Tag Archive | writing

Crumpled Pages & Lines Incomplete

Jul13

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

Beckoning me

Jul12

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Moonbeams

spill into

my darkened room,

rest a while

upon my brow,

tiptoe up the walls

and dance

with shadows

to the silent song

of my quickening heart.

I hear your whisper

in the deepest of night,

enticing me to

disencumber myself

from slumbers dominion

and steal away

to a secret place

of absolute solace and

faultless pleasure.

You beckon,

I heed your call.

Laid bare before me,

unblemished canvas

waiting, yearning, needing

to be painted

with my desire,

anxious to be claimed.

A blank page,

awaiting the touch

of my pen.

Crystal R. Cook

They are always with me

Jun10

Words

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

I belong to the words – especially during the night.

May28

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 . . .

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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

Blogiversary – The Qwiet Muse is ONE!

May27

May 24th marked the one year anniversary of

The Qwiet Muse.

398 posts to date.

It’s hard to imagine that my words have been seen by so many around the world.

807 followers so far, there were 811, must have been something I said. To be quite honest, when I started The Qwiet Muse, I expected some family and perhaps a few friends to visit it every now and then. I didn’t have high hopes. The truth is, I didn’t think it would even last this long. I thought a month, maybe two would go by before I realized it was a silly idea and walk away from it, but I didn’t – I couldn’t.

I had no idea what I was doing. I’m amazed I was able to create this little space in blogdom without the help of my computer savvy kids, I still need help operating the dang DVR. I didn’t have a plan, a direction to move forward with; I still don’t. I just write and put it out there. Random musings. I have yet to really dig down and share much of my writing, maybe this next year . . . I’ve read many articles since I began this journey in regard to blogging, they all basically say I’m doing it wrong. Maybe I am, but it’s working for me.

I’ve made connections, real-actual-bon-a-fide connections through this little space I call The Qwiet Muse. Beautiful and inspiring friendships were not something I was expecting and I am so thankful for them. These one-time strangers filled a place in my heart I didn’t even know needed to be filled, they have lifted me up and encouraged me so many times. I cannot express how much they have come to mean to me.

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I suppose I will just keep on keeping on, writing, sharing, sometimes ranting. Perhaps I will find a focus, or two or three – I won’t, focusing is difficult – I do hope to continue growing in my confidence, I believe in myself a little more, in my ability to write and evoke feelings with my words . . . I want to do more of that.

~ The first Qwiet Muse post ~

Beauty and music, sunshine and light,
the wings of a dove, softly rustling in flight.

The smell of the morning after summers rain,
crackling campfires, and bubbling champagne.

Voices of children, singing songs of praise,
the evening mist, and long autumn days.

The changing of seasons, a moment of prayer,
goosebumps and laughter, my favorite chair.

Being lost in a moment, the voice of a friend,
being held in a hug I hope never ends.

The way my cheeks feel coming in from the cold,
the softness of hands as they begin to grow old.

Sincerity and honesty, faith, hope and love,
knowing that God is somewhere above.

The presence of angels, a wonderful dream,
having a bowl of my favorite ice cream.

Snuggles and cuddles and soft babies feet,
that fleeting moment my house is tidy and neat.

Sweet memories to cherish, tears of sadness and joy,
pictures in albums, my childhood toy.

Sharing a secret, shouting out loud,
laying back in the sun, guessing shapes in the clouds.

Rain on the rooftop, silence so still,
meadows and forests, lacy frost on the sill.

The power of prayer, uninterrupted sleep,
making a promise I know I will keep.

Sitting and thinking of my favorite things,
like cupcakes and flowers and angel’s wings.

The innocent sweetness of love’s first kiss,
and simply sharing my thoughts with a friend like this.

© Crystal R. Cook

The fog is rolling in, the battle rages on

May21

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The fog is rolling in.

I sense before I see,

the clouded mist

that comes again –

coming again for me.

Wispy tendrils

whorl round my feet,

readying for war.

Creeping, crawling,

reaching, searching,

finding me once more.

I’ve naught but gossamer veil

to hide myself beneath,

I’ve no stronger shield,

no bullets, no bow –

I’ve no weapon to unsheath.

But lo, perhaps I do –

I’ve words at my command.

With parchment as my coffer

and quill within my hand,

an army lays in wait,

for me to take my stand.

Whispered words

become my battle cry,

they cover me like armor,

they give me wings to fly.

As the battle rages,

the fog is failing, falling –

raining down in pages,

scattered in defeat.

I lift my veil,

and watch

as the

vanquished fog

retreats.

Crystal R. Cook

Life upon the page

May14

A Lonely Young Poet

May11

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

Seeking, searching – inspiration

Apr27

I play hide and seek

with inspiration

pursuing fickle muse

through darkened labyrinth

in dauntless expectation

She scatters thoughts

like falling leaves

and frenzied shooting stars

besprinkling each path I’m on

with quickly fading vestiges

of partial revelations

I perceive only from afar

They disappear

as I draw near

neath my feet

lay naught but dirt

where once there was

a star

Searching, seeking

lost, lamenting

My feckless quest

is near its end

the day is fading

the night is calling

Perhaps tomorrow

she will be my friend

Crystal R. Cook

Love poetry challenge ~ 10 lines, 4 words per line with LOVE in each one

Apr14

Darla over at New World Mom nominated me for a little poetry challenge, which originated on Brickhouse Chick‘s Blog. You can read Darla’s beautiful response to this fun challenge here.

Initially, I thought it sounded like a fairly simple undertaking, but as I sat to write, it proved a bit harder than I’d anticipated! More than a few attempts were quickly tossed aside, especially after I took the time to read some of the other poems that had been written following the same guidelines.

I kept the three I hated the least 🙂

The rules are simple

•Write about love using only 10 lines.

•Use the word love in every line.

•Each line can only be four words long.

•Nominate others who are up for the challenge.

•Let them know about the challenge.

•Title the post: Love in Ten Lines

•Include a quote about love (this can be your own).

•You may write in any language.