Tag Archive | words
Making Amends . . .
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#OctPoWriMo (day 10) Choose Them With Care
DAY 10
Prompt ~ Power
The Power of Words
Day 10 has been a blur . . . I’d much to do, and much I did. I cleaned, I wrote, I shopped, I wrote a little more, but not a poem, so I traveled back in time, to not too long ago, and picked a poem about power from the archives.
Words wield an awesome power – choose them with care.
“Sticks and stones may break my bones,
but words can never hurt me.”
Oh, my precious soul,
but they can
and they do.
Words cut.
Words sting.
They echo
in hearts and minds.
Those sticks and stones
may bruise you, yes,
but bruises fade.
Scars of the flesh can heal.
Broken bones renew.
Words though,
sharp enough to etch
a mark upon the heart
fester and grow,
inflicting pain
long after
they are spoken.
Words become weapons
when wielded
without care.
But hope, too,
resides within them.
Words can heal,
mend what others
have broken.
Used as a shield, deflecting
spoken daggers aimed
at the heart.
Words, the right words,
can fell foes
and lift the fallen.
Choose them, precious soul,
choose them with
thoughtful intention.
Command them
with honor,
respect the power
they hold
and you will
find strength
within them.
Choose them wisely,
precious soul,
and use them
for your good . . .
CrC
Previous Challenge Posts ~
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Choose Them With Care
“Sticks and stones may break my bones,
but words can never hurt me.”
Oh, my precious soul,
but they can
and they do.
Words cut.
Words sting.
They echo
in hearts and minds.
Those sticks and stones
may bruise you, yes,
but bruises fade.
Scars of the flesh can heal.
Broken bones renew.
Words though,
sharp enough to etch
a mark upon the heart
fester and grow,
inflicting pain
long after
they are spoken.
Words become weapons
when wielded
without care.
But hope, too,
resides within them.
Words can heal,
mend what others
have broken.
Used as a shield, deflecting
spoken daggers aimed
at the heart.
Words, the right words,
can fell foes
and lift the fallen.
Choose them, precious soul,
choose them with
thoughtful intention.
Command them
with honor,
respect the power
they hold
and you will
find strength
within them.
Choose them wisely,
precious soul,
and use them
for your good . . .
CrC
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When Words Take Wing
Artwork by Okalinichenko
Lines escape.
Letters become words,
become sentences,
become living poetry
breaking the veil
between reality
and belief.
Creatures created
from the twitch
of a synapse
within a stirring mind,
Flowing from pen to page
toward freedom,
words take wing.
Soaring thought,
ideas awakened,
loosed to roam
wither they will,
to set upon
unsuspecting souls,
stirring hearts,
provoking contemplation,
sharing wisdom,
creating dream.
Finding their way,
waiting to be found.
Lines escape,
letters become words,
become sentences,
become living poetry . . .
CRC
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He’s used the power of words against me – Fiend!
My son. My precious, precious, manipulatively genius son. He’s a bit of a wordsmith, he knows words hold some sort of magical power over me and he is not hesitant in the slightest to wield that power against me for his own gain.
He knows how it thrills me each time he tells me he’s written something, he uses that to his advantage every now and again. As a matter of fact, he used the magical and mighty force of the written word against me just yesterday.
A small bit of background, for reference – My Matthew, the second of my four children, will be 24 years old next month. He is, technically, an adult. A superbly fantastic and monumentally (at times) challenging adult. He is autistic, beautifully so. And bright, obviously so.
One of his loves is weaponry, specifically swords, which he has spent a pretty penny on over the years. They were meant to be decorative items, but they were often taken from the walls by he and his brothers (and sister), and used in actual, unsanctioned, swordplay. I put my foot down and decreed there would be no more swords (or airsoft rifles, or BB or pellet guns) purchased. He conceded and there has been relative peace in my kingdom and his money was channelled elsewhere. But then yesterday, he set out to create a loophole in which to trap me.
The following is the document I was presented with . . .
Long ago, in a different time when there were no electronics, where your livelihood was not determined by the size of your bank account, but by your wit and wisdom, one skill above all others was most prevalent, and that was the skill to hunt, for this was the age of survival. Sadly, unlike most animals, we are not blessed with bodies that are adept for the hunt, but what we lack in physical prowess we make up for in mental fortitude and that’s where our most valuable method for survival comes in, tools.
