the mustn’ts, child. Listen to the don’ts. Listen to the shouldn’ts, the impossibles, the won’ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me… Anything can happen, child. Anything can be.
~ Shel Silverstein

Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dream.
~Paul Coelho

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Posted from the Grove:

Prewritten for Thurs (05/14) @6pm PT/9 ET is: sidearm, fellatio

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@Writers Platform:

Prewritten: separate, inseminate

~Piffin: “11:12”

Disseminate the ancient law
Inseminate young mind
Eye for eye
Tooth for tooth
Faith furious and blind
Were schooling infidel
Netting those not of our kind
Separate the surf from turf
Revile the lemon rind
Invigorate
Intimidate discriminate invalidate
Armed guard tower
Barbed wire
Locked gate
We know what God would want
Because we know what God hates
We’re loading up the railway cars
Based on what you ate
Satan prawn
Imp cocktail
Breaded crustacean
Anathema
Apostate
Abomination

~

~BarTalk: modern romance #2

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Impromptu: cadaver dogs

~Piffin: “Lovelock”

It was love, first sight my dear
A moist and heated spark
You, princess to my fairytale
Me, just another mark
A romance dressed in summer sweat
Mimosas, ceiling fans
I pledged forever with my kiss
But you had other plans
A dreamed us through eternity
Angelic, lovestruck fools
Your feathers, though, were black as crow
Your eyes fixed on my jewels
But you’ll not fly so far, my love
When cuffed, ankle and wrist
Cadaver dogs uncovering me
Your hair clenched in my fist

~

~Greymane: Ill Intent

The winds blew foul that mournful night when madness called his name
The howling hounds of hell were writing lullabies in flame
They filled his soul with terrors dark that reason can’t explain
And beckoned him to venture home and hide inside his pain

From somewhere in the shadows where the wicked wisdom lies
Cadaver dogs with ill intent all laughed at his demise
The misted winds that wail with the wisdom of defeat
Will dry each tear with sultry songs, malodorous and sweet

~

~whitefeather: “Cadaver dogs”

The whispers in town
his third wife had not been found
no one suspected
her mutilated body
was nourishing garden green

A new blushing bride
his fourth wife pushing flowers,
pungent smell of rot
cadaver dogs solved cold case
his unfaithful lovers graves

~

~BarTalk: The Illness

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 Writers in Residence

~whitefeather @Love’s Silence:
Three new pics from whitefeather’s SL camera: Callipygian echo, double-arch windows; a veiled RR line enters a covered bridge; feet begin the journey on a curved line headed home

My Skin (Natalie Merchant, with lyrics)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LBZKHZq2xhE

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Quoted in the Grove:
Men are like the earth and we are the moon; we turn always one side to them, and they think there is no other, because they don’t see it / but there is.
~Olive Shreiner

I love to see a young girl go out and grab the world by the lapels. Life’s a bitch. You’ve got to go out and kick ass.
~Maya Angelou

I’m tough. I’m ambitious. I know exactly what I want. If that makes me a bitch, I’m OK with that.
~Madonna

EndQuote:
Know what? Bitches get stuff done.
~Tina Fey

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Posted from the Grove:

Piffin is recovering nicely and has returned to share with us. Especially see, Birch and Briar, below. Otherwise, it’s been a quiet week in the grove. Enjoy the respite.

~

Prewritten for Thurs (05/10) @6pm PT/9 ET is: separate, insemination

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@Writers Platform:
Prewritten: Prewritten:  victory, confession

~Greymane: Silent Caress

When winter’s misty breath caresses silent on the lake
The snow falls soft like moments passed that make your spirit ache
Escaping distant echoes that the stillness can’t control
where winter’s icy touch can take possession of your soul
The water whispers promises of places not so grey
and journeys planned to warmer shores where shadows fade away

~

~whitefeather: “Winter Lake”

A cool winter breeze
sky and lake a pale blue
ushers in the freeze
…….
My memories drift
wavelets on crystal clear lake
warmth from your embrace

~

~Piffin: “Beyond Birch and Briar”

West of the village, beyond birch and briar, where fen gave way to open water, Grandfather taught me to catch tadpoles.

Barefoot I was, and young, clambering about in the old wooden rowboat, hungry for adventure, the fullness of a life.

Grandfather taught me patience. He taught me inner peace. He taught me to catch them without net, barehanded and gentle. One with the water; one with the prey.

Sometimes, Grandfather would leave the village to do his work in the cities of men. Sometimes for weeks; sometimes months. In his absence, I would practice. Fish and frog. Bird and rabbit. Patient. Gentle.

Upon his return, he would marvel proudly at how much I had grown. I would wonder, in secret, at how much he had aged. A line to his face, a bend to his back. Thick, black hair going to white, going to wisp.

He would tell me stories of the people he had met, the things he had seen. I would show him what I had learned. On wood of boat or moss of bog, I would call the prey to my hand.

Always, Grandfather would smile.

Always, Grandfather would leave again, to do his work in the cities of men.

One night, on a full moon of my seventeenth year, Grandfather returned, waking me from slumber with an aged hand on my arm, a whisper in my ear.

We took the rowboat out on the water. I helped him in. I rowed.

He talked of his work, of how he had grown too old to do it any longer. He talked of how it was my time, my turn to take up the family craft.

Removing the tool of his trade from a coat pocket with veined hand, he pressed it into mine.

Grandfather sat with his back to me, face to the sky. He talked, distantly, of Cassiopeia and Venus and the Dog Star.

I moved without rocking the boat. Nary a creak. Nary a ripple.

He talked of the Seven Sisters as I placed the garrote around his neck.

Gently.

West of the village, beyond birch and briar, where fen gave way to open water, Grandfather taught me to kill.

~

~BarTalk: seasons

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Impromptu: commemorate, gesture

~Piffin: “A Capella Mute”

Woad-blue spirals, naked flesh
Mustard seed on a rock
Teen drunk trashing front lawn crèche
Mustard seed on a rock
Poring over catechism
Mustard seed on a rock
Serves to widen eyes and schism
Mustard seed on a rock
On my knees in concupiscence
Mustard seed on a rock
The gesture a coincidence
Mustard seed on a rock
My trembling tongue, your sacred flower
Mustard seed on a rock
Commemorate my finest hour
Mustard seed on a rock
Mustard seed on a rock

~

~Greymane: Windows

I sang an empty silence to commemorate the night
I followed dark illusions that refused to see the light
I hungered for the passions I had buried in my sin
I danced within the shadows of the choices I had been
I marveled at the gesture that my weakness tried to make
and I laughed to keep from crying with my sanity at stake
The windows I had shattered and the doors I nailed shut
were just wounds that never healed ’til I made the final cut

~

~Zune: Some thoughts

Summer seems to be here and I am supposedly off the hook from my studies. Commemorations, hopefully, for well done achievements throughout this semester should be prepared, but knowing how pestiferous and bashful my perception of gatherings are, these celebrations may have to wait. I understand that the gesture of those who may have an idea of what’s going on with my attitude intent to alleviate me of my self producing miseries, but I’ve become that way because of the many days observing today’s pretense of being.

~

~Whitefeather:  untitled

A small gathering
to commemorate his life
Contempt in silence
an Anonymous gesture
plot and headstone paid in full.

~

~BarTalk: hand talk

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