The Hand of Freedom Has a Scar

The Hand of Freedom Has a Scar

Bound by the chains from my choices,
I struggle with many voices
that lead me here and send me there
in search of freedom and my share
of what I’m told that is my right;
but I have no more will to fight.

From shadows dark, I start to cry
afraid to live and scared to die.
I cannot see the light of day.
Colors bright have turned to gray.
My throat is parched, I cannot speak.
I try to rise, but I’ve grown weak.

Within what feels will be my grave,
I sense a Presence come to save
into this place where I now dwell
to lift me from this pit of hell.
My eyes are blind; I cannot stand
as I reach for His scarred hand.

He hears my cry and sees my fear
and whispers to me, “I am here.”
He brings me out into the light,
restores my strength and my sight,
destroys the chains that held me bound,
and sets me on the solid ground.

Then as He looks into my face,
I’m stunned by His amazing grace.
Although I caused my own demise,
I see no rebuke in His eyes,
nor does He look on me with shame.
There is no guilt, nor any blame.

The depth of love seen on His face
dissolves my feelings of disgrace.
The freedom that so long I’d sought
had a price but can’t be bought.
Through His blood and in His name,
release from bondage finally came.

Copyright  © September 27, 2006 by Karen M. Crump 

Spring Soul Cleaning

Spring Soul Cleaning

I set about my day in random effort and isolation,

mingling in the memories of other days and former times,

I come across my past out of order in zig-zagged lines.

Soft-shelled emotions combine with edges raw or worn smooth,

depending on the fabric from which they were hewed,

some still brightly colored, others faded gray.

Not hard pressed for thinking, fragments holding sway:

catching stray thoughts rushing in then slowly ebbing away.

It’s not a loss they all don’t stay – where would I put them all;

the events, the thoughts, the laughs, the tears of all my yesterdays?

If I kept them all in baskets, where would I put today?

Baskets are better than boxes; they have nice handles to hold

to pick them up and dump their contents on the ground.

I can see, upon looking down, some fragile things are broken,

wrecked and cracked by heavy stuff thrown in on top them.

Should I weep for the crushed and mangled? 

My tears are saved for weightier things, made from stronger matters.

that have never known the soft touch of love or the hug of decay.

Lying where they were placed like rocks or lumps of hardened clay,

defiance in their being, believing they are meant to stay.

But no, today I’m off-loading, and the place where I begin

is with those rough and clumpy pieces which I’ll throw away.

Then gently aged wispy refuse will be given to the wind.

March 21, 2010 by Karen Marie Crump

Virtual Life of Dots and Lines

Virtual Life of Dots and Lines

Dots, lines and countless intersections

make for a choice in my direction.

Virtual living is laid by choice,

in birth on this earth, I had no voice.

Dot is a spot,  point of indention

angular line, a declination

from high in the sky and back to earth.

Can I know the star’s point at my birth?

Measuring time without a timepiece,

I feel the earth’s pull and sky’s release.

Days and nights are of little matter.

Time’s running feet go pitter-patter.

I look at my hand, see the life line,

wonder at the manner I incline.

Is it genes or geometric signs,

my configuration of dots and lines?

Copyright ©  May 27, 2011 by Karen M. Crump

Blue Blood Black Tie Party

Blue Blood Black Tie Party

It was a black tie occasion, where every guest was primed

to garner and render favors with profit on each mind.

Smiles were sealed like wax on faces, put in place for this time;

hands feather-weight on shoulders, voices dripping velvet lies.

Blades were buried in well dressed backs, but no one saw them shine.

Blue blood like ink was flowing, though no papers would be signed.

Music played in the background giving rhythm to the rhyme

of pretentious phrases that kissed and sealed every dotted line.

‘Power Games” was entertainment, along with “Social Climb,”

as guests were taking chances with a crooked pair of dice.

When every hand was displayed, each was betting with his life.

But when the games were over, it was only truth that died.

Shiny limousines were waiting outside all in a line

as the party goers exited waving their host goodbye.

In the safety of darkened windows, there were many sighs;

and examining of bruises and the loosening of ties.

