The Lost Muse

The Lost Muse

I sit down and pick up the pen
To serenade my lost muse again,
There are vague images I seek
And while consistencies are bleak,
I still enjoy searching the cause
The words in which the moments pause
And in that sudden clarity,
I look for my epiphany…

My muse is gone, been called away
And while the world will keep at bay
The emptiness in rush of noise,
Drown out that vacant seat disguised
Marked in reservation and stamped,
I wait out on the porch, encamped,
For when my muse is back again,
The world of words will let me in.

For on my own I have no key,
Wherever could my lost muse be?

©CM
19.05.2013

Hello everyone!

‘Tis the Return of the Kooky Cookie! I’m baaaaack! And I have muffins! Who missed me?

I’ve been having an odd week of sorts, uphill, downhill, in and out the roundabout, up the Faraway Tree and there and back again. Buuut, I’m back. blessedly in one solid (if rather overlarge) piece, and that’s good enough for a sunday morning, isn’t it? Although I might add, being in one piece isn’t good enough physically. You need all the pieces of your mind to come together too, and I’ve scattered some of them here and there and everywhere in the past few days. (Both oars not in the water? Right you are!)

So! One of my most introspective and contemplative parts is somewhat deficient, what with one of my muses being on vacation. I’ve still been writing, but not writing what I want to write, so that satisfaction at the end of the page is missing still. It’s a slippery slope without his guiding light, my lil Jack o’ lantern that he is, crooked grin and all. So if you find me writing about sparkly vampires or teeny bopper werewolves (*shudder*), feel free to wrap me in a straitjacket and toss me off the nearest cliff. You’ll be doing us both a favor, mate.

Here muse, muse, muse. I’ve got a muffin for you!

Sparkles

Hugs and nomnoms,

Cookie <3

Purple Apples and the Clumsy Oaf

Purple Apples

Today I want a purple apple
With blued and golden leaves
No green or red or yellowed brown
Those lot are my pet peeves!
Want it washed in river water
Want it cubed and not diced
Kept undisturbed, and not plucked
Neither skinned nor sliced
Hanging from a freight air liner
Delivered by stork
Male or female doesn’t matter
With its special spork.
So that apple will be dinner
For which my heart will sing
Otherwise, I’ll have to stew
Pink cabbages and kings!

© CM
17.10.2012

Hey everyone!

An odd but fitting poem for what is quickly shaping into an odd day. If I’m to believe Due Date, things can only go uphill, but erm, I’m a little sceptical.. o_O

Got up early ish with a smile on my face and a short lived spring in my steps. Step. Singular. The first bouncy step off the pillows landed me feet first into the kids’ bowls of milk and cat food, suspiciously, booby trappishly, next to the bed.

Mopped up the crazy spill, took three wiping sessions to clear it up. Was getting up when I hit my back nice and hard on the corner of my study table. Yep. Ouch. Very.

Proceeded to do the Kangaroo Dance of Agony into the living room, simultaneously screaming in pain and laughing at the absurdity of it all. The cats watched half detached, half bemused, and the new addition to the house, Le Pigeon, started hopping around in alarm as well.

Sympathy? Nah. Le sister found it appropriate to remark that I wasn’t going to get married any time soon. Clearly I’ve yet to make it to my teens.

Ah well. There’s still morning coffee and muffins to look forward to.

Cheers to you all!

Cookie <3

Silver Linings- On the Highway to Hell

Silver Linings

 

Some days when you get up
You’ll feel it in your gills,
The whole week is going to be
So completely downhill
You could be attack squish hugged
By baskets of puppies
Inundated in kittens
Or chocolate, if you please,
And even then it would be
Bang on the Gloom Radar,
Happiness will play He-Man
And you’ll be Skeletor.

But then some days you get up,
And you know, you just know,
It’s going to be beautiful,
And till night stay just so.
Hotter than the Sahara,
Messy and sleep derprived,
You might feel like a train wreck,
But eager for the ride.
You’ll wake up with a smile and
Go to sleep with a grin,
‘Cause of those silver linings
That you call your best friends.

 

©CM
08.05.2013

Here’s to such a majorly awesome pawsome day with a majorly awesome pawsome friend! It was a terrible week, and today’s been a terrific day. We’re going down the Highway to Hell, and loving it!

Hope you all have as good a day as I did, and am going to!

Put those horns up for

\m/ Cookie \m/

PS. Thanks for the push to post this. Daily Prompts and Rawra ,You rock!  AND everyone else too! Love you guys to bits!!

The Room of Death and the Open Door

 

The Room of Death

 

 

 

There is a room in my house, tucked away quietly in the corner, with a bed in it. I often come here, to sit and watch, how different things are from the sidelines.

