The Border I have Built


Border – a Six Sentence Story

It was always meant to keep people out, not everyone, there is a door of course, one I’ve locked up tight and hidden away the key.

I built it stone by stone, piece by piece with my own two hands and it’s served its purpose well.

I’ve made a home behind this wall, where it’s comfortable, safe, and warm.

The only way in is to be invited, and sometimes even then, I may ask my guests to leave.

It’s quiet here, so very quiet here, sometimes it is too quiet here.

It was always meant to keep people away, a border between them and me, but sometimes I forget the way out and the only one in here is me.

A Thursday Throwback – Heed my warning . . .

Giuseppe Mentessi, Despairing Woman 1901

Giuseppe Mentessi, Despairing Woman 1901

‘Tis a cautionary tale I have to tell. 

Oh misery. Oh woe. 

Of woe and misery I speak.

Ne’er a more wretched creature than I could be made to endure such a beautiful morn as this. Tis this truly the light, come at last to dispel the darkness of this long and enervated night? Alas! This loathsome, beautifully vexatious blaze dost pierce mine eyes as penance for enterprises I indulged throughout the night.

I beseech thee night, come back! Come back and cast upon me again thine shadows, dispel this light which illuminates my gloom with ray upon ray of golden glare upon my solecism, upon my sin. Let it leave me till the morrow – let me linger still beneath thine darkened shroud. Let tarry the sun, and the birds of song, let them tarry too, for I, wretched beast I have become, am weary.

I must make haste to close the windows and draw the shades, and beneath cascade of curtain, dispel this morn mine eyes cannot yet be made behold, and sleep, sleep until this melancholy and madness takes leave of me. Sleep, sleep. Sleep until the morrow.

Twas mine own folly. Twas mine own lamentable vice which left me in this state. I own this misfortune, indeed, it twas I, welcomed it with open arms, unconcerned with repercussion of mine own action. If blame be assigned, I bear sole burden of it. If my machinations be damned, so damn them. I knew better, and better I chose not. Fie!

Throughout the longsome night, the bells tolled with each hour, beseeching me to quit the obsession and pay them heed. I did not, holding fast to my indefatigable resolve, if not quickening it, to ignore my sensibilities and feed the hunger I could not seem to sate.

It began in innocent effort to abate a tedium birthed by the boredom of a restlessness I found myself unable to quell. I chanced upon a singular activity to pass the time I’d begun to despise and despair of, then grew from that accursed remedy, a desire, a rapacious longing, increased with each passing hour, to indulge this delight regardless of all rational inclinations to abdicate myself from the thing I discerned to be draining me of thought and vitality and constitution, accounting for my now fearsome countenance as I pen these words to the page before me.

Oh, dearest stranger, and oh, thine most especial of friends, lend your sensibilities to these words I’ve imparted, lest ye arrive at a fate such as mine, make no vigil of a Netflix original . . .

© Crystal R. Cook 

Beneath the Poet Tree

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I’ll tell you
a tale
once shared
with me,
of a magical place
and the
Poet Tree,
where muses
dance
in the
gentle breeze,
and butterflies fly
with gossamer wings.

It’s been told
a word
was planted,
and a tree began
to grow,
the trunk rose
high above,
the roots reached
far below.
Her branches lifted
toward the sky,
upon each leaf
a poem
was writ,
she shaded
wandering scribes,
who chose
that place
to sit.

Some say
the tree
called out,
to those it felt
would hear,
they sensed a
gentle pull
when they
dared to
venture near.

They say
the leaves
would whisper
in softly spoken
rhyme,
with pure and
perfect recitation,
line by
lovely line.

They felt a
temperate presence,
like a ghost
from days
of old,
weaving words
around them,
so the story has
been told.

With unseen
inspiration,
their words
began to spill,
filling full
their parchment,
emptying
their quills.

Oh, how I long
to hear
her softly
whispered plea,
to take
my place
and rest
and write
beneath the
Poet Tree.

With pen
in hand
and heart
agleam
I’d script
the hopes
and thoughts
inside me,
and words
would waltz
and words
would breathe,
upon a stage
they’d sing.
The words
would dance,
they’d be
dancing
with me,
while I dreamed
a paper dream.

© 2017 Crystal R. Cook

Wishing & Waiting

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S’il vous plait . . . as you wish . . . but not just this moment. I would, if I could, gift your hearts desire, if only I could – if only.

Words. Spoken without meaning, knowing my yearning could not be quelled, would not be quelled, not yet.

Not now, not at this time, perhaps when morning comes.

I hunger through the night with bitter longing, anxiously awaiting the morn when he’ll rise and grant me my wish. But when the morning arrives he whispers, “Wait.”

And wait I must, and wait I will.

It’s better this way, the donuts are fresh in the morning.

Written for 100 Word Story – “wish”

Brought to us by Thin Spriral Notebook 

 

Oh, but I will rise . . .

Enemy Within by Crystal R. Cook

Thought and intellect cannot quell the voice within . . . it slithers beneath the surface of who I know I am and who I know I’m meant to be. It whispers lies, it screams in a cacophony of silence, a deafening roar to bind me.

I tell myself I’m safe, it tells me there is something to fear. I tell myself the skies are clear, no storms gather up above, it points to distant clouds and says, oh, but here they come.

I breathe, I pray, I think on other things, but still, it speaks.

I tell myself I’m strong, it reminds me I am weak. I battle this voice, I’m a warrior without a weapon facing a foe no one else can see, knowing I mustn’t surrender, lest it become all that is left of me. It tells me I’m a prisoner, trapped inside a shell, but I know – I know, I will escape this hell.

I breathe, I pray, I think of other things, and I begin to speak.

I reclaim my voice and rebuke the spell that brought me to my knees, I am bigger, I am more. I will not surrender to the trespasser trying to rob me of my peace. There are cracks somewhere within me I hope one day to repair, sealing forever the places the thief finds its way in, until that day I’ll continue to fight, and I’ll continue to win.

Anxiety, visceral disquietude buried deep inside, engaging me in battle. This enemy may knock me down with doubt and fear and lies, oh, but I will rise.

© Crystal R. Cook 2017

Written in response to The Daily Post – Visceral 

 

Daily Haiku Challenge – Booknvolume Blog

Morgan, at the Booknvolume blog, is running a Daily Haiku Challenge, and I kind of love haiku, and I always love a good challenge as well. Believe it or not, Haiku can prove quite challenging.

The goal of haiku is to fit something filled with meaning into three short lines consisting of 17 syllables in total, it needs to invoke feeling, and make sense. This is how I’ve always thought of haiku.

Traditional Japanese haiku is, for lack of a better way to say it, simple complexity. I’ll likely never master it, but I do enjoy trying.

A recent walk around the neighborhood served up inspiration, and fortunately, I was able to capture it . . .

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Nature thrives divine
despite effort made by man
to maintain control

cRc

Tanka Poetry Challenge, Lady & Portrait

 

Rambling Writer hosts a weekly tanka poetry challenge and I was happy to find it! Currently, this fun challenge is on week 59 . . .

I love tanka poetry, like haiku, the form utilizes a set number of lines and syllables. Haiku consists of three lines, with 5/7/5 syllables respectively, while tanka consists of 5 lines, with 5/7/5/7/7 for its syllable count.

Portrait and Lady are the two words chosen to tickle the tanka bone. My creative juices have been but a trickle of late, thank you, Rambling Writer, for some much needed inspiration.

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Leonardo da Vinci “Virgin on the Rocks”

Master of each stroke
caressing canvas with brush,
chiaroscuro,
giving pigment breath of life,
portrait of a lady fair

cRc