#OctPoWriMo (Day 6 of 31) Pacing the Floor – Don’t Forget to Breathe

DAY 6

Prompt – Pacing the Floor

* * *

img_260627 steps, round way trip, 54,

with a detour, add 42,

maybe more.

Count them, tap them

with fingertips

and soundless word,

lip sync pantomime,

don’t let the panic free.

   12, 13, 14, 15,

      don’t forget to breathe.

   Go round and round,

again,

   once more.

Look up.

   Everything is fine.

Full stop.

     Everything is fine,

like it was before.

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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

The Tale of Pervert Schmidt

– It was past the midnight hour, it made sense at the time –

I often rise and write in middle of the night, sometimes I’m awake and coherent, other times – not so much. You know how when you’re dreaming, things make a weird kind of sense they certainly never make in the light of day? Well, my nighttime romps with words are sometimes like that.

This made sense. It did. I woke up thinking I’d written a little love story about two people who thought they would never find love because they were never quite accepted for some reason, until they find it with each other.

I kind of did that, but not the way I thought I did. 

So . . . I can’t believe I’m even sharing this – I give you the awkward love story of P and I.

* * *

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Pervert Marion Schmidt. Yep, you read that right. His name was Pervert. You see, Pervert’s mother was minus a few marbles, in the most innocent of ways, and his father lived to see and make her happy. 

When they welcomed in the new love of their lives, a brand new baby boy, momma looked at him and declared his name would be Pervert. She meant no harm of course, she thought it sounded manly, like Herbert, but better. Father couldn’t bring himself to tell her anything different.

His initials, in case you hadn’t noticed, were PMS. Life for little Pervert was rough. When he was old enough, and after momma passed away, (he couldn’t bring himself to tell her either), he changed his name to P. No middle initial, Just P Schmidt.

PS, like the almost forgotten things people leave at the bottom of letters. Post Script, it suited him well, he often felt like a post script, nothing more than an afterthought. 

Then one day he met a woman, she introduced herself as I. Her name was Icky. It wasn’t meant to be, of course, but a careless hand forgot the V when scribbling out her birth certificate. Icky Love (because her parents loved her so) Underwood. It hadn’t been easy for Icky. When she was old enough, she changed her name to I. She signed her name, I Love Underwood. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better.

They met waiting in a too long line at the DMV, struck up a conversation, went out for coffee, and before they knew it, they were spending every free moment they had in each others company. I’m sure you can guess what’s going to happen next, but it almost didn’t.

P was falling in Love with I, but he wasn’t certain she felt the same and he started spending less time with her, just in case. He’d spent a long time feeling overlooked or undervalued. Spending most of his life chained with the name Pervert, left him with little confidence. A thing like that leaves a guy with some baggage, you know?

Poor I was confused. P wasn’t returning her calls so she sent him a letter.

P,

I haven’t heard from you in a while, I just wanted you to know I miss you.

Oh, and PS, I Love Underwood

When P read that letter he knew nothing from the past mattered. He called I. They were married not long after. When their first little bundle of joy was born, a beautiful baby boy, they named him Steve. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bête Noire #OctPoWriMo (Day 5 of 31)

DAY 5

(It’s still day 8, in which I kind of, sort of cheat) I #AmWriting, but it took on a life of its own and became something else, for some other time, SO, I tiptoed into the archives and borrowed some old words to replace the ones I was going to use )

Prompt – I Finally Understand

Anxiety – I’ve come to an understanding . . . I will never fully understand it. BUT, I now can recognize and fight it when it pays a visit.

* * *

Bête Noire - by Crystal R. Cook

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 you will soar.

~ finis ~

Crystal R. Cook

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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 4 of 31) Where Does Poetry Hide?

My Words by Crystal R. Cook

DAY 4

(it’s day 8, I caught up, then fell behind, still writing)

Prompt – Where Does Poetry Hide in Your life?

Poetry is everywhere

* * *

It flows round me and within me, it’s in the air I breathe,
it’s in the shadows that I cast, and in my midnight dreams.

