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Shades of Grey (Poetry)

12/31/2014

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by Richard Rowell, Write W.A.V.E. Media Staff
Picture


Here I am, dressed in shades of gray

Just living another gloomy day

My heart’s all stuck in another jam

On this bitter cold Valentine’s Day

Here I’ll be, very plain as you can see

Wondering if I’ll ever get a chance.

Can there be one who loves me?

Anywhere in the human race?

Here you are, yet I stare from afar

Even though I’m next to you

As I walk away, my eyes stare at the tar

After another dull, anguished day

Dressed in my shades of grey…


Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2003

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The Queen (Poetry)

12/31/2014

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by Richard Rowell, Write W.A.V.E. Media Staff
Picture
Photo credit: Pixabay, Public Domain

She is the queen

The most gorgeous thing

My eyes have ever seen

The sweetest thing

That has ever been

 

They make big deals

About these drama queens

All those pretty airheads

That shouldn’t even make the scene

The world hasn’t seen the queen

 

Dressed smartly in black

Looking sexy, ready to attack

She’s no doubt at

The top of the stack

She’s the queen

 

She’ll make you want her

And she don’t even try

Smiling so brightly

As she passes by

She’s the queen

 

The queen just hasn’t

Broken thru to the scene

She’s no doubt the

Greatest talent that’s ever been

 

She can dance

She can sing

She can play

She’s the one

Who can make anyone’s day

 

She is the queen

The most gorgeous thing

My eyes have ever seen

The sweetest thing

That has ever been

 

She’s not made out of clay

Like all the pop icons today

She is what she is

She knows that everything

Can never be truly ok

But she takes it all

With a sigh and a smile anyway

 

She’s the queen


Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2005-2014

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The Wire Man

12/14/2014

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by Richard Rowell, Write W.A.V.E. Media Staff
Picture
Dec. 13, 2014

An incredible work of art
Formed from cold steel
But when made to resemble
Human form
When it’s seen
It feels warm
So much planning
Twisting, bending
To achieve desired form
The creator decreed
The work a failure
But those sharp edges
And rough corners
Are only human
The true form
Of a man

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Hello, Little Gypsy (Poetry)

12/9/2014

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by Richard Rowell, Write W.A.V.E. Media Staff
Picture

Hello, little gypsy

Done your little seduction

Your eyes leave me tipsy

A perfect production

Such dramatic flair

My love I openly declare

I can't help but stare

As you slip away

 

Into your practiced

Shadow dance of obscurity

Fade off into anonymity

A fruitless invisibility

Trying to believe

In having invulnerability

This emotion overload’s

Not just a trite ritual

 

Oh, little gypsy

You’ve so captivated

All of my curiosity

Lured me in accidentally

With your friendly generosity

I cannot be aggravated

Because you have

Become so dear to me

I love you forever

My little gypsy

Epitome of all my dreams


Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2005

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Lacuna (Poetry)

12/9/2014

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by Richard Rowell, Write W.A.V.E. Media Staff
Picture
Photo credit: Morguefile.com Free Photo

Starting with the definition of nothing

And moving onto to something less

Feeling emptiness is only the beginning

There’s a feeling even worse

 

I hear her purr, but it’s not for me

Jealousy boils within, but that’s not for me

There is far more to her than any eye can see

Even when she looks inside herself

The shadows and silhouettes of demons

Are all that she ever sees

 

Doing her best to satisfy her demons

Satiate their appetites of lust

On her own after years of shattered trust

There is so much beauty amazing

Under that blackened emotional rust

 

Her mysterious, curious gaze

A light about her slender frame

Cutting through the thickest haze

Her precious brown locks

Frame her pretty face

You see on her face a smile

But behind it confusion and haste

In a hurry to figure out what

She is supposed to do next

 

I’ve read her eyes

Seen no life in them

Her body may be warm

But her soul is cold

And her heart is stone

Her pheromones contagious

Men are heartbreak prone

To her wild emotions outrageous

 

Animal passions

No place for compassion

What you’d expect

You got the opposite reaction

Feeling ignored, truly so

Critical analytical mind

Picking out all your flaws

Spitting them back at you

Without any true remorse

 

Always deeply affected

No one can forget her face

She is a scar on the memory

And a scar on the heart

Once you discover how deep she is

You never really pull yourself back out



Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2005

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How Do You Define A Novel?

12/8/2014

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by Richard Rowell, Write W.A.V.E. Media Staff
Picture
novel: "a fictitious prose narrative of book length, typically representing character and action with some degree of realism" (OxfordDictionaries)

Nowhere in the "official" definition of "novel" does it say you need an outline. Yet, every time I set out to write a novel, for some reason I am required by some sort of unwritten law that I must have an outline. I must have characters, settings, and situations planned out. However, this simply has never worked for me.