It is not my room, but every now and then, I make it mine. It is the room of death.

Things are… different here. Perceptions laid askew, reality turned upside down, then sideways twice, for good measure. I don’t mean that the roof is on the ground. Not like that, no. More as if I was watching everything flip itself inside out.

Especially when I look out through the door, just a few feet away. It’s always open, and I can see well into the next room, and beyond, full of what ifs and if onlys.  ’If’ doesn’t exist here ,and I can never tell if they’re real. Who’s to know if this is real, anyway. Who’s to know if I’m real?

It’s about a minute, an hour, or a night trapped in time. You feel nothing here, most days when you come in, you don’t feel yourself. It’s where you come for that very emptiness, to stop feeling. To stop caring. To stop.

The price is death, though. You won’t notice till you’ve walked out again, but you smell of death. I know, because I’ve smelt of death. It’s a faintly sweetish smell, but overpoweringly evocative… Unpleasant even, laced with so many promises… Of peace, of reunion, of rest.. And nearly all of them as malignant as beguiling. There is not one worth taking death up for. Not willingly, at least.

And I smell of death. When i leave, it’s all over me. On my clothes, on my skin. I bathe thrice a day to get it off, and hope that it’ll leave me alone and unblemished. So it does, obediently. The tarnish isn’t something you and I can see anyway. It runs deeper than that.
And it calls you back.

It calls you back, every few weeks or so.

Before you know it, you’ve strayed out of the cheery corridors of normalcy, into that strange, strange room. With its barred windows, and locked doors. The cupboards full of dusty books. The table, the chair. And the bed.

But what a sleep you find awaits you, on that broad mattress, where it’s never too hot or too cold. My feet go numb, when they touch the floor. So deliciously numb, the nothingness, the soundlessness. The stillness and the bed, in that room of death. They call me, they call out to me every time I stay in colors too long. There is a bit of me that belongs there, and finds no rest amidst the confusion, the chaos of light. And so I return, to the room of death.

 

Maybe this will be the last time.

 

 

 

©CM
06.05.2013

 

 

 

 

 

The Open Door

The door was always open
I preferred the dark, though
Needles in the shadows,
Thoughts were no one should go,
That dark is a good friend

There are dancing figures on the wall
Some spilling onto my bed,
Some laughing about the dead
Pin pricks glinting off the red,
Those dancing figures are good friends

There were crosses on the window
Tossed, tangled blankets on the floor
Whispers calling out for more,
Drowning out the galloping roars,
Those whispers are good friends

Eventually it’ll all end
The pillow indent that knows me
The thumping, straining heart beat,
Pumping, draining habitually,
That straining heart is my friend.

I can lay here, I can watch,
Light spilling in through the crack
Inch by inch, pushing my shadows back,
I’d like the world to fade to black
Black Is a very good friend

But that damned door will have his way
Needles and pinpricks, then, just for today..

©CM
04.05.2013

A story and a poem. I wonder, does that make a story poem?

A secret for you, from my secret room. Hush….

The Broken Toys

 

 

 

The Broken Toys

 

 

Altered sensorium
A drop in your hand
You can’t give it back to me,
It’s gone, slipped away,
Seeking what is beyond you
Not for you to see,
Or for you to know
Even though it is
For me to show
Yours is yours, and
Mine, mine, really
You try to walk
Through my thoughts
Like a little lost boy
But this is my mind,
My fellow misfit,
And we are both
Broken toys..

 

 

©CM
01.05.2013

 

 

Aaand I’m back! Missed me?  ’Cause I definitely missed writing for you. Hope you’re all well and up for reading, there’s lots for us to share.

 

Love and light to you,

Cookie <3

 

Cookie Reviews!- Gyaros Book One : The Mice Eat Iron

 

 

Cookie Reviews! 

GYAROS BOOK ONE : THE MICE EAT IRON

 

Hello everyone! 

 

I know I know, I’m horribly late and lazy too. but in defense I had exams kicking me up and down the week. However, better late than never, and here we are! 

I’d promised you all a review of a terrific book, and I’m linking you to it below so you can see for yourself just how awesome it is. The book is called Gyaros Book One: The Mice Eat Iron, written by Rohan Healy and Alex Healy from rohan7things, and I have to say, it’s really rekindled my interest in the science fiction genre again. 

Gyaros is set in the futuristic world of Carthage, the cradle of the new civilization, which is neighbor to the red moon, Gyaros. The contrast between the two settlements is as stark as day and night- while Carthage is a near utopian fully efficient society, Gyaros is the the dumping ground for all those deemed unfit to live on Carthage, an open prison with its own laws and lawmakers. 

