The Revolution

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A while ago, Adam Walker did an impromptu performance of one of his favorite poems, The Revolution Will Not be Televised, by Gill Scott Heron and a response poem he wrote. Dash happened to be on the ball enough to get it on “film.” Check it out!


Betrayal: Easter Poem

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How quickly they turned against Him! One day exalting Him with chants of Hosanna, Hosanna. The Next hurling insults and hatred at Him, as it was written: “He who will destroy the temple and build it in three days.”

Could they have forgotten? Might they not have heard? Were they not there when he fed the 5000? Did they not see the lame man walk? Had they not witnessed Him perform miracle after miracle after miracle! Did they honestly believe that he couldn’t when they said to him: “Save thyself and come down from the cross.”

What could have sparked such a sudden change? What could make them hate this pure vessel so much, a King who thought it not to lowly of himself to give his life for us! It was they that were always there. The leaders of the naysayers, the kings of the hypocrites, the power hungry, money hungry, Pharisees and Sadducees. As it is written: “He saved others but Himself He cannot save.”

Was the wine at the wedding a myth? Or was it not enough of a testimony in itself for the blind to be able to see! If nothing more, they could have asked Lazarus about the magnitude of his power!!

My Love Has Sand In It

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Scene: Desert Utah sunset. Wind. Dust. Wanderers. Kindred spirits. The wide-open unknown.
Instrument: Lap slide guitar

I’ll see you in the morning when the sun is on the rise
I hope by then the wind is gonna tell us where to blow and where to abide
Got to forget our past,
Dig up old roots at last, and move on light

We are kindred
Our minds are bound to wander, but our souls, they’ll come on home
So if you go, my friend, I’ll give you all the lovin’ that my heart can hold
But I should tell you
Oh Lord, it just won’t do for our love go cold

On our journey
May it never be a burden to reside inside this love
But I’m still learning, so tell me when I’m squeezing too hard or not half enough
And we’ll keep movin’ on
And hail that breaking dawn when the old day’s done



Collectors: Paleontologists

Beneath their skin most children have dinosaur bones (a very few also
have a brain in their behind).  Always the dinosaur in them wants to
eat.  It stalks about the houses and roars for food.

The inner dinosaur wants to mingle with more of its kind.  It gets
excited when it goes to museums and sees itself hanging from ceilings.

Very few adults have dinosaur bones beneath their skin (or a brain in
their behind).  Aging tends to lead toward extinction.  Children
evolve millions of years at a time, until something happens:  an
internal ice age, or possibly the meteor of puberty.


Collectors: Good Grazing

All the young men of the village are put out to pasture.  At first
this does not please them.  They line the fence and bleat for their

During winter they grow bearded and wooly.  As it becomes warmer they
butt heads and brawl for days until they realize the pleasures of
grazing.  On cooler nights they huddle together by a copse of trees.
As the first summer storm approaches, they face the wind together.
After it has passed, they line up to be shaved.

Fall arrives.  One man unlatches the gate and the rest stroll into the
village.  Then a new herd of young men are led out to the pasture.



Collectors: A Brief Exploration

Early one evening a man begins an excavation of himself.  He sweeps
away the cobwebs of recent events, and then lifts the memory chains,
till he has access to his inner sanctum.

Then the man wades, waist deep, through chewed, missing caps of a
thousand ballpoint pens, up to an ark filled with the sacred relics:
fossilized dinosaur bones, vials of honeysuckle nectar; scrabble tiles
stacked like gold coins and spilling from burlap sacks. He hears
barking from a box of puppies, the first he’d ever seen for sale.

But there’s nothing he can bring back, and while he’s worshipping in
the temple, nothing can be added.  So the man replaces the chains,
apologizes to the spiders, and leaves, for now.


                                                                                                                                         Collectors: Mastering an Art

We will have a special award for aging.  For rusty faces, bones that
grow brittle, and patina covered hands.

