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March 27th, 2017

08:29 pm - Not Your Average Masterpiece

The stack of unsigned autographs was never used
because a lifetime of writing deceptive fluff
has never seemed to be enough
to earn pagan residuals,
so I turned my soul towards nostalgic amnesia.

With reluctant confidence I embraced the need
to drain my brain of all needless whimsical seeds,
lowering the heights my muse sought,
like the rational delusions
of thinking frivolous phrases were amusing.

Purged were contemplating artificial plastics,
being uniquely abundant and liquid dust,
clean mud and the defrocked mantis,
white coal and goose fur among us.
Gone were the provable gods and debated halves.

Banned were the adopted flesh and our own planned past,
ear lint, heavy lightness and foreign clarity.
What remained was the silent noise
that redefined creative joy,
allowing me to write my minor masterpiece.

(Leave a comment)

January 7th, 2017

04:18 pm
The Generic They

They do not look like us.
They do not act like us.
They do not talk like us.
They sometimes frighten us.


They do not think like us.
They never speak for us.
They are too young for us.
They are too old for us.


They do not live like us.
They don’t shed tears like us.
They try to oppress us.
They don’t want peace like us.


They don’t believe like us.
They must be against us.
They feel God rejects us.
They want God to damn us.


They implies absolutes
in a world without them.
Don’t stereotype all theys.
God doesn’t love this way.

(Leave a comment)

02:47 pm

The master Architect conceived and rendered it
forever imperfectly perfect, by design
a physical realm just short of infinity
and filled with an abundance of variety.

With life sustaining and replenishing itself
in multitudes, from the simplistic to complex,
the Architect expected life to be maintained
by those given the usage of more advanced brains.

These were rewarded with their own varieties,
the epidermis being the palette of choice,
though under the surface they shared a common trait,
the capacity to determine their own fate.

The superficial shell, where the soul does not dwell,
was not destined to imply real significance.
Under the facade the value of compassion
was universally shared across all nations.

But too many imperfect humans began to
believe external appearance granted them the
false justifications to deny that we’re still
all related under the skin by nature’s will.

And those that chose to discriminate because of
body structure or pigmented skin will themselves
be segregated from the benevolent grace
reserved for all who embrace humanity’s face.

(Leave a comment)

December 31st, 2016

11:47 pm - An Essay

An Essay

There is absolutely no reason why God, science, evolution and religious beliefs can not or are fully compatible if we allow our God given minds, and not ingrained dogma, to think for us.

Before you turn a blind eye to this probability remember that up to the time of Columbus the majority of religious followers believed the world was flat, could not comprehend the natural effects of gravity and assumed the vast universe evolved around the Earth.

Considering God And Science:

With God being all things, from all knowing to all powerful, the creator of all things physical and spiritually celestial, He would also be the greatest scientist that has ever existed.

Because everything He’s done is infallible, when He created humans in His own image He gave us the rarest of gifts, the gift of abstract reasoning that elevated us above the instinctive primal survival and reproductive mechanisms instilled in the Earth’s less advanced living creations. God would not have awarded humans, created in His own image, with advanced brains if He did not expect us to use them to their fullest capacities.

In doing so He provided us with the ever expanding mental tools to develop cures to fight both physical and emotional illnesses, gave us the means to protect the environment He placed us in for present and future generations, the compassion to enhance the lives of all His children and the ability to decipher the mysteries the universe holds. The study of science and it’s importance in our lives is a gift from God not to be mocked.

What He did not do is grant us the right to us our advanced brains kill His children or wreck havoc on the environment to appease personal political, social or religious belief systems. He reserves the right to divine judgement and has not passed that right on to us.

Considering God And Evolution:

To God a day is like a thousand years and a thousand years is like a day. From the scriptures what this implies is that God did not create the heavens and the Earth on the human timetable of one sunset and one sunrise that equals one earth day. He created Earth and the universe on His own infinite timetable.

As such, based on His own infinite timetable, the creation of Earth and this universe and those beyond could have taken anywhere from six million to six billion years and beyond. His six days of unmeasurable Creation should never be measured by our human concept of time.

With God being all knowing, including being the greatest scientist that ever existed, it’s entirely likely He began life on Earth by creating an atmosphere that allowed single cell life forms to develop and flourish. And with His all knowing divine guidance He continued the evolutionary process through His experimentation in His metaphorical laboratory that is His universe.

