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Old 15 Mar 2012, 06:01 PM   #343419 / #101
kennyc
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(another older one. I'm going through and sorting, sifting, etc..)


The Dancing Philosophers

Logic and rhetoric dance to the beat
holding emotion at bay.

Emotion then catches logic’s eye,
cuts in, and dances in time.

Rhetoric envies the figure they make
as they twirl upon the floor.

Emotion and logic are closer it seems
Than rhetoric ever dreamed.


Kenny A. Chaffin – 6/13/01
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Old 26 Mar 2012, 11:37 AM   #347959 / #102
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Another old one which came to mind due to the Animal Consciousness discussion

Innocence

In the Fall we'd gather the family together
the annual harvest of birds
to clean and freeze some of our chickens,
as food for the coming year.

With the lawn the colors of Christmas
we pulled the entrails out. We'd catch
their legs with stiff wire snag
while they pecked the ground for food

They'd flop on the grass
for what seemed like days;
blood spurts shooting from severed necks
as their thumb-sized hearts slowly stopped.

We'd scald them in a huge iron pot
with a wood fire for the heat. Pluck
the feathers (save them for pillows)
and pull the insides out. Find the liver,
gizzard and heart and save them with the rest.

For washing and rinsing we'd use zinc-plated tubs,
rolled from the wash-house to lawn.
We'd cut some up into legs thighs, and breast,
others we'd simply freeze whole.

And this is how it was done:
Daddy would grab them, head in his fist
and with two quick twirls pull it off.
I was too small, without the strength
to twirl them in the air. So I'd hold them down
my foot on their face and pull till the silence began.


Kenny A. Chaffin - 1/21/01
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Old 08 Apr 2012, 07:26 PM   #352788 / #103
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An older one and a younger one

(cue Bob Dyan "I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now")

---


Girl with Goat

Dark-haired Irish girl walks her white show-goat on a leash
as though she’s captured Pan with his thumb-like horns,
a smirk on his face as he pulls her along the stone wall searching for love.

She looks at the camera with mild disinterest;
her light blue turtle-neck is a tight contrast against the deep green forest.
The goat eyes a dandelion, tugs on the leash and contemplates the taste of love


2/3/2001 – Kenny A. Chaffin


---


History Lesson


Sometimes I torture the past
bring out the red-hot pokers
and threaten to use them

I know that my life will
be better if I can just get
a confession out of the past

I know it wasn’t my fault
how could it have been
I was just a kid


Kenny A. Chaffin – 12/31/2011
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Old 08 Apr 2012, 07:31 PM   #352789 / #104
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Quote:
Originally Posted by davidm View Post
It is a pretty widespread policy, among both print and online magazines (and many if not most publications are both these days) that they will not accept previously published work, and they DO count Google-searchable work on the Internet, in forums or in blogs, as previously published work. As I have mentioned, if people would like to have a serious online creative forum, you need to restrict to it members only so that it cannot be found by search engines. Otherwise no serious writer, certainly, would participate or contribute work that he or she intends to try to sell.
All the more reason to self-publish or go with those that have reasonable publication policies (and I don't consider it reasonable to reject something because it's been shared on-line regardless of the reason --for critique, simple sharing, etc.).

I'm getting very tired/angry/upset with these publishers (mag, book, whatever) that are so stuck in the dark ages (e.g. before the interwebz)
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Old 09 Apr 2012, 04:38 PM   #353017 / #105
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Parts is Parts


Everybody wants
a piece of me

The Bank of America
wants a percentage

My daughter
wants my time

The cat wants
something to eat

Jesus
wants my soul

but the Devil himself
will get it


Kenny A. Chaffin – 6/24/2011
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Old 12 Apr 2012, 10:15 PM   #354211 / #106
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Kenny, you write some pretty damn good poetry. I really like History Lesson. I think some of this is publishable material.
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Old 19 Apr 2012, 12:30 AM   #356101 / #107
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Unless I can pick up some kind of meter or rhyme, it just seems like prose in a set of stanzas.
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Old 19 Apr 2012, 12:34 AM   #356103 / #108
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Marquez View Post
Kenny, you write some pretty damn good poetry. I really like History Lesson. I think some of this is publishable material.
sorry for the late response ... thank you!
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Old 25 Apr 2012, 01:32 AM   #358562 / #109
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Okay so what are you guys working on? This thread is dying!

