All's Well...

A pen and an inkwell: now far from each other, though once had been neighbors for sure. They’d been put right together, they thought, for forever, but conversing by now was a chore.

Said the pen to the inkwell, “By golly where are you? I’m useless here standing alone!?” “Why I’m way over here,” said the inkwell indignantly, “Appear I to sit on a throne?!”

See this was such a pun, since the inkwell indeed had been thrown cross the study’s wood floor. “I’ve been emptied you pin head!” the inkwell continued, by now the pen knew he was sore.

“Well your tone is quite rough,” said the pen with a huff, as she’d never quite heard him so mad. “I should think,” said the inkwell, “You might understand… with my ink gone I’m 'sposed to be glad?!”

“Glad? Why of course not,” the pen shouted back, as she tried her best now to contrive. “But just think,” she continued, “I’m happy to hear you, to know that you’re truly alive.”

“So now what should I do?” the inkwell asked timidly, wondering what more could be said. “I’m not sure,” said the pen, as she spun back around, simply scratching the point on her head.

“Are you totally empty? 100%?” said the pen in a tentative tone. “Honestly, I’d say there’s 20%,” said the inkwell, “It isn’t all gone.”

“Just enough to get upright,” the pen shouted out, “Simply muster up all of your strength!” And in no time at all, now the inkwell stood tall, well as tall as an inkwell has length.

“That’s much better,” he said, though his face had turned red, for he really had tested his brawn. “Now just climb right back up here,” the pen followed up, “for you’ve been away far for too long!”

“Just climb right back up here?” the inkwell said hastily, “That’s all you think I must do? I’ve been throttled about, my ink nearly poured out! Tell me what inconvenience have you?”

“I’ve been sitting here patiently,” replied the pen, “Been supportive and worried it’s true. See you’re my other half. I can’t fill my potential unless I am counting on you.”

“So you need me?” the inkwell said, leveraging his case, as he knew this fact quite all along. “Then I hope you remember this, next time you blame me for words that may write out all wrong!”

“Why how dare you!” the pen said with nearly a burst, of embarrassment biting her tongue. “Why it isn’t my fault! I just need a good cleaning, and I’ll write again as if I’m young.”

“Well it’s you and the floor then,” the inkwell replied, with a reference to his shiny puddle. “But I can’t come back up there, without a real hand. Why don’t you and the desk supplies huddle.”

So the pen gathered up all the other inhabitants willing and able to think: the stapler, the paperclips, envelope knife and a stamp pad of burgundy ink.

“We’ve come up with a plan,” yelled the pen to the inkwell, relaying the steps, as they’d come: “First we’ll link all these paper clips one to another, and attach to the staplers drum…

Next we’ll drop down the inkpad, for you to climb onto, and the envelope knife will hold fast. And before you can know it you’ll be hoisted upwards, beside me, the pen, at long last!”

And their plan would have worked if a one certain jerk-cat who’d started the sorted ordeal, hadn’t leapt up AGAIN where he didn’t belong, scattering desk supplies paw front to heel.

“Git now and scat!” said the man to the cat, as he shooed the foul miscreant away. “How’d you get in my study, you small wicked beast?” he asked angrily without delay.

With a hiss and a pounce, the cat he was gone, and the man started sopping up ink. “Guess today isn’t after all, quite that inspiring,” the writer said giving a wink.

by Bryande Murray

I'm telling

What happens when a storyteller runs out of stories? Really? I mean, much like clown fish and comedians, who are expected to be funny simply because of what they are, storytellers are expected to tell good stories. And not just once or twice every so often, but as a method of delivery for almost every interaction.

But is it even possible, to run out of stories, if indeed you are a storyteller? I don’t quite know if it is. Once again, making the comparison to comedians, they are what they are because of their ability to observe humor. Comedians don’t always use shtick or exaggeration to get a laugh. Often times, the reason they are funny is because they have an innate sense of what occurs around them that is funny, when no one else may pick up on it. What they are good at, is simply pointing out what made them chuckle, and bringing it to the surface for everyone else to enjoy.

It isn’t that they are always in funny situations, or full of funny material, its more so the fact that whatever they do, wherever they go, they can see the humor in it somehow. That is what makes them a comedian. I don’t think any comedian woke up one day and thought, “Hmmm. I think I will be a comedian from now on. I better start finding things that are funny.” Much like a storyteller doesn’t wake up and say, “I’d like to tell some stories. Maybe I should go find some.” It is the storyteller’s ability to see the stories in everyday happenings which makes them a storyteller. And it is a vocalist’s ability to sing that makes her a vocalist, and so on and so forth.

Yes. It's true that some people will work their whole lives trying to be something they are not. Taking voice lessons when they really don’t have a voice, or going to med school when they don’t have a steady hand. It was some time ago that if you were strong and burly you were a laborer. You lifted hay bails, or pounded steel. If you were organized perhaps you were a clerk, or if you were naturally caring you might be a nurse. The point being that you were defined by what you were capable of.

Although no one should cut themselves short with the challenges they may face pursuing their hopes and dreams, there should be some attention paid in respect to what they are good at when it comes to deciding their own fate. Ha. Deciding ones fate… what a silly term. Wouldn’t fate imply it was predetermined? But we use this phrase all the time. And it is a phrase that rings true when you come back to the issue of a storyteller telling stories.

To answer my very first question: a true storyteller never runs out of stories. If truly from the heart and soul one is a storyteller, then everything they see and do has a story to be told. Is it necessity to tell them all? No. Are they all exciting? No. But at the end of the day, what makes the story is the way in which, if ever, it is told.

