Scruples vs. Marbles

People have said in the past and do say, “He (or she) has lost their marbles,” and usually occurs when a person is speaking fatuously or incongruously or incoherently to them; but, when we see someone execute perform or be the agent of some action or some transaction and we conceive it be onerous it we say they’ve lost their scruples.

Well I say it is more important that a person doesn’t lose their scruples then to lose their marbles. In fact one could lose all their marbles completely because one doesn’t need marbles or what we have referred to which is their mental capacity or their memory. What people do need to retain his assent of fairness and kindness and rightness of action the kind of action which will do the most good for the highest number.

 Therefore I say when it comes to Scruples vs. Marvels, Scruples win!. The moral of the story.


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I get tears easily (for practically no reason at all; and then again) for the heart-break stories, such as this famous one:

An editor once challenged authors to write a six word story.  Ernest Hemingway did and this is what he wrote:  

Baby shoes, for sale, never used.

Do you get tears when you hear or read a story about the overcoming of human suffering?  Or the overcoming of inadequate education?  Those are the kind of tears I like to shed.

And even the simple act of seeing someone get what they have long dreamed for?

Have you ever experienced the joy of relief and new found energy when after a bout with flue or a long convalescence has ended?

What of a time when you mastered a skill that even you were on tenterhooks about?

I’m sure that you’ll agree, if you can recollect any of these, that they are truly among the great reasons life is worth living.


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First, I believe more women should train to be bull-fighters.  There would be more colorful bullfighting and a lot less bullshitting.

Secondly Life doesn’t suck and then you die. Life, if it sucks, it is that way because you or whoever it “sucks” for decided that it sucks, somewhere along the line, or they made it suck for others.  Which is more often the case.
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Sign Up And Receive One of Two Short Stories

To date I have written and published these books:

On Conquering Things (Essays & Short Stories on that subject)
What Children Know That Adults Have Forgot (Color illustrated)
Poetry My Mother Would’ve Approved
Poetry My Mother Would Not Have Approved
Poetry Even Your Mother Would Approve
Exiled To Earth (Science Fiction similar to The Martian [Recent film of same])
The Reincarnation of Edgar Allan Poe (Non-Fiction-Documented evidence of that)
Essays From A Dead Poet (Most recent–A compilation of four years of blogs, edited)     including: How To Have A Happy Death, Let’s Tax Happiness, Wisdom That Is Timeless

By signing up below you understand that the relationship between author and reader is as sacrosanct as between M.D. and patient or Attorney and  client.

The Free story can be chosen from the first title or the last. Thanks.








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The Cause of Our Disappointment

We often are the cause of our own disappointment.

Where I reside is a type of hotel that allows residency as well as guest occupancy.  Meaning, usually a guest stays at a hotel for one or two days or a weekend, sometimes as much as a week.  Motels, I’m not including.  This hotel however allows for extended stays. In reality, there is no known limit how long an occupant can reside at the hotel: there are no statues or local ordinances unless one doesn’t keep up with the monthly or weekly rates of the hotel.

Now, early on in my tenure at this extended stay hotel I would often awake early in the morning to the strident sounds of a car alarm, usually a automobile horn blaring.  Sometimes, but not as frequently this would occur after hours at night too.

It got so,  that I couldn’t tolerate the nuisance so I began making notes of the license plates of the offenders, and reporting it to the managers of the hotel to take action. I even, when it got very out of hand, contemplated doing to the violator such retribution as letting air out of all four tires or dumping egg shells on their windshield.  Anyone reading this no doubt has had such spontaneous reactions.

Just appearing with a clipboard behind the vehicle sounding off obstreperously and taking down license plate number and description of vehicle would hasten the inhibition of further occurrences of disturbing the peace. My peace for sure.

Then one day, in early afternoon while catching a bite before going out again, a similar horn blaring caught my attention. This after many months of quietude on the premises, due to, without bragging, my efforts to counteract the occurrence of a strong wind blowing, a light tap of the rear end of a car, leaning to heavily on an apron of a car, initiating a car alarm etc.

I investigated when it continued past a reasonable amount of  time, and THIS time I discovered it was my alarm, that I had set off, accidentally by sitting on my key fob.