Copyright  © January 24, 2009 by Karen M. Crump

A Boy’s Toys – a Man’s War

A Boy’s Toys – a Man’s War

He arranged his toy soldiers, standing them in a line,

fighting the sand box battles and winning every time.

Tonka tanks attacking! Rocks dropping: “Bombs Away!”

From summer sunrise to sunset, little boy at play.

The worn plastic soldiers were finally set aside,

for older boys have bigger toys in which they can ride.

His boyish face gives way to a harder look he’s refined.

Through teenage years he’s racing – winning on his mind.

He takes his place beside other soldiers in a line,

knowing soon there will be battles not won every time.

Foreign tanks attacking. Roadside bombs and more.

From summer sunrise to sunset, a brave man in war.

The years go by; another boy goes outside to play.

An old man watches fondly, thinking of other days:

soldiers in a sand box, men dying on distant shores.

He’s hoping that his grandson won’t have to go to war.

March 2010 by Karen Marie Crump

Letter to St. Patrick

Dear St. Patrick:

Please help. We need some snakes driven out of the house

It’s white and old and stands in DC.

The current resident doesn’t know

a snake from his , oh, well.

He’s the viper with his viperettes

who needs to be run out of the country.

And while you’re at it, maybe, just maybe

you could, pretty please, drive out

those snakes in the Senate and Congress.

Please come quickly and use your snake driving ability

to help us restore sanity in our govment?

Await your answer by whatever means:

letter, cell phone, e-mail, facebook, twitter or in person.

Yours,

People with a brain in the USA

America - Land of the Free!

America – Land of the Free!

Remember America when men stood to pray,

and faces glowed with tears when Old Glory waved?

There was a pride in the sacrifice of men

who gave up their all and would do it again?

The Pledge of Allegiance was said every day.

All school children knew the English words to say.

Red, white, and blue – the colors made us proud;

“God bless America!” the people said out loud.

Not the America of Obama and Reid,

nor the America of politicians’ greed,

not the America of enslavement and fear:

These are not the America which I hold dear.

Do you know America as she’s meant to be -

a country where people are born to be free?

Our fathers knew to keep government at bay;

the Constitution meant what it had to say.

“Blessings of Liberty” secure evermore,

keeping the government away from your door.

Promoting general welfare for every man,

but not giving handouts to those who demand.

Responsibility and sweat of the brow,

all men and women standing free, strong, and proud.

Personal charity to people in need,

no taxation theft by government decree.     

A free Republic, America was ordained;

a free republic she must always remain.

“We the people” - from sea to shining sea,

We must keep America the land of the free.

August 2010 by Karen Marie Crump

Constitution of the United States

“We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.”

My Inner Vision

My Inner Vision

My inner vision strains to see
what all along was to be me.
The days of my life are moving past
headed for what will be my last.
Remaining in my soulish core,
there is the need for something more.
Beyond my tunneled scope of sight,
within the dark, I seek a light.
But how do I catch hold, acquire
from deep within the muck and mire
that precious golden, narrow thread
from something written, something said
that dwells hidden in my mind
but somehow memory’s left behind?
Fanciful some wise man would say
to want to know, to find a way
to bring forth an eternal phrase
that will emerge to define my days
the person who was truly me
before this earth my soul does leave.
Alas, I seem to fall short and fail
to see beyond the tattered veil
that blinds my weakened inner eye.
I fear I’m not me anymore
but someone I’ve grown to abhor.

2009 By Karen Marie Crump

My Kingdom Come

My Kingdom Come

In a magical kingdom, a place of my own,

I would be queen on a lavender laced throne.

Brave knights would approach me each betrothing his love.

White doves would descend from blue heaven above.

My beauty and kindness and my merciful hand

would be known by the people all over the land.

Bound by a banner of righteousness and grace,

I would rule fairly for each man and each place.

Everyone would be working at tasks in the day,

each able man and his neighbor earning his way.

Then in the evening, when the sun set at last;

each family would gather to share a repast.

Charitable giving, not forced nor decreed

would care for the feeble and those truly in need.

No one would go hungry nor lack comfort or rest.

There would be no one thinking, “I’m better or best.”

Puppies and kittens and little children would play

on grassy hills and playgrounds on every fair day.

No concern would abound for these tender ones’ care.

