Keepers of Time

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“But words are things, and a small drop of ink, falling like dew upon a thought, produces that which make thousands, perhaps millions, think.” Lord Byron

The world as we know it could not exist if it were not for those first writers who began to chronicle events, creating pictures with words to tell of their experiences, observations, inventions and advancements. Our earliest histories have been preserved because a writer was born to write of them. Legends became legends with the stroke of a writer’s hand. Folklore and fantasy live and thrive between the pages of books written by the keepers of words.

The wisdom’s contained within the Bible, penned on ancient scrolls are treasured; the lessons our Lord taught when he walked the earth have stood the test of time, and to this day are cherished and serve the purpose they were meant to serve. What if they had only been heard and never chronicled? They will remain forever for they were written.

Old pieces of parchment, rich with the ink of our forefathers still remain to serve the country they helped create. We can look upon the Constitution, each word a piece of art; the words themselves are as beautiful as the message they hold. Great care was taken in the writings of those who helped shape our country. They left a small part of themselves in everything they penned; imagine the time taken and the care given to each stroke of the quill. Knowledge gained becomes knowledge lost if not preserved.

In days long past writing was an art, cherished and mastered. Before telegraphs and telephones, e-mails and text messaging, people poured their souls onto page after page. Their letters had meaning and purpose and those that have survived the years are cherished. Letters of love and loss, letters of hope, good news and bad news . . . all penned to a page. Moments in time captured forever.

Men wrote of their love, leaving their brides something to hold and cherish in their absence. Mother’s left mementoes of great worth to be passed down in the form of words etched onto notes and letters, their thoughts and wisdom remain long after they part from this world. With each cherished scrap they once held within their own hands, a small part of them lives on.

I believe every word I write is a beat of my heart. As long as they are read, I will, in some way, live on. My life’s ink is soaked into the pages I leave behind. In my words I shall always be.

The power of the written word cannot be measured. The words have yet to be found to describe its value . . .

Crystal R. Cook

My Silver Love

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My favorite pen fits perfectly in my hand. Sleek silver shell, slightly cold at first until warmed by the words it will ink to a page. It has substance, not too heavy, not too light. It knows everything there is to know about me, it has written of my innermost thoughts and wishes and dreams. It’s shared in my heartache and rejoiced in my joy. With my pen in hand we waltz across the page, dancing with words to music no one else can hear.

It didn’t start out as my pen, it belonged to another, who, I have no idea. How I came to have it, or how it came to have me, I can’t recall. One day it was just mine, it became an extension of my soul. When I first touched it to a blank page, I watched the dark, black ink seeping into the stark white paper and I saw pure and perfect beauty. Never has a pen touched the page so softly, leaving such a smooth trail of elegance wherever it goes.

My children often try to take it; my husband seeks to steal it away from me. My perfect pen is wanted by all. I carry it with me wherever I go. I’m not the type to lie, but if someone asks if I have a pen they can borrow the only answer there can be is no. It’s not really a lie because my pen is so much more than just a pen; It’s my partner, my confidant and my friend.

I’ve used many others, but this one has something they did not, I know not what it is, but I feel it when I hold it in my hand. Some may not understand, I don’t quite understand it myself, I simply know it is a special pen. I wonder what hands have held it before. I wonder if they knew what a treasure they held. I wonder if they search for it still.

I hope to keep it always; I doubt I could ever find another good enough to take its place. Is it odd to hold such attachment to an ordinary object, one disposable to most, irreplaceable to me? My pen is my pen; I’ll care for and keep it as long as I can. It has many more words to put on a page.

Crystal R. Cook

Poetic Perfection?

A dance of words
on printed page
leather bindings
worn from age
enchanted door
beneath a cover
a world in wait
to be discovered
black letters
penned on white
dramatic art
enlightened sight
page upon page
silently heard
melodious echoes 
a dance of words

Is there such thing as a perfect poem? What reads like perfection to one may not to another, poetry is a subjective art. There are a few things which can endear your words to a greater audience of readers, however; it is not simply the words themselves, but the way in which you choose to craft them.

A poem needn’t be epic in length, think of the power the words of haiku hold. Poetry is something which comes from within, composition and form are secondary to the words which will bring meaning and life to the page.

Poetry comes in many forms, perfect to one – nonsense to another. What matters is the author’s voice tickling the reader’s ear through the whispered words of the page. You don’t need to use big words or flowery verse . . .