I'm finishing up a short story ... first of a series of stories set in the mythical town of Marville, OK in various time periods, but mostly the 60-80's

Started a new story called "The Chosen" which I hope to finish this week but will not force it as I think it's a good one.
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Old 25 Apr 2012, 01:34 AM   #358563 / #110
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Marquez View Post
Kenny, you write some pretty damn good poetry. I really like History Lesson. I think some of this is publishable material.
BTW see this post WRT publishing: http://www.secularcafe.org/showthread.php?t=18951
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Old 25 Apr 2012, 02:22 AM   #358578 / #111
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most of the stuff I write won't fit here. That or it's songs.
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Old 25 Apr 2012, 05:20 AM   #358603 / #112
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Quote:
Originally Posted by kennyc View Post
Okay so what are you guys working on?
Uncreative writing... :sigh: Mostly grad school things.
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Old 25 Apr 2012, 05:23 AM   #358604 / #113
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Here's a song I co-wrote with a friend though. No idea how to write guitar chords in a forum post, but if you just imagine standard bluesy music you will not land far off.

Michael White Eagle's Song

They threw me in here for playin' em blue
And now I still don't ever know what to do
My whole life is here in this two-by-two
Cause I'm a
Big Injun in a too-small room

Got a lady on my arm and a bear on my ass
Even my cellmates think I got no class
Hunger's gettin bigger than ol' Mama Cass
Oh I'm a
Big Injun in a too-small room

And I said hey-ya-hey
(When do I go home)
yeah I said hey-ya-hey
(Can't be too soon)

Just wanna get me some fry-bread again
Find me an injun girl to soothe my pain
(we can)
sit on the streetcorner and wait for the rain
Cause I'm a
Big Injun in a too-small room

Won't be a
Big Injun in a too-small room
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Old 25 Apr 2012, 10:34 AM   #358645 / #114
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I like that a lot Politesse

Definitely a blues song

On other forums I've seen for chords things like (Em) (G) (Ab) ...
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Old 25 Apr 2012, 04:06 PM   #358705 / #115
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Politesse -
WOW


Gut punch for sure.
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Old 25 Apr 2012, 04:59 PM   #358713 / #116
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("...I like that poem too..." went the goblin)

.


To grandma and the beach at Felixstowe
Grandma you're so late and many years in passing
But the sea and sand's still there and all those people basking.
I suppose there's nothing yesteryear about this boisterous sea
Just you had to go on from here and leave our beach to me.
Yet today this Winter's tide that breaks upon our shore
marks your daughter's slide to where we were before.
To weather to the last I swear while she goes on ahead
A promise to one's past it seems towards one future dead.

-fleamailman-

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Old 28 Apr 2012, 11:20 PM   #359694 / #117
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Politesse! That is incredibly good and just screams out for guitar chords or any instrument chords
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Old 02 May 2012, 07:41 PM   #360889 / #118
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.


Endless Mistrust
Curse you crows on better branches
Who leave us owls with lesser chances
Who made us creatures of this night
Always in fear of your daytime strike
But in the dark you cannot see
The owl that swoops upon thee.

Curse you owls in your hidden nest
Who stork us crows as we do rest
Who made us creatures of this day
Always in fear of your nighttime play
But in the light you cannot stop
The crows that group to drop.

-fleamailman-

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Old 02 May 2012, 07:44 PM   #360894 / #119
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Microsoftious
I met a broker of the Wallstreet brand
Who said: Two vast and worthless piles of stock
Lie crashed upon the ground. About them, near to hand,
Now shrunk, these tattered credits lies, that shock,
Of bloated slips whose sure and bold command,
Tell that their author well those passions read,
Which yet survive, scribbled on these worthless things,
The hand that believed them, and the heart that bled,
And upon their cardboard box these words appear:
"My name is Microsoftious, Share of Shares:
Look upon my works, ye wealthy, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of this colossal crash, boundless and bare
The blown and leveled brands stretch far away.

-fleamailman-

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Old 06 May 2012, 04:31 PM   #362371 / #120
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Mushrooming


The word is popping out of headlines
like its namesake from the ground.
Whether it’s a rising - ‘technology mushrooming’
or disastrous nuclear winter
it’s popping like penguins everywhere -
everywhere I look

Or maybe it’s just the old reference
to being in the dark
and yes being fed shit,
and why should we
why would we anyway

I consider canned mushrooms
because when I buy them fresh
they always seem to turn to
the dark side before I use them

Which makes me wonder if Luke
raised mushrooms on Tatooine
on his uncle’s farm

I check wookipedia and find --YES!
They did. Mushrooms grew near
the base of the moisture vaporators

Damn Tusken raiders anyway!
They should all be mushroom vaporated!



