Category Archives: Creative Juices

Many [A Poem]

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butterfly spirit

I think that true love reveals itself within many versions: with god; in motherly affection; with brotherly affection; and in romance.

We make bonds with people. It’s nature’s way. It feels like we are created for love and for affection. It’s like the rhythm of the earth is two heartbeats working as one and in multitude.

Can’t you feel it?

It’s a steady hum, plus drum.

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Birth of a Star

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My inspiration for the following poem is a quote from Friedrich Nietzsche which says, “You must have chaos within you to give birth to a star.”

Just Me 28

Chaos!

Within me
A blessed light has pierced the
Flesh of a heart which houses a delicate soul

Cracks form
Unholy fissures that sever and wound
The Illumination that cries outward to weep

Snap!

I’m disfigured
As my back violently arches
Till tips of tainted hair kiss the damp Earth

Beams spring
From radiance in the core of my chest
Nothing now but broken sternum in a weak body

I scream!

Silence becomes
The warrior’s shuddering plea
As chaos overwhelms my quivering soul

Jaw slacks
As vibrations echo through my throat
Producing ripples in time and space and chilled air

Consumed!

Passion and
 Purity and Redemption devour all
That I am and can feel and ever hope to know

Brilliance forms
A devoted creation whose
Wide eyes bare witness to visions of Chaos’ goal

My destiny!

Darkness flees
As particle waves shatter my body
Producing the embodiment of all passions

I am
An awaited prophesy
Of a reborn cosmic Entity

A star!

©2014 Rachel Karp

Back in the Groove

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Back in the Groove

Dreary days have been absent this summer, but today, the skies are a milky blue-grey. This shade of creativity castes the world in shimmering pale. I love the wet. Because the wasps by my window have settled down for an extended nap till a dry shine will wake them. Until then, the rain drips by their heads silently, persistently. On gloomy days, I most appreciate how the world rotates in an ever-constant state while my perceived reality slows – just enough – to feel as if all things are crawling through an invisible field of molasses. And, everything is green against the backdrop of blue-grey. I have been inspired to write. The surge of creative juices has my fingers itching, but insert my dilemma: boop. I have no clue what to write. Oh sure, I’ve ideas. A frightening story has been gurgling in my belly for some time, but am I willing, in ink, to murder? I have considered completing a short horror piece for Halloween, but to what extend will I allow the gore to overtake me, bathe me? Horror is a magic you must be careful to press into ink. Nightmares too easily leap from the page.

Romance has been tickling the back of my brain lately – too – like a subtle seduction. Love frightens me more than gore, and a true love story is hard to find – even harder to capture on paper. I dislike the production of cheesy love. Not to say that true love can’t be cheesy. If you have an adorkable personality…Go with it. What I am trying to say is that my love story should feel like a travesty of emotions. Perhaps love is nothing but a figment of perception coupled with an onslaught of adrenaline, but I refuse to believe. Taking the scientific stance on love is boring and mature. Since when has love ever FELT like a rush of hormones? Never. At least, that’s not how we put it to words. Love is an overflowing spring of torment that tastes of raspberry and honey to the tongue, smells of lilacs and lavender to the nose, feels like goose bumps on the belly beneath silk sheets.

I’m just going to have to get back into the groove of the consistent writing, I guess. I’ve been negligent, but when reality like lightening strikes you down with responsibility, you must do it and put away pleasures till they are reasonable.

Honestly, writing is not the only thing that I will have to “get back in the groove” to accomplish. After a two year break, I am headed back to university to finish my degree. This step in the supposed “right” direction has me nervous and excited. Transferring my mind and social standing to that was a college student is going to be tough. Exhilarating. Never before have I had such a rush of mixed emotions. I am in love with the notion. I am going to miss my friends. Leaving them for months at a time while I get my life figured out is going to be the hardest aspect of this transition. How does one maintain friendships over such a distance? I have had difficulties maintaining friendship when they are merely on the opposite side of town, but now that five hours distance will separate us, I am not sure how to react. I wish to assume that they are going to forget me. I wish we had taken more photos over the course of the summer, but there is always next summer to accomplish that goal. I have promised myself that if I make good grades, I will treat myself to a camping vacation with my friends. But…we will see how the winds blows a year from now. In a year, much can change. People change. Lives change. Dreams change. I’m not sure I am ready for it. By Friday, I have to be ready to sign my name to fate. I must force myself to take a positive outlook on all of this and channel that outlook in a constructive way for my future. I have goals, true, but I don’t want to leave behind my friends in order to get there. But, growing up – this time – is not going to be fair.