To harm one of these innocents, no one would dare.

Lovely ladies would dance with their gentlemen beaus

beaming and smiling, in their hair a red rose.

Lasting love would bloom gently in each couples’ hearts,

forming a bond and a promise never to part.

Oh, my magical kingdom, where I would be queen,

is not of this planet having never been seen.

But eyes that look gently from heaven’s door,

share in my vision of kingdom life evermore.

Copyright ©  October 25, 2009 by Karen M. Crump

Skeptical Notions and Ridiculous Labels

Skeptical Notions and Ridiculous Labels

I turn up my lip and give my best snarl,

a low growl in my throat escapes

as I observe the tide that’s rising

in the ridiculous and absurd.

I’m old and cranky, but I’m not blind.

I can see the world colliding

with its inevitable fate.

Not believing in it – fate that is;

it’s more the physical reality

of action- reaction-result

or whatever the scientific blurb.

Hick from the sticks, without a brain;

the coastal cliques would declare.

Gun toting momma without a clue,

but I’ll bet I can outdraw them.

and out think them, too.

I’m clutching my Bible

and standing on truth.

Let ‘em stick me with whatever

label they choose.

I’ll give ‘em the Elvis lip

and flip the bird, too.

By Karen Marie Crump

Your Choice - Dog or Cat

Your Choice - Dog or Cat

Give a dog a bone,

and he’ll protect your home.

Give a cat a mouse,

and she will rule your house.

A dog will eat the scraps.

A cat wants what’s underwraps.

Dogs think you’re number one.

Cats know whose life they run.

A cat will groom herself,

then knock things from the shelf.

A dog will wag and shake

and cause things to break.

A cat will close her eyes,

while on you she spies.

A dog will beg and drool,

as he acts a total fool.

A cat will start to holler

if you put on her a collar.

A dog whose on a chain,

will always yours remain.

A dog will run in circles

and not pay it any mind.

A cat will proudly walk

and show you her behind.

Now, think a little while

who makes the biggest pile

for your handy “Poopa-Scoop”

and who has you jumpin’ hoops?

Copyright  © November 17, 2008 by Karen M. Crump

The Rose Cried

The Rose Cried

The single rose cried all alone
and sought for someone who would come
to brave the pricks and pain
that kept away the soft and gentle hands
which could caress its blooms…
If not for the thorns.

The thorns -they stand in the way
of gentle touch and tender kiss
and precious things so true.
Let someone brave the prick and the poke,
and give the rose new hope…
Despite all its thorns.

Is there love enough in you
to brave the thorns and come close by,
to touch the bloom in me
despite all the thorns that make you bleed
and cause you pain so deep?
Please come risk the thorns.

Response Poem by Jeremy "Jazz" Caffey

Untitled

I heard the cry of a rose,

and I went to see.

The rose was love.

It seemed beautiful to me.

I risked the thorns;

the rose I caressed.

I suffered the thorns;

my hands a bloody mess.

I held onto love;

it’s worth the pain.

The rose was torn from me

while it’s scent still remains.

My hands are torn and bloody;

and, now the tears, they start.

These wounds, they do not heal.

These wounds are in my heart.

This rose, it has withered,

Petals lying on the floor.

But should these thorns bloom again,

I’ll reach for love one more.

By Jazz Caffey 9/19/2001

 

Beyond the Dusk

Beyond the Dusk

Cacophonous thoughts contort my mind
transferring tremors throughout my spine
like Artic wind on a stormy day
blowing all pretense of warmth away.

Resonating blasts within my soul
tear at my heart and take their toll.
Reflections of an old love that died,
vapid images of tears I cried.

”What is done is done,” or so they say;
I cannot retreat to yesterday.
To survive, I must be moving on
beyond the dusk - there is a dawn.

2006 by Karen M. Crump

The Devil Wears Expensive Clothes

The Devil Wears Expensive Clothes

Victim of the evil lurking
casual in his Armani suit,
polished Tanino Crisci shoes –
fashion on the edge, fit to kill;
I never should have taken
that fatal neck snapping look.

Struck down by piercing eyes,
drowned in stark black pools,
my breathing stilled, heart stopped.
My life blood flowed out;
my soul cut, maimed, left in shreds.
Damn! He sure looked good!

