Tag Archive | writer
Crumpled Pages & Lines Incomplete
Crumpled pages
scattered at my feet
Sonnets of scribbles,
of lines incomplete
So many words
with so much to say,
wrenched out and written
and then thrown away
Tossed to the wayside
by no fault of their own
they were my words,
they were seeds I had sown
Like I was some God
giving life to the page,
like I was some monster
they fell to my rage
Mourning, I gathered them
each creased and crinkled one,
desperate to undo
the damage I had done
To make amends I saved them
to one day use again,
and sat back down to seek
forgiveness with my pen
Crystal R. Cook
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A Lonely Young Poet
artwork – Gerard ter Borch
A lonely young poet
with sweet, red wine
silently welcomes the night
as she would an old friend.
Crimson drops spill
as her glass fills to the brim.
Slowly she sips the nectar
that will transform her world.
Eclectic visions flow forth,
the laureates tongue slurs
under intoxication’s haze.
Her voiceless verbose rambles on
as she empties the bottle.
The crystal goblet glistens
as the days new light
finds its way into her
darkened room.
The page on which she rests
is stained with the color
of tears and old wine.
When she awakes
the words will greet her,
bringing with them
a few, still
moments of peace.
It will last until
the daylight
once again
fades.
Crystal R. Cook ~ 2000
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Capturing Eternity – Haiku
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I dunno . . .
The typo is killing me . . .
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My Words
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Dance of Words
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Just beneath the surface.
I truly have no idea what I want to write. I suppose that’s not entirely true, I’ve too many things I want to write would be a far exceedingly accurate representation of my current situation. There are so many words inside of me, fighting to be set free. They seem to be canceling each other out in an effort to be given life.
Long kept memories, some good, some I wish could simply be forgotten, wrestle with the new, clamoring for release. Ideas and epiphanies stored in the recesses of my mind, stories and dreams and fantasies, ancient hopes and longings, emerging wishes, knowledge and insights begging to be shared. The cacophony of silent rumblings never seem to rest.
The tangled remnants of thoughts within me wrestle with emerging ruminations, which do I favor? How do I choose? I sit to write, willing one or the other to rise to the surface, making my choice clear, but I wait in vain. They can’t decide so I must choose, but the how eludes me. They taunt me, floating just below the horizon of conscious thought, knowing I can’t quite reach them there.
Sometimes I doubt their existence, call them tormentors and illusions, but that would mean I’ve gone mad without realizing I’d somehow slipped from realities grasp. No, they are as real as the pen I hold. They are unforgiving perhaps, slighted in some way because I did not release them sooner, I could not release them, it wasn’t their time. Perhaps it still isn’t.
Maybe tomorrow they will willingly come . . .
Crystal R. Cook
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Lord Byron
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I rise and write.
Hendrick ter Brugghen – Old Man Writing by Candlelight
When the sun settles for the night and the moon begins its reign, I rise and I write.
Insomnia is often a writer’s friend, perhaps even their only friend at times. It can also be an innocent and unintentional adversary. Many nights I have laid my head upon my pillow in hopes of drifting into dream. Instead, my mind begins to think on things I should have thought of throughout the day. Ideas and epiphanies chance moonlight visits to my conscious mind, begging me to rise and give them life upon a page.
Sonnets of silence serenade me with lullabies not meant to calm me to rest, but rather charm me to dream a thousand wakeful dreams. With my eyes open, pen in hand, word by beautiful word, they enchant me. A writer’s respite is not often found in the dark of night. Meandering minutes quickly turn to hours when a wandering muse beckons. When night retreats to the rising sun and the words silence to claim the sleep that was meant to be mine, it is time again to start another day.
Coffee in hand I stumble through, vowing not to stir again before the morning sun. I almost make myself believe I will slumber when the night comes, but when it does the seduction of solitude is too much to resist and I find myself once again, dancing with words across a page like lovers in a dream. I know too well the next day will be filled with weary eyes and a yawning, yearning for sleep.
Sometimes, when the night words come to steal my tomorrow, I refuse to play. When I do not heed their call, they whisper louder to lure me from my bed, knowing I will mourn their loss if I do not rise and claim them for my own. As a willing servant I follow and frolic just as I did the night before. Though happy to have the gift of them granted to me, I know there will be a price to pay, and I gladly pay it without pause.
There are moments I admit I have wished them gone. When my tired eyes blur and my head pounds in time with the beating of my heart, sometimes I wish them gone . . . but not really. Without them I would cease to exist, at least I fear I would. Every now and again, they retreat and sleep consumes me. I never fear their leave of me; they are silent and still only long enough for my body and mind to rejuvenate before they come again to play.
I welcome them and look to the light of the moon to guide our way through another night.
Crystal R. Cook
The Qwiet Muse 