What are Ozlandish Writings?

From July 2010 to December 2014 we ran OZLAND PICTURE STORIES as described below. Sadly though the number of writers reduced over the years and we decided to call it a day. We leave these as a record of the good times we had.

Are "You" ready to challenge your writing skills? Then participate in our OZLAND Picture Stories writing series at The Ozland Art Gallery.

Each month a new picture will be picked, from our OZLAND Artist of the Month collection, with different themes. Your goal is to write a 500-1000 word... poem... essay... or story about the picture picked. This is a chance for you to challenge your writing skills each month. Story can be written in ANY genre... sci fi... romance... ghost... fantasy... fiction... non-fiction... biography... mystery... historical... whatever your writing genre... feel free to experiment. Send your writing inworld to Sven Pertelson as a notecard to have it included on the web site. We meet at the The Ozland Art Gallery each Wednesday at Noon and 6pm SLT to read the latest submissions on voice. More Information

Tuesday, October 1, 2013

Scarecrow – Lillian Morpork

Tell me, Mr. Scarecrow, please,
Standing in the evening breeze,
Do you enjoy the swallow’s song?
What do you think of all day long?
Do you see the little mouse,
Gathering seeds to feed his spouse?

When the rains fall from the sky
Do you long to be warm and dry?
And when the winter winds blow wild,
Do you wish for a climate mild?
These are things my dear scarecrow
That I’d dearly like to know.

When I’m feeling trapped at home
And I’d dearly like to roam
To other lands where scenes are new,
Demands and obligations few.
And all the troubles in my life,
All the worries, all the strife
Can be forgot, and I can be
Carefree, happy, just be me.

Tell me, Mr. Scarecrow, please,
Will I ever be at ease?

You do not answer, of course, I see.
You do not know, no more than me.
We cannot see what lies ahead
What joy or sorrow our soul may dred.

I leave you here, alone to stand
As the spring sunset paints the land.
Back to the trap that is my home,
To dream and long that I could roam.

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