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#OctPoWriMo (day 12) Beneath the Poet Tree

DAY 12

Prompt ~ Imagination Stands in the Road

My current WIP has moved into the drivers seat, and as I am just a passenger on this journey paved in ink, I must follow where it leads. So, again, I’m resurrecting old words that once stopped to play with me. 

Not long ago, I typed poetry to a page, I’m not certain where my mistake was made, but it was auto corrected to poet tree. My original intent was lost, and something new began to bloom, the tale of The Poet Tree was born.

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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.

Words would waltz
and words
would breathe,
her words
would sing,
they’d sing
to me.

And I
would
slumber
neath her branches,
and dream
a paper dream

© 2017 Crystal R. Cook

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Previous Challenge Posts ~

Day 10 – Choose Them With Care

Day 11 – Playing With Words

#OctPoWriMo (day 11) Playing With Words

DAY 11

Prompt ~ Playing With Words

* * *

For day 11, I chose the alternative prompt, playing with words. It offered me the opportunity to play with one of my favorite writing apps, WordPalette. I suppose it’s much like magnetic poetry, you have words to choose from, to do with them as you please, and sometimes it turns out pretty cool, other times, not so much.

This one is a little in-between, but it says something.

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Shadows and light,

superimposed humanity.

Ghosts of the past,

no longer living,

not completely dead,

their voices scattered,

fractured, waiting to be heard.

Memories and madness

trapped beyond the veil,

interrupted existence,

desperate with regret,

seeking to save souls,

looking down upon the living,

they see walking dead.

If they would hear,

if they would listen,

it might not be too late,

they are drowning

in their own noise

in the cacophony

they create,

trapped inside a bubble

they’re not willing to break.

The dead now know,

know too well,

too late,

they see the living

scream without being heard,

shouting to the deaf,

meaningless sounds,

the protests, the discord,

the right and the wrong,

nothing more than a soundtrack

to fill voids the noise can never fill.

If only they would

welcome silence,

they would hear

the echoes of the past

pleading from the nothingness

of what awaits

the beating hearts below,

listen to us,

hear our plea,

find a way to peace,

find a different way to be.

The day is coming,

the winds of change

are raging,

and soon the rains will fall,

hang on tightly to each other,

your differences won’t matter

when the waves come crashing down,

and they’ll come crashing down on all.

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Previous Challenge Posts ~

#OctPoWriMo 2017
Day 1 – How Did You Get here?

Day 2 – We Write Because We Must

Day 3 – Cherita Poem – Metal

Day 4 – Where Does Poetry Hide?

Day 5 – Bête Noire – Now I Understand

Day 6 – Don’t Forget to Breathe

Day 7 – The Lines We Cannot See

Day 8 – What do you know, and how do you know it?

Day 9 – Twisted Wonderland

Day 10 – Choose Them With Care

 

#OctPoWriMo (day 10) Choose Them With Care

DAY 10

Prompt ~ Power

The Power of Words

 

Day 10 has been a blur . . . I’d much to do, and much I did. I cleaned, I wrote, I shopped, I wrote a little more, but not a poem, so I traveled back in time, to not too long ago, and picked a poem about power from the archives.

Words wield an awesome power – choose them with care.

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“Sticks and stones may break my bones,
but words can never hurt me.”
Oh, my precious soul,
but they can
and they do.
Words cut.
Words sting.
They echo
in hearts and minds.
Those sticks and stones
may bruise you, yes,
but bruises fade.
Scars of the flesh can heal.
Broken bones renew.
Words though,
sharp enough to etch
a mark upon the heart
fester and grow,
inflicting pain
long after
they are spoken.
Words become weapons
when wielded
without care.
But hope, too,
resides within them.
Words can heal,
mend what others
have broken.
Used as a shield, deflecting
spoken daggers aimed
at the heart.
Words, the right words,
can fell foes
and lift the fallen.
Choose them, precious soul,
choose them with
thoughtful intention.
Command them
with honor,
respect the power
they hold
and you will
find strength
within them.
Choose them wisely,
precious soul,
and use them
for your good . . .

CrC

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Previous Challenge Posts ~

#OctPoWriMo (day 9 of 31) Twisted Wonderland

DAY 9

~ Alternative Prompt ~

Pull a book off your shelf and randomly open it up to any page. The first word or sentence you land on, write from there. 

 

~ Page 57 ~

“We have to go, Alice.”