The laureate lamented
for her words were skewed,
her altiloquence mistaken
as being quite rude.
Her style clinquant,
her affectation too much,
too many mistakes,
like catchfools and such.
Circumlocution
and too many clichés
made all of her readers
turn quickly away.
What she thought
to be eloquent
was really quite fustian;
due to forced rhyme
she lacked any . . . lyricism?
Pedantry ad nauseam,
not even done right,
left the young writer
feeling contrite.
She vowed to improve,
she promised to change
and pay more attention
how her words were arranged.
Convinced of her talent
she started again,
but was soon held up
by heteronyms.
She stopped and she sighed,
then she started to cry,
for her poetic juices
had completely run dry . . .

Simply awful with that bit of forced rhyme and the ridiculous use of unnecessarily big words. I must admit though, it was quite fun to write.

Writing poetry can be healing, thought-provoking and at times, profound. The perfect poem is the one that touches your soul when you write it, welcoming the reader to become one with your words.

A poet pens his muse to the page
seeking not perfection
but release . . .

Poetry does not have to rhyme. If you cannot rhyme well, do not rhyme at all. Forced rhymes destroy what may otherwise be a fine piece of work. Rhymed poetry needs to have a rhythm; it needs to flow seamlessly as it is read. It needs to make sense.

If writing a rhymed piece, ideally each stanza should have the same amount of lines; the rhyme scheme needs to be consistent. There are several ways to craft a rhymed poem, once you’ve chosen your style, remain true to it throughout the piece, the jarring effect of switched up rhyme schemes can throw a reader off.

Every line in a poem does not need to be capitalized; many writers tend to do this, for the reader though, it is often hard to distinguish where one thought ends and another begins. A poem can have commas, periods, and question marks. These details can certainly serve to enhance your work; don’t be afraid to use them.

Poetic beauty is personal passion as it is with any art. There are those who love and admire the work of Picasso and others who are perplexed and not attracted to it in the slightest, yet both recognize the value of the art itself.

Words never rest,
an endless dance
of thoughts
and epiphanies,
which must
be forgotten
or given
life eternal
upon a page.

Words
ease fear
create terror
heal, hurt
make
insanity
the norm.

They never
cease
they never
fade,
never fail
never stop
dancing.

Crystal R. Cook

Shards of Delusion

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Howling winds
echo secrets
to the
restless
silence that
never slumbers

Lost hopes
and
stolen dreams
frantic for
release
find
no escape

Broken promises
blanket the
landscape
littered with
shattered trust

At the end of
nothingness
lay a
valley
deep

Barren
wasteland
overflowing
with
nothing

Void of
sound
and of
silence

Crowded with
emptiness
it hasn’t
room to
hold

Sight is
false belief
deception
of truth

Smiles hide
torrents
of tears

Laughter
muffles
anguished cries
while
pretty prances
‘round
so ugly
might go
unnoticed

The looking
glass shows
fragments
of false
reality

Nothing
more than
broken shards
we are
afraid
to touch
for fear
they might
pierce
our
fragile
souls

Crystal R. Cook

Youth Risk Behavior Surveillance

Youth Risk Behavior Surveillance Report – CDC – LINK

Something has to change.

Our country is in trouble. Our youth, our future, their future, is at risk. Every generation paves the way for the next, today’s parents and educators are shaping tomorrow’s leaders, or are we letting the government and society shape them for us?

The decline of morality, educational values, and accountability in this nation is setting a frightening precedent for what will come. The recently released 2013 Youth Risk Behavior Surveillance from the CDC highlights this decline with startling statistics.

If this report does not convince you the youth of our nation are at risk, that parents and educators need to step up and return to the basics, you are deluding yourself. Kids are kids, they don’t always make the right choices, the key word here is choice. This is something they must be TAUGHT to do.

I realize there is a lot to sift through, but even scanning the text is enough to show where we are heading and it’s a downhill spiral if the kinder, gentler, politically correct, everybody wins, no consequences or accountability parenting continues.

Say no. Make rules. Enforce them. Discipline . . . Kids from toddlers to teens are growing up feeling entitled, they are told they have the right to do and have what they please. What they do have, is the right to be loved. They have the right to be cared for, nourished, sheltered, clothed, and educated, the rest of it they need to learn to earn.

http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=mfYEWtyRErg&feature=youtu.be

Children need to learn respect from the beginning, they need to know right from wrong, they need to have consequences . . .

Elementary school children know more about political rhetoric and alternative lifestyles than they do about compassion and responsibility. They are conditioned to accept the unacceptable. They are no longer required to strive to be their best, just enough is good enough. Make them read, write, study, speak properly. Stop numbing them to reality by allowing violent games, movies and television to invade their minds.