In His infinite timetable, not ours, He likely developed more complex life forms, giving the planet it’s vast array of living diversity. At some point during his timetable He began developing the life form that resembled Him in His own image until He was satisfied with the results, the results being what we recognize today as modern humans. And the ultimate gift we humans created in his image received, beyond advanced intellectual capacities, was our intangible, mortal souls, a gift that dictates that we humans created in his image be accountable for our actions and their consequences during our limited life spans on His earth.

And because we do not know exactly when or how we were created we have no moral right to claim what only God Himself has knowledge of.

Considering God And Religious Doctrines:

Because we were created in His image and gifted with advanced brains we should analyze all pre-recorded events to decipher what can and can not be validated. Tales passed down before we advanced mentally enough to record unfolding history, tales told and re-told over multitudes of centuries, far too often embellished and exaggerated over time, should not be automatically qualified as gospel truths.

Natural phenomena witnessed by more primitive minds and assumed to be signs from a divine source should be considered within the realms of the imaginations of the unknowledgeable. The truths we should hold Divine began with recorded history.

Always remember that faith is called faith for a reason. The faith we have should be based on our abilities to think, to question and to determine the differences between agenda based tales and the truths that we believe, through faith, to be Divine truths.

God gifted us with advanced brains and it is our moral destiny to embrace the gift He gave us.

(Leave a comment)

December 5th, 2016

10:05 pm - An ode To Our Muses

Compatible souls harness entropy,
igniting releases of energy,
unleashing the shackles of dormant states,
freeing them from a closed system’s droll fate.

When applied to pure creativity,
writers, poets, painters and composers
instinctively comprehend that treasured
inspiration comes from the kindred muse.

The source of enrichment invariably
is a muse by the definition of
a cherished friend, a family member or
anyone that offers supportive love.

The process is seldom singular and,
partnered with the endearing muse, allows
compatible souls harmoniously
to merge to enhance the humanities.

(Leave a comment)

September 24th, 2016

07:20 pm

A Short Story By Watson Boyd


August 2nd., 1:45 A.M. Bar Harbor, Mount Desert Island, Maine


No, it’s not God’s Eden. Although many who pass through here and the neighboring Acadia National Park might see it as such, this is a place west of God’s Eden, east of John Steinbeck’s Eden and James Dean’s Eden. This picturesque seaport town in Maine was given the name Eden in the late 1790s.

Once the home of pioneers, sailors and shipbuilders, later the summer home of the wealthy elite, now mostly it shelters a few thousand people who live here year round. And, during the summer months, another thousand take up residence here because of the added work. The work being to accommodate the hundreds of thousands of tourists who pass through here from spring to fall.


Next to the user friendly Saint Savior’s Episcopal Church, leaning against the old stone wall, I am sitting in the town’s two hundred year old graveyard at 1:30 in the morning.

Surprisingly well-lit by the nearby streetlights, this graveyard is a part of the appeal of this centauries old seaport town that now, for reasons that escape me, is called Bar Harbor.


Leaning against the wall, puffing on a real Cuban cigar brought across from Nova Scotia, I sit with a legal pad and pen waiting in my lap. But I am not writing anything. In fact, I’m probably not consciencely thinking. Just siting and absorbing. And this is not new to me. I have sit here a dozen times. Usually not writing. Silence is often a welcome alley for most writers.


At this time of the morning the sounds and movements given up by the night have become all too familiar. Tempered laughter and toned-down voices echo from across the nearby village green as the last of the tavern and night-club patrons amble towards their homes.

Because the tourists, with children in tow, have long since headed back to their hotel rooms, cabins or campsites, these late-night revelers are the college students who work in the gift shops and eateries until the usual ten o’clock closing time.

After ten the night belongs to the shop keepers, the locals, the artists and writers and the young at heart. And, except for the few serious or married or health conscience students, most of them head towards the flow of the alcohol and music.


Tavern closing time sends the young out onto the street and as they head towards their beds several dozen pass by the graveyard. They pass by on foot because they do not drive. In a town this small, with tourists season parking at a premium, walking has obvious advantages.

Most passing by do so with acknowledgment. On this island there is no isolation among the residents unless you choose to force it on others. Whole dimensions separate this world from an island down the coast called Manhattan.

Everyone acknowledges everyone else. And I heard and replied to a half-dozen “How’s it going, man?” or “Nice night” or “What you writing now?” greetings.


Towards 2:00 A.M. the last of the stragglers passed by. This group was comprised of three young men and two young women, all in various stages of intoxication.

One of these guys tells the others to wait, then he walks into the graveyard, passing me without notice, stops ten feet from me, turns his back towards his friends, unzips his jeans and pisses on the ground. The ground, in this case, being a grave site.