Kenny A. Chaffin – 5/5/2012
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Old 09 May 2012, 01:39 PM   #363327 / #121
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Post Year 9 short story

For my year 9 english class, I had to write a short story which 'was rich in symbolism', so without further ado, here's my story. (WARNING : Bananas are used extensively in this story)


The Office Life

I'm looking forward to lunch. I always do. I'm going to go to my bench in my park and eat my lunch. I only have a banana. People are always saying that if I keep on eating so little I won't be healthy, but people underestimate bananas. They are capable of so much, they have so much potential.
The whistle blows and I rush out of work. I work in a business tower. I'm not in management or anything, I'm right at the bottom of the corporate chain. The button pushers. When I first joined I was promised a promotion and pay rise within 6 months. It's been ten years. I am the oldest in my department by at least a decade, but I did start later than the rest. I am about to hit my mid 30's and I have nothing but a futon in a studio apartment.
I'm thinking about the banana in my little brown paper bag, just waiting. Bananas are so important in their way. A man robbed a bank with a banana. Successfully too. Well, successfully until the police got him. The price of bananas started riots and it might have even led to a war, I can't remember. It was in the Congo or maybe somewhere in South America. They can influence people so much, once they release they might not be there. Its interesting how bananas change so quickly. They are only here for so little time. It's hard to see the world in so little time. Especially when you have commitments. Bananas are liked at different times, some people like bananas when they're green, brand new. Some people like to buy them green and wait till they're just right. A few people like them when they're spotty, getting old. But only a few people like them like that. By then it's usually too late. But there's always hope.
I had hope when I first started. Always thinking that every phone call would be the company saying that I need to pack my stuff and move into my new office. But the call never came. I thought they were waiting till I was just right, but that time came and went. And i'm still here ; waiting.
There's so much choice when it comes to bananas. Different types from different places, all good, just some better. Some that always come ready, some that are fresh and some that are new. The old ones only make it on the shelves for less than a day or two. Then they are thrown a way to rot in the street. Bananas stay in shape in the beginning, as in the don't change their shape. They know what they are. I wish I still knew who I was.
Most bananas come from bad places. Places where the people who grow them are poor and are paid nothing. They have no luxuries. They know that they have to let them go if they want anything good to happen to them. Anything good to happen to the person who raised them. There is usually a lot of them trying to get away. Some get rotten on the way to where they need to go, but the few who stay clean are meant to go on to be great. And almost all of the, do. Almost. I stride up to the park, with my bench in sight. But for the first time in years, someone else is sitting there. Doing what I should. I find another bench to sit on. I put my brown paper bag onto my lap and look inside. The bananas brown and moldy. That's the big problem with bananas. You never know when they've gone off until it happens.

Skeptiform5
6/5/12





Thanks for reading, I might put this up on another thread, if I do, I'll post the URL.

Last edited by Wizofoz; 09 May 2012 at 05:41 PM.
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Old 09 May 2012, 06:32 PM   #363419 / #122
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(and with that the goblin showed, saying "...you write well skeptiform5, I enjoyed it immensely...")

.

A problem with my screen
Had I the Heaven's own downloaded os
Encrypted beyond the hacker's might
The true and trim that comes across
Like light in night and the half night
I would post that os on your site
But I, being thick, have only my screen
I have posted my screen on your site
Thread carefully because you thread on my screen

-fleamailman-

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Old 09 May 2012, 11:45 PM   #363536 / #123
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Just completed the longest fanfic I ever wrote: Martian Manhunter, a crossover between Buffy and Veronica Mars.

Here's the first chapter:

"I took a couple of pictures of the broken sign, from a couple of angles.

Was that black paint?

Why, yes it was.

I'm no Gil Grissom, to have access to a database capable of telling me what make and model of car left a minuscule speck of paint behind on five seconds' notice. "Black" was about as good as I was going to get. There weren't any cameras overlooking the intersection -

No. I had to stop thinking like that. Traffic light cameras weren't as common as they used to be.

Still, this was only to confirm something I already suspected, so the lack of Gil Grissom's database -- ha! Like anyone would know who he was -- didn't really mean anything either.

"Veronica," a familiar voice said from behind me. "Is that you disturbing a crime scene?"

I spun and put on a big fake smile, "I don't see a crime scene here, deputy. I see a sign someone knocked down."

"That's destruction of public property," Don Lamb said.

"And I'm sure you're just champing at the bit to get to it, what with all those unsolved homicides," I said. "Relax, Donnie. This isn't anything I'm investigating that might potentially embarrass you. I'm just taking a couple of pictures for a school project of mine." I put the camera in my bag. "So now you and your crack team can get right to work."

"Funny," he said.

"I sense a lack of enthusiasm," I said. "I guess 'The Comedy Stylings of Veronica Mars' will not be winning any Grammys for best spoken-word performance. Too bad. I already had a place set aside for it on my bookcase."

He said something as I left, but I wasn't really paying attention. Very little of what Don Lamb says is worth paying attention to.

Alright, maybe "You're under arrest." But only for laughs.

