Tag Archives: creativity

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

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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

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.”

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

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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