Category Archives: Poetry

Many [A Poem]


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.

Birth of a Star


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


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


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


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

Luna Moonbeams Pumpkin Pie



“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


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
Open mouth for prophesy
Gurgled streams
Of flowing phrases
Visions captured
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



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


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

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.



Star Songs


star songs

If you sit still and listen to silence long enough
You can hear the steady buzz of the world.
Silence is never truly silent.
Inside its self-preserved dome of peace
Silence hums a cyclical song –
Melodic histories.
It woos us into subconscious understanding
With its complex lullaby.
It tells us time and time again
In different ways
How our history is playing out before us;
How our present is just the past verse sung
To an alternate beat
Or with a new instrument.
The world is in a constant state of rotation.
With each turn on our axis
We create a fresh verse
But the sad reality of this lullaby
Is that it is indeed cyclical.
We are doomed to revert back to a state of chorus
Only to rise into a verse
With altered undulation.
We are captured by a dance
Where our steps are determined by the music
That history decides to play.
Lying on the slope of a hill near the crest
When the night sky is clear of clouds
And the moon decides to hide,
You will see a vast expanse of stars.
It is breathtaking.
It is in that moment,
As grass tickles your ears and wind whispers to you,
Do you come to a realization that our world
Is either very small or large.
You discover a sense of where we are in the universe.
Combine this illumination
With Silence.
All at once you are overcome with your realities
Philosophies and dreams
And then
When it feels like the sensation is overwhelming
You suddenly find yourself at peace –
You are in the front row of an orchestra.
A connection is made and all the questions
You have ever felt inside
About your existence bubble outward.
Ancients before you described the stars as history
Transcribed by the gods
And as you stare into them
Past them
You notice that the stars form the notes on a musical staff.
Each is a point in your history –
The world’s history –
Strung together by nature to form the quivering hum you now feel.
I think
It is our nature in times of self-revelation that we analyze;
We delve into the deeper aspects of our curiosity.
One question is bouncing around in your head
More than others, however.
Where are we now?
You wrap your arms under your head and think.
You remember the history taught to you in middle school
And you recall current events.
Are we dancing to the beat of a happy verse?
Something tumultuous
Relaying a sense of change?
Or steady and familiar like the chorus?
How closely does this turn of the axis resemble the past?
How radically unique?
Which notes are my OWN?
It would appear
If we are destined to dance
That our futures are laid out before us without the hope
For significant change.
We will ebb and flow consistently.
But, why?
Our ancestors believed that there was the ability in us –
A gift of sorts which nature grants
That beckons us to change the tune.
If we lie complacent
Satisfied to slumber as the lullaby resonates
Merely in the background of existence
Then we will have no significance to the song.
We will dance as we were meant to dance
Not jive or do the robot or weep interpretively.
And although with each generation
The past is a looming presence
Waiting to be played again
The same way,
We must accept the gift nature has given us;
Be determined
To alter the verse.
Play the notes in the direction
We want our history to unfold.
Be the next whole note to appear on the staff.
Inspire jazz.
Inspire change.
Inspire the perfect song that when the time comes
For it to repeat itself
We will be satisfied to slumber.

Functioning With an Overly Creative Imagination: Where does your mind go?

Functioning With an Overly Creative Imagination: Where does your mind go?

Do you ever get the bug to be creative? Just lock up the house and spend the day exerting your creative energies into art. Where would your mind go? Options for creativity are unending. I can’t turn around without having heard of someone doing something innovative or outstanding in some field of art. Digital animations. Graphic sketch. Graffiti. Literature and Eco-Projects. I love to see imaginative people unite and create something spectacular or take a glimpse into an art gallery of an up and coming surrealist. Art never fails to amuse and enlighten individuals in unspeakable ways, unknowable ways.

Personally, art for me is a major de-stressor. Drawing, painting or writing all come with their merits for de-stressed relaxation. Hands down, my favorite is writing. The ability to transport my mind to an alternate existence and create a moment, life or entire world from words is thrilling and draining and exhilarating. Sometimes, a story will pop into my head that gets me so excited to write that I have to do so immediately. I call the feeling “While my juices are flowing”. The surge of adrenalin to my brain washes hormones over the corpus callosum (technical term for the thick cord that connects both lobes of the brain i.e. the left and right to enhance use of the entire muscle) and I feel a jolt of electricity push me toward an oblivion that swirls a molecular cosmos together and builds a story stew. It is then up to me to mold said clay into a work of pottery so intricate that a story immerges through the tugging and manipulation of my hands. Writing is a high incomparable to most artistic outlets for me.

It is a push and pull and weight upon my neck till the final line acts as key to unlock the chain of creativity. It is the joy and frustration and hard work applied to fine-tuning a world till you reach a state of completion that allows for public consumption. Ah, yes. Writing is indeed a thrill.

Unfortunately, this blog post is not only about igniting your fires today for written language oozing a potion of magical ink, but to inform you that I have yet to actually complete a story. Oh sure, I have written little blurbs and some flash fiction that never held some weight. But, a real work of talent? Never. I have begun numerous stories. These worlds and characters float about my head and in digital documents locked away in files. I have yet to find THE story worthy of my breath of life. Do stories to that caliber even exist? Sure. Each author has a story that rocketed their career; their baby; their first. My story sleeps as an unfertilized egg awaiting that overwhelming rush of hormones. Oh how I long to watch it unfold on the screen. Oh how I long to type the final line. Oh. But what do I write? I vacillate between so many genres. I’ll get the spark for horror soon followed by a need for the perfect love story, but then a hilarious science fiction pops into my head. Do I write for children? Do I write for adults? What is MY story?

I can tell you that the only story that keeps circling my head is a faerie tale. I hear the whisper of butterfly wings and adventure, of toads and mermaids and a Spider Queen.

Butterfly Faerie

Butterfly Fairy

Who is this delicate creature

Beneath the folds of my Gardenia petals

Humming gentle lullabies

A butterfly fairy

With wings the color innocence

And hair of blooming summer sunrise

Sing to me

Of the butterflies

Of the world they call their own

A world of bumblebees and cricket maestros

Spider Queens and crawlers in the dark

Sing to me

Of the butterflies

Of the world they call their own

A world of deep sea conversations; Magic rings

Shy boys and crazy Grasshopper Kings