Lascivious pleasure gone wild,
bordering on insane rapture;
he captured every virtue
I hung onto, destroyed resolve,
and made impossible
a life outside his realm.

Imprisoned in slave quarters;
feelings like electric current
mask all comprehension
of my final destination.
My slide right into Hell's entry
only a subtle distinction
from the place I've lived.

Comments on the poem by Dan Sturn:
Karen, An excellent free-verse poem that starts out with slap-in-the-face modern visuals to describe our culture's violation of "the first and second commandments." From there the Poet leads us into the experience or realizing that the modern image is indeed the Devil himself. Ending by invoking the feeling of enslavement and discouragement, and a reminder that we currently live in a culture not far from hell.

How to Trim a Cat's Claws

How to Trim a Cat's Claws

Trimming a cat's claws is both an act of courage and a labor of love.  Courage comes into play because most cats are not going to cooperate in this minor surgical procedure. You will likely become the target of all their pent up frustrations.  Love of your intact drapes and fabric on the new couch is the driving force that causes you to even consider this ominous task.  Here are some guidelines that may help you to either come to your senses and abandon all thought of this action, or assist you in living through it.

1. Place the cat in secure place as you gather the necessary equipment.  Cats seem to have ESP and disappear like Houdini when you are only thinking about trimming their claws.  Do not, under any circumstance, utter the words "trim," "clippers," or even "claws" within your cat's hearing.
2. Put on old garments you won't mind having shredded.
3. Select a site, preferably on a surface where human blood will not stain.
4. Locate the following and take it to the location you have predetermined:
        • Large towel for wrapping the cat.  Make sure it is a towel with which you can part.
        • Nail clippers;
        • Antiseptic and bandages (for you not the cat);
        • Lint (cat hair) removing brush;
        • A strong, sedating drink, to be taken internally following surgery (by you, not the cat).
5. Re-assess why you want to do this, and make sure that it is really that important to keep the furnishings of your home intact.
6. Take a moment to think about why you own a cat and be absolutely sure that you aren't a dog person after all.
7. Don't even try to call a friend to come help.  You will get no answer.  They have ESP too.  You are on your own.  If you are going to abandon your plan, now is the time.
8. Get the cat. Try saying calmly, "Nice, kitty, kitty."  It will do no good, but it may make you feel better as you put a strangle hold on the struggling cat.
9. Quickly, and I cannot emphasize this enough, quickly take the cat to the appointed location and wrap him or her in the towel. Hold the wrapped cat like your life depends on it.  It probably does.
10. If you are right handed, pick up the clippers with your right hand; press the bundled cat against your body for stability, your left elbow over the squirming package; and with your left hand, using a death grip pull out the first front paw.  If you actually accomplish this on the first try, you may have the makings of a pro cat handler.
11. Clip the claws being sure not to get into the quick or else the cat will bleed.  "Well, why shouldn't the cat bleed too?" you may be thinking after the feline gets in a swipe or two.  Most cats have five claws on each foot.  If you are particularly cursed, your cat will have six.
12. Poke the finished paw back under the towel and pull out the second front foot.  This procedure can be tricky, and you may find that you have to re-secure the towel.  Not having been sedated prior to this procedure, you will find the cat remains active.  Having acquired access to the second paw by whatever means necessary, clip the claws on that foot. 
13. If you get this far into the procedure and you have not dumped the cat out of the towel and said, "Go!  Rip the furniture to shreds!  See if I care!", you are doing well.
14. Some demented souls continue on to clip the hind claws.  Don't be this stupid!  Let the cat go and have that stiff drink.  Forget the lint brush. Trash the towel and clothing. 
15. Once sedated, wipe up your blood, bandage your wounds and think again about whether or not you are really a dog person after all.

© Copyright 2009 Karen M. Crump

In the Chrysalis

In the Chrysalis

A poem for those who need a break, a rest, a rejuvenation

Today, in the world I took such a hit;
I’ve laid down my weapons, finally quit.

I am safe in the chrysalis once more;
on butterfly wings, I will again soar

…but not today.

Copyright © 2006 by Karen M. Crump

Attempt at Independent Sailing

Attempt at Independent Sailing

There's always someone who would change me.

