Pythian Games

Scavenger Hunt

Posted in Art, KerryWordsmith by kvwordsmith on March 16th, 2008

(inspired by Mad Challenge - headlines collage)

Kerry Vincent (c) 2008

Life is like a Scavenger Hunt.  I go around collecting experiences, taking them home, dumping them out, seeing what I found.  I put a little bit of everything in my bag:  good, bad, silly, weird stuff no one else has any use for.  I recycle the bits and pieces and try to make something new. 

“Knock-knock” on a neighbor’s door.  “Do you have any sad stories to spare?  Some old memories you’re tired of dragging around?  Disapointments you’d like to forget?  Any slightly-used jokes?  I don’t mind second-hand material.  Got some characters getting on your nerves?  Dump ‘em right here in my sack; I’ll find a way to use them.  Tired of your old routine?   I can help.  Timing is everything.

I’ll haul anything away, no questions asked.  I can make something out of almost nothing.  My bag can hold more than you can imagine.  What do I do with all this junk?  Take it back to the party, see what the other players found.  Mix it all up, make something new.  What’s the prize?  I don’t know.  Don’t really care.  I just like playing the game.  

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Dark Muse

Posted in Art, KerryWordsmith, Live Poets Stadium by kvwordsmith on March 14th, 2008
poster
(Inspired by Soul Food Cafe prompt to give thanks to a creative ally)
He fears the blank wall but he must face it.  The pen burns his hand but he cannot let go.  The words are ghosts that haunt his body and his mind.  He does not want to see them, but there they are, a cold presence, that must be released to find peace.
She watches him.  She will not let him go.  He must face his fate, dree his weird.  He has things to say, things he does not know, that he will not know until he says them, until he writes them on the wall of his soul.
He is naked.  He can hide from himself no longer.  His way is lonely, but he must go on.
He nurses at the dragon’s teat.  He sucks the danger, spits the poison,  sacrifices himself to save his people. 
No one knows of his silent suffering,
but a few others chained to the Muse.
It is the way of the artist,
the salvation of creativity’s soul.
by Kerry Vincent (c) 2008
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