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
Crystal R. Cook
Whispers scream
in the dark of night
echoes of fear
not there in the light
When the day comes
it does not surrender
unwelcome companion
constant tormentor
Close your eyes
cover your ears
it’s coming for you
you can’t hide from this fear
It flows through your veins
it robs you of peace
squeezing your heart
as you pray for relief
There is nowhere to run
there is nowhere to hide
there is no escape
from the monster inside
You face it and fight
it tells you your weak
holding for ransom
the comfort you seek
Relentless it strikes
time after time
an insidious fog
filling your mind
An unwilling warrior
in this battle for power
sometimes you stand
sometimes you cower
The battle is private
without allies or help
you are fighting alone
at war with yourself
Crystal R. Cook
The night was black, dark clouds covered what little light the moon had to offer. Violent torrents of rain poured from the sky, beating the surface of the building as if begging for refuge to escape their own raging fury. With each lightning flash, a tiny, barred window near the ceiling illuminated Heather’s hiding place with an eery glow. She used these brief moments of light to scan the small space for something, anything she might put to use to protect herself, from what she didn’t know. The room was bare, nothing but a small, overturned cot beneath the window.
Heather was scared, more than scared. She tried to remember what happened, why she was running, how she ended up crouching in the corner of the cold, darkened room. Was she hiding from the storm or something worse? Her fingernails dug sharply into the palms of her hands as she desperately tried to piece together the few memories she had. Nothing made sense.
There was a door, she darted across the room, placing her ear to the cold, metal surface. Silence. She felt her way to the handle, it wasn’t there, nothing but a thick, metal plate where it should have been. She slowly stood on her toes, trying to peer out the rectangular opening above her. There was a faint, yellow glow behind the pattern of mesh and glass, she wasn’t tall enough to see anything more.
The musty scent of old, wet wood from the weathered window panes filled the room with a sickening, yet familiar scent, for a moment she thought maybe she’d been here before. Her bones ached, her head hurt and her heart pounded. She began to count the seconds between the booming thunder and the flashes of white. A strangely comforting warmth came over her, she looked down to see her own blood dripping from her clenched fists. She loosened her fingers and examined the blood. The glistening liquid fell like tears on her stained nightshirt. It looked black in the darkness, for some reason this brought a smile to her face and she again let her fingernails pierce the wounds.
Lightening flashed through the room again, for a moment she thought she saw a glimpse of someone’s shadow peering through the door window and she began to rock. She wrapped her arms around her legs and rocked back and forth to the music of the storm. The loud cracks of thunder began to soften, giving way to a familiar tune. As the winds howled and the lightning flashed, Heather could hear nothing but a far off melody.
She soon forgot about the storm, she forgot about her fear as the music box innocence of the tune grew louder. She recognized it, someone once sang it to her. A ghostly voice from her past filled the empty room, it was a woman’s voice, a beautiful voice . . . momma’s gonna buy you a diamond ring, and if that diamond ring turns to glass . . . Heather began to rock faster, her long hair making contact with the concrete wall behind her.
The booming thunder interrupts the song and the soothing voice turns to anguished screams. Heather begins to rock faster, harder and waits for the screams to stop, somehow she knows they will. The lightning flash again reveals someone at the window, she closes her eyes as the screams fade and the soothing song resumes . . . momma’s gonna by you a rocking horse . . . she lets her fingernails slide like puzzle pieces into the broken flesh of her palms.
Outside of the room, two men stand guard. One of them looks nervous, “Is she gonna be okay? Should we go in?”
The other guard glances sideways into the room and then back to his magazine. “Naw, she’ll live. Does this crap every time a storm passes through. They’ll patch her up in the morning and she’ll be back to normal.”
“Normal?” the new guard looked as though he’d be sick. “Nothing about this place is normal, gives me the creeps.”
Without looking up from his magazine, the older guard sighed, “Look, the pay’s good and as long as they stay locked up, we got no problems, relax.”
Inside the room, Heather continues to sing, she has no memory of the stormy night she killed her mother . . . and if that rocking horse does break . . . .
Crystal R. Cook
“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, “O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?” Answer. That you are here – that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?”
Dead Poets Society
Second star to the right, and straight on till morning . . .
Mother looked out the frost covered window of her darkened room, staring into the heart of night. She pulled her blankets close as she watched the giant snowflakes fall beneath the ominous glow of the yellow streetlamps. She knew all too well what this could mean and the thought sent shivers right to her bones.
Her mind drifted back to the stories her grandmother would tell on nights such as these, stories that have haunted her ever since. They were terrible tales and always ended with what amounted to a prophesy from her dear grandmother, “You wait, one day it will fall upon your house as well. If you’re strong, you’ll survive it.”
Still looking out at the snow falling heavier by the minute, she knew this could be the moment her grandmother said would come, the signs were all there, the night seemed so still, too still. The moon was wrapped in a bluish haze she could faintly see though the snow-filled sky. The ground was a blanket of nothing but white. Mother knew sleep would not find her peacefully, she grew ever more anxious, grandmother had warned she would need all the strength she could muster.
Thoughts of what the morning might bring plagued her dreams each time her weary eyes fell shut and she would awaken to the deafening silence of snow crashing outside of her window. Her grandmother’s voice echoed in her thoughts, “If you’re strong, you’ll survive it.”
The long night gave way to a bright morning, the slumber she’d fought so hard to find was ripped away from her by the sound of her children’s screams. Their screams pierced her heart and she buried her face in her hands. Tears began to fall as she realized she didn’t have enough strength to do what had to be done. A cheerful voice from the radio interrupted her despair.
“Goooooood mornin’ to ya,” the DJ chimed.
Mother glared at the radio. “What’s good about, hu?”
