Writers Bloc

Writers Bloc

Writers Bloc

To pen a requisite best seller. A book of 5000 items. Alphabetically enumerated Chapter and Line each Rhyme exquisitly enhanced a TickerTape parade the key to the BIG Applette a spot segment on television next, the Royalties paying for the three car garage and house in Beverly. Hills melting into Dales and RIlles into The Big Valley. The Picket Line Fence was just unwashed logs stacked up then down in a COnfederate hilarity. Men exposed to Muskett fire and no retreat a fight to the death the Gray line mostly homespun uniforms just slacks and shirts some short jackets many men were hatless. Anger rules a Battleground fear of death and Anger rules a Battle. My shin splintered I twisted my leg and stood swinging my Muskett like a BillyClub made of Iron and Wood. The line kept advancing. I could see now that there was no way out. I swung the Muzzle of mye Muskett UP underneathe mye chin. Reached down and pulled and calmly blew mye Brains out. No YellowBelly Yankee was gonna RUIN me. I gave a Rebel Yell. I fell. The Battle Markers placed the crosses one for PFC Darkstone at the battle of Shiloh near the old Pickett fenced. It just says a Confederate Soldier died here in battle. The battle of Shiloh was mostly Union Forces under General Sheriden. General Philip H. Sheridan was one of the Union's most celebrated commanders.  He was a cavalry officer, and perhaps more than any other Union Officer, he fought like a confederate. It was the Cival War. The year was 186(?) "War is Death" said Sheriden to the Darkstone Confederate as they buried him. You may be thinking of another General a differant General Statesman. Perhaps a similar General Statement. Try General Sherman who may have said War is a General. CLose so close but a little off can you remember what he really said Gentile Reader You. Writers Bloc.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

a made up pulitzer prize

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Everything happens for a reason. Nothing happens by chance or by means of luck. Illness, love, lost moments of true greatness and sheer stupidity all occur to test limits of your soul.

Without these small tests, life would be like a smoothly paved, straight, flat road to nowhere; safe and comfortable but dull and utterly pointless.

Sometimes a person will come into your life and you know right away that he or she were meant to be there…to serve some sort of purpose, teach you a lesson or help figure out who you are or who you want to become. You never know who that person may be but once you lock eyes, you know at that very moment that they will affect your life in some profound way.

And, If that someone loves you, love them back unconditionally. Not only because that person loves you, but also because they are teaching you to love and open your heart and eyes to little things. Make every day count. Appreciate everything with that person that you possibly can, for you may never experience it again.

Talk together as you have never talked before, and actually listen. Let yourself fall in love, break free and set your sights high. Hold your head up because you have every right share in the highs and lows of the emotion that is the essence of our lives.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Not really a poem but rather some "Dime Store" or in this day and age of inflation "Dollar Store" philosophy that might make a point.

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Not Just A Word

Trying to find the right words to say

without making a total ass out of myself

without meaning something insincere

but trying to say something sweet

I know it'll take a while to trust me

and you know it'll take a while to trust you

there are "prettier" girls out there

but they have a heart non-existing

stuck up within their vanity

not living, but just there to be a pretty picture

eye candy that will destroy you and leave you broken

ten thousand minutes destroyed within a day

destroyed by a thought, a kiss, and a yes

I am sweet and short, but not simple

I have the complexity of a rubix cube

you just have to find my combination

I am kind, affectionate and loving

I am easily hurt, so please be gentle

I just need a place to rest my weary heart

no, not just simply a place to keep it, a permanent residence

A someone to give it to, and honestly..

I'm hoping it's you~<3

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City of Joy


Ok, City of Joy has slums but certainly cannot boast type Mumbai Dharavi, an offshoot colonial legacy. Stubbornly hugged at like an award-winning heritage by obstinate embroils, feeding Boils. Chad Saudagar days who says Calcutta trace to only JC 300 yrs, backtrack? Ah! In myths, rest all lies. Please no archaic digs to rigid theories of historical Pops. Enmesh in wrangles challenge, simply not done!    

Calcutta daze, my school exterior changed colours.

Back green front is pink …

Delta conurbation spans imagination 1964 in school.

Is there reason, not love the slum I grew, picnicking with teacher in Eden Garden? 1967

Our songs we have when by chance together. Alumni

Divergent faith, yet each shot own prayer, yes, here. My school entry adorns.

Newspaper office Statesman shrinks circle, circulation too, heartburn.