A dear friend of mine often reminds me it is not our thoughts which define us, but our actions. When witness to a miraculous event, if you think, “Gee. That would make a great story,” but never tell it or simply can’t find the words, then at that moment, you are not a storyteller. But if you can find a story in each day, from how the mud got on your shoes to one crisp Saturday morning in the fall when you spotted a heron flying low over head... and you can tell it; whether short and sweet or long and romanticized, then that is when you are what you intend to be. (Assuming you want to be a storyteller) Being one doesn’t mean having an endless supply of stories to tell at all. It’s deciding your fate, and telling the stories that you see happening right before you day in and day out. And making sure that when you do, whoever’s an ear for them to fall upon will remember and enjoy what you had to say. And when you’ve finally found the perfect words and method of delivery: paper, canvas, voice or motions, and get it all out, and are finished, you have to say, “The end.”

by Bryande Murray

In spur a shun

Inspiration brought me here, quite literally and not.

Right on this very page appears, the very thing I thought.

The thing that made me stop my work, and open up this rhyme.

Cause inspiration doesn’t wait ‘til you’ve got extra time.

It comes when you are sleeping, sometimes, waking you at night.

Sometimes, while you are weeping or conversely, from delight.

It rides in on a beam of light, cascading through the clouds.

It’s brought on by adrenaline, or when you’re feeling proud.

It’s not always that obvious what inspiration brings.

All forms, and shapes and sizes, and all different kinds of things.

A picture taken just as sunset’s sinking in the sky.

The music played with fireworks, the 4^th day of July.

A gust of wind that tears your freshly washed clothes off the line.

Purple lilacs permeating, bundled up with twine.

No matter where it comes from, it is something to behold.

Cause inspiration doesn’t wait until you’re grown and old.

It barges in demanding that you give it ample mind.

It makes sure that you don’t move forward, leaving it behind.

At least that is ideal if inspiration has a say.

Depending on its source it really can go either way.

I’ve come to learn that often times, when inspiration comes,

In this case, for example, it’s like 700 drums.

All being played by 700 little angry men,

Just thump and pounding like they’ll never go away again.

Until I’ve launched this gift of inspiration on it’s course.

Creatively, to outlet what this muse is from the source.

A picture painted, simple sketch or pen and pad in hand.

Whatever it may be, most often times it turns out grand.

I always think it will be brief, or lacking in repose.

To stop and give consideration, simply said in prose.

But often times, it’s when I least expect things to be great.

That letting inspiration loose was brought upon by fate.

Cause that’s what inspiration is, it isn’t just a thought.

It’s something from within you fishing, ‘til your mind is caught.

Hook line and sinker, that is inspiration’s goal it’s true.

To captivate your mind when you have other things to do.

So when it comes and you have other things still going on,

Remember that it won’t be long before your chance is gone.

To grab a hold of inspiration, right between the eyes.

And let your motivation take you places by surprise.

It’s what just happened here, you see, as stated at the top.

Inspiration brought me here, quite literally, and not.

by bryande murray

When? What day?

A Poem on a Wednesday
By Bryande Angela Murray

I decided this Wednesday, that I’d write a poem,
But I’m having a difficult time.

See I started this once, but then I just erased it,
I ran out of words that would rhyme,

With the things I was saying, the message was off,
And the timing it wasn’t quite right.

So I had to start over, and I HATE starting over,
Cause it feels like there’s no fix in sight.

When the very first thought I had, seemed to inspire,
I should have just kept right along.

But then I got distracted, behind, lost my place,
And the words started coming all wrong.

So, now I am here, wondering what I should do,
Saying ‘How can I salvage this piece?”

I could set it aside I ‘spose, simply forget it,
And wait for the moment to cease;

Where I’m blocked and unable, to put on the table,
A poem that is worthy and grand.

Til the letters like music, played straight from the heart,
Leave my mind and flow straight through my hand.

So I’m just gonna do that, there’s no other choice,
I am leaving this “poem” deal behind.

Cause I just couldn’t find the right way to get started,
‘Guess a poem must not be on my mind.

writing on writing

How does one write about writing?
When there really is so much to say.
When saying, most often means speaking,
But the words on the page, they just lay.

To write about writing would mean then,
To put words on a page that is blank.
Then describe all the things that entail it,
And do so in a matter that’s frank.

Now I look at what just has appeared here,
And I wonder what more can be said.
Though this so far is not about writing,
Rather things as they go through my head.

So it’s back onto writing, (my topic),
Which I move to at this very line.
You see writing is like picking flowers,
You just stroll through and pick words that shine.

The ones that stand out at the moment,
Perhaps tend to be leaning your way,
Most often the words that you’ve chosen,
Get across what you’re trying to say.

Once again this dilemma concerns me,
Because words on a page have no sound.
And speaking or saying most surely,
Is quite different and often profound.

See, words on a page may lack context,
Enunciation, inflection and tone.
They may come across quite a bit different,
When they’re left to be read on their own.

While speaking conveys the whole message,
Rather clearly and just as it sounds.
To make words on a page, talk in just the same way,
Is a challenge to most, I have found.

So when writing on writing remember,
That your message does not have a voice.
A perspective for sure, an engaging allure,
How you put things is simply your choice.

If you mean it, then MEAN IT, already!
Add the touches that give it pizazz.
Punctuation, you see, just between you and me,
Can hold all of the context it has.

Be bold when you want, or italic,
When you’re getting your rhythm just right.
Add a … (dot) when you trail off a lot,
And parenthesis for added insight.

To me writing on writing seems simple,
Cause this simple act’s happening right now.
And to think when I started, although somewhat lighthearted,
My very first question was, “How?”

By Bryande Murray