“It’s six forty-five in the AM hour, and if you haven’t yet heard, last nights record snowfall has blocked the roads and closed the schools.”
With that, mother turned off radio, the last thing she needed was the voice of a chipper DJ ringing in her ears. She did her best to pull herself together. Her greatest fear had finally come to pass, her grandmother’s prophesy was being fulfilled. School had been cancelled and there would be no escape from her four, young children until it reopened.
She was sleep deprived and emotionally drained, but she knew she had to find the strength to make it through the day. She slowly made her way to the kitchen where the children’s excited chatter bounced around inside of her head like nails in the spin cycle. She reached for the coffee, she knew caffeine would be her only ally. Her heart sank as she realized the coffee tin was empty. Grandmother’s grim warnings could have done nothing to prepare her for the true horrors that were unfolding . . .
Crystal R. Cook
“The measure of love is to love without measure.” Saint Augustine
What is unconditional love? Exactly what it sounds like, love without condition. We cannot truly love if we place conditions upon our giving of it. I’m not certain as human beings we are completely capable of embracing the concept of unconditional love in its truest and purest form, in my heart I believe we can come close.
I know without a doubt I am loved unconditionally by my Heavenly Father, and I return such love in faith. I am loved without condition by the ones who gave me life and by the ones I have given life to. I’ve felt the power of love; I have seen it and I have been blessed with it.
Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it his not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends. As for prophecies, they will pass away; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will pass away. 1 Corinthians 13:4-8
Mother Theresa said, “If you judge people, you have no time to love them.” It seems to be a part of human nature to judge our fellow man based on nothing more than learned ignorance without regard to reason. While this may not be true for all, it is the unfortunate reality of many. Perhaps those who place conditions upon their love and acceptance of others were never given this gift of powerful and consuming love, and in turn, do not know how to give it.
“I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality.” Martin Luther King, Jr..
In their most basic definitions, we take these two words, which together symbolize one of God’s greatest gifts, and we can see the simplistic beauty they create when combined; unconditional love truly means love without condition.
Unconditional: Adj. – Not limited by conditions; absolute.
Love: Noun – There are many definitions pertaining to the word love, among them are . . .
– A profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.
– A feeling of warm, personal attachment or deep affection, as for a parent, child or friend.
– The benevolent affection of God for his creatures, or the reverent affection due from them to God.
Unconditional love is the purest of love; it is the truest of love.
It is the love our Lord has for us, the love we carry for him.
Unconditional love is the expectant mother, who without thinking, places her hand upon her growing belly to caress the new life growing within her.
Unconditional love is the father with trembling hands, cradling his newborn babe in the tender warmth of his arms.
Unconditional love is the crying baby, soothed by a mothers soft song.
Unconditional love is sitting by the bedside of someone you love, letting them know it’s okay to let go.
Unconditional love is the butterflies stirring in your heart when that special someone reaches for your hand.
It is a shoulder to cry on, it is forgetting and forgiving.
It is allowing for a mistake now and then.
It is faith, belief, and hope.
It is not expectant, asks for nothing in return and lasts forever.
Unconditional love is a gift worthy to be given and a blessing to receive.
Luciano de Crescenzo whispered beautifully profound words when he said, “We are each of us angels with only one wing; and we can only fly by embracing one another.”
Crystal R. Cook
I often hear veteran moms talking about needing a baby fix, it sounds kinda seedy and back alley, but it’s not, I promise. Sometimes we just get a little nostalgic for those long ago days when our children were brand new.
Personally, I don’t need them. I’m good. I will admit though, to every once in a while being lulled back in time when I see a newborn babe nestled in its mothers arms, or smiling sweetly and cooing from a carriage.
I guess you could say I got my baby fix, not that I was in need of one, at Walmart the other day. A chubby little cherub smiled up at me from his cute little monkey car seat, he let out an itty bitty sneeze, it sounded how I imagine a pixie fart would sound. His little face smushed up for another sneeze, but this time it was more like a full on pixie explosion.
A snot bubble starting forming out of his left nostril which quickly became the size of the little guys actual nose, then, he sneezed again and that oozing bubble made an audible pop as it burst. The busted bubble bits quickly began drying into cemented snotcicles on his cheek and part of his eyebrow like frost on a winter windowsill.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only thing that spewed from his button nose, the rest of the vile fluid was being hungrily lapped up by his tiny pink tongue. I had to hold in my lunch and wait it out, or lose my place in line. Walmart was packed, I was not going anywhere. Just as the nausea began to quell, I smelled it. It was like . . . death. Death in a bayou garbage pit at the peak of summer.
He was still greedily eating his own boogers when his momma leaned over and kissed his snot frozen cheek and said, “Did you do a stinky? Did you? Did you?” He answered with a smile that grew almost as fast as the next snot bubble it came along with. She again nuzzled the now whitish-green, booger speckled cheek and asked him again if he did a stinky.
I just wanted to shout, YES, he did! Stop asking or he’ll blow another mucus balloon and I will definitely throw up, probably twice! But then I saw that little twinkle in his eyes, it may have been dried snot, but it reminded me of what a precious moment in time it was for both of them. Then I began to think about the gallons of bodily fluids I had smelled, wiped, and gagged at over the years.
I realized how thankful I was I survived it all, how grateful I was I no longer had to wonder what the weird taste was when I kissed my precious babes. I knew right then I had to run because the sound and smell which yanked me back to reality even made that poor mommy take a step back. I decided it wouldn’t kill me to wait in a new line, but the beautiful mess in front of me just might.
So, if I was to ever, ever, feel some longing for a new life to cradle, I would simply need to make a trip to Walmart, there is always a baby fix to be found there . . .
Crystal Cook ~ Veteran Mommy
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