One of the girls giggles. One of the guys laughs. The third guy, a student named George, who I had talked to before, follows his friend’s lead and relieves himself the same way. The second girl senses something perhaps morally wrong and offers up a modest protect.

“Guys, this isn’t cool,” she scolds them.

“Why?” the first guy asks. “It’s not like we’re waking the dead or anything.

The first girl, thinking this profoundly humorous, laughs loudly.


As George and his friend zip up and turn to step back onto the sidewalk they notice me.

“Sorry, Doc, but we couldn’t wait,” George responds, upon seeing me.

“Yeah, too much beer,” the first guy snickers.

“What you still doing up?” George asks me.

“Just sitting here thinking about Stephen King,” I reply.

By now the third young man and the two young women had walked into the yard.

“Yeah, Steven King’s cool,” the first girl adds.

“He lives around here somewhere, doesn’t he?” her friend asks.

“No, up in Banger, ninety miles from here”, the third girl, obviously trying to impress with her knowledge, replies. “But sitting here could certainly make you think about him.”

“No, I just started wondering about him now,” I say as I rise from the grass. “I was thinking it’s too bad his powers couldn’t extend beyond his imagination, couldn’t take on a physical form like they do with his characters.”

“Yeah, that would be so cool, creepy cool but cool,” the first girl says.

“Yeah,” I respond. Looking at George and his friends. “It’s too bad he couldn’t somehow have Carrie, with her boney arm, reach up out of the ground and pull you guys down into her grave.”

They look at me and wonder what part is serious and what part is attempted humor.

“But that’s not Carrie’s grave”, George’s male friend finally replies.

“But it was still somebody’s grave,” the second girl, the one who had entered the mild protest earlier, answers.

Words are sheepishly mumbled, then the first girl takes her boyfriend’s arm and leads him out onto the sidewalk. With the other three close behind, they wander down the street. Several quick glances back at the graveyard are all that interrupt their journey home.


Alone, I stand for a moment looking at the headstones of the two graves.

One headstone read:

Albertina Nickerson
June 15, 1880
- 26 years old -

The second one read:

Anne Nickerson
June 15, 1880
- 28 years old -

Were they sisters? Cousins? One a sister-in-law to the other? How would they have died the same day? A fire? An accident? A plague? It could not have been by local Native Americans, not in 1880. Not in Maine. So, what killed these young women?

Child birth? Women before our time faced so many dangers that we can only imagine how it must have been and difficult births often took the mother’s life. But not both young women giving birth on the same day?

Then I looked around at many of the other headstones. A few lived long, hopefully happy, lives. But so many of these people died young. Life in the late seventeen hundreds, through the mid eighteen hundreds, was not easy to live. It took most of these peoples’ energy and effort just to provide shelter and food for basic survival. These people were not blessed with the lives of the affluent.


Walking away from the graveyard the only things I could think to ask myself were:

How much more relevance would we put on the lives of others, on life itself, it we were required to work as hard just to acquire basic needs? Would our few possessions carry that much more value? Would our rare leisure time be more carefully cherished? Would our achievements resonate with more gusto? And would the aging process be held to higher esteem?

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May 7th, 2016

11:32 pm - ON WHY IT WORKS

A Short, Short Story

In the cool shade of the porch Gina sat in her wicker chair reading while her father worked on his truck in their driveway. Occasionally when he grunted or emitted mild profanity she would look up and glance at his legs perturbing from under the vehicle.

It was late morning when she heard him declare to himself ‘Time out’ and she quickly responded by closing the book, rising and heading into the house. Ten minutes later she stepped back onto the porch carrying a large pitcher of iced tea and two glasses. After sitting these on the table between the two chairs Gina looked out to see him leaning against the fender of the F-100 while smiling at her.

“I just hope old Bertha hasn’t joined some faith healing religious sect lately,” he chuckled as he patted the hood of the old 4-wheel drive she had fondly christened with that name years back.

“Uh, Dad, didn’t I help you bleed the brake lines a few weeks ago?”

“Yes, and with absolute competence,” he responded as he approached the porch. “But you never know with her au contraire attitude and sometimes the Ford works in mysterious ways.”

“Like letting you think you’re funny, huh?” she retorted as she rolled her eyes.

He laughed heartedly while taking his seat in the wicker chair across from her. As he poured himself a glass of tea he noticed the book she was reading was ‘Grey Mountain’, a John Grisham novel from his own library. He wasn’t surprised by her choice because, after she had read ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’ the summer before, she announced that she intended to become an attorney.