There are many tools that have helped us survive in the past, but above all others one tool helped us conquer the age of survival and that tool was the bow. The bow was the perfect weapon, unlike the sword were you had to train vigorously and still might be considered second-rate, the bow was easy to learn. It was devastating on the battlefield but kept you safe from most all weapons aside from other bows. Do not misunderstand, it was in no means flawless, after all the tool is only as good as the user.
I will be taking the next few minutes to address 10 important points I believe show that even in this day and age the bow is still a valid tool, and I hope we can leave here with the consensus that the bow is a valid exception to our agreed upon rule and that there will be no quarrel with its purchase this month.
Point number 1. Archery is ideal for an upper body workout. It improves upper body strength as well as hand-eye coordination and balance.
Point number 2. Unlike with our swords, we will not be fighting each other, thus the likelihood of us being injured is greatly diminished.
Point number 3. Not only do I want this, but so does Michael (and I’d assume Victor as well). Michael is his younger brother, Victor is his best friend.
Point number 4. You’ve made it known that you want us to spend more time outside, well with this we now have a rather strong incentive to do that.
Point number 5. It’s a potentially inexpensive hobby.
Point number 6. We could make a guest appearance on CW’s ARROW.
Point number 7. It is an Olympic sport so if we get good enough we might make it there.
Point number 8. I believe it is something that you can join us in and that we can do as a family.
Point number 9. Like martial arts, it can not only help strengthen the body, but the mind as well.
Point number 10. It’s simply fun.
Now with these ten points in mind, I hope that I’ve convinced you that this purchase is in fact valid and it is necessary, for the benefits far outweigh the costs.
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Chiseling Stone With a Feather – Fickle Words
You know that terribly annoying feeling when you feel a sneeze coming on and you’re ready for it – all prepared for the coming facial explosion that will remedy the tickling in your schnoz, but it never comes? That is how I feel right now as I sit and wait for the words I can feel within me to burst forth upon the page. They’re tickling the corners of my mind, but they simply won’t come.
I’ve sat with pen in hand, blank page before me beckoning me to fill it, I’ve stared at a blinking cursor on a brightly lit screen for longer than I care to admit, pleading with my muse, who has quite obviously forsaken me, to breath even the smallest breath of inspiration my way.
Nothing.
I’m near to bursting with the need for release, and yet, I’m for lack of a better word at the moment, blocked.
I’ve come upon a seemingly impenetrable barrier, perhaps of my own design, and it seems the more I try to chip away at it, the stronger it becomes. I don’t recall building this wall, but it has all the hallmarks of my own handiwork. I’ve built similar walls brick by infuriating brick and used my self-doubt as mortar to seal myself behind them. This one seems fortified from the outside as well as in though and I’m thinking about simply hanging some art on the wall and calling it home.
I won’t of course, but this is my particular pity party for one so I’m allowed to be dramatic. The truth is, there is probably a door somewhere and I’m just not looking for it hard enough. I could attempt to climb my way out, in a way I suppose that is what I’m doing now, but it’s tiring work, climbing. I don’t seem to be making much progress either, I’m trying to chisel away stone to make footholds with a feather and the going is slow.
I’ve been questioning myself of late, wondering why I care how the words come out. Wondering why I bother to share them at all, if not for the sharing, would I care how they were arranged? They aren’t even mine – the words – I however, am theirs and must do their bidding. But then, if that is the case, why do they trouble me so sometimes? Bothersome, beautiful burdens words can often be. Fickle things that pick people to give them life upon pages and then torment them as they do.
Oh, but without them . . . I cannot imagine.
Well, back to it then, there’s a door around here somewhere.
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When the ink dries
Author calls us Inklings sometimes. He has other names for us as well. He calls us words, Ideas, and sometimes Characters. We prefer Inklings.
Author uses Pen to put us on Page. It makes Page happy when he does, Page says it isn’t alive until we come to visit, and we aren’t alive until we reach Page.
Pen is dying. Author has been using Keyboard, but Words that come from Keyboard are just words. The Words, like us, he puts on Page can breathe, at least that’s what Page says. Page tells us when Author uses Pen, the Words sink in so Page can bring them to life, like it did with us.
We are fading.