Everyone will age as enthusiastically as they can.  Some are bound to
focus on the amassing of years, but it is not just the most
experienced collectors who age best.  Also to be considered is the
light unpredictable dust of small things lost, and for the true
competitor, the accumulation of some heavier sediment.

The ceremony will be held on a random day every year.  It will go on
as long as is necessary for everyone to receive their award.

                                                                                                                                                            Ori Fienberg works as a Writing Specialist for Foundation Year and is an accomplished poet. The Collectors was originally published in He’s had work published several places including Diagram, PANK, Subtropics, the current issue of Monkeybicycle, and forthcoming at Kill AuthorYou can find musings and links to other publications at

The Depths of a One-Sided Love


Caught in the Depths of a One-Sided Love;

Lost in confusion, holding on to dreams;

Fighting for some hope, that this could finally be;

The true Love you’ve been waiting for, hearts to blind to see;

Hanging on their every word, daydreaming about every kiss;

Hoping that they Love you back, hypnotized by the mist;

Of sweet smelling fragrances that they wear, puppet master they hold the strings;

To your heart, this is obscene;

Drawn in closer by their laughter, drunk with Love the morning after;

Taken by their sweetest smile, wrapped up in their wondrous style;

Heart so open, what is this;

So in love, forgot the risk;

Of a broken heart, too crushed to mend;

But it’s too late, you’re so far in;

They don’t care, it’s just a game;

They play they hand that they are dealt;

They feel no Love, it’s just the same;

As relationships of their past, in spite of what you may have felt;

The game is over, they had fun while it lasted;

You’re all in, and they’re so far past it;

Now you’re in and out their revolving door;

The two of you are no more;

Your heart is shattered, soul is wounded;

No healing cast could ever mend it;

Now your hurt, nowhere to turn;

Suicidal, heart does burn;

Longing just for one more touch;

Can’t let go you Love too much;

Clinging to a memory;

Of what you thought just might be;

When caught up in The Depths of a One-Sided Love.

Adam “Walada” Walker is a poet and architect-in-training. He is the newest guest contributor on Phreelance Writers. Stay tuned for more of his stuff.

Pwned: Ten Days in the World of Warcraft

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A while back I wrote a short post about how the oncoming winter was sapping my will to write.  Today, that happened again, so I’ve put up a piece I wrote a year or so ago.  Oh well.


This is a story about my relationship with Vinz. He’s a gnome. Yeah, you read it right—and no, he’s not your typical garden variety. He carries little swords, and has a sweet mustache. And when he’s not sitting fireside at the local dwarven bar, he’s out battling fearsome foes and completing quests for major loot and experience points. It’s been a while since we last hung out… I wonder how he’s doing these days…

Let me preface: a few months ago, I downloaded the ten-day trial version of the hit game World of Warcraft. It’s been out since 2005, but in the years following its release, I’d managed to keep the promise I’d made to myself after I saw friend after high school friend lose their social lives to the game, scheduling WoW (their affectionate shorthand for the game) parties almost every weekend. Until recently, I couldn’t understand the draw of these parties. But after watching a roommate get used to eating her dinner in front of the game, I just had to know what WoW was all about.

Initiation into the World of Warcraft is pretty simple—I created an account, downloaded the trial, and before I knew it, I was creating Vinz, the gnome rogue. I clicked “enter world,” planning to exit the world in an hour or so. I left three hours later. In just a few hours, Vinz had explored the frozen wasteland called “Dun Morogh”, gained six levels, acquired a new dagger, a few suits of armor, and learned how to “eviscerate” anything stupid enough to mess with him. I woke up early the next morning to re-enter the World. I still hate myself for it.

But it was so much more than I’d imagined. The World is enormous, made up of a few island continents, each with their own states, each state with a dozen or so regions. To explore the whole world would require having your computer running so often that you’d notice a spike in your electricity bills. The complexity of the game is probably what makes it so addicting. Just take a look at Vinz’s diary and you’ll see what I mean.