Luna Moonbeams Pumpkin Pie

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pumpkinator

“My Cat Never Sleeps”

My cat never sleeps.
She lives a second life
In her dreams.
Tonight as she curls up and
Tucks her tail to her side
After grooming and purring
And kissing my nose,
She closes her lids
Only to open them in a world
Much grander than this.
Beside her I’ve transformed –
A sleeping giant
Whose breathing makes the waves
Crest and crash.
My toes are now serpents;
My hair a wild mop of sea weed.
My tossing and turning rocks her from her boat.
Nothing worries her it seems
Because the waves do not touch her.
With ease of a pro
She steps from her boat onto clouds
That take her places:
A staircase of stars to lands populated
With creatures and critters and smells that entice her.
Beside me, she sleeps soundly –
Her whiskers flickering
In the moonlight.
I watch her with one eye:
Her steady breathing;
Her kneading paws
And, I know for a fact that she is
A space explorer,
A rat thief;
Palace jester.
The clouds have taken her to a world
Quite far away
And as I give in to sleep
My monstrous breath forms her pedestals.
During these few hours
While we are worlds apart
My feline is dancing for giants
And stealing their crumbs.
She’s planning parties for mice and
Taking quick naps in fields of exotic flowers;
Surfing the Milky Way.
In times of danger
She disguises herself as a mighty dragon
Sharpening her claws on the trunks of great Sequoias
Howling her fires and
Whipping her fierce tail.
She makes art with the butterflies and
Molds a crown from beetle shells,
But she is always happy
Though curiosity not sated
To return to me when the sun in that world
Turns from yellow to orange to the bluest of pinks.
As I rise to a new day in this world
Full of grays,
She waits patiently.
She lives in the normal
Where bugs are not massive and
Swirls of snow do not paint her white.
Though when I come home,
She curls again with her monster
On a bed of black fluff
Excited to venture
Past my reality
To worlds all her own.

©2014 Rachel Karp

The Creative Process: A Poem

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When considering my creative process, I was hesitant to put it into words. But, when I gave myself time to consider the essence of my creativity, a poem revealed itself:

Just Me 16

Quick do the blackened waters
Wash away the Memory
Of fiction dreamt
Breathing beings
Survive on gray
Jelly in my grooves
Channels considered the subconscious
Stories gorge themselves on
Delicacies of brain
As mud weighs down my eyes
Till forcing myself
I break the surface
This silent pond of muse
Ripples
Open mouth for prophesy
Gurgled streams
Of flowing phrases
Visions captured
Suffocation
Ink stains on my teeth
Till dreaming once again
Pulls me with the current
Sinking to the silt
Miers of creation

©2014 Rachel Karp

Prophetic Metaphor? – A Poem

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cardinal

Adorned in the colors of a bleeding moon at dusk
A little Cardinal flew down from heaven’s garden
Alighting upon my head to build a nest inside my curls
Sweet songs did he chirp that gave me immense pleasure
Concerning all the beautiful gifts awaiting those with
Purest hearts and innocent perspectives
He sang of flourishing gardens and water so clear
The fish would be fat and hearty and thick inside the streams
Fruit would be abundant and fill bellies everywhere
Till one day my birdie changed his tune as
Darkness came to haunt the Earth
Slithering from beneath the cracked foundations
To torment those too weak to defend against temptations
His prophesies turned murky and tainted with disease
And before I even saw the Truth with my own shadowed eyes
The Cardinal sang to me of silent days when ash will cover all
Making mud with the blood of innocents and those unclean
Evil men will destroy our world before they’re eaten whole
Devoured by the demons who they’ve foolishly let loose
Destruction is seen as the color red all because greedy men
Could not control their ravenous intentions to snatch
Beauty from the world and hold it in their pockets
As silver and gold and midnight pearls and
Lumps of coal not yet turned to diamonds

©2014 Rachel Karp

Colors – A Poem

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Fruity pebbled breath
Exhaled on alien tongue
Forms the Yin and Yang.
Their smoke travels on the waves
Crashing through the channels
Of my eager brain.
They whisper of Universe’s plan
And give me Van Gogh vision.