I got into my LeBaron and drove off. Time to go help my dad in his office.

Right now, I'm betting you think you have it all figured out.

You're wrong.

Trust me, you're wrong.

Because that sign I was taking pictures of?

There were three words on it:

"Welcome to Sunnydale."

That's right. I was smack in the middle of the Buffy episode "School Hard."

My name is Veronica Mars. High school student, girl detective, and Buffy the Vampire Slayerrfan.

And I know everything that's going to happen for the next six years.


X X X X X

So, you may be wondering, how did this happen?

Good question. Too bad I can't answer it. Out loud, anyway. It's one of the rules that's been set up for me.

“You may not tell anyone how this came about, or about their futures.”

I’ve been shoehorned into the Buffyverse. Or, to be more exact, my 17-year old self has been shoehorned into the Buffyverse. Along with whatever parts of my “backstory” were deemed necessary to make me what I am today:

Dad. Mom, now absent. The Echolls Family, minus Trina. The Kane family.

And, for some reason, Don Lamb. Which proves that if there is a God -- something I highly doubt, at this point -- that he hates me.

Of course, I’ve had proof of that for years now.

No Wallace Fennell. No Mac. No Weevil Navarro.

Of course, Lilly still got murdered last year, and I still got raped -- Just at Cordelia Chase’s Christmas party, not Shelly Pomroy’s. Dad still got fired from his Sheriff’s job -- though, in Sunnydale, it was as likely that Mayor Wilkins was looking for any excuse to get rid of an actually competent officer as it was any pressure brought by Jake Kane

Because, you know, those are all important parts of what made me me.

This isn’t “Welcome to the Hellmouth.”

This is just “Welcome to Hell.”

So come, join me on my wonderful voyage of discovery, why don’t you?"

Rob
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Old 11 May 2012, 09:54 PM   #364190 / #124
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I.

once upon a northern summer
when the pines lilted in gentle warmth
which brushed past the needles like snowfall
and settled in the warm dens of downy duff,
a young deer nosed in the foliage
before pausing, startled
as the sun disappeared behind a cloud

but the sun reappeared as it does
and the fawn skipped gaily away
only in his youthful exuberance he left
his lovely carapace behind him

inviolate it sat in the sunlight
soft velvet skin draped over lithe muscles
and sinews laying gently in the folded grass
for a while safe from the foragers, looking
as though it might spring swiftly to life

the birds called about in the trees
making their homes in the branches
and the wind blew warm through the glade
and insect hubbub thrummed, competing
with the clatter of a distant stream
the sky turned gold and then violet


II.

when the sun returned it found the fawn
looking far less like it had been
some things were missing
and some things were changed
and soon it was hard to distinguish
the form of the thing from the place
where it lay

another creature came along
a deer, of like kind but older
and though she knew well of the element
that had whisked all activity away
she paused for a spell in that very sunny place
her graceful ears taut in nervous tension
waiting long before moving off
from the clearing that her offspring had died in

III.

the fog settled in with the early morning
sweeping ethereal in veins of shifting light
through the nebulous hulk of the slumbering trees

creatures creeping by in the moist underbrush
were surprised by the abrupt change of climate
beginning an autumn that covered the ground
beneath the lush grasses that grew there

a fox, padding by in the clearing, sniffed
at the things which the eye couldn't see
the fawn disconnecting the doe recollecting
and yet deeper mysteries still:
a seed of a tree that had found for a nursery
the loamy black soil of the tomb

it remembered the old man whose sermons they bore
for the sake of the tidbits of food that he brought
and his passionate words about birth after death

it wondered to itself if this earnest seed was
what the auburn-cowled patron had meant?
or whether this sapling would be swept aside
for the sake of a promised resurrection
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Old 12 May 2012, 05:40 PM   #364383 / #125
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soem pomes



Her name was Come Play With Me
And she knew secrets
And karate moves

When she laughed
It was too loud and too long
Scattering insects into damp places
And people into new conversations
When she danced
It was wild
With clumsy seduction
And peeking belly grin

But when her Oh Gosh! gaze
Prodded
Like a silent storm
It could make your nose bleed

And you knew
Your secrets would soon be hers
And your fingers
Would be cool in the morning


///////////////////




if I walk to the sea
will you walk there with me
if I sink in the sand
will you hold out your hand
if I ask you to stay
will your ship sail away


having something to say having nothing to say
images curl and writhe handcuffed to the past
emptying the space around them

hard flat fingers of rain
staccato thrum on the roof of an old caravan
playing pontoon for pennies
on a sticky formica table
resting on restless knees

wresting meaning from memory
wrestling memory from spinning yellow leaves

stale sweat and cigarettes
the scent of safety
comfort whispering through hair and time
having something to say having nothing to say
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