Archive for July, 2018

Quoted in the Grove:
A vacation is what you take when you can no longer take what you’ve been taking.
~Earl Wilson

The ant is knowing and wise, but he doesn’t know enough to take a vacation.
~Clarence Day

There’s no vacation from being a parent.
~Chevy Chase


Posted from the Grove

Summer Vacation

Summer is when real life offers more compelling fun than online fun. This editor is in the middle of finishing a years-long writing project, and the time needed for this, plus normal work hours, means a summer break for readers of the Post & Review. A recent blessed event has made motherhood a factor in attendance, and the current Platform vibe suggests that the time is right for that vacation as well.

This editor will continue posting a weekly Prewritten prompt because he continues to find the workout a useful and healthy exercise, and he very much enjoys the drill. If others find the exercise worthwhile and drops continue on the Prewritten bench, the occasional newsletter will go out to include them. The weekly Word Games schedule is too deeply ingrained, so this editor will continue to show briefly at the usual Platform time to check for new drops. The door to news sharing and chat remains open.




Favorites From the Platform: Songs that made the Platform cry

~Don McClean:  Vincent   (3:57)

~Andy Williams:  Lonely Street   (3:06)

~Gilbert O’Sullivan: Alone Again   (3:44)





Prewritten for Thurs 07/19 (6:00pm PT/9 ET):  raven, build



@Writers Platform

Glass Table:
~thoreau: Very short story:
Last Day of Staycation

One final “home project” for this last day of our staycation week: weeding the driveway. It’s pretty hard-packed pebbles, good for absorbing the winter rains, but over the years plenty of tiny weeds, clumps of grass, etc have taken root. It’s warm but not hot today, so I put on a sunhat, start the poetry podcast playlist on my iPod, grab a bucket, sit down on a short stool, and start picking.

Every few minutes, having pulled every weed in reach, I shift the stool a couple of feet and continue. It becomes a rhythm, practically a meditation.

Some oregano from the herb garden in the corner by the sidewalk has started to put out new sprouts into the driveway. I decide to leave them alone, and let it continue to spread where it can — I’ve noticed a pleasant Mediterranean crushed-herb scent lately whenever I get out of the car, which seems like a good thing. The white and purple clovers as well, I leave alone. The bees like them, and I use the green strips as a target in the rear view mirror when backing into the driveway.


poem: summer moon

summer moon rises late:
the waning crescent carries
tomorrow’s morning

It used to be, before clocks, that people could tell time at night by being aware of the phase of the moon. The lighted part of the moon always points toward the sun — as an easy example, a full moon rises opposite to the setting sun, is at its highest point at midnight, and sets at sunrise.

One night, after a hot day, we had stayed up quite late waiting for it to be cool enough to go for a dog walk. As we walked, I noticed the crescent moon rising in the east, a thick curve with upturned points, and I realized that meant the rising sun was trailing not so many hours behind it. And the light I was seeing in that crescent was actually tomorrow morning’s sunlight, already giving a hint of the new day’s coming heat.


Prewritten:  stairway, arctic

Arctic Stairway

Polar opposites, he and she
White bears bearing
But not in the Bering
See, the arctic is barren
Too cold for baring
Barring a stairway
To the southern seas


Winter Blues

Bleak grey arctic skies
Cold tundra of her eyes
See, there, the sunrise
Months to Venus from Mars
Timed stairway, the stars


Dinner Guest

Two sets, different sizes
Hunter and the hunted
Diamond dusted prints
Stairways cross
Blood white arctic fox


Spectacles   (5-7-5 x 6)

arctic circle rave
aurora borealis
rainbow stairway staged
sharp blade, arctic glance
eyes for cutting steel, melting
one dared her stairway
horizontal stair
Way of The Gods light the night
arctic moon gone dark
Clock’s arc, tick of time
Medussa’s stare-way of death
Mirror’d. <end message>
stairway as doorway
arctic ice to tropic sun
journey, still the thing
stairway to doomsday
garden to cinder and hell
arctic’s new haven

~ . ~

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Quoted in the Grove:
Every child comes with the message that God is not yet discouraged of man.
~Rabindranath Tagore

