Archives

If you’ll have it

Jul13

image

 

Give me your heart
to tuck safely away
and I’ll give you mine
if you’ll have it.

It doesn’t look like much
anymore, but it’s
the only one I have.

It’s seen better days, I know,
I used to wear it on my sleeve.

It’s weathered many a storm,
this heart of mine.

I should have
taken better care,
it’s been broken,
but it beats stronger
now than it did before.

It gets heavy sometimes
so if it’s too much to bear
I’ll understand.

I’ve lost it a few times,
but you’re the only one
I’ve offered it too.

If you decide to keep it now
and change your mind someday,
I won’t be needing it back.

So if you give me your heart
I’ll tuck it safely away,
and I’ll give you mine
if you’ll have it.

Crystal R.Cook

Beckoning me

Jul12

stock-footage-full-moon-at-night-with-cloud-real-no-cg

Moonbeams

spill into

my darkened room,

rest a while

upon my brow,

tiptoe up the walls

and dance

with shadows

to the silent song

of my quickening heart.

I hear your whisper

in the deepest of night,

enticing me to

disencumber myself

from slumbers dominion

and steal away

to a secret place

of absolute solace and

faultless pleasure.

You beckon,

I heed your call.

Laid bare before me,

unblemished canvas

waiting, yearning, needing

to be painted

with my desire,

anxious to be claimed.

A blank page,

awaiting the touch

of my pen.

Crystal R. Cook

Gifts I would give to you.

Jul11
1911- H. J. Haverman

1911- H. J. Haverman

I long to capture
the echo of the wind,
and the first ray
of a morning sun.
A handful or two
of fluffy clouds
after a storm has come.
The melody of a song
and the silence
of whispering
angel wings,
the gentle sigh
of a day gone by
and so many
other things.
I want to scoop up
the watery diamonds
that dance
with the reflection
of the moon,
and wrap them all up
in paper and string
and give them all to you.
I love you mom . . .

They said . . .

Jul9

Image
When they told me
he would never talk,
I taught him to sing.

I mimicked his little sounds
until he began to mimic mine.

When they told me
he may never walk,
I taught him to run.

I put his little hands in mine
and helped guide his feet
toward our goal.

I fell to my hands and knees
and raced along
the floor by his side.

When they said
he would not read,
I began showing him words
and teaching him sounds.

When they said
he would not write,
I gave him a crayon
and said you can,
and he became a poet.

When they said
he would live
in his own world
I opened the doors to mine
and waited for him to enter.

Now when they say things
I raise my voice to the heavens.

God hears me
and gives me strength
to help him overcome
the limitations
they say await him.

Crystal R. Cook

I hate bipolar.

Jul6

Hate is a strong word. It wields an ugly power I don’t care to tap into, but right now I hate bipolar. I effing hate it. I hate what it does to my beautiful son. I hate what it does when it rears it’s ugly head and cycles through our home like an unyielding tornado, leaving destruction in its wake.

Tornadoes appear and disappear so quickly, there’s no time to prepare, to take shelter. No time to shield yourself, and then they are gone as quickly as they came.

They never even look back at the damage they’ve done . . . they just move on.

I hate bipolar.

Fantasy_Tornado_Monster_Storm_Clouds_Lightning_93024_detail_thumb

Rage lashes

unexpected

unprovoked

gnashing teeth

claws extended

striking blindly

Distorted thought

unbridled emotion

strike

    strike

         strike

and then . . .

Silence.

Breathe.

It curls up

in the debris

Purring, it sleeps

cradled

in your arms

 

 

 

Coming Storm

Jun26

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And a mournful disquietude

arose amidst the paean of a new order.

Mingling voices wrestling and rising

to a crescendo of wailing,

a cacophony of battle cries and laments.

Divisiveness swept through,

brother turned against brother,

friend became foe

against the backdrop

of a darkening sky.

And an evil crept in

to feed an insatiable hunger,

it fed and it fattened and grew.

It feasted on a banquet

of prideful souls,

ripe for harvest.

It chewed at the marrow

till nothing was left

but the bones of the people,

then he bid them to rise

and to follow,

leading them blind

into the abyss.

Poetry [ˈpōətrē] Defined

Jun25

poetry

po·et·ry

   ˈpōətrē

Words with

paper wings

gilded in

gossamer

string

dappled with ink

spilled from

a dream.

Crystal R. Cook

Silenced by Society

Jun25

 

silenced

Somber soliloquies

echo in silence.

Dialectic diatribes

dance amongst

shadows

to the cadence

of unvoiced

sonants

lingering

on the lips of a

pensive muse.

Sound without

substance,

song without

verse,

sight without

vision.

Meaning found

in madness,

ignorance embraced

by the masses.

Dare you not

speak aloud

the truths

within your soul

else be struck down,

silenced,

shunned, and

devoured by

the delusional,

the self-righteous,

the misinformed,

the judgmental –

(who claim not to be),

– the sheep

that have become

a plague on

the microcosm

of society . . .

Crystal R. Cook

They are always with me

Jun10

Words

They are always there.

Constant companions

following whither I roam,

lending themselves

to use as I please,

offering their worth,

asking nothing of me.

They assist me to rise,

they sing me to sleep,

they catch up my tears,

and dry them for me.

When my voice

has gone silent,

they offer me theirs,

and when it’s too loud

they soften the sound.

I’ve pushed them away

I’ve cursed them be damned

and still . . .

they remain –

without hurt or disdain,

and still . . .

they remain –

to unburden my heart

and vanquish my pain.

They make music

from thoughts,

transform what I think,

spilling my dreams out,

painting visions in ink.

My constant companions,

my most faithful of friends,

they live and they breathe

with each word that I pen.

Crystal R. Cook

The Monster is Me

Jun10
Artwork by Carl Otto Hulten

Artwork by Carl Otto Hulten

~

Always lurking, it lays in wait

hiding in shadows

cast by the light

Stealthy it stalks

just out of sight

it creeps in

and holds me

in the darkest

of night

It whispers

it taunts

it teases

with fright

Soundless echos

in the back

of my mind

I’ve nowhere to run

I’ve nowhere to hide

This thing that I fear

is somewhere inside

It slithers through thoughts

it sneaks into dreams

it binds and it shackles

with chains I can’t see

a lock without key

I cannot break free

I’m bound

and imprisoned

because the

monster is me

  . . . anxiety.

Crystal R. Cook