Backseat parenting is destroying their future.

Teachers are no longer allowed to teach the individual, they now teach to achieve tests score high enough to keep their positions. Many are dissolutioned with the profession they entered because they had a passion to teach and help shape the future and they have now been stifled.

Parents are no longer allowed to parent, or no longer know how to. Something simply has to change.

This effects us all, it affects us too. I can almost guarantee you have WA.

WA is a recognized and widespread epidemic of addiction affecting people from around the globe. This affliction has silently consumed lives for centuries, some may argue it is a harmless addiction, though many have been known to suffer from co-morbid conditions such as alcohol and caffeine abuse.

Negative side effects include insomnia, malnourishment, and social deficits. Family members of those living with WA have reported episodes of withdrawal, lack of spontaneity, decreased desire to engage in family activities, lack of personal care, and sustained periods of restlessness in those diagnosed.

Currently, the typical diagnostic criteria used to determine addiction is not apparent in all cases, many go unrecognized by the medical and psychiatric communities leading to a majority of cases being diagnosed by family members. Many of those with WA are self diagnosed.

In many instances you may hear it referred to as a syndrome in lieu of an addiction. A majority of those with WA do not see it as an addiction, they believe they were born with WA. Popular theory and current research suggests there may be a genetic component involved.

Since the diagnostic criterium for addiction is not always met, WA, also known as Writing Addiction, or Writing Syndrome, is often a diagnosis of exclusion, meaning you know your addicted if you’ve excluded everything else in life aside from the written word.

In fact, if you are reading this you may have one of two very real addictions, perhaps even both. If you are reading simply because you must read you more than likely have RA, Reading Addiction. If you are reading this and already thinking of what to write about it, it’s safe to say you are a Writing addict. If you are reading this out of sheer compulsion AND thinking of what to write, you are not alone, a majority of those diagnosed carry a dual diagnosis referred to as RAWA, Reading and Writing Addiction. There is no shame.

Writing addiction is not something you plan. It is an all-encompassing desire, the more you write the more you need to write. Like most addictions, it begins to consume you. At first it’s just jotting things down now and then, a bit of poetry here, a little prose there and soon you’re writing stories and sonnets and epic works of words late into the night.

It’s a secret addiction in the beginning, harmless to most. Writing addicts typically start in their spare time. It doesn’t take long until spare time is no longer enough; it begins to creep into their day. When you’re supposed to be doing bills an idea will hit and next thing you know you’ve written half a chapter on the back of your electric bill.

It doesn’t end there. Dinners get burned, kids are late for school, laundry piles up and you forget to feed the dogs, you write about it though. Hungry Dogs, a Tale of Sad Tails. When it first begins it’s easy to hide, but soon you get careless and scraps of paper litter the countertops and the dressers, notebooks and journals are in every room of the house.

Your desktop is filled with papers and coffee cups. Oh yes, coffee cups. Once the addiction has you in its clutches you forego nourishment for a good old Cup-o-Joe to keep you going. Snack foods sustain life. By the time family and friends see the signs it’s too late. No one says anything until you arrive at school in the afternoon to pick up your children wearing yesterday’s pajamas.

By the time anyone suspects there is a problem it’s already too late. Sure, they can hold interventions; they can beg and plead, but the need to write simply cannot be overcome. Once you have it, you have it for life. Eventually those who love you will accept the reality of your life. You are a writer.

There isn’t much you can do for someone with writing addiction except accept them and love them just as you did before they picked up a pen. In some cases it is genetic; many children of writing addicts are themselves addicts by the time they reach puberty. The same can be said for the offspring of reading addicts. There has yet to be a cure, its doubtful there ever will be.

I myself am a reading and writing addict. It began when I took my first breath, my family has tried to put an end to it, but they’ve never succeeded. They’ve never even come close. They know I will write about them if they push it too far. Do they think I don’t know casserole will burn if I don’t stop writing long enough to take it out of the oven? I mean seriously, why else would I keep a fire extinguisher at my desk. I’m one step ahead them.

In conclusion, writing can in fact, be an addiction. There is no way to know who will become a slave to the written word. There is no way to stop it once it has begun. I suppose those of us with writing addiction are enabling the reading addicts among us, they can’t get enough of what we do . . . but then, are they not in a sense encouraging our own addiction to writing? And what of those of us with the dual addiction, we are our own worst enemy and best friend; it is a vicious circle, one with no end.

