Blank Pages

Blank pages scare me.


It's because they stare so hard, so blatant, so unabashed. Oh, the nerve! There they are, usually one piled atop another, with their parallel blue lines, just waiting. Perhaps they want me to tickle their fancy with ink rhymes about spoons, moons, and raccoons? Or maybe the white spaces are looking for clickity mechanical pencils to uncover stories about teenage tandem-bicycle joyrides? What if the cursor sits and blinks, blinks, blinks, but can be put out of it's annoying, repetitive misery by typed words about this country girl I know who wore cowboy boots to her wedding and slept in the bed of a pick-up for her honeymoon?


Oh wait! I have something here, a poem-story-poem merger:


long after the honeymoon
a raccoon 
tried to eat the moon
with a spoon
But since he couldn't reach the moon he opted for one of my son's red-feathered laying hens. One dead chicken, one sad kid, and one mad mamma. The next day I found mister black eyes, harassing the girls by trying to wring their necks right inside of the coop. In broad daylight, no less. So I shot at him. I missed that mean ole 'coon 
but now he eats the moon 
with a big hole 
in his spoon.




Blank pages scare me.


What about you? What scares you more, blank pages or words that I have written?




  


* Thank you for all of your prayers and thoughts and kind words regarding my equine mishap. I am much better, but I overdo it a bit and then have to take it easy; we have a lot going on here at the ole ranchola. Basically, I think something shook free as a result of my recent head-thumping because I have oodles of noodles, no, actually, I have oodles of stuff I have penned. I caution you to read it at your own risk because oodles of noodles make for interesting blog fodder... whatever.