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About Literature / Hobbyist cristinewakesuphappyFemale/Unknown Recent Activity
Deviant for 3 Years
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my favourite movie quote
:iconluvluvplz:
"The old dreams were good dreams; they didn't work out but I'm glad I had them."
- Robert James Waller, The Bridges of Madison County
:house:

Wishlist

:iconluvluvplz:
TwilightPoetess
thank you
for sending this to me. it's pretty and i will frame it.
i don't know how else to express my gratitude.
just grateful for the thoughtfulness and generosity.


:iconrobotkissplz:
:bulletblue: by no means is this a complete list of people i appreciate.
:iconeremitik: :iconfridgepoetproject: :iconmrs-freestar-bul: :iconladylincoln: :iconirrevocablefate: :iconcarmalain7: :iconcandless:

thank you for keeping me company.
much like the real world,
DeviantArt can be a lonely wintry place.

:iconluvluvplz:

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cristinewakesuphappy's Profile Picture
cristinewakesuphappy

Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
:iconmv1plz::iconmv2plz::iconmv3plz::iconmv4plz::iconmv5plz::iconmv6plz::iconmv7plz::iconmv8plz:

keepsakes i cherish:

:bulletpink: the old dreams, 1992-2010, poems and short stories
:bulletpink: # babystars, 2011-2015, poems

DDs Stamp by tRiBaLmArKiNgS

:bulletblue: 08.29.13: gyrate for them, greta
:bulletblue: 04.27.14: handmade love
:bulletblue: 06.15.15: grandmother

Featured by DLD by IrrevocableFate

:bulletblue: 11.17.13: canapés (link)
:bulletblue: 02.10.14: i missed the train. (link)

:iconlitrecognition:

:bulletblue: 05.11.15: are you prayerful? (link)


i do allow myself
the luxury of dreaming


one day,
life will be more than just getting by;
my art could take me somewhere nice;
i'll tend my own garden or farm
and live in my own house baking and decorating
and enjoying the quiet.
and i will wake up happy (with you).

:iconluvluvplz:
God bless us all always,
cristinewakesuphappy :house:
Interests
:iconhello1plz::iconhello2plz: :iconclearheartsplz:
can you sit still and just be in awe of nature?

:icontwc-border1plz::icontwc-border2plz::icontwc-border3plz::icontwc-border4plz::icontwc-border5plz::icontwc-border6plz::icontwc-border7plz::icontwc-border8plz:

:bulletblue: here is a journal page for pieces of art that might inspire you the way they inspire me. 
 thank you for taking the time to bask in their beauty. 

handpicked updated version by cristinewakesuphappy

Nature and Musings
poems inspiring me to write my own
:iconluvluvplz:
The WandererI walk upon the dead of night
I sink between the dew-rid leaves
I lay amongst the thistled grove
And sleep beneath the twinkling eaves
I drink the dripping warmth of life
I eat the cold, abandoned sea
I live in love of caring friends
I die amongst repulsive thieves
I have much nothing all at once
I am rich beyond my muttled dreams
I want who cannot be possessed
My desire starved become too lean
I am what is and cannot be
A failed success of reaching near
I find I cannot grasp what's mine
Cradled and coated by fickle fear
So I walk the road without an end
On rubble-strewn lives and broken souls
Trying to find the one like I
Who lives the journey of wand'ring alone.
No Oaks StandOld brick-and-iron brewery, borders invaded
by brushes of fennel, by wildgrass
home to shipping containers,
to refrigerated units, fans spinning
only when the southerlies blow
the wildgrass doesn't mind
my father worked here
my father died here
and the grasses grow on, grow tall
as the brewery sinks, and the wind whistles
I pray for strong roots and liquid head,
I pray to become the grass
A Forest at MorningI dreamed of trees. Bright boughs and blooms
Through gloom and morning spilled
While I brushed back their silver leaves
That sunlit skies had filled
With gilded wash--the vermeil sight
Above the dusky bark
Seemed starry trains above the moon
And night's enclosing dark
And I stepped under such a sky:
New-formed, bejeweled, and bright
And wished I could forever dwell
Within its dim half-light.
There nothing stirred; no beast or bird
Dwelt in the forest there
Though I heard silent rivers trill
Still wand'ring swift and fair
Through banks embraced by cattail roots;
Through drooping willow leaves
That rustled in the water's rush
Bereft of any breeze.
Oh, I stepped under such a sky
Composed of darkling boughs
Flushed with the swell of morning leaves
All silver-gold endowed
'Till awe forestalled my reaching foot
And stilled the step, half-made--
And oh! to breathe seemed mortal sin
As if each sound betrayed
Whatever heaven I had found.
But when I breathed at last
And put my foot upon the grou
talking to myselfhow many
times have i lost my way
trying to remember?
i seem to be
dancing on eggshells
in summer heat
and i keep forgetting
to go home at night
to build new worlds
in my dreams.
i'm galaxies away
from where
i want to be
and i just keep
talking to myself
talking to myself