Manual workers bunch a pause backdrop eatery T Room at FS & PS joint.

Existing ways, Park Street hawks, honest sunshine.

Shabby Free School Street is immaterial to jolly daylight.

At Park Street, cars puff. Today allow to game, hoarding shouts.

Those tram heydays reduced to ignominy.

Pressures to perform, Tramlines bend.

Basic bridge comfort pedestrian, nothing handsome.

So what if obsolete tuck beams!

Huh! Go we must, underground in Calcutta, yes only to move at ease.

Door to door, he collects discard and Cal kids dread his backpack.  

Why shamble tireless Calcutta? Sweep success wear smiles.

Urban Calcutta to God and Goddess, bow in humility.

Ethnic ways pay respect to them those gone, somewhere unknown.

Is it kitsch pleases Shiva? Temple, leafy flowers, coconut-husk smokes, yet holy.

Why do hitch? Pour sacred water cool the Lord of Spirit in Calcutta Shiva temple!

Author's Notes/Comments: 


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109 Prose: The Flaw in the Petifore

Have any of you ever had a petifore? I'm pretty sure that's how the word is spelled.

They're these interesting little pastries that can basically be considered cake cupcakes. They often take the place of more grandiose pastries, such as wedding cakes, and they're quite delicious. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, just think of it this way: If cakes were somehow transformed into a hard candy but still maintained its fluffy inner texture, you would have a petifore. I still am not entirely sure that I'm spelling that correctly.

They were served at my cousin's wedding a little over a year ago, and my Mother also brought some home today from my sister's baby shower. I had forgotten that they even existed, but enjoyed them all the same. They even come in those odd outer wrappings that plague the innocent little cupcake.

This is where the flaws begin.

I recall this same issue from my cousin's wedding: the icing on the petifore will always stick to the paper, therefore tearing the dessert to bits when you try to remove its personal prison cell. Not only that, but salvaging the bits of edible matter from the inside of the wrapper is all but impossible, and can be incredibly frustrating as it often takes with it a good portion of your petifore.


Personally, I prefer cake to petifore(s) as cake signals celebration, while a petifore is almost like a mild euphemism. They taste great, true, but not as good as a wedding cake that is so pumped full of sugar that it could effectively be considered toxic waste. While I have become much more concerned about my health, I don't see why people feel the need to absolutely butcher their diets in order to lose weight or maintain some kind of image. I don't think really think that petifores were the product of such beliefs, but they'll most likely become a part of that sort of paradigm.

I'm just ranting now. I do not apologize.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I have no idea if it could.

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237 Prose: North by Chris' Watch

In about two weeks or so, I'll be out of this city. I'll be up north, learning about the area and what makes it what it is. I'll be looking for a new source of income so that I may do what has been planned, and move into a house filled with music and creativity. I'll become thinner, most likely because I won't be eating very well more than anything else, and I'll do what I can to learn what exactly has gone wrong within me. I'll be free to do so because of all of the spare time I'll have. The only person that I'll know starting out is my roommate; which is a good thing, really. It's funny to refer to him that way: roommate. For two months, everything will be left behind. In Rob's apartment, I'll only have my clothes, my laptop and my cell phone. In that time, I'll slowly and quietly learn how to operate a life that is away from the friends and family whom I have known for my entire life.

It's not necessarily an irrational decision; impulsive is really more of an appropriate wording. I have a few thousand in the bank and I'll get a couple more paychecks before heading out. I'll be staying in the apartment rent free and without any of my furniture for two full months, and if I manage to get a job in that time it'll just be that much more money I'll be putting away into my savings. Hopefully I'll be able to find something active or at least somewhat labor intensive. My current workplace has helped me lose so much weight, and I'm a little worried that I may gain some back if I get a really slow or stationary job. Overall though, I'm excited.

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Cleanliness is next to Godliness

It is not about T. V. Soaps but soaps alright

As per earliest proof of soap, manufacture dates back relatively 2800 BC in Ancient Babylon. Around 2200 BC Babylonian Clay tablet scripted soap properties that held water, alkali, and cassia oil.

Ancient Egyptians habitually bathed with soapy matter, mix of animal and vegetable oils alkaline salts, Papyrus (Egypt, 1550 BC) specifies.

Confusion records soap in ancient Pompeii, with soapy mineral substance discovered in ruins. Strigil (metal scraper for body after oiling) method in Roman baths perhaps causes these doubts. My point is why is it not possible that both use existed?

