Writing is an Itch. This is a place to scratch.

Friday, July 22, 2011

Shake(speare), rattle and roll

From the ancient mists of time
where dwelt the sages way,

the bard of all bards plied his rhymes
that took our breath away.

His words the brush on paper canvas
painted tales in august hues:

of Eden's sweet green innocence, alas
with blood-red guilt we came to lose.

But heaven intervened and sure
with message from above,

 that deep within us lies the cure,
in faith and hope and love.

Rattus! Oh, Rattus! Humm, he left his desk.
Now what has he been up to? Hmmm. 

♪ ♫ From the ancient mists of time
where dwelt the sages way ♪ ♫

♪ ♫ the bard of all bards plied his rhymes
that took our breath away ♪ ♫....

Text by Ruben Rivera©
Art by Anita Rivera©

Saturday, July 9, 2011

Nearer My God To Thee


Rattus: Ugh! My knee is acting up again. I can hardly climb the steps to our cottage. My back's a misery too. On top of that, I think I need stronger spectacles. I'm getting old, dear friend.

Tea Rat: My old da, Teadore Rat, used to say, "You know you're getting old when you used to dream about being able to fly, and now you dream about being able to walk." You know what else he used to say?

Rattus: I can't wait.

Tea Rat: You know you're getting old when your bark is worse than your bite because you have no teeth.

Rattus: Very funny.

Tea Rat: I'm joking. You're not getting old. You're getting ripe.

Rattus: That's disgusting. 

Tea Rat: What I mean is, you're maturing...like a venerable old wine.

Rattus: Stop talking.

Tea Rat: I thought you were a religious fellow. Remember the hymn, "Redeemed, redeemed, His child and forever I am."

Rattus: Right now the only hymn that comes to mind is "Nearer My God to Thee." No doubt about it, my friend, I'm headed for the long goodnight, the big sleep, the light in the tunnel, the fertilizer factory, toe-tag town, I've got one foot in the grave, I bought the farm, I'm circling the drain, pushing up daisies, checking out...

Tea Rat: ...Alright, alright. I'll take out the garbage.

Friday, July 1, 2011

I Hate the Beach

Tea Rat: Oh boy! There's going to be a beach party! I better brush up on my 1960s surfer lingo. Twitchin, dude.

Rattus: Why are you twitching dear fellow? Are you ill?

Tea Rat: Twitchin! You know, as in great, superb, cool, boss, wicked. Now come on, let's book for the beach.

Rattus: Beaches are public. Why do we need a reservation?

Tea Rat: No, not book as in reservation. Book as in to depart post haste. It's gonna be far out.

Rattus: Oh dear, I trust not too far.

Tea Rat: No dude, that's bogus. I mean far out, as in cool, twitchin. Now come on, and can you bring that cherry umbrella of mine?

Rattus: "Cherry?"

Tea Rat: Yeah, you know, pristine, perfect.

Rattus: It is a nice umbrella, but it's mine.

Tea Rat: Woah, dude. Don't try to boggart my stuff.

Rattus: "Boggart your stuff? What in the world are you babbling about?

Tea Rat: I'm babbling? Dude, you don't even know what boggart means. What a burn. What a chop.

Rattus: I think I'm going to lie down.

Tea Rat: Don't get groady on me. Don't shine me on. Aren't we goin' to shag it to the beach?

Rattus: Going to the beach just sounds like too much work.

Tea Rat: But I was so stoked to dig up some scratch for some scarfs and split to shore. We were going to have a primo, righteous time.

Rattus: I hate the beach.