Yes, I know there are plenty of novelists out there who eschew outlines entirely. But this seemingly forced "requirement" that your novel follow some sort of easily identifiable structure really bothers me, and in fact, infuriates me.


Every time that I go to write stories, I tend to have several different plots sort of intermingling with one another. It's sort of like writing a soap opera, I suppose. There is a lot of drama that goes on in several different directions in my story. It's not that I purposefully write in this way; it just happens for whatever reason.

Our world is so full of constant drama that it's extremely hard not to imitate it in fiction. After all, you do have to give your writing some sort of realism so that people are able to relate to it.


So, I must say, I love the broad Oxford Dictionary definition of "novel." Nowhere in there are any sort of restrictions on how to actually go about it. Yet, here we go with all these rules being forced on aspiring novelists. I keep reading the same "tips" over and over again.

No wonder no one gets published. Everything starts looking the same after a while! I'm not saying there's nothing original anymore - far from it. It's more that the original stuff is so original that it gets rejected because it "may not sell" and agents. Publishers can't risk "wasting time" on original thinking. Boo.


It always seemed to me that I should just write whatever ebbs and flows at the time. Obviously, for journals and poems, this has always worked fairly well for me. Sure, I produce a bunch that I later discard, but that happens with any sort of writing. But when it comes to novels, you have to accept that a lot will be written that won't be used at all.

For whatever reason, I just hate throwing anything out and I try to force it in. Hence, this is why I've never been able to write a novel. I can't just make it all fit into a nice flowing narrative. It's just not within me, unless I find someone to smooth it over for me. But then, it won't really be my story - you know?


Really, the point I'm trying to make is that if you want to be a novelist, focus more on the writing itself than how it's structured. It's true when they say, as you write the story takes on a life of its own. If it doesn't, then there's something wrong and you have to go back to the drawing board.

The problem is with me that my definition of novel is something like "something new and crazy that I don't think anyone has ever read before or will ever read again." But it seems clear to me that the idea of "novel" has become so subdivided into genres and sub-genres. You have to follow all these rules which horribly stifle creativity.


Novels should always be about innovation, which is why the great fiction books became called novels in the first place. But nowadays, everyone thinks they have to publish the next great novel. Just focus on writing what you have to say and don't worry about conventions or even getting published through mass media. If something is truly good, it will find its way out there through self-published channels eventually. That's how I look at it.

This is why I no longer aspire to be a novelist, per se. I just write what I write. I just want books to not always have to have a romance, or suspense, or drama, or all of those things. It just has to have something imitating real life. Really, real life can be very scary and very confounding at times. I'd rather read something introspective than something that might be made into a blockbuster film in a few years. But perhaps this is just my preference.

How would you define the word "novel?" What do you think it means to write one?


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Painting the Corners – An Excerpt From a Novel That Never Was

12/7/2014

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by Richard Rowell, Write W.A.V.E. Media Staff
Picture
Photo credit: Wikimedia Commons
Many years ago, I wanted to write a novel about a pitcher who enjoyed a long career of bouncing around from team to team. Thing is, there are auto-biographies of real pitchers that are already great masterpieces, so I eventually gave up on the idea altogether. However, I did start a story called “Painting the Corners.” It never got very far, but the introduction is pretty cool, so here it is for your enjoyment:

I guess you could say I’ve lived on the corners my whole life, more than even the most desperate of Hollywood rejects, perhaps. Corner bars, the corners of strike zones, and the corners of people’s lives, and what’s good for me is always in the corner of my mind cause I have too much else on my mind to care about whether I can pay the bills tomorrow… The only place I’ve ever felt at home is on that mound.

My only weapons may be an 85-mph fastball and a couple of trick pitches, plus a lot of guts and know-how. Perhaps I don’t know as much as people think I do, but I’ve always been able to find every strength and weakness of every player I’ve played with. Some weaknesses go deeper than you think; they’re in the man, and not just the player. Works the same ways with strengths.

I’ve lived on the fringe of the majors for a long time now, good enough to be there, but not good enough to be paid anything much over the minimum, great money, but not enough to put me in the millionaire club. I don’t spend much, don’t have to, ‘cause most of that goes to my kids, and better it go to their growing up to be decent human beings than to entertain my dumb ass.

All I’ve got is my I-pod and enough beer to drown twenty men. But I drink it slowly. Better to enjoy what life I have left now, you know.