Gripping the railing when I begin sailing
on the ocean of my impermanent life,
the tangible end my fingers restrain.

I clutch my identity in assembly,
my inimitable character and line.
Originality is under a strain.

With inevitable human invasion,
adjacent hands with thumbs would decant and mold,
intent to change my sacred domain.

Opposable thumb touching other digits,
creates a connection, a circular
representation of a link in a chain.

I shift, I chaff at the thought of restriction,
of being held to a course of another's choice.
On the sea of independence I remain.

© Copyright 2011 Karen M. Crump

Before That Last Birthday Comes

Before That Last Birthday Comes

If he had known it would be the
last celebration of his birth;
would he have taken other journeys
while still living here on this earth?
Would his steps have been as rigid,
or his hair so neatly trimmed and combed?
Perhaps he might have ventured out
and traveled through this world wind blown?

So many sights he did not see,
sticking to a plan he could not escape.
moving in a straight line direction,
full throttle, no foot on the brakes.
If only he’d slowed down, turned a corner
in a direction he’d never been
and learned the one who gets finished first
is not the one who is going to win.

On that uninviting day he died,
his world was still locked tight in its frame.
One birthday had led to another,
with the days in between all the same.
Were he able to speak from the grave,
would there be overwhelming regret?
Would he stand up and shout to us all,
“Be brave and go with the wind!”

January 2010 by Karen Marie Crump

Escaping Winter’s Prison

Escaping Winter’s Prison

My frozen being was resolved never more to melt nor thaw

not quite content but willing to accept the icy state;

for if the chill would lessen and the flesh begin to melt,

then consciousness would enter and give a face to my fate.

In consequence of actions, my life had been suspended.

I dared not remember nor give permission to my mind

to walk down those frigid passageways where my thoughts might slip

and contemplate September with the leaf still on the vine.

But now the ice is broken by desire I can’t control.

Resolve was not the fortress with impenetrable walls

for there are cracks and crevices giving way to the weight

of the pounding of my hardened heart as it heaves and falls.

My soul’s eyes are open, through narrow slits I now can see,

the vision of early Autumn before the winter frost,

when my heart was still enraptured by slowly changing leaves

caught up in the colors of an affection not yet lost.

“I remember” - these words possess an excruciating pain.

The blast of your cold rejection begins in memory’s trap

with a vision of wind swept trees whose leaves have met their death.

Winter’s passion was not far behind.  I was in its path.

Weakened by the pace of rapid rising temperatures,

the former frozen prison melts into icy river’s flow.

My eyes close in an unengaged form of acquiescence

as I’m carried along aimlessly in the undertow.

Will I drown in the many waters - swirling, churning;

or be contained and swept along until my life’s renewed.

From frozen state to river’s path, it’s not the way I’d choose;

but in the end I think I will again see morning’s dew.

by Karen Marie Crump

Prompt for poem: "O, That this too too solid flesh would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into a dew."  Hamlet, Act I, scene ii

Rhythmic Rumblings of Possible Madness

Rhythmic Rumblings of Possible Madness

Thoughts relentlessly raid with resounding rhymes,
rippling waves of randomly rotating words
drown out any common sense left in my mind.

Haze of insanity hovers around me
covering my mind with a pervading throb;
how can I cling to primal reality?

If there is a profundity taking place,
I’ve missed the meaning and message of such truth.
Overwhelming clanging fills my mental space.

Losing my mind in pieces, parts and phases;
I live through each minute dazed and exhausted.
I positively believe I’m half crazy.

Unquestionably captured, caught in a trap;
the rumbling only ceases when I speak out loud.
With slipping and stumbling, when will my mind snap?

Intended form: 5 tercets with an a-b-a rhyme scheme (near rhyme used in some places), 11 syllables in each line, with the use of alliteration, assonance, and consonance.

© Copyright 2011 Karen M. Crump

Looking on from Sixth Sense

Looking on from Sixth Sense

Flashes of smoky images
crash against the mental cortex
warping time and memory
and hovering on the edge of sight.
Head turning, nothing there;
nape of neck erecting
as phalangeal ghosts play on.
Muted, muffled moans
strum the triune ear
in  sensual vibrations
fading at the listening.
Edgy epidermal equations
make no sense
and cause the skin to crawl.
Flares of nasal resonance
announce the scent so near
and yet undetectable.
Have I lost my senses
or has the taste once sweet
gone sour and so I do not eat?