Now, I won’t make this analogy capriciously from one instance; however, upon reflecting over my life, I can find numerous other instances where if I had acted hastily, i.e. not inspecting the area of turbulence or disquiet or double checking my facts first, I would have stepped unlightly into an even more turbulent scene. 

Perhaps readers can recall for themselves such crossroads in their reaction to unsettling or disturbing occurrences from the environment? 

General personal calmness, with clarity of thought while still being capable of much action and activity is a worthwhile state to shoot for.  Many embarrassing, sometimes costly, and certainly upsetting conflicts and confrontations can be salvaged from even occurring, before they proceed off the rails.









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Essays From A Dead Poet

My publisher, Frank Carlyle said it might be a good idea to inform my readers of a new work soon to be available. Through various bookstores and online.

Cover 7pt9 X 5pt2 Essays Ffrom a Dead Poet

Biting. funny and interesting essays.  F.A. Carlyle

For further information, please contact

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Blog Junkies

The tendency for blog responders to engage in self promotion and discusssions unrelated to the topic of the blogsite they’re visiting leads me to believe that there are numerous blog junkies, no different than drug addicts.

Let’s imagine a scenario, forbidding any global movement, just an Internet scenario where surfers and dabblers would respond cogently to blogs honestly posted.  What would that be like? 

 I have a challenge then for those who seek the spotlight on others blog sites, viz. Contact the rear two upper corners of the room, close your eyes and don’t think for several minutes.

 Send in your experiences and I’ll post them on my blog.

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 Recently I visited the local automobile license renewal office, after expired sticker tag.  A routine mundane occurrence. Then the fun began.  

 The first imprecision occurred when the clerk took my smog certificate and put that in a trash bin for later shredding, without offering a copy for my tax records. The smog certificate is for a company leased vehicle, which the registration form states.

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Women Fainting

I was reading in a journal about magic and magicians when to my eyes comes a story of women fainting when a magician runs afoul of his helpers in a trick where he is to change instantly from street clothes to that of Mephisto (The Devil in this case). The workman helping is too strenuous in his efforts, misses the mark and the magician is left standing practically naked in front of his audience, wherein “women fainted” etc.

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My Type of Poetry

I recovered this article, by chance recently, and offer the introduction of it to anyone interested in the subject of poetry and poetic expression.
–From the Nashville Scene 2004 by Pablo Tanguay

In 1980, at the height of what might be called the Era of Confessional Poetry, a literary period characterized by its obsessive inward gaze, two young poets named Mark Jarman and Robert McDowell, with one book published between them, began a revolution. Weary of the meditative obscurity they saw in contemporary poetry, from fuzzy forest poems not quite sure of their trees but sure of their feelings about trees, to the bewildering, self-referential obfuscations of critical favorites like John Ashbery, the two upstarts set themselves on a mission to rescue American poetry from itself.

The two sought to wrest poetry from the grip of an effete good ol’ poet network and return it to ordinary readers. In earlier generations, poets like Tennyson and Frost were popular in large part because they got the story right—they knew a barge from a shallop*, a birch from an oak—and because they were precise. In the muddled world of contemporary poetry, however, telling an accurate, understandable story was often perceived as the telltale sign of an unsophisticated poet who hadn’t yet broken free of such tired conventions as plot and character. Jarman and McDowell had had enough.

I too, came to the same conclusion in my readings of  “University poetry anthologies,” and submit for your enjoyment two poems that are representative of my non introspective, non meditative obscure type of poetry:

I Once Was

Once I felt the tainted saint, no more
Once I was bruised. I a’int, no more
Once was I a worn out ‘plaint, no more
A tepid boy, used to faint, no more.

Once I possessed a delirious doctrine,
Once I lived by feast or famine.
And once I feared dying the gamin,
But now I can look and also examine.

I once was afraid to decide or commit,
Once I didn’t know where I fit.
And once I could not even sit,
But now my days are sunny lit.

How Now Ground Cow

Once you were a proud
Beast of the field,
Indolent and Indifferent.
Now you are the product of
The meat factory yield.

And as I gaze at you
In my dinner plate
I weep for thee, oh
Bored Bovine of mine.

For, I too was
Indolent and Indifferent.
But I escaped your fate.
And these are happy tears
That no crocodile ever spent.

*Light sailboat

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