Ballgames are about it now. When I’m not pitching, I go wherever there’s ball, Hawaii, Georgia, Arizona, even Cuba a couple times, Puerto Rico… Always root for the underdog. I’ve made my share of calls to sign up a few promising kids, a couple even made it – good for them! They did the work, so stop calling me a freaking talent finding genius. I just know what makes a decent human being, and believe it or not, I also know how to get the baseball out of not so decent human beings, too.

Pitching is playing with heads, and that’s what I’ve done so well. 

Painting the corners is the rest of it. And let me tell you the graffiti etched into this corner bar I’m writing at is pretty creative…
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Shania (Poetry)

12/7/2014

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by Richard Rowell, Write W.A.V.E. Media Staff
Picture
Photo credit: Pixabay, Public Domain
All the color’s drained from your face
O Shania, why do you hide
In such a cold, dark, empty space?
Bring your talents of words out here
To no doubt a far better place

Bullshit, she'll cry, this is my time
That I can spend alone, you know
My isolation is no crime

Shania, you can’t hide away
‘Cause of the horrific events
Of one disturbing, fateful day
You’re so pretty when no one else
Can tell, ‘cause they don't take the time
To look at how you can light up
When you flash that delicate smile

Shania, share with me your words
No I‘ve no plans of submitting them
For some literary awards
Such recognition's useless, really
Your imagination I’ll defend

Yes, seems I've found some special gift
In finding you here, ‘cause of you
These wild thoughts I can now sift through
See naked truths we so oft miss


Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2003-2004

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Why Fiction Should Reflect the Randomness of Life

12/6/2014

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by Richard Rowell, Write W.A.V.E. Media Staff
Picture
Photo credit: Pixabay, Public Domain
As someone who grew up with aspirations of being a novelist, you would think that I have constantly had many plots and themes running around my head on a daily basis. You would be correct. Actually, I still do have story ideas that pop up quite numerously on a weekly basis, but most of them I don't bother writing down anymore. That's because I gave up on trying to write novels. Here's why: I can't actually fill out a plot.

It's not for lack of trying believe me. I've been trying to write a novel since I was in junior high back in 2001. I've started and stopped dozens of projects, just because I didn't know where they would go next. Truthfully, my ideas were really those of flash fiction proportions, but I had this obsession with trying to string them all together. For whatever reason, no story idea I have is ever small. The problem is I map it all out, then completely change my mind, making everything I wrote obsolete or pointless.

I've always had this belief, however, that fiction should reflect the often seeming randomness of life. I used to have this saying, things are not as random as they first appear. There are patterns to everything, but these patterns are often so cosmically huge that they are pretty much invisible to most people. I've identified a few shocking patterns over the years that connect a lot of things that seem incredibly unrelated, and these are the patterns that I try to incorporate into my storytelling.

It would seem then that it's not that I'm a bad storyteller. I'm just horrible with plot. I can't even compose a short story that makes sense, or that's interesting enough, at least. Yet I've never been able to master the art of "flash fiction." It's interesting because that would seem the genre that best reflects my often poetic creative style. But it never really occurred to me to focus on flash fiction because I felt it was too brief for me. I had these grand ideas that I wanted to go on and on about. But since my plots would meander and drag on and go completely off the deep end so often, I've just abandoned them time and time again.

But seriously, the very fact that there is so much written that's all over the place means something. I actually didn't fail in the way that I thought I did. I've always wanted my work to reflect the "ultimate random" which is to say that I always meant my stories to be all over the place. Yet I tried to pull it all together into a traditional story that people could read over tea on lazy summer afternoons. Obviously, that is not what my work is meant to be for. But the work involved in trying to convert all my aborted novels into flash fiction pieces is going to be... interesting.

Anyone who can plot and keep a novel on track - kudos to you! I have the greatest respect for you novelists out there. But I no longer am one. I'm too much of a rambling man, I suppose. That doesn't mean I won't write books, of course. My dream of becoming a published author is still quite attainable. But it would appear that flash fiction will be my calling from now on. Time to figure out how to condense each of my stories into 300 to 1000 words. Oh, hurray.