Attribute name soap supposes to bogus Mount Sapo, Roman connection, its location unknown. Actually, soap making process involves cold process method, or hot process. Heat required for saponification in both cold process and hot process.

Purification and finishing removes sodium chloride, sodium hydroxide, and glycerol brings finesse with Nanoscopic metals added for coloration and anti-bacterial properties.

Soaps, today, are offspring of historical Arabian soaps. Arabian soap was perfumed and colour, some of the soaps were liquid, and some solid. Special soap for shave sold for 3 Dirhams (0.3 Dinars) a piece in 981 AD.

Al-Razi, Persian chemist, documents on formulas for real soap. 13th century manuscript uncovered recently features more soap making techniques like, mix some sesame oil, a sprinkle of potash, alkali and some lime, bring to boil.

Industrial Revolution changed small-scale coarse soap production to commercial. In London Andrew Pears pioneered high quality, transparent soap in 1789.

Much later, 1960 personally remember Mommy’s fine Pears on skin, nostalgia havocs, like pounding grinding the soap with a mortar and pestle to produce soap powder, 1837.

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Eligible Man Suitable Interview


Champion at rounds, she was difficult to be glued to chair. Workplace before lunch that November, the telephone operator searched high and low locating her to convey the urgent phone call from her residence.

Immediately wanted at home, they were coming for final selections. Who were they? The very, to be life match, Party - shortcut, groom, and accomplice, consisting of his aunt, sister and …

Naturally, she rushed home, ‘at least she had to change into something social’ she thought taking off her white coat. No, she was not a doctor by profession but a corporate someone assisting administration in a hospital for the privileged.

Taking off from assignment that day, she hurried home to meet her destiny.

Group arrived timely, were obviously well treated by the girl’s family. They savoured the fancy epicure served to delight. It ended with accolade to tastes along exchanges of news, views, weather, and attitudes…

Time danced sun drenched outdoors. Bright dazzle into the room, thanks to those massive classic wooden windows, a blessing of all times, rid any type of claustrophobia.

Chitchat members, decided the suitable be given a chance in privacy to know each other, after impressions through their repeated preliminaries.

Fact, she needed no further familiarity, that her mind spread clear and the opposite party agreeing. All confirmed. What about caste differences; firing vintages, progressive families’ knew how to exercise capably.

Broad-minded aunts and groom’s sassy sister found it pertinent the two read with each other ... Done, both left by them, the rest huddled into the adjoining room. Much transpired there. Between, to be wed couple, as well.

Sun, bit too much into her eyes, she saw of his face, a shadow corpulent. He seated on the sofa and she on the Santiniketan-Mora the eligible man began his direct interview.

Author's Notes/Comments: 


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The Tale of Partlet

There once was a knight named Huon who was vain and proud and decidedly cruel. He rode about on his horse with his glittering vestments and his plumed hat, all given to him by the king , and cared little for the laws of the land. On one particularly cold evening, Huon happened upon a dainty farfadet  bathing in the river. He took the poor thing by force, then journeyed off as if nothing had happened.

And the little farfadet sang:

O, woe, o woe, o woe is me!

Forgotten farfadet!

From this union there was born a child, a little girl called Partlet . At first she seemed quite human, but if one looked closer they could see that her skin was scaled from hip to toe, her eyes were pale and piercing, her tongue was forked, and she smelt like the sea. The farfadet abandoned Partlet to wallow in her own melancholy, and the child was found by simple farmers, who named and fed and clothed the half-breed  as if she were their own.

And so it came to pass that Partlet grew beautiful, if not in spite of her faults, then because of them, and she seemed everything her father was not. But sweet little Partlet was restless; she longed for more than the life of a farmer’s daughter and spent her days singing:

If only I were born again

and made a rich man’s wife!

How happily, then, could I live,

in such a lovely life!

No matter how her parents spoiled her with rare fruits, picture books, and languid days with friends, Partlet was never satisfied.

It just so happened that Huon passed by again, bedecked in his velvet finery and riding his great white horse. Though he hardly noticed the villagers, little Partlet was quite smitten with him. She hurried off to the river to find a magical farfadet and beg him to make her fully human.

“But there is nothing wrong with you,” said the puzzled farfadet.

“Ah, I am ugly!” cried our young Partlet.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is merely a reinterpretation of old fairytales I heard as a child.

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