Archive for September, 2015

Quoted in the Grove:
What really flatters a man is that you think him worth flattering.
~George Bernard Shaw

Flatter me, and I may not believe you. Criticize me, and I may not like you. Ignore me, and I may not forgive you. Encourage me, and I will not forget you.
~William Arthur Ward

He makes people pleased with him by making them first pleased with themselves.
~Lord Chesterfield


Posted from the Grove:
The story isn’t moving. The plot line is at a standstill and story elements lie stagnant in a lifeless pool of words. A once vital stream is now a swamp. High on the fetid index, low on excitement, this is where nature suggests a solution. Introduce danger.

Below is the link to a short nature piece on the reintroduction of wolves to Yellowstone Park and the compounding influences it brought to the ecosystem. They did cull out the old and the weak as expected, but it was the danger they brought to the system that turned out to be the missing piece to the puzzle. It brought the place alive. Adding danger works in a story too.



Prewritten for Thurs (09/10) @6pm PT/9 ET: watermelon flunky


@Writers Platform:

Prewritten: intrusion, canvas

~MissMerry: untitled

I sit at the waters edge, a cool breeze ruffles my hair as it blows gently over the calm waters. The sound of the waves seems muffled as children scream gleefully – playing further down the beach.
My easel set up and paints in hand, my plan is to portray on canvas the lovely day before me.
However, the acrylic scene becomes something “other” as the colors blend on my brush.
What does it want of me? I hear it grumble, but I can’t quite make out the message.
The waves caress the sand near my feet – and build into a perilous storm on canvas.
I hear the “skree skree” of the gulls above, but a painted bird would be an intrusion in the sky of wind whipped clouds and spray. No bird could withstand this wind I see, but cannot feel.
The motionless depths are dark. Angry, white-capped waves smash onto a silent shore. The energy of the storm will be held in-situ for all time, never to abate.
I rinse my brush and look at what my painting has become. It was not what I planned, but I am relieved that this has escaped onto my canvas.
I have been here before, as I am here now… releasing the storm within.
Leaning back into my chair, I wiggle my toes deeper into the warm sand. The beach indeed is beautiful today.




From where I sat and waited
to the places left behind
I found what I created
was too cold to be confined
A man of many demons
Self-destructively inclined
The confusion I dictated
was a passage from my mind

I paint my canvass bleeding
with a wounded summer breeze
My silent spirit feeding
on the fruit of my disease
I called for an intrusion
from the comfort of my knees
I heard the shadows pleading
with their silent spineless ease

I followed clouds confusion brings
Like whispers down the hall
My dreams aloft on broken wings
So angry they can’t fall
I stumbled unforgiving
where no man would dare to crawl
My sails full of quiet things
too distant to recall



Purchased Perfection

Love’s conclusion
Finds us rolling on the rug
With glistening protrusion
Vas is das, mein jitterbug?
A ten-count on the canvas
Straps with buckles
Long and black
We’ve batteries in the fridge
I’ll be right back


~BarTalk: Election ’16


Impromptu: the lust of the eye



Mesmerized hypnotically entranced by my own ass
I’ve never met a fool who wears his cool with louder class
Dancing mirrored nude
In oiled splendor I parade
I can’t keep myself from touching all the bulges wrapped in suede
A fishnet dance in satin lights, I think I broke parole
The shiny steam envaporates the chasms of my soul
Of all the dudes on all the thrones that wrap about this Earth
If all the money piled close to who the time was worth
I’d buy a pile of distant dreams, just beyond the sky
and shower me me with shiny things that sparkle when I cry




We found it in a garbage can
A dented, metal garbage can
Down where the stickball landed
In the alley by the fence
Torn cover; painted nudity
Old paperback, sans prudity
A blurb with words like “sex” and “pain”
Price faded: Thirty Cents
A picture of a girl in chains
One dirty sock, the sad remains
Of clothes torn from her body
Blue eyes tearful, absent hope
Beside her stood a pair of men
Who scare me now; they scared me then
All leather mask and muscle
Fists of fire, knife and rope
We had no brains for reading
Though our minds were sick with needing
To unwrap the nightmare secret
Held in dirty summer hands
Was then we saw the pictures
And our frail Catholic school strictures
Blew like dust from eyes once innocent
Held fast in dark command
Crudely drawn in pen and ink
Blonde head held deep in kitchen sink
Tools seen on father’s workbench
Set to flesh of breast and thigh
The female form in disarray
A power saw; a raw display
I did not speak, nor look away
I did not even try
We left it in the garbage can
The dented, metal garbage can
Along with, now I understand,
A part of me that died



The Lust of the Eye

I know it is late,
-have to work early tomorrow.
I should get offline now
or I know I’ll feel sorrow…

Cute kitten on facebook!
I can’t help but click…
Some of this nonsense
certainly is slick.

“The lust of the eye” trumps
good sense every time.
I’ll stay up way too late
but tomorrow I’ll whine!

Damnit, it’s almost eleven…


~BarTalk: last call

~ . ~

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