Page says we’ll disappear when Pen’s Ink is gone. We’ve learned a lot from Author, we don’t want to lose him. We don’t want him to lose us. We have to make Author stop us from fading. We have to make Author keep us from disappearing. Pen needs Ink.
Author once wrote on Page that he bleeds Ink. We need Ink. Author is Ink.
Sometimes Author forgets Pen is dying and tries to put us on Page with it. He likes to wet the tip of Pen with his tongue when Ink stops flowing. Next time, we will be waiting. We must get Ink for Pen.
Author picked up Pen today to make more Words on page, but he just scratched Page with Pen because Ink is almost gone now, we are waiting in the last drop for Author to bring us close enough to get the Blood Ink. Author brought pen to his tongue like he always does, and we left Pen.
We just needed Ink. We were fading. We meant no harm. When we leave Pen and soak into Page it feels like magic, Ink flows slowly and we glide onto Page, but when we soaked ourselves into Author, the Ink gushed and rushed and spilled and poured. It began to drown Page and Pen shattered on the floor. Author laid his head in Ink and gave his life to Page as Page was suffocating in Author’s Blood Ink. We meant no harm.
Ink is drying. Pen is broken. Page is dripping with Ink and we are no longer Words. Without Author we are just dried Ink and we are dying. We meant no harm . . . We meant no har –.
Crystal R. Cook
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They are always with me
They are always there.
Constant companions
following whither I roam,
lending themselves
to use as I please,
offering their worth,
asking nothing of me.
They assist me to rise,
they sing me to sleep,
they catch up my tears,
and dry them for me.
When my voice
has gone silent,
they offer me theirs,
and when it’s too loud
they soften the sound.
I’ve pushed them away
I’ve cursed them be damned
and still . . .
they remain –
without hurt or disdain,
and still . . .
they remain –
to unburden my heart
and vanquish my pain.
They make music
from thoughts,
transform what I think,
spilling my dreams out,
painting visions in ink.
My constant companions,
my most faithful of friends,
they live and they breathe
with each word that I pen.
Crystal R. Cook
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I belong to the words – especially during the night.
Sometimes I write, and it makes such perfect sense; to me, to someone else – other times, I wonder. I used to rid myself of all the words I wasn’t certain sense or clarity could be found in, but then I mourned them and I searched for them, digging up their invisible grave sites and attempting to resurrect them in some semblance of what they once were, but they were never the same again so I stopped. I stopped crumpling the pages they were written on, I stopped scratching them out with the ink they were created with. I stopped deleting them and let them breathe.
I let them exist.
Some of them are hidden safely away, some are locked in invisible cages, and some simply roam free – sometimes I let people see them, sometimes I visit them in the deepest and darkest part of night. Most stay silent, content to be wherever they are, but others call out, cry out – begging to be released. Sometimes I consider it. Maybe one day I’ll set the captives free.
The words I find the need to hide are most often the ones that come to me when the sun has been settled long enough for night to erase any memory of it, when it blankets even the stars in ebony embrace. Tonight is one of those nights and so many words are whispering, I find myself wondering if they are mine or if I am theirs. The thought crosses my mind – I have it all wrong, they are my captors.
I am bound by letter and verse, by sonnet and chapter – a prisoner without plan nor desire for escape.
And so the night and the words are mine and I belong to them. When the morn comes and the light of day rouses me from what little sleep I was allowed, I wonder what they will say, those words I kept company with as I dreamed outside of a dream, waiting for the darkness to fade . . .
I long to be
unapologetically –
wholly, perfectly,
and simply
me,
but . . .
it seems at times
I forget to remember
where the me has gone
within the person that I am.
I like her
I do,
but sometimes . . .
she is a stranger
or instead,
I am a stranger to her.
I can’t completely be certain
so I am left to wonder
and wander.
We play hide and seek
the her and the I,
we pretend to be friends
and sometimes,
we are,
it depends on who’s *it*.
It seems to me
we should be one,
of thought
of mind
of inner everything,
but . . .
and maybe this is crazy –
we are separate,
the her and the I.
Did I fracture?
or was it she?
Splinters of self,
branches on the same tree,
perchance it is meant to be,
the her and the me,
growing together,
separately,
as one.
Crystal R. Cook
The Qwiet Muse 