“That’s not on your summer reading list, is it?” he teased her.

“Of course not, Poppo!” Gina replied quickly, again rolling her eyes. “I finished that list last week and this book is so cool. The heros are women and they’re women lawyers, too.”

“Indeed they are.”

He studied her silently as she returned to her reading and though about the irony of their father / daughter relationship. Though she could be stubborn at times, thought he thought she was often too serious for a ten year old, she was bright for her age and her intentions were always sincere. And she thought he was often too mellow, too understanding towards the flaws in others, Their personalities were opposites and yet they got along fairly well and their mutual affection was never strained. And it certainly helped that the one thing they really had in common was they both processed a natural wit and they enjoyed playing their quirky humor against each other, a trait that tempered and diffused their differences readily.

After he finished his tea he rose and headed into the house for a restroom break. When he returned Gina closed the book and looked up at him, waiting for what she assumed was a request.

“I could certainly use your help performing an exoticism.”

“I can do that.” she offered as she stood up.

“Well, I’m ready to reassemble Bertha but need to bleed the master cylinder clutch line first, “ he explained as they headed towards the truck.

Without needing a prompt Gina climbed into the driver’s side of the cab. Although she was not mechanically inclined by temperament she know from her observations how the clutch worked on manual transmissions because she intended to drive it herself when she acquired her licence.

“When I get back under her and give you the clue I want you to depress the petal quickly a few times,” he stated.

She nodded and he crawled under Bertha. When she heard his cue she responded.

“Clutch, you’re about the ugliest, most worthless piece of junk I’ve ever seen,” she giggled as she pushed the petal in a half-dozen times. “Seriously, we’re replacing you with a new one because you can’t handle the job.”

“Let up for a moment, Honey,” she heard him say through the floor boards.

When he pushed himself clear of the chassis she watched as he refilled the slave cylinder bolted to the firewall. Then he came to the window and instruct her again.

“Sweety, we don’t want to depress it enough to send it over the edge so this time let’s depress it a little slower, a little more gently until it starts to resist, okay?

She rendered a silly salute and he eased himself back under the truck. On hearing his cue she again shifted into whimsical gear.

“Yeah, yeah clutch, you’re not all that ugly. We know you’re doing the best you can,” she laughed as she continued pushing in the petal. And we’re giving you another chance because - “ she stopped suddenly, then called down to her father, “Pop, it’s starting to argue back.”

“Perfect,” he respond from under the floor board. “Now depress it several more times, but very slowly this time, okay?”

Gina did so until she felt the petal stiffen and called down to him.

“Dad, I think it’s got it’s spunk back now.”

She watched through the window as he freed himself from the truck. When he opened the door she scooted towards the middle of the seat while he inspected the clutch petal pressure.

“Mon Chi Chi, thanks to she’s demon free now.” he stated as she climbed out of the cab. “The rest I can handle myself, Sweety. And thank you again.”

Gina grinned, nodded her head and headed back to the porch. After cleaning the grease from his hands he followed her. Seeing that she was again reading the novel he gently patted her shoulder.

“You know, Honey, when you get older if you decide not to become an attorney you could have a great career as a comedian,” he said when she looked up and smiled at him.

Why not both?”

“Or you could go into politics.”

“Why, because these days you can’t tell the difference? Sorry, Pop, but I saw that one coming.”

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September 7th, 2015

06:09 pm - On Writing ...
'Much of our best writing is created with hearts breaking, mending or overflowing.' WW

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August 7th, 2015

05:11 pm

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June 24th, 2015

09:05 am - Our Skin Is Not The Sin

Verse By Watson Boyd

The master Architect conceived and rendered it,
by design,forever imperfectly perfect,
a physical realm just short of infinity
and filled with an abundance of variety.

With life sustaining and replenishing itself
in multitudes, from the simplistic to complex,
the Architect expected it to be maintained
by those given the usage of more advanced brains.

These were rewarded with their own varieties,
the epidermis being the palette of choice,
though under the surface they shared a common trait,
the capacity to comprehend moral fate.

The superficial shell, where the soul does not dwell,
was not destined to imply real significance.
Under the facade the value of emotions
were universally shared across all nations.

But too many imperfect humans began to
believe external appearance granted them the
false justifications to deny that we’re still
brethren under the skin, related by His will.

And those that chose to discriminate because of
body structure or pigmented tone will themselves
be segregated from the benevolent grace
reserved for those who embraced humanity's face.

(Leave a comment)

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