Copyright  © July 26, 2009 by Karen M. Crump

Sorrow

Sorrow

Can one truly understand another's sorrow
or touch upon the depth of pain
that seeps into the soul's center
when death or other lonely thing
enters in and takes, removes the source
of light and love and comfort?
Deep calling to deep and deeper still,
the rumbling in the darkness
echos throughout the night -
a night that knows no daybreak
nor moon nor stars that shine.
For no light appears in such deep places.
No comfort comes, but sorrow winds
its tentacles into tomorrow.
Will it never go away?

10-19-2009 by Karen Marie Crump

Aaron Neville and My Soul

Aaron Neville and My Soul

I ride the waves of the music

making their way through my soul,

as Aaron sings, “Tell it like it is.”

And how my heart cries to do so –

tell it, tell it like it really is

here in the dark, inside

where no one sees but me.

A witness has not been found

who observed the wounding,

the knife thrusts deep and sharp.

No, no ones eyes have seen but mine.

“Feelings,” Aaron now sings

and touches mine with his words,

a prick that starts the bleeding

all over again – or did it ever stop?

He prophesies that “One fine day,”

life will begin fresh and new

with a healing love to ply its trade

and provide salvation’s transfusion.

Will I live to see the day?

“Ain’t No Sunshine.” All is shade

and darker still where no sun has been

in a decade of shut doors and windows.

Heart too weak to open from inside.

Is there chance that someone

will from without throw the latch?

Aaron has “sunshine on a cloudy day.”

I wish I could walk in his steps, I pray

Behind, beside – somewhere in the sun

may I, a new journey begin.

Copyright  © 2010 by Karen M. Crump

A Love Story

A Love Story

In loneliness and a time of sorrow,

I chose then to safely follow

right behind your certain steps

letting you lead the way to success.

In love I fell, with your poised stand.

that I envisioned as I ran

to reach across the span of time

to see if I could make you mine.

Although your face was turned from me,

in my heart, I knew your visage

was one of firm determination,

but without harsh condemnation.

A bonding in the course of words

with definitions that I’d never heard.

My study there at your knee

was in complete, total harmony.

When our hearts became entwined,

it was a sweet as aged wine.

Although, we had erred in the past;

we knew the best was saved for last.

On down the road, we have come.

We’ve lost a few and won some

of heated battles life can harbor.

Now we sit beneath the arbor.

In the shade, I gaze through shadows

and see the sun shine on the meadows.

The pastures now are brown and dry,

but there is no drought within my eyes.

Copyright  © November 27, 2008 by Karen M. Crump

Sinking to the Depths and Rising Again

Sinking to the Depths and Rising Again

A poem that reflects on the path from hopelessness to hope renewed

Shadows fall on vacant space ’twixt today and yesterday
and frame the face white washed with fear in such a mournful way.

The air that once was clean and clear now turns stale and vapid
as fear labored breath exhales, the pulse becomes quite rapid.

Reality slips in and out as denial is the choice
to quiet whispers of the spirit’s further weakened voice.

In vacancy between the days, sanity comes along;
by counting down while looking back to see where life went wrong;

Such pain, such depth of loneliness and fear is deep inside,
no call for help the lips convey because of foolish pride.

Ever spiraling downward, the will is crushed to dust
Voices speak with lying tongues, “There is no one you can trust.”

In the deepening pits of hell, life lingers by a thread,
as visions of a former life now wander through the head.

In fits of restless sleeping, in the dark comes a night’s dream,
as demons dance within the mind; the soul begins to scream.

Somewhere must lie the answer that will end this constant pain,
a means of rising from the dirt to once again live sane.

Oh, Spirit come and take my hand and lead me to the way
out of this mire, this darkened path, where I have gone astray.

If life there is for me to have, then bring again the sun.
Let me bask in light again until victory I have won.