Children have never been very good at listening to their elders, but they have never failed to imitate them.
~James Baldwin

We cannot always build the future for our youth, but we can build our youth for the future.
~Franklin D. Roosevelt

We don’t inherit the earth from our ancestors, we borrow it from our children.
~David Brower


Posted from the Grove

Favorites From The Platform: Hugh Laurie

His Comedy: A Bit of Fry and Laurie   (29:17)

His Music:
~Hugh Laurie: Stagger Lee   (3:43)

~Hugh Laurie: Louisiana Blues  (3:24)

~Hugh Laurie: Unchain My Heart   (4:17)








Prewritten for Thurs 07/12 (6:00pm PT/9 ET):   arctic, stairway



@Writers Platform

Glass Table:

~Greymane: News about a Piffin!

Hello everyone, I may not make it in tonight..still up in the air but I have great and very awesome news about our Piffin! BABIES!!!!! healthy and strong and gorgeous. The last news that I received from PJ said that the babies were at home on Tuesday and that Elissa would be in the hospital a few more days. She is very tired and doing well. HAPPY HAPPY JOY JOY !!!!!  ‘patch


If I don’t make it in, all have a great night or week and I hope to see you for Poker tomorrow.


~Greenie: Fingernail Moon

Fingernail moon
scrapes across the sky
shimmering through the leaves
as a breeze makes them sigh
Haiku Moon

The moon as a bowl
Filling the dark sky with stars
Beauty in the night




Prewritten: torpedo, frolic

~Greymane: Something More

Torpedo off the broken bow
Collusion on the shore
We’ll frolic straight to Hell somehow but pray for something more
We’ll wish we had a second chance but wishes follow need
We’ll gather for the coming storm to watch each other bleed
We’ll watch the fury fill the sky from where we dare to hide
We’ll huddle close and unify and build our strength inside
We’ll wait until the mourning comes and stand beside the light
pleased with what the world becomes beyond the endless night


~BarTalk: Initiation

Words, targeted missiles
Anger’s hundred torpedoes
Began as folly, in jest
In a contest to be best
Pledges frolic, one dead


animal friends

porpoises frolic
hyenas laugh
mosquitoes torpedo
but everyone’s honey is
the bee with a buzz on


Incidents (5-7-5 x 7)

“Frolics” on Broadway
torpedoed by the papers
scored with lots of skin
bad seed, jealousy
torpedoed reality
busted mid-frolic
torpedoes away
this beginning of the end
war’s fatal frolic
torpedoed talks end
a marriage beyond salvage
both wanna frolic
Torpedo Cigars
Rum infused, THC laced
Frolic in a tube
pocket torpedo
Fire at Will, came the order
November frolic
frolic on the beach
torpedo interrupted
lurking in the sand




Impromptu: parade

~Matttt: Parade

Thunderous marching
The bass and drums filled our breast
Strutting down the street

Surreal dragon floats
Candy is tossed in the air
Happy kids scurry

Twirling batons fly
The drum major steps up high
Strolling down the street


~BarTalk: 5-7-5 x 3

world grows one by one
parade of generations
hope grows two by two
red, white and blue flags
clowns, bands, politics parade
in garish display
men in camouflage parade
fodder for next time


~ . ~

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Quoted in the Grove:
There is no better than adversity. Every defeat, every heartbreak, every loss, contains its own seed, its own lesson on how to improve your performance the next time.
~Malcolm X

Success does not consist in never making mistakes but in never making the same one a second time.
~George Bernard Shaw

The greatest glory in living lies not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Failure is simply the opportunity to begin again, this time more intelligently.
~Henry Ford


Posted from the Grove

Favorites From The Platform:
~MuppetsHelen Reddy: Sing In the Sunshine   (3:23)

~Floyd, Dr Teeth & Zoot: New York State of Mind   (2:01)

~Muppets: Rainbow Connection   3:05)









Prewritten for Thurs 06/28 (6:00pm PT/9 ET): torpedo, frolic



@Writers Platform:

