Don’t let it slip away
Don’t let it slip away
Aldous Huxley
Sleepless
The sun has
long since set.
The midnight hour
has already begun
to surrender reign
to the approaching
dawn.
With heavy eyes,
I abide in silence
while the sun
stirs from slumber.
The night has been
so very long.
I fear this new day
may linger past its
appointed hour
as well.
What unseen thief has
has robbed me of repose?
I pray this season of unrest
is soon quelled.
I yearn to be lost in dream.
I long to have the ebony sky
blanket me in the mysteries
it holds.
To be swept away on a
moon beam odyssey
is my fondest desire.
Stirring thoughts
keep the lullaby
of peaceful solace
from me.
Rambling notions stumble,
one upon another
in desperate measure
to be heard,
refusing to be ignored.
Fingers of light
have begun to reach
into my night veiled realm.
They beckon me
to arise and frolic,
but the night does not
willingly release
its embrace.
I will soon enough rise
and move about the day,
though my innermost
essence is weary,
I will remain steadfast.
When this day’s ebbing sun
takes another evening bow,
I will once more retreat
to the comfort
of my darkened room
and pray through the night
for the hush of perfect solitude
to encompass me.
With words as my wings
In the serenity
of sweet silence,
a passing muse
softly beckons,
together
we soar
high above
this plane of
existence.
With pen in hand,
I wrap my soul
in the warmth,
and wonder,
and whimsy
of words.
I revel
in the release
of my spirit,
transported to
that perfect place
where words
dance.
I give
the breath
of life
to my every
thought,
my every
dream,
my every
desire,
surrounding
myself
in the peace
they bring.
I fly without fear,
with words
as my wings,
frolicking,
fearless
and free . . .
Crystal R. Cook
Writer
As long as there are words, there will be someone at the ready with their quill of choice to pen them. Words have always been, and words will always be . . . so we write.
I write because it sustains me, it brings me peace. I write so I will live on in my words when my time on earth has passed. My voice immortalized forever upon a page in hopes the children of my grandchildren may one day hear me and know who I once was. I hope they know when they hold my words in their hearts, they are holding me.
Writing is the sweetest of freedoms. It breaks the chains which try to bind us to this world. It is freedom to release and let go of angst or anger, sadness or fear. Freedom to soar above this plane of existence and reach heights never before reached. When we write we are free to be all of who we are when the world seeks to quell our voices.
I must share the words that well within me. I must write of my joys and my sorrows, my memories and my dreams. I must share the knowledge I have gained and I must write to learn, for there is much to be learned. In my words I am real. No pretences, no expectations and no judgments.
To some, writing is as essential as the air around them, each word a life-sustaining breath, a beat of their heart. Words hold healing for the one who writes them as well as the one who reads them; there is power in each stroke of the pen. The written word is a gift of greatest worth.
Writers teach, they entertain, they inspire and they motivate, they capture and they captivate. If writers ceased to give life to words, knowledge would no longer be gained, memories would fade, and the most important of things would be forever forgotten.
Some writers learn to write, honing their craft to create, others were born with the blessing of words ready to flow from their fingertips, all share their gift with the world, leaving the mark of their soul on humanity. Many writers have helped mold the lives of those who read their words. People are shaped, in no small part, by what they read in life; they carry the words within them. Enlightenment is often found in the pages of a book, a simple thought, printed and bound, can be a life changing epiphany for someone else. What greater gift could a writer give or receive? I can think of none better.
Writers must write. I truly don’t think there are words enough to explain just why we dance this dance with words. We simply must write . . .
Crystal R. Cook
Insanity
Madness
is when
normalcy
fades into
twilight oblivion
Under crimson skies
delusions arise
Warped visions
we cannot see
play out
in the
static film
that covers
our eyes
Voices whisper
words we can’t
hear
though their
meaning
is clear
Truth is
cleverly
cloaked
for every
blind eye
to see
The sage
is a jester
selling dementia
like candy
for nothing
more than
your sanity
Crystal R. Cook
The Chinese Bamboo Tree ~ A lesson of love and patience.