Copyright © 2006 by Karen M. Crump  

I Live with a Dichotomy

I Live with a Dichotomy

A poem revealing the diversity of thought in one's own mind

 
I live with a dichotomy,
divisions in my mind
ever present, always searching
for what I cannot find.
When I am on the one side,
truth is on the other.
When spark of passion rises,
something is sure to smother.

Turning left and then to right,
my mental neck does snap;
and when I seek to grasp,
I feel caught in a trap.
In the corner of my eye,
a shadow seems to leer
but when I turn to look,
my vision is unclear.

Divide me down the middle
and in the bloody flow
perhaps you’ll find the answer
to what I’ll never know:
what is the vital portion
destined to the light of day
if partitions in my mind
would have gone away.

© Copyright 2008 Karen M. Crump

Even in a Dream

Even in a Dream

In sleep or dream, the realities of life

 

"To sleep, perchance to dream,"
with childlike thoughts of sugar plums
though doubtful any child has seen one.
Not I in over 60 years of dreaming.

Cool pillow turns to heat as sleep evades
or keeps the body in an alternate state
of intellectual stimulation.
A wonderland of thought and vision
is the dream of youth.

Worries and tasks to long left undone
consume the midnight hours of the aged
who can no longer take task in hand
and lift it until completed.
"Ah, there's the rub!"

On stiffened joints and painful muscles,
a salve of youth would be refreshing.
If one could see the future,
would one go there?
Even in a dream?

Quotes from Shakespeare's "Hamlet"

© Copyright 2010 Karen M. Crump

The Spirit is Me

The Spirit is Me

Spiritual reality

It is Your Spirit, Mighty God
that bears true life from above
and transports humans just like me
into Your spiritual reality.

The flesh, my suit I must wear
in this earthly atmosphere.
It’s service is to hold the truth
of my spirit’s brand new birth.

In bondage, I was once alone
for I had wandered far from home.
I did not know the path to take
or how to pray “for Jesus sake.”

Then a Word of Truth was given me
that opened up my eyes to see
I had not only human frame
but Spirit Life through Jesus name.

In the midst of all eternity,
You took time to ransom me
and place Your name upon my brow
to claim me as an adopted child.

In the holy tomes of heaven,
my name is indelibly written
as an heir to Your vast estate
of which I can freely partake.

Jesus came not to change the Law
but to accumulate and draw
all its facets in one clear decree:
“Love My Father and love Me.”

And when that Love is Spirit driven,
it will soar and reach to heaven
and bring down to human kind
God’s eternal Life Divine.

Copyright  ©  December 13, 2008 by Karen M. Crump

Trust God

Trust God

When your mind does not understand,
and your life seems to have no plan;
shout up into the sky, “Trust God.

When your heart is at its weakest,
and the future looks its bleakest;
down in your soul reply, “Trust God.”

When you wrestle the enemy,
and you can’t see the victory;
make this your battle cry, “Trust God.”

When death is knocking at your door,
and there’s nothing left to live for;
breathe out a gentle sigh, “Trust God.”

Copyright  ©  July 12, 2009 by Karen M. Crump

Quiet Listening

Quiet Listening

in silence hear

Ears attuned can recognize
the language of the earth:
howlings of sorrow,
chirpings of mirth.
So much in the tunes
that all around play,
matching their resonance
to time of the day.
Do we hear? Do we listen?
Are we aware? Do we care?
Quiet listening.

© Copyright 2010 Karen M. Crump

Don't Give Up Your Music

Don’t Give Up Your Music

Refuse to compromise the music in your soul

Music in your heart is
quintessentially you.
It is the tune and beat
to which your body moves.

Symphony or one flute,
the tune's not always clear.
Quiet meditation
will help your soul to hear.

Unique in every way,
your name is in the song
playing within your heart
as your life sings along.

Some will try to tell you
all must be harmony.
They'll change your music
if you give them the key.

"We must walk in concert,"
is what they'll come and say.
"Give to us your music,
we know a better way."

And when they've collected
all the music everywhere,
the tune that they'll produce
will sound full of despair.

Soul without its music
will give a mournful cry
and from the void within
will shrivel up and die.

No matter the rhythm,
it is what makes you You.
Refuse to compromise,
to your music stay true.

Copyright  © December 23, 2008 by Karen M. Crump