I see the world melting –
Crayons left to weather
The cruelty of the sun.
Skies are swirling –
Tie-dyed orange blushes
Melding with a violet midnight
Punctuated by a dripping
Blob of cream.

My garden is
A pot of gold –
Place of tranquility;
Beauty draining from the canvas;
Muddied rose turned daffodil
In puddles of wintergreen;
Rainbowed polka dots
Where flowers did once bloom.

The sun is casting dominance
And the metal world
Bends at the waist
To bow its head
In reverent understanding.
Unbreakable beams
Now cascading –
Smoggy, silver waterfalls.

 

©2014 Rachel Karp

Ink Stains

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Ink Stains

Crisp air takes away my breath this morning as I let my mother’s dogs run free to chase away the startled deer that have wandered harmlessly onto the property. The dogs are harmless themselves only being a miniature poodle and schnauzer. They love the freedom of the mornings when the sleepy sun has yet to wake my little portion of Earth from dutiful slumber. I’m watching him peek at me from the horizon like a child beneath the cozy covers on a Saturday morning. Light is refracted across the entire sky in shades of rainbow – deep violet near the horizon that melts into a stunning bloody orange that mellows with a gray-ish hued greenblue and finally relinquishes itself to the common blue. The Cheshire Cat still hangs indignantly in the sky as if teasing the sun to block him from view. I love the morning. It allows me to think most clearly and see the world, or at least, my skewed perceptions of the world in this brief moment of perfection. Often I like to think on mornings like these what it would be like to wake up facing a great expanse of mountains where the sun must conquer the climb to their majestic peak before smiling upon me. I can see myself rocking in an overly stuffed rocking chair on the porch of a simple cabin with mug of freshly brewed coffee in my hand as I listen to the natural world rise from it temporal hibernation. I’d have pen and notebook resting in my lap likewise waiting for the muse to awake in my soul and take flight with Cardinals and other avian creatures. Such thoughts lead me towards dreaming. If I were to sit in such a rocking chair with that undeniable well of inspiration presented to me from God himself and do nothing but think, I am curious where my thoughts would take me. I know for a fact that I would not be able to sit still for very long because there would arise the unmistakable itch to write down the thoughts that bubble from my soul and seal them into ink. Perhaps I would transform myself via meditation on that gloriously philosophical day into a profound prophetess who transcribes the destinies of my characters like a benevolent goddess.  I would scratch them to life on my parchment…………..Mmmmmm. I feel a poem begin to leak from the tips of my fingers. My keys are slowly being stained…

“Ink Stains” by Rachel Karp

Ink stains
The outer side of her left palm
And the knuckle of her pinkie.
The words she scratches to paper
Are so furiously penned that the black
Has little time to dry.
The stains are just an obvious result.
Crouching with her feet tucked
Beneath her bum,
She perches like a feral cat
Ready to pounce.
Instead of preying upon a bird
Or wandering butterfly, however
She claws her revenge into the written word.
Loose papers litter the floor.
Coffee drips from a spoon
That is haphazardly resting atop
A stack of notebooks.
She chews on her bottom lip in concentration
As though the action will produce
A steady flow of thought.
It works
Because her fingers twitch and twist the ink
To images,
To sentences,
To murmurs of her heart.

And the paper adores this type of attention.
It likes when she finds herself
So absorbed in the task that
She has forgotten to dress.
She herself becomes a naked muse worth penning.
Tangled hair from a night’s stressful,
Dream-filled sleep is brushed continuously
In a flip away from her eyes.
The red hues of it
Shimmer to gold and auburn and back
To a hint of blond
In the shaft of light that cuts her desk in two.
Even the sun enjoys rising to peek in on her
Scribbling away.
The fact that she closes her eyes
For a moment in the evenings,
Let alone an entire night,
Is a surprise unto itself.
For if she had one super power
It would be to never have to sleep.
Infinite energy to write and write and
Pour her soul into the pages of her books.