Another Poem on InsecurityMy knobbly, milky knees hide
from an adolescent summer sun.
I wish I were a naiad,
brown, crawling from the surf.
If I can just bask myself golden brown
to perfection, perhaps my delicate pink
skin blossoms
will shrivel up and die.
The sun where it touches my legs smells
of baking grass, makes my hairs
stand electrically on end.
The sunshine will lift up all my dead cells,
my hangnails and split ends,
and by the sunkissed-brown
that I will not obtain
from a bottled elixir
snatched from store shelves -
by it I will be purified
and finally
beautiful.
The SuitcaseThe sunlight turned the chapel windows white.
The cemetery was rankly overgrown,
Thick vines had covered nearly every stone;
Dense leaves of ivy shimmered in the light.
Thin cracks of age were trying to rewrite
Each epitaph.  The honey-sounding drone
Of engorged flies had soon become the lone
Sound in the afternoon.  Then I caught sight
Behind a tombstone of a stained suitcase;
It leaned against the grave, quite unforgiving.
Red canvas, ordinary enough.  No trace
Of rubbish near it, just a small misgiving
At how I am so ready to embrace
That such a place is home to someone living.
distortionsthe night I met you was the night of emergence
and when I awoke at dawn you were beside me trembling,
trembling at the tired spectacular:
the blessed universal
trembling at the blithe parodic
of our sacred accidental
trembling at the sole lachrymose word,
the gentle aubade of this beautiful cycle,
trembling with the earth, your own green firmament,
consciousness an angelic hypnosis: what a show
.
in springtime and in fear of death
you were beside me trembling at being essential
and I could barely contain my laughter
TideShe stands on the seabed
eyes dancing the waterline.
She sings in bubbles and waves
but I only hear the shore.
I dig my heels so deep in the sand.
Tried to swim, but I breathe only air.
This is where I was meant to stand,
and wait for the pull of the Moon.




The Land Where the Sun Never Sets, It Hibernates by Carmalain7

Carmalain7
:iconcarmalain7:

Carrion Tallow                          I

        I pluck feathers from a felled sky,
        tie them to the ends of my hair
    to remind myself of all the innocent days
        that lie suspended in cardboard boxes
because mothers can't bear to throw them away.
        I pluck feathers from a felled sky,
deftly thread the wings of an angel fallen
        to tie my awareness to a bird -
                recalling 'bunny ear'd loops
    held by my father's impossibly large hands
            for his son to watch and learn -
pulled through the eye of golden hair laces.
                         II

&
Daylight|Nightlight            Daylight

I will not repeat myself, no.
We are above such litany:
the 'you's and the 'I's straining 
to comprehend muttered refraining;
the 'we's are we, the you and the me,
but, you see, we follow a higher power -
    towering over religious babel -
while they swallow patriarchal liturgy,
    rabble bigotry promoting
        artificial domesticity,
we drink droughts differently,
    sip the blood of grapes civilly.
    Yes, we are above such litany,
    no, I will not repeat myself.
So let us flee; trust in tomorrow to be,
leave today for the banks to seize
    with Greek bonds, face saving,
    and arms waving "No guns!" -
    But what does Greece truly know
about Democracy? - slave morality
sees streets paved by daughters
        
Matins                       Dirge
    The sound of my breathing,
a heaving of waves against a desolate rock,
    punctuates the morning light -
        an island entire of itself -
churning proud stone into an ocean of sand.
   
