Bête Noire

Aug30

If I knew why the world
sometimes crumbles,
when the earth
neath my feet is sound,

I might forget to fall.

If I could see
the raging storm
was only a summer breeze
of a passing season,

I might not hide at all.

If I was certain
flood waters
were not rising too fast
for me to safely swim,

I might not have to drown.

If I could just believe
the fears I fear
were lies, unfounded,
figments of my mind,

I might keep both feet on the ground.

confounding little voice, whispering in the mind
infinitesimal, insignificant – ultimately powerless . . .

until

acknowledged, fed – held close to the heart like mother nestling a babe, wrap it like a cloak, a chrysalis safe and warm, cower within till it torments no more . . .

except

it’s an illusion, a blanket of lies keeping the light veiled in shadow, growing heavy, heavier in the darkness, suffocating, stealing breath, parasitic thief consuming, devouring reality, regurgitating anxiety, apprehension and despair . . .

bête noire

undeserving of avowal, recognition, appellation . . . purge, disembogue, cast out, unbaptize, reject, refuse, restrain, dethrone the beast from lofty place to bowels of depths unknown . . .

rise

ascend past heights attainable by intrusive, binding thought, look back and you will fall –

spread wings of grace and soar.

~ finis ~

Crystal R. Cook

If Butterflies Could Sing

Aug29

Oh . . . imagine, just imagine,
if butterflies could sing,
ribbons of song
trailing along
the gentle zephyrs
of spring.

Imagine if their voices
painted the morning skies,
and we could see
each note and key
beautifully blend
before our eyes.

Can you just imagine
butterfly voices ring,
in songs of grace,
writ in gilded lace,
on each delicate
gossamer wing.

Crystal R. Cook

Casting Out & Letting Go

Aug28

I put my nightmare in a bottle
and I cast it out to sea,
I watched it ebb and flow
as it drifted back to me.

I filled it up with pebbles
from the sandy shore,
so certain it would sink,
I threw it out once more.

I waited and I watched
until it surfaced once again,
I snatched it from the water
and cursed it for its sin.

All the night I tossed it
into that lonesome sea,
through salty tears I prayed,
I would at last know peace

When the sun cracked the horizon,
I was spent of all my strength,
that nightmare in the bottle,
lay in the froth beside my feet.

I turned and walked away
as the tide began to grow,
it took away my nightmare,
and I did not watch it go.

My mother always told me to let go and let God, I’ve found this isn’t always easy to do. We tend to hang on to the very things we need to release, keeping ourselves bound to them.

We clutch them close and try to fix them on our own, we let them go only to take them right back. Instead of releasing them and moving forward, we nurture our pains and we feed our sorrows.

We wear our burdens like armor then ask God why we must bear the weight of them. The answer is so simple, yet so easily cast aside . . .

He is waiting for us to lay them at His feet and walk away.

Crystal R. Cook

Somehow Separate

Aug27

Outside of myself.
Walking wide-eyed
through dreamless dream.
I feel the wind
tickle my skin,
I smell the neighbors
breakfast biscuits through
open kitchen windows,
My feet touch
the floor but,
I float, somehow
disconnected, watching me.
Thought and action askew,
the soundtrack in my mind
ever so slightly ahead or perhaps
the day forgot to begin on time.
Two planes of existence
struggling to coincide or
break away.
Discord.
Harmony disrupted.
Separating. Separated.
Separate.

Crystal R. Cook

Reality Check

Aug22

Going through the shoeboxes again . . . I distinctly remember the day I wrote this. I was tired. So, so, very tired. The week had been a whirlwind of medical appointments, two IEP meetings, my husband was out of town, my blood sugars were high, and my energy was low.

Autism was in charge and it’s sidekick Bipolar was running amuck. I was outnumbered and out of my mind – Thankfully, a little reality check pulled me back.

Seems like only yesterday sometimes

I remember reading something once about about people with unsinkable souls, I believe I am an unsinkable soul. I simply must be. If I weren’t, I certainly would have drowned in whatever sea of muck souls sometimes sink into long ago. I’ve felt myself being pulled under a few times, but I always manage to pull myself up for air. Sometimes, I even manage to find dry land.

I recall one particular night when my toes were just about to reach the bottom of this proverbial, soul-sinking pit, and I was ready to throw in the towel, search out a nice little cave and see if it was possible for a human to hibernate. Ultimately, I decided it sounded like too much work and made one last attempt to free my sinking soul from the murky depths by reaching for my pen.

Miraculously, I managed to pull myself up and I began to write. I was going to pour my heart out on the page. It was going to be a gloomy piece, a somber and sad work of words. It’s often said writing is a healing art. I’ve never doubted it to be anything but true, but I may have taken it for granted now and then.

On this night, as my tears fell to the yellow pad beneath my hand, transforming my words into water-color patches of blue, I was reminded of the awesome power writing holds. I did not pen a masterpiece that night. I did not create an epic tapestry of words that would go down in poetic history. It was not my best writing, nor was it the worst.

It was also not what I thought it would be when I began. It turned out to be something that dried my tears, made my husband laugh, and my children smile. Writing is a healing art.

Peace and quiet . . . Solitude and rest,
someone else to cook the meals, someone else to clean this mess.
Someone else to do the laundry and mediate the fights,
someone else to sweep and dust and get up and down all night.

Oh, for just one day, I need a little break,
I need someone to give, instead of take, take, take.
Let me have a little nap, for just an hour or two,
a rejuvenating rest sounds like a wonderful thing to do.

I’d love to take a shower till the hot water is all gone,
I simply can’t imagine staying in there for that long.
I could actually take the time, to shave my legs tonight,
and I’d love to go to bed sometime before midnight.