Have you ever dabbled in flash fiction? I'd love to hear your tips and tricks on how you work on your pieces!
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True Holiday Spirit (Haiku Poetry)

12/5/2014

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by Lyn Lomasi, Staff Writer
Picture
Image (c) Lyn Lomasi; All Rights Reserved
Holiday spirit's
Not about buying presents,
Not push and shove -- love    
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Traces of You (Poetry)

12/4/2014

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by Richard Rowell, Write W.A.V.E. Media Staff
Picture
Photo credit: Pixabay, Public Domain

Wicked places

Ugly faces

Yet everywhere I look

I’ve seen traces of you

I could write a book

Outlining hat you took

My heart, my soul, my pride

I’ve locked your memory

Up deep inside

 

Familiar faces

Bring back happy places

I could’ve run the races

But I just walked on the side

No one in which to confide

My deepest secret, the divide

That tears me apart inside

Traces of you

 

Memories of your face

And longing fruitlessly

To be locked in your embrace

I just can’t provide

The reasons that I hide

As my love that collide

Just can’t let you see

That I’ve cried

Over traces of you







Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2005

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Sunlight (Poetry)

12/3/2014

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by Richard Rowell,  Write W.A.V.E. Media Staff
Picture
5-9-2005

Sunlight dances on your face

I’m in my warm safety place

And I can’t help but feel

I love you so, and now

My dreams are so real

There can be no doubt now

That I can’t be without you

 

Pretty ruffles and dresses

The stage lights glitter on your tresses

I sit and contemplate your beauty

With a smile, you see right through me

Looking inside, what do you see?

Can you see that deep

And beautiful part of me?

 

There can be no doubt

I can’t be without you!

Sunlight, forever

As long as we’re together

My soul feels light as a feather

And I feel young and free again

My Sunshine, light my way…


Copyright (C) Richard Rowell 2005

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Specter (Poetry)

12/2/2014

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by Richard Rowell, Write W.A.V.E. Media Staff
Picture
Photo credit: Pixabay, Public Domain
The little shadow you've happened upon
Is not as helpless and shamed as it appears
Not as paralyzed by paranoia and fears
As may be thought on first inspection
Never trying to achieve any sort of perfection
This shadow child’s already shed a million tears
A specter become content with imperfections


There is beauty in darkness
A safe place to dwell within
There is no need to fear it
Sometimes to hide in the shadow
Is the best way to go
Keeping out of the sun
Before the world can kill you
With sensory overload


There is a long road
Best traveled at night
There won’t always be
Someone there to hold you tight
Keep out of plain view
But keep well aware
When it’s time to show
You’ll know the time is right




Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2005
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Photographic Memory (Poetry)

12/2/2014

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by Richard Rowell, Write W.A.V.E. Media Staff
Picture
Photo credit: Pixabay, Public Domain

Inside’s a maddening collage

Of vivid mental photography

Some of it dearly beautiful

But a lot of it pitiful

Sad stories repeat and proliferate

As all the tears flood around me

I find it increasingly hard to concentrate

 

Seeing those sad faces over and over

Always the best friend to the pushover

Trying to wake the sleeping children

From under their thick ignorant cover

Too much bullshit that’s been fed

Into their innocent lil’ heads

But truly they understand more

Than is expected and accepted

 

Cursed photographic memory

Forgettable scenes of the nobodies

Unforgettable thru unique perspective

With a mind well cognizant of

The fact we’re far more than bodies

Run by chemical action and reaction

Inside an album of the forgotten

My photographic memory’s a curse

Has me often living in reverse

My only comfort is that things

As they are - could be far worse




Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2005
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Prelude to Awakening (Poetry)

12/1/2014

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by Richard A. Rowell, Write W.A.V.E. Media Staff
Picture

What a fantastic prelude

To an awakening most rude

You’ve all been blinded by the lies

They’ve made you so confused

What is left to reach for?

What should you awake for?

 

What does tomorrow have in store?

Just to repeat the same old bore?

There is a way out of this loop

Stop looking for secret messages

Hidden in your alphabet soup

 

Don’t let them make you jump

Through another unnecessary hoop

And now you awake anew

As today, you fly the coop



Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2005

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The Lonely Observer (Poetry)

12/1/2014

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by Richard Rowell, Write W.A.V.E. Media Staff
Picture
Photo credit: Pixabay, Public Domain

Rejection, neglect, what can I share with the world?

I’ll never have enough to fix it all

I look around and try to dissect all that I see, 

Why do I feel saving the world’s my call?

Formulate opinions with my intellect 

Why don’t I walk proudly instead of crawl?

Come up with reasons to explain all of it

I won’t have the net to break the fall




Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2005
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As the Blue Eyes Explain (Poetry)

12/1/2014

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by Richard Rowell, Write W.A.V.E. Media Staff
Picture
Photo credit: Pixabay, Public Domain
I don't recall exactly who this poem was written about, but it's short and sweet. It's upbeat and positive, so I'm happy to share it.

"As the Blue Eyes Explain"

Blue eyes, you came at first as a complete surprise,


Now I look around and see all the truth behind the lies

You unlocked a part of me others could never see

When you look at me - I feel so alive and free

Definitely knowing I will survive, you’ve inspired me

As long as you’re there, though life’s still so unfair

It’s awesome to have someone that cares

 

Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2005

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