If a cure is ever found I’m heading for the hills. I wonder if I can get high-speed Internet service up there . . . no matter, paper, pens and solitude is all I need to feed the hunger. No twelve step programs for me, I’ll write one for anyone who wishes to work through their beautiful addiction though, not that anyone would.

Goodnight Sweet Prince

I used to love taking pictures of my kids while they slept, they looked like little angels . . . I was feeling nostalgic this morning and thought it would be sweet to recreate some of those memories. I ended up feeling like a creepy stalker though. Taking pictures of grown men sleeping, even if you did give birth to them, is just kind of weird.

While deleting the stalker-esque photos, I remembered how precious my babies were, how their soft wisps of hair would tickle my nose as I kissed their little foreheads goodnight. I thought of how my heart filled with their love when they wrapped those little arms around my neck. It still feels that way when they hug me, except now it feels like they are the ones holding me.

Every once in a while, I look at them and see them as they once were, like time stood still. Bittersweet moments. They grew, like they were supposed to, it just happened so darn quickly. I miss tucking them in, story times and lullabies. I miss hearing their innocent little prayers being said. I can still hear them in my heart.

On second thought, I think I’ll keep some of this mornings digital memories . . . I may just print them out and send it to them in an unmarked envelopes. That is what stalkers do, isn’t it?

Crystal R. Cook

Goodnight Sweet Prince

Sleep Little One

The Basics of Life

4HIM released this song in 1992. I remember thinking how much we desperately needed to heed the message they were sharing, no one did. Our world has not changed for the better, so many things have simply not changed for the better.

This message is as relevant today as it was 22 years ago . . . Perhaps more so.

We’ve Turned the Page, For a New Day Has Dawned
We’ve Re-arranged What Is Right and What’s Wrong
Somehow We’ve Drifted So Far From the Truth
That We Can’t Get Back Home
Where Are the Virtues That Once Gave Us Light
Where Are the Morals That Governed Our Lives
Someday We All Will Awake and Look Back
Just to Find What We’ve Lost

We Need to Get Back
To the Basics of Life
A Heart That Is Pure
And a Love That Is Blind
A Faith That Is Fervently
Grounded in Christ
The Hope That Endures For All Times
These Are the Basics,
We Need to Get Back
To the Basics of Life

The Newest Rage Is to Reason It Out
Just Meditate and You Can Overcome Every Doubt
After All Man Is a God, They Say
God Is no Longer Alive

But I Still Believe in the Old Rugged Cross
And I Still Believe There Is Hope For the Lost
And I Know the Rock of All Ages Will Stand
Through Changes of Time

We Need to Get Back
To the Basics of Life
A Heart That Is Pure
And a Love That Is Blind
A Faith That Is Fervently
Grounded in Christ
The Hope That Endures For All Times
These Are the Basics,
We Need to Get Back
To the Basics of Life

Bridge
We’ve Let the Darkness Invade Us Too Long
We’ve Got to Turn the Tide
Oh and We Need the Passion That Burned Long Ago
To Come and Open Our Eyes
There’s no Room For Compromise

We Need to Get Back
To the Basics of Life
A Heart That Is Pure
And a Love That Is Blind

We Need to Get Back
To the Basics of Life
A Heart That Is Pure
The Hope That Endures For All Times
These Are the Basics,
We Need to Get Back
To the Basics of Life

I think I’m going to go insane – because I’m gonna CHOOSE it!

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Creative collaboration with my mom . . .

I think I’m going to go insane
I’m really gonna lose it,
I know it’s going to happen
because I’m gonna CHOOSE it!

If I claim that I’m just crazy
and act like I don’t care,
I’ll no longer have to carry
these burdens I now bear.

So if you cannot find me,
have no worries, don’t despair,
just check into the looney bin,
you’ll find me locked in there.

People will come to visit,
the Girl Scouts will stop in,
I’ll gobble up their cookies
with a great big minty grin.

The people from the church
will come by to pray and sing,
I’ll lift my voice and join them
shouting “Glory to the King”!

When they’ve gone I’ll sit & talk
to me, myself and I,
until the lady with the little pills
wheels her cart on by.

I won’t stay there forever,
just until I’m rested.
But what if they suspect?
What if they have me tested?

That might no be so good,
In fact it really would be bad,
they’d never let me go,
they’d know that I was mad!

It really does sound nice,
at least it does to me,
but then again I’m nuts
and I guess I’ll always be!

Crystal R. Cook & Crazy Momma

PP #792

Pet peeve #792

Re-released books that have been made into movies with covers depicting the movie instead of the original cover art.