I ran across something I wrote quite some time ago, when my oldest was around 18. My intent was to bring hope and encouragement to those who work so very hard, wondering if and when they will ever see the fruits of their labor. I was thinking of my fellow autism mommies as I penned the words, but now, as I read them again, I see they can be suited for just about anything in our lives.
I suppose it’s really about never giving up, even when it looks like we are working in vain . . .
All children are unique; they learn and grow at their own pace. Almost 25 years ago, a seed was planted, a new life. My son. I was told he would never reach the heights other children would. I cared for him, nurtured and taught him, just as I would had I not been told such a thing. Today, he stands tall and proud. While others said my efforts were in vain, I was cultivating and tending to the growth that would sustain him throughout his life.
When his brother was born I faced even more challenges, and while tending to my garden I learned many, many lessons. Thinking upon all they have taught me, I am reminded of something so simple in its complexity, the Chinese bamboo tree. They say bamboo is one of the strongest of trees. It seems hard to believe when you look at it. Tall and skinny, easily bent – but not broken, the Chinese bamboo tree is an amazing thing.
Once you plant the tiny seed it doesn’t take long before you see growth sprouting through the damp earth amongst the other trees and plants surrounding it.
It requires care as all plants do. After quite some time passes, you notice everything else has grown and blossomed and the tiny bamboo seed you carefully placed beneath the soil, the one supposed to become so tall and strong, doesn’t seem to have grown much at all. It shows no signs of becoming the hearty bamboo you expected it to be. Of course you still care for it and nurture it because it was your seed, you planted it. Sometimes though, you doubt this fledgling tree will become what you hoped it would one day be.
Then comes a time when you finally see the growth you’d been hoping for and quickly it reaches the grand height of eighty feet. It is strong and you are proud. Those who had doubted and made light of your long suffering faith in that one little seed are astounded. While the seeds they planted grew quickly and bloomed with great beauty, they were not as strong and stately as your bamboo.
While they basked in the success of their gardens and you toiled in yours, an intricate root system was forming beneath the surface. Years of unseen growth and progress resulted in a strong foundation, strong enough to hold the bamboo that would stand tallest among the rest.
Sometimes, we don’t always see the fruits of our labor. Sometimes we wonder if everything we do matters, if all our hard work will make a difference. It’s easy to become discouraged when you don’t see results and change and progress, but you have to remember, just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it isn’t happening.
Our children are like that bamboo tree. Their growth is often slow, but we keep doing what we do every day. We tire and we grow weak, but even though doubt tries to steal away with our hope, we continue to nurture and care for them.
We may not see the results of our labor for many years, sometimes we need to be reminded that while we are above the surface hard at work, there is a foundation of strength and knowledge being built below us and one day, our children will stand tall and we will be rewarded with their every success.
They will grow to be strong enough to withstand the greatest of winds because they have the power to bend . . . but not break.
I have learned many lessons in life; this was among the most valuable.
Crystal R. Cook
Anxiety . . .
Every now and then I try to capture in words what anxiety feels like, I’ve yet to succeed. I hope when I do, it remains trapped, words upon a page I can fold up and be rid off . . .
Chaos amidst calm.
I try
to understand,
to overcome,
but screams
of silence
no one else
can hear,
echo within me,
surrounding me.
They fill the air,
denying me
breath.
Inside I tremble,
falling to my knees
at the foot of despair,
pleading the silent
cacophony to end.
Afraid to open
my eyes and see
I’ve been seen,
my hidden fears
revealed.
Do they hear the
beating of my heart
racing to the edge
of my false reality,
threatening
to fail?
Do my eyes
reveal my angst?
Can they
see the sweat
glistening upon
my brow?
How can I fear
nothing?
I know
there is
something
to be feared.
I know
there is
nothing
to fear.
Still,
I crumble.
Around me,
normalcy.
Everything
the same.
Nothing
out of place.
Balance
undisturbed,
and yet . . .
It wells up,
flows through veins,
fills the heart,
clouds the mind,
squeezes the soul.
It is nothing,
yet I fear it
and the fear
consumes me.
A fear that has
not name
nor reason.
I find no refuge
until it’s taken
just enough
to leave me
a little more
shattered
than before,
fearing not
the fear itself,
but it’s
return.
Crystal R. Cook