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Cheshire Cat is angry,
the caterpillar’s dead,
the flowers lost their voices,
and it seems you’ve lost your head.
 The mushroom’s all been eaten,
the drink has been all drunk,
the rabbit hole is closing,
and time . . . time is almost up.
Tick, tock, tock, tick,
don’t jump over the candlestick,
poor rabbit already burned,
oh, it’s a nasty little trick.
Now, my dear, it’s time for tea,
beside the Hatter’s grave,
Dormouse is expecting us,
 you know he hates to wait.
He might just dig him up (again)
he can’t stand to drink alone,
surely you don’t want to sit (again)
beside poor Hatter’s bones.
Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum,
have made some walrus stew,
we must hurry along, or we’ll be late,
and I’ll be blaming you.
 I’ve been meaning to ask,IMG_2659
but keep remembering to forget,
where was it you were going,
when you and I first met?
No matter now, of course,
you’ll never find your way.
Ah, but it’s been fun,
too bad you couldn’t stay.
Just think of all you’ve done,
since curiosity killed your cat,
Did you get a taste for blood?
Is that why you came back?
Was it to pet the Jabberwocky?
Did you mean to set him free?
Now he’s loose, you silly goose,
he’s been feeding on the queen.
Were you expecting someone?
There’s a knocking all about.
Never mind, it’s only me,
come again to get you out.
Hello? It’s me, It’s Alice,
I’ve come to fetch myself again.
I know I must be in there,
though I’m not certain where I’ve been.
Time is of the essence,
the hourglass, it’s almost out of sand,
and me and Alice, as you know,
belong in Wonderland.
Again, my dear, the answer’s no,
she can’t come out to play,
not today and not the morrow,
 . . . she’s still locked away.

 

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Previous Challenge Posts ~

#OctPoWriMo (day 8 of 31)

DAY 8

– Prompt –

What Do You Know, and How Do You Know It?

* * *

I went with an Etheree for this one. I usually like them to look a little cleaner, but . . . the tired has me.

An Etheree is a wedge-shaped form consisting of 10 lines with a syllable count per line of, 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10. It doesn’t require rhyme or meter, but should contain a message. Etherees with more than one verse are fun and look great on the page, just reverse the syllable count for each additional verse.

* * * 

How

do we

know the truth

of what we’re told,

lest we examine

the knowledge for ourselves,

uncover and discover,

dig deeper, find correlation,

question, search, scrutinize, understand,

that’s how we find the truth of what we’re told.

* * *

I learn by doing, by seeing, by thinking, and feeling. I listen, but that isn’t how I learn. I take cues from what I’m told, from what others try to teach, then I dig deeper, exploring, discovering, uncovering, immersing, and digesting morsels of knowledge as I find them. Facts and histories, not simply versions and diversions from truths with possible twists to fit the atmosphere of the day. I want to learn from masters and intellectual gods, not regurgitated rhetoric from someone who read a book or heard a lecture and proclaimed themselves an expert. I don’t want to know how it’s been interpreted, I want to know what is and was and will always be. Actuality, factuality, undeniable, and reliable. I don’t want to be told and expected to accept with blind faith in a system of fault and misinformation, I want to learn, to see, to touch, to examine, to read. I want to know . . .

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* * * 

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Previous Challenge Posts ~

#OctPoWriMo 2017

Day 1How Did You Get here?

Day 2 – We Write Because We Must

Day 3 – Cherita Poem – Metal

 

#OctPoWriMo (day 7 of 31) Lines We Cannot See

 

DAY 7

Prompt – Crossing the Line

* * *

We all have opinions, thoughts, and beliefs . . . but, and this has always been so, it’s sometimes dangerous to speak them. Social media has a dark side. Those who express themselves, thinking outside of the status quo, those who share an opinion someone else may disagree with, end up on the wrong side of keyboard warriors, friends become foes. Feelings are hurt, words are misinterpreted, skewed.

For the most part, I try to stay out of it all, just keep scrolling.

My silence is not tantamount to inaction. My actual actions speak for themselves. I grow weary of people flinging round the accusation that if you are not a part of the discussion, you are part of the problem. I’ve seen too many of these discussions – they are themselves, part of the problem. 

People aren’t speaking to each other, they are speaking at and against each other. People aren’t listening to hear, they are listening to find fault.

It tires me.

It breaks my heart.

* * * 

The Lines We Cannot See

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Lines drawn in

sinking sands,

invisible boundaries

you don’t know

you’ve crossed

until you’ve taken

a single step

too far,

whispered a simple word

too many,

and you’re eye to eye

with an enemy

you didn’t know you had.

Ready.

Aim.

Fire.

Your judge,

a stranger, unknown

faceless masses,

your jury,

alone before the gavel,

their wrath

becomes your

penalty.

Standing in

your own defense,

not allowed to speak,

guilty or innocent,

sentenced to silence,

unless you choose

to agree,

no recompense given,

thoughts, no longer,

are free.

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Previous Challenge Posts ~

#OctPoWriMo 2017

Day 1How Did You Get here?

Day 2 – We Write Because We Must

Day 3 – Cherita Poem – Metal