It’s in the tears I won’t let fall, and in the ones I have to weep,
it’s in the honest truths, I do not dare to speak.

It’s hiding in my weakness, it roars within my strength,
it’s in my greatest victories, and in my worst defeats.

It’s in my every heartbeat, it’s where my love resides,
it’s in battles I must fight, it’s where my doubt and faith collide.

It’s there when I lose hope, and when my hope’s renewed,
it tiptoes through my nightmares, it’s in my dreams come true.

It’s in my day to day, my yesterdays and tomorrows,
it’s in my pleasure and my pain, in my happiness and my sorrow.

It’s in my stops and starts, and in the breaking of my heart,
it’s with the thing I sometimes fear, may be hiding in the dark.

It’s part of all my ins and outs, and all my in-betweens,
it’s in everything I imagine, it’s in everything I’ve seen.

It’s in words which I have spoken, and those I’ve left unsaid,
it walks among the living, it whispers with the dead.

It lies beside the monsters, underneath my bed,
it’s everywhere I go, and it’s where I dare not tread.

It’s in what I’ve whispered, it’s in what I’ve spoke,
it’s in promises I’ve kept, and promises I’ve broke.

It’s in everything I do, in everything that shapes me,
it’s in the fabric I am made of, it’s in the things that break me.

It’s in what I’ve hidden, it’s in what I’ve found,
that’s where my poetry hides, that’s where my poetry abounds . . .

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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

#OctPoWriMo (Day 3 of 31)

 

DAY 3

(it’s still day 4, I’ve almost caught up with the crowd! )

Prompt – The Taste of Metal

Write a Cherita using the following prompt as inspiration – The Taste of Metal

A cherita is a form of poetry referred to as hexostitch. It is a 6 line, 3 stanza poem. The first stanza is 1 line, the second, 2, and the third, 3. Cheritas are typically untitled and unrhymed, each cherita should tell a tale.

(Sometimes I follow directions, sometimes I use them as coasters. There is metal in my cherita, it just isn’t being tasted . . .)

* * *

Small metal box, cold to the touch, wrapped in the tulle of an old wedding veil.

Frail and fragile hands caress the top, lift the latch, reach inside.
Watercolor eyes, wet with tears, blink and stare at the treasure within.

One by one she holds them. Word by word she reads them. Each fading page brings memory back to life, she holds his words like she once held his hand, and spreads her wings to join him.

 

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Previous Challenge Posts

#OctPoWriMo 2017

Day 1 How Did You Get here?

Day 2 – We Write Because We Must

#OctPoWriMo (Day 2 of 31)

 

DAY 2

(really, it’s day 4, still late to the party)

Prompt – We Write Because We Must

Free write for ten minutes stating, “We write because we must” 

* * *

We write because we must . . . because the alternative might be madness.


Sometimes words take us by the hand and lead us to the page, we slip off our shoes and dance with them, dance with them for days. We give them reign and let them roam, following were they go, and when we tire, we lay them down, off to rest they go.

Sometimes they beg to rise, once we lay down them down to sleep. We haven’t the time, we need to rest, we pray their souls to keep. Just for a while, precious words, for a while please be still. But with their silent pleas and sorrow, they lead us to the quill.

Sometimes they command, demand attention and release. Overwhelm our thoughts and take control of all our dreams. Not to be ignored, they rage, lest we put them on a page.

There are those among us who can quell the voice within, for others, the only way to quiet them is with a page and pen.

We write to free ourselves, and set others free as well. We write because there’s stories, so many stories we must tell. We write to right the wrongs we see, to fill in voids and blanks. We spread out words before us, and within them, we escape.

We write to soothe our souls, to scream in silent sound, we write to fill the silence with a different kind of sound. We write to find out who we are and what’s inside us.

We write . . . we write, because we simply must.

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Previous Challenge Posts

#OctPoWriMo 2017

Day 1 How Did You Get here?