Our main protagonist in this new world is Miles Stanton, a quiet and unassuming guy in his twenties, living the normal man’s dream life in Carthage. He works in the Energy Department and lives in the suburbs with his wife and son, and is soon to be promoted as well. It’s all going good, and Miles knows it too, till one, just one ill-fated day that throws everything in his life off balance. Out of nowhere Miles finds himself being shipped unceremoniously off to Gyaros, where he has to fight tooth and nail for his survival, and his sanity. 

The background for the entire novel is so brilliantly thought out, that you make the transition through the pages with Miles, without even noticing it. First the deceptively beautiful Carthage, and then the harsh reality of the red moon, both so expressively painted that you can see where Miles is, what he’s doing, and sometimes, what he’s missing too. Miles himself is the ultimate survivor, and it’s so fascinating to watch him discover his surroundings and discover himself through the extremes he faces. And not just Miles, but the people he meets too, the powerful, grizzly bear sized Maxen, and the innocent yet enigmatic child, Lucy. As much as I’m tempted to tell you what happens, I won’t, ’cause that’ll just give all the fun away won’t it? What I can tell you is that it’s a truly inspiring story of friendship and struggle and victory, and you’ll find yourself at the edge of your seat all the way through the fast paced but detailed narrative. 

 

I’d advise you all to hop over to Gyaros and look for yourself. I can guarantee that you won’t be disappointed! In fact, soon there’ll be the second book to read too! How pawsome is that? 

 

 

 

 

Have you read Gyaros yet? Do share what you thought of it in the comments below!

 

 

Cheers,

Cookie <3

The Past that Never Goes Away

 

 

The Past That Never Goes Away

 

I made my way through many days,
Through so many torturous nights
I sat and held and endured things that
Would’ve long broken the fight
Of more whole, less cracked persons
After all these things, these years,
The hours locked that never seemed
To end, the bruises, welts, the tears,

 

That seem were becoming a part
Of me, routine, permanently
After sitting through the yelling,
All the screaming, and the throwing
The pitiful glances and shreds of
Comfort near strangers would give, in
Those days a rising, falling chest
Meant all it was to be, to live,

 

After all that, even after
Getting to Where, to Who I am,
The Past never goes away, it’s
Become something that I am,
I will always carry with me,
A shadow that follows my step
Even through high noon, in the sun,
There is no escaping it’s theft
Of my life, of what joy I can
Try to extract, try to live through
The Past, it never goes away,
It’s with me, whatever I do.

 

How much can a person take,
Before they crumble, fall apart?
Lies and false promises, dreams
Made of silver fragile glass,
Painted with deceptive trust.
Beatings, and being thrown away
In a hole in the ground, like
An animal, for come what may

 

Meant as just a punching bag,
Being reduced to a living nothing,
Being degraded, discarded and
Reclaimed for yet once more, again.
The past never does go away
It’s always there, watching in wait
For its chance, waiting for that one
Opportunity, break the gate

 

Come crashing into your world
To drag you down into the black
Fathomless depths of emptiness.
The past never does go back
Alone. it takes one flimsy door,
and gallops in to the now
To take it and futures away,
As though it was ordained somehow

 

No, the past won’t go away, it’s
What your nightmares are made of
And it will catch you unwary, to
Pull you in through thick and rough
The veils of each successive year
Will dampen its hold and its strength
But the past doesn’t go away,
It’s just waiting to get back in

 

Unless of course, you’ve let it in,
And let that grim man in the room
Sit and watch you, as you work
Instead of rotten and exhumed
He becomes a curious thing
Experience, a source, a way,
To know where it was you went wrong
And where you’ll never, ever stray

 

To you, the grim man in my room,
All I will say, it’s come to be,
I will always have to see you
Oft solemnly and bitterly
But you can’t overpower me,
I have seen you, I have been you
The holes of mind and earth are filled
The whole heart put as one with glue

 

So you are most welcome to come
To be my visitor, my guest
And some day I will greet you too
Not just endure, ignore, but bless
Some day I will look right through you
Through all that you still signify
Instead of that holocaust, I
Will see that yes, I survived..
I cannot preach but this is what
I’m learning everyday in bits..
The past will never go, but it’s
Our choice, what to do with it.

 

 

©CM
30.04.2013

 

 

 

Day 30 of NaPoWriMo, and here’s my almost last offering for the month. That’s right, almost last. For the last day, I’m putting up two poems!

I hope you liked this one. And I hope no matter what your past, you’re blessed with the strength to deal with, to love yourself no matter what you’ve been through. It took every little crack in the path to make you the person you are today, and you are perfect, flaws and all.

 

Because you’re a survivor. Because you’re you. And that’s not a bad thing at all.

 

Lots of love,

Cookie <3