Prewritten ~ theme:  summer killed winter

~Greymane: WinterKill

There’s places only Winter knows and holds against our souls
She freezes all the warmer things that Summer’s heat controls
She lets the Spring have ferny things but rushes Fall’s caress
Her shiny frozen promises have led to her success

She thought she was the Season Queen and all the rest should bow
Summer swore to Spring and Fall to take her out somehow
He met her in an Autumn storm and blazed on her intent
She battered him with endless rain until her tears were spent
She hid his warmth in thunder clouds and washed the land below
He dried the flood with Winter’s blood but let her tempest blow

He told her that they needed her to nourish needy man
She said she’d try but deep inside it wasn’t what she’d planned
Summer smiled and understood, she’d promise anything
He waited ’til her shift was done and killed her in the Spring


~BarTalk: Torch Song

Hungers of a planet
Springboard to extinction
When summer killed winter
Fatal final fall of man
Or a chance to rethink


Events   (5-7-5 x 4)

spring ends a whimper
predates a long fall from grace
winters of summer
ducks, crawdad for friends
green summer days in the park
slay winter grey days
plaque in nearby space
midst debris ex-planet Earth
Summer Killed Winter
Elke Sommer’s knife
Found: Jonathan Winter’s back
His comedy killed



Some’re runners by nature
Race to win Turin’s prize
Down streets at full speed
Top gear flat out no fear
Like caged hamsters




Impromptu:   melody

~Greymane:  Lost

What would you offer for trade of your heart?
A promise that no one believes?
A whisper that tears my whole world apart,
A treasure I found on my knees?
A moment above all the chaos below
to spend in my arms every night
A melody lost in the turbulent flow
of which writers who write often write?


~Matttt: Melanie

It started off like this random pounding of chords on the keys. He really didn’t know what he was doing; But the more he did it, and experimented with different combinations of notes, the more he started to like it.

So, he kept at it. First he did it for hours. Later, he kept at it for days at a stretch. By the time he was able to sit for a full week, he started developing bed sores on his ass. But his chords were strong.

The girl next door would come home from work promptly everyday at 4. She would hum as she walked past his window. Later, he could hear her rattling dishes and clanging pots in her kitchen. He desperately wanted her to knock and ask about his playing. He knew she could hear it.

And then one day, the knock came. At first, he didn’t know what to do. He was in the middle of playing. And he didn’t usually or hardly ever stop. But he knew it was her. And this was the visit he had dreamed about.

So, awkwardly he forced his hands to stop… clattering out something discordant. Standing stiffly, stretching his legs, he could feel the blood flow back into them. Then he hobbled to the door.

She was beautiful! He had never really seen her before. He could hear her return, smell her perfume, and know that she was singing something. But she was a distant ghost before this moment. Now she was there, right there, standing in front of him. And his heart raced.

“Hello” he stumbled.

“Hello. I’m sorry to interrupt. My name is Melanie. I live next door. And I hear you playing everyday. So, I thought I would stop by and say hello.”

“Oh. Yes. Sorry. Am I bothering you?”

“No no! Your playing is beautiful. I like it.”

“Thank you. Would you like to come in?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t. I have to get back to my dinner. But I was wondering… Could I make a request?”

“Okay. Sure.”

“You see, I’ve been hearing you play each day for the past 2 thousand years… And I noticed that you only play chords. I was wondering… Have you ever thought of playing one note at a time?”

He was dumb struck. There was a strange buzzing in his ears and a strange butterfly sensation his stomach. Some hours later, the sun had set and he was standing alone at his door as it started to get cold. And he didn’t even remember her leaving.

After shutting the door, he made his way back to the keys… and tried to remember what she said…

Lifting his finger, he struck a note… It sounded odd, all alone. So, he tried another. But that sounded even more strange, especially coming after the first one. So, he tried a third… off…. And a fourth… No…

And so he continued, trying random notes, hoping for one that would follow the other just right.


~BarTalk:  Concerto

Kettle drums of thunder
Raining notes in concert
Cacophony not harmony
Chaos not melody
Symphony of The Storm


Verse II

Light show striking wonder
Riveting score of rain
Competition in concert
Instruments for harmony
Clash without a melody

~ . ~

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