I could paint my nails or polish up my toes,
I could curl up on the couch and catch up on some shows.
I could read a book and maybe have a cup of tea.
I’m not trying to be selfish, I just need some time for me.

REALITY CHECK

The kids say they are starving, they are on the brink of death,
you can’t make it down the hall unless you watch your step.
The dryer keeps on buzzing and someone just got punched,
I don’t think I’ll get to take that nap, but that is just a hunch.

I’m sure I’ll get to shower, sometime late tonight,
when the kids have given in to the sleep they like to fight.
The hot water will be gone between dear hubby and the dishes,
so I’ll keep that dream close to heart with all my other wishes

Maybe I’ll just shave my legs tomorrow or the next,
I’ll wait for a new razor, I think this one has been hexed.
Most my nails are broken so I’ll pass on that one too
the other stuff sounds nice, but I’ve got too many things to do.

Like drop from sheer exhaustion and drift off to sleep and dream,
of perfect little children and a house that’s always clean.

REALITY CHECK

The morning sun has risen, a new day lay ahead,
and there’s a morning snuggle bug curled up in my bed.
I wrap my arms around him and hold him near my heart
I cannot think of a better way for a brand new day to start.

I really can’t imagine someone else to take my place,
and chance missing a precious little smile on a dirty little face.
The housework’s not that bad, not compared to other things,
like the joy and love and laughter having a family brings.

Crystal R. Cook

Her Little World

Aug17

She sits and picks the wild daisies
that grow in the cracks on the sidewalk,
she thinks they must have broken it
as they began to grow.
Careful not to step on the ones
she leaves behind, she skips along
down the road until she reaches
what she calls the river.
Kneeling there, where the sidewalk
meets the road, she drops the petals
one by one into the raging rapids at her feet.
She watches them dance in the waters flow
until they reach the end of the line,
disappearing into the darkness she’s
too afraid to explore. She tells herself
it’s just a place where the rain
and candy wrappers go, but she’s uncertain.
There’s a tree on the other side of the road,
the neighbors say they’ll be cutting it down,
but they never do. She’s pondered a protest
like the ones on TV, but she doesn’t think
it will come to that, at least that’s what her
father says. She almost forgets to be afraid
as she reaches the creepy house on the corner,
thankfully, she reminds herself just in time.
This is her world, one end of the street
to the other. She doesn’t know it’s much bigger
than this, with dark places and creepy houses
and trees people don’t care about anymore.
She’s always careful not to step on the daisies,
she doesn’t yet know everyone else thinks
they’re nothing but weeds.

Crystal R. Cook

You Painted Me a Picture

Aug17

You painted me a picture once,
a long, long time ago.
The colors came to life,
and set the room aglow.
They danced within the shadows,
Did you see them there?
And, oh, the melody it sang, so sweet,
I still can hear it in the air.
It tenderly embraced me,
such warmth upon my skin.
I wish you’d written down those words
so I could hear them once again.

Crystal R. Cook

Take Refuge

Aug16

The self-appointed mighty
stand upon precarious pedestals
of judgment and power,
built from the ruins
of what could have been.

They placate the people
with empty platitudes
and false promises,
just enough to quell
their concerns
and keep them
from questioning
the hidden agendas
they do not want known.

The weak are so willing
to worship at this
looming altar of illusion,
carrion for the vultures
to fill their already
bloated bellies.

They spew proclamations
of progress carefully
crafted to deceive,
like snake oil
peddlers of old,
they sell their lies
and the people buy
without question,
it’s easier than thinking
for themselves.

They drink the Kool-Aide
while begging for more
even as the poison
consumes them.

A surrender of self
is underway,
conform or be cast out,
set adrift in a dying sea.

Stand up and be shot down,
speak up and be silenced.

You have the
right to listen
but no longer
the right to speak,
unless of course,
you’re reading
from their script.

They’ve lined
the citizens up,
filed them into
a maze, all
vying for some
non-existent prize.

Misguided and
delusional, dropped
into an inescapable
labyrinth, lab rats
bending to the will
of their captors,
easily manipulated,
completely expendable.

The puppet masters drool
as they watch their folly,
not even knowing
they’re attached to strings too.

With feigned disdain
they watch the innocent suffer,
quantifiable loss is ignored.

Mindless masses
frolic like fools,
but there’s a storm coming
and they refuse to take refuge.

The weatherman says
it will pass them by,
the weatherman is always right,
except when he’s wrong.

There’s a storm coming
and it’s going to rain.

Oh, how it will rain.

Crystal R. Cook

Eye of the storm

Aug15

Words in red
twisted, eliminated
misconstrued and abused

The master canvas
crumpled and creased
ripped into pieces
used as a crutch

Forged into weapons
of self-righteous wrath
in a pointless war

Brother against brother
mothers in anguish
children in fear

Faith is punished
belief is crushed
beneath boots
of misguided
soldiers and
false profits

Pretend gods
are worshiped
from altars of lies
the Son is denied

Judgments are passed
without jury
the accused have no
recourse or defense

Criminals without
crime sentenced
to silence
shunned for swimming
against the tide
refusing to melt into
the mindless mass
society has become

In the eye of the storm
no one seems to see
the damage
that’s been done

There may be
nothing left
when the blind
finally open
their eyes

Crystal R. Cook

Renewal

Aug15

Slivers of light
pierce through
my darkness
slicing the shroud
under which
I’d taken
what I thought
was refuge
Rays of hope
filter through
my secret place
boring into my
psyche like
burning shrapnel
aimed straight
for my heart
Filling the empty
places with pieces
of dreams
and promises
once removed
for reasons
long since
forgotten
Consumed by
their warmth
welcoming them
home repenting
their eviction
with a vow
to nurture them
once more