The Grown-Up

This was written for Wordle 66 at the Sunday Whirl.  This poem was a progression from an innocent boy swinging on a playground, to a young man swinging at a ball, trying to make his mark in the world, to a troubled adult still swinging, but this time only at people who can't swing back.  It's hard to see people beneath their layers - to look at all of the bad people in this world, the hardened people, and imagine the children that they once were.  To try to see how they got to the point that they're at.  This was an attempt to peel back the layers of a person who never learned that swinging harder doesn't mean you'll actually be able to fly.  I hope that you enjoyed The Grown-Up.

- Scribbler :)

The Sniper

This was written for Wordle 65 at The Sunday Whirl.  I recently watched a television show in which a sniper kills half a dozen strangers at random as a cathartic conquering of past failures.  In the end of the show, just as he is about to kill someone else, he is taken out by another sniper, a "good guy".  The conflict in my mind is this: does it make it okay to kill, if you're only killing bad guys?  But then who decides who the bad guy is?  What right does anyone have to make that decision?  Yet, would it have been better to let the sniper kill an innocent person?  I don't have any of the answers, but it's worth thinking about.  I hope you enjoyed The Sniper.

- Scribbler :)

Empty Hands

A rambling chain of thoughts that stem from every loss I have experienced - of friends and opportunities and time.  "What if" is my constant companion.  I wear out my memories replaying them and rewriting them to be idealistic and sometimes I can't remember what really happened and what is just my wishful thinking.  Not exactly healthy, I know.  Written to fill empty space in a piece of art I did, so it's not very pretty, or concise, or even good, but it filled my page and felt right on paper.  I hope that you enjoyed Empty Hands.

- Scribbler :)

Differ. Halt. Imagine.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.  Love songs and stories and poems often describe being in love like flying - the weightlessness, the freedom of it something too strong to be tethered to Earth.  But unrequited love?  It is the strongest prison ever built.  The heart is frozen in time and even when the rest of you can move on there is always part of you that is marked theirs.  I have also been somewhat obsessed with bird imagery lately - eagles and falcons and the such.  Vultures are far uglier, and smellier, but even they can fly.  Writing is like flying, I think, and the more one can write honestly about life, the more one's repulsive vultures turn into eagles.  I hope that you enjoyed Differ. Halt. Imagine. :)

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Buffer. Transition. Unity.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.  I have been feeling so insignificant lately.  A nothing full of ideas that when I try to get them down on paper turn into more nothing.  I wanted to write someone like that, someone that wasn't all that special of herself, but who was special in what she could do - there is power in being able to create something out of nothing and take people to see other people and lands and times with just your words and your voice.  I liked the idea that came to me, and maybe I will be writing some of Kii's stories?  I have you enjoyed Buffer. Transition. Unity. :)

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Cling. Murmur. Taken.

This was written for the Three Word Wednesday.  I haven't written in so long.  I feel rusty - like there's not really a connection between the universe and my brain anymore.  Like when I visualize what I write, it's distant and hazy.  So this short little scribble is like something you remember when you wake up from a dream, so vivid that you aren't really sure if it happened, or if it was just your imagination.  I hope you enjoyed Cling. Murmur. Taken.  :)

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Down By The River

Been an eternity since I've written anything.  This was written for Wordle 60 at the Sunday Whirl.  The twelves words were crawl, shadows, corona, nails, vessels, brush, willow, mud, stones, trembled, bluffs, stain.  When I read the words the image that popped into my head was of this wild, wet river girl sitting in the shade of a willow tree, brushing out her hair.  I started writing - all my writing seems to take a fantastical turn - and I could see this grizzled old farmer telling a young, handsome adventurer how to find the river faery.  Maybe an idea worth pursuing?  I hope you enjoyed Down By The River :)

- Scribbler