    She peers tentatively through
jagged crag shades half-lidded with 
    broken eyelash window panes
            collecting house fly delusions
as they tap against a glass illusion of freedom
           
             (window? or ceiling?)
        A rhythmic tap-tap-taping
    that only a mother can love
            enough to smother. 
I had placed those shades to keep
Penumbra  A halo of cast light
    praying for form
  to grace its embrace,
  I, an hourglass mind
    waiting for time
  to pass me by and by.
I, mourner of perished days,
  I live in silence - I live in bliss
- to be in this world, but not of it.

L'exil et le Royaume: Les MuetsThere is a fire in your eye and a light in your heart,
And the whole world is an infinitely vast ocean
Fluctuating and beating to the pulls of the sky;
The whole world is an ocean of speckled epitaphs
           and this, my friend, is ours.
Atlas may stay the sky, but we have always carried its tears.
We stand on the crest of this world balanced by silver thread,
Our hands laden with breaking reflections and queer visages,
Our wells and canals overflowing, lapping at our heels as strays.
We kneel as cripples and consume ourselves to become an idea,
An idea before a temple so precious, we turned our backs on love;
The topless spires like the fingers of some tame yet carnal monster
Clutching as if to cling to the surface tension of rising inundation.
           We were created to paradigm,
               
I was never a writer. I: Halfsleeper
                        I fell in love, once.
A snowstorm melting from my hair - dripping cataract:
            diluted coffee. A dark room filled with language
so beautiful, I almost understood what was said.
Children are getting younger, and this land has no end,
            where do you rest your head?
All things are in a constant state of vibration,
            a harmony in the space between
                        our fingers. our hands.
            I’ve only ever stopped to listen
Alive Like Dirt-
Winter vanished, a dream
Minutes after having woken;
The imprint and the lines
Still crisscrossing the edges
Of thought, retreating at my
Touch. It was important.
           I think.
                      I thought.
Though, I've lost it now.
           Am reeling now.
I reached out, five distinct
Points forming a living symbol.
           A tool.
                      Clutching.
Catching the last flakes of snow
Between my forefinger
           And thumb,
Like an angel thread seed.
I looked at my hands once,
At the neolithic lay lines
Carved in the clay
Static          Smudges and Smears
    The newspaper is illegible:
serif crop circle smudges from heaven;
A reassurance hangover sprawled at every threshold,
     -  from stoop to stoop to stoop -
        loosely clutching an ink well
addiction leaking out the brown sleeve
that guards the contents like a whistle-blower
    from the eyes of the guilty, 
        and of the innocent.
            'Good Morning:
        Nothing Has Changed
'
I trace my days away, 
    fault lines in broken mirrors
        and fingerprint moths,
a desperate attempt to discover
                the future...
    ...or maybe the present.
    where do&


Carmalain7 is one of the deviants (i look up to) whom i included in
(30) handpicked: i support #ProjectPortfolio.
i found his poem Static and knew by instinct, it's a gorgeous read.
though i won't claim to understand his philosophical musings,
his writings will provoke my thoughts and keep those who read them captivated.
:bulletblue: previous feature:
(32) handpicked: Scarlettletters
:bulletblue: for your most :+fav: pieces of art, write me a note or link me to your own creations.
i might have been missing out on them and i would appreciate that you share them with me.

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Comments


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:iconhippiehebe:
HippieHebe Featured By Owner 2 hours ago  Hobbyist Writer
thank you :heart:
Reply
:iconhopeburnsblue:
hopeburnsblue Featured By Owner 3 days ago  Professional Writer
Hi, Cristine, thanks for the :+fav: on "My Name Spells Love, Not Pain." :iconheartyellowplz:
Reply
:iconblackbowfin:
BlackBowfin Featured By Owner Edited 2 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
Hey there, Christine.  Thank you kindly for the fave.  :)
.........and the watch!  :highfive:
Reply
:iconandorada:
Andorada Featured By Owner 6 days ago
Thank You For The Fave3 by Andorada
Reply
:iconmrs-freestar-bul:
Mrs-Freestar-Bul Featured By Owner Jun 28, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Hey there beautiful :blowkiss:
Thank you for your support, for being amazing as you are .:thinking heart:. by Chipi-Chiu
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