Here she is again –
Steady ritual.
A fine form of priestess
Who palms her psalms
In a desperate attempt to convert the unwilling.
And conversion is always simple.
A single phrase and she has you in rapture.
In a similar way,
She melts your heart with a smile
When a pause to think brings
Her head to a tilt in your direction.
You rest there upon the bed eyes closed,
Steady breathing.
She would draw you or
Immortalize you in ink.
You shift among the silks and fabric
Falls from your bare thighs.
What a thought!
Without a second glance,
She transforms herself into an Egyptian dream,
Etching your soul in her parchment.
Unknowingly you have become her private muse.

When at last the final word
Soaks and dries upon the paper,
She leans back stretching herself like a cat
Awaking from a trance.
Arms high above her head,
Breasts jutting outward and each leg
Unfurling from their perch one after the other.
Everywhere is a mess
As the reality of the situation
Presenting itself in her studio assaults her.
She curls her lips into a sour pucker
Before swooping her billows of hair
Into a sloppy bun atop her head
Kept in place by glasses
As they are swept from her nose
To rest on her forehead.
With a grunt,
She stands and you roll over onto your back
Stuffing your head so deep into the pillows
That even a vacuum could not wake you.

She lights up her remaining
Quarter of a cigarette, and
Stands observing her space
As though she is some explorer
Happening upon an ancient tomb.
As the medicinal gray smoke fills her lungs and
Travels through the grooves of her brain
Before being set free through the channels of her nose,
She begins to hum and
Push about a Chinese take-out box
With her big right toe.
A story,
Quite brilliant,
Is now forgotten –
The witching hour through –
And rests upon her desk in a pile of unorganized chaos.

The ink sighs
As it dries
And papers yet untouched
Wait patiently for their turn
Because they know,
Better than she knows herself,
That she will be back before the hour is over
Once her cigarette is nothing
But a butt in its tray.
A new fantasy will have bubbled to the surface
Having originated from her soul,
And her fingers will itch.
She will capitulate to the urgings that she will
Never be able to repress.

©2014

 

Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head

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Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head

It’s raining…it’s pouring; my mind won’t let me rest. Isn’t it funny how the weather seems to affect our muse? Right now, I am sitting at my desk letting my eyes wander to the gloomy, somewhat miserable day outside. I’ve never been more grateful in my life for having stomach issues. I could have been at work drudging away the day, but instead, I am home. And I am blessed enough to be able to watch water drip lazily from my roof’s shingles while I munch on a bbq burger. The clouds swirl in miserly protest as their precious store of rain droplets sprinkles to nourish this dying Earth. The scent of rain is too always poetic. Fresh and vital verses bubble upward from between soaked pebbles and trickle towards thirsty greenery. It is a mesmerizing spectacle – the rain. But oh! Here comes the sun. He cuts my desk in two, and though he does not send a rainbow, I will forgive him because he has broken apart the dreary clouds and made them smile, even for the briefest moment. I’m watching his beaming face slip away behind the clouds again who grin mischievously. I feel like they know a secret but are not willing to pass it on. “That’s not very nice,” I say to them as I waggle my finger in womanly scorn for their childish behavior. A grumble of distant thunder is their reply, and oddly, I am satisfied with such a remark because thunder is soothing in its terrific symphony. Wouldn’t you agree? It tumbles about in the sky like a giant wearing two-sizes-too-big, Dutch-style wooden clunkers attempting to jig and jive on the tops of the clouds. Honestly, I wish there were such a thing as cloud giants- all sorts of fantastical creatures. Imagine a world, if you will, where all the stuffs of legend were true and seeing a giant dancing in the clouds was not a frightening experience, but a common one, and their antics would make children smile and cynics roll their eyes…Lovely to think on, even if the thought wisps away as quickly as the clouds themselves alter their shape. They look like layered gray pudding. This image, particularly, amuses me because now I want to buy a very large, magical spoon and scoop up the clouds into a very ample ice-cream bowl, cover them with rainbow sprinkles and perhaps a dash of peanuts and chocolate syrup….Mmmm….I should eat some ice cream. “Rain, rain, don’t go away…I love your company.”