My knuckles crack, and split, and bleed,
And my gaze blurs with sandpaper eyes,
The wind devours everything in its greed,
Punctuated by a raven’s throaty cries.

I feel thin, and stretched, and fragile,
Too little skin shielding me from the heat,
The wind rips and rends and I unravel,
Standing against it is more than a feat.

My head throbs, and aches, and pounds,
A hammer bursting through at my temples,
The wind gusts and the pressure abounds,
The resulting misery is beyond ample.

I long for relief: cool, and dark, and calm,
Someplace I can hide away from my pain for the day,
The wind sucks at the the windows, singing its song,
A disheartening and troubling raucous bray.

Image Credit: psychonaute

My knuckles crack, and split, and bleed,
The red of my life spills across the paper,
The wind tosses it like a tumbling weed,
Punctuated with a thousand cutting sabers.



He sifted through his vision board,
Checking off each image in turn,
Purchased he had, A Mustang built by Ford,
He’d attended that concert in the desert where the man does burn,
A guitar, he had learned how to play more than just a chord,
A turntable, beat matching was a skill for which he no longer need yearn,
On and on through the images he went,
Marriage, home ownership, pets, a family, done this and that feat,
Until finally the realization, smiling, a shiver up his spine sent,
He had everything in his life he had ever wanted, he was complete.
To empty the board, one by one he took the images down, their usefulness was spent,
Then he started to fill it up again with images of the destiny his future self would meet.


Another prompt for the promptless courtesy of Rara:


Wednesday, May 22, 2013

A vision board is a collage or collection of images of tangible and intangible things you want in your life.


Our lives compounding
The world keeps spinning
As we try to keep from falling

One after another keeping me busy
All the colors are pretty
As my head gets dizzy

Don’t know how much more I can take
My mind feels like it is ready in pieces to break
As I start pondering getting off this ride for sanity’s sake

One of those constants and guarantees in life
They surely aren’t meant to cause strife
As I lovingly gaze at my wife

For the better or for the worse
I can go on for one more verse
As I try and hold back a curse

It makes us a who we are
Helps us reach for the stars
And we try to keep from falling

Guest Post: The Scribbler on a quest

The Scribbler  journeyed through the kingdom today, on a quest in unfamiliar territory.  No, she wasn’t searching for the holy grail, but for answers, for silliness, for truth – or as close as we can get to any of those things here:

The streets look different here. I can’t find the usual doodles. I can’t hear any melodious indie music being played out. And the books — where are all the books? Where are all the what if stories, the scripture paraphrases, the whimsical rants and raves?
Something tells me we’re not in Scribbleland any more, Toto.
I look around, trying to find any clue that would establish my current location. Poetry. Pictures of cats. Oh, a picture of a dog, too. Wit, humour, blogging awards — a western comedy that I have yet to look into. Hmmm.
Finally, I see the sign. Ah! “The Matticus Kingdom”.
Toto wags his tail and we start skipping down the bluish brick road. The court jester must be here somewhere. I am told he’s the one who keeps this place running. I am told he’s the one who makes the whole kingdom come to life.
I must find him.
I have some questions, you see. Why does a red cow give white milk when it only eats green grass? If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, where’s the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked? And why couldn’t all the kings horses and all the kings men put poor Humpty together again?
They say the jester can answer questions such as these. They say the jester is good at responding to riddles and prompts. So he must have answers for the questions I’ve asked above.
If he can answer them, then he must know how I can get myself transported back to Scribbleland again.
I prance through the unfamiliar road with Toto cradled in my arms, heading towards the great city where the court jester is said to make his rounds.
The Scribbler
I hope I don’t meet any scarecrows, tin men, or lions along the way.

We do so enjoy visitors here in the kingdom, and we always strive to make them feel welcome and answer any questions they may have.  That’s just how we roll.  So, the scribbler had questions, and I as the jester have the answers:

Why does a red cow give white milk when it only eats green grass?

As we all know, white is what you get when you have the full spectrum of colors at play.  So, the red cow eats the green grass, and its blue intestines process the food, yellow and brown by products are produced, and voila, we are left with the delicious white milky goodness.  Why are you laughing?  That’s totally how it happens!  Fine, you want the truth: magic.

If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, where’s the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?

Silly Sally saw the pickled pepper soaking up salt down by the sea shore.  Surely, she thought, those picked peppers should sustain her since she skipped something sumptuous and savory after sun salutations that same morning.  Silly sally pondered the pickled peppers too long and sadly saw them wash out to sea.  Okay, okay, that’s not really what happened.  The truth: Peter Piper ate them.

And why couldn’t all the kings horses and all the kings men put poor Humpty together again?

An excellent question, a very excellent question.  The king’s horses and the king’s men were willing and able to put Humpty back together, but, unfortunately Humpty didn’t want to pieced whole again.  They couldn’t help him until he was ready to admit he had a problem.  I was there, it was brutal, he had completely cracked up, but despite all the offers of help he just wasn’t in the right frame of mind yet.  It was all very sad.  No?  Really?  You don’t believe that answer either?  Fine, here, once again, is the truth: Humpty was kind of jerk, and while the horses did their best, the men didn’t really give it there all.  It wasn’t that they couldn’t, they just didn’t want to.

He must know how I can get myself transported back to Scribbleland again.

Of course my dear Scribbler, of course.  Though, why are you in such a hurry to leave?  Alas, that is a question for another time perhaps.  To get back to Scribbleland we need some help from the rest of the residents of the kingdom, all they have to do is click on the links below and you will be swept up and sent home:

toasts to friends

I wanted to take a few minutes and raise a glass, or two, (or six) to my friends:

To those who I can go months without talking to and then on a whim pick up the phone and chat as if we spoke every day.
To those who find joy in me just being me, silliness and all.
To those who started as enemies and have grown to fast friends over the years and tears.
To those who inspire me to want more for myself than I would have gone after on my own.  You show me the way.
To those struggling with life changes who may now need me to be the friend to them that they’ve always been to me.  I won’t drop the ball.
To those who seek to squeeze every last bit of enjoyment out of this world.  You are without peer.

…. urp ….

I guess I better sit down now before I …. urp …. fall over.