Day One. Explored icy forests. Fought wild boars so I could give their severed tusks to a dwarf. He needed them for a stew. I tried some—it was gross.

Day Three. Bought myself a new suit of leather armor today, with a little green cape to match. It gives me 12 armor. Oh—and I learned how to mine copper with the new pickaxe I got.

Day Four. I finally made it to Ironforge, the huge city everyone’s talking about. After I talked to the king dwarf to get directions for my new quest, I flew on a griffin to get back to the forest.

Here’s the thing though. After day four, Vinz started to get a little bored. There are a few things about being in the World that really piss me off. For one, it’s too easy to wind up in a region where you just don’t belong. Like on day five, Vinz tried to kill a few leper gnomes to recover some lost engine parts that they’d stolen from a dwarf friend. But he wasn’t powerful enough to cope with the gross diseases they’d infect him with, and time and time again, he’d die, and have to walk all the way from the graveyard back to his lifeless corpse to be resurrected. Walking around as a ghost isn’t as exciting the fifth or sixth, or fifty-seventh time you try it.

The online nature of WoW also lets you see just how addicted some people can get—a scary warning to me not to get too attached to Vinz. I’d be in the middle of dueling a particularly nasty troll, when all the sudden, another gamer’s zombie character would ride by on a huge elephant. WoW lets you see the other players’ names and levels, which gives the game its mild humor component. One time, Vinz was asked to join something called “The Legion of Waffles” by a scary looking elf named Melkay. Later that day, I saw a message in the game’s integrated chat bar that read, “ask not what you can do for your WoW guild, but what can your WoW guild do for you?”

For some regions, like the gnome leper area, I found myself wishing I’d joined up with the Wafflers. It seems to me that you’re supposed to explore them with friends, who you can connect with online. Having the extra help allows you to fight your way through monsters that would otherwise wipe you out. But that requires an amount of dedication to the game that I wasn’t ready to give. Sure, I wanted Vinz to have some buddies. But I wasn’t ready to sacrifice my social life for his imaginary one.

Eventually the trial version expired, and I decided that continuing Vinz’s online journey wasn’t worth the monthly server fee. We’d had our good times—I’ll always remember his first words, yelled as I instructed him to backstab an unsuspecting boar: “I don’t have the energy for that!” But the satisfaction of seeing him learn new skills and conquer new territories was quickly fading with each successive login. I signed in one evening to see Vinz staring out of the screen at me, beady eyes blinking mechanically, mustache waving in the breeze, fists clenched around two small daggers, and I knew that he was tired of me, too. He deserves better, someone who will let him make friends with dwarves, someone who won’t throw him into battles he can’t win. Trust me, I know those people are out there.

The Cinq-Off


Today, in our training session, we learned about cinquains.

A cinquain is a simple kind of poem–like a haiku but easier.  The format, for those interested in quaining some of their own cinqs, is as follows:

  • First Line: 1 noun or noun phrase
  • Second Line: 2 adjectives that describe the noun
  • Third Line: 3 words describing the noun’s action
  • Fourth Line: 4 words expressing feelings you have about the noun
  • Fifth Line: 1 word that is a simile for the noun from line 1.

We put our new poetry knowledge to use by holding an informal contest.  Each of the students that visited the writing center today wrote a cinquain, and we at Phreelance Writers voted for our top five favorite poems, which have been reproduced below.


Satisfying, exciting

Restores, relaxes, rejuvenates

Flirtatious, seductive, attractive, elusive

Enigma. ——- Patrice



Public Speaker, Explorer

creative, relieving, expressing

sadness, anger, love, confusing

songster ——— Prisca



Loquacious, Stubborn

Fights, Scream, #28 bus

Uneducated, Rude, Ghetto, Filthy

Mattapan girls ——– Deje



Prideful, Historic

Constructs, Learns, Grows

Suffering, Pursuit, Fight, Savvy

Beantown ——— Stephen

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