Category Archives: Writing

Welcoming Spring and Looking Back at Winter – Midweek Features – 23/03/2011

I chose a theme of green for this week’s art and a theme of renewal and contemplation for the writing. Monday saw the Spring Equinox and I felt with everything suddenly bursting into bloom whilst some of Winter’s remnants are still hanging around this would be a good idea. LOL See for yourself…

This image seemed to encapsulate everything I wanted to say with this week’s features. There’s something romantic and melancholy about it, something contemplative and celebratory, just a very special atmospheric image.

Rose by © miruna uzdris

Rose by © miruna uzdris

This wonderful poem just stayed with me ever since I read it, and although it’s maybe looking back in contemplation, there is a seed for a new Spring in still chasing…

Chasing ghosts in the night by © Sukhwinder Flora

I say goodbye at the station
Knowing he is heavy with time
Time that’s has passed us by
Unnoticed
And I can see his struggles
In his hands and the lines of his face
And I see that he’s not looking at me
But at the might have beens
The future yet to be written
And doors unopened
This restlessness in his heart
Seems like it will never leave
He’s chasing ghosts in the night
Sometimes wisdom lies
In all those things you cannot say
I see myself in the mirror
Older,
still trying to find, my own way
Cant you see
That I’ve been searching
And it’s the only way i know how
All my temples are ruins
And reduced to rubble
From chasing ghosts in the night
The four winds have surrendered
And now there’s no way back home
There’s no shelter back there
I put on a song to save me
Hoping it will make me feel what i cannot say
Some kneel and press palms
Some play a track
Walking into some oblivion
Never looking back
Chasing ghosts in the night
He is silent in the car
Knowing that something ain’t right
That freedom is hard to find
That the change can be worth the fight
But I know she is also leaving
I saw it as she walked through the door
And I hear it in her silences
A tear falls in the streets
Another step into the dark
Chasing ghosts in the night

More looking back and looking into the mirror, but in a good way… Love this image – the striking contrast of the red and green and the title.

Time engraves our faces with all the tears we have not shed by © strawberries

Time engraves our faces with all the tears we have not shed by © strawberries

Here’s the perfect match for it. Or it least that’s how it feels to me. 😉

how does it feel by © Alenka Co

they say to be popular you have to lie
but how does that feel
knowing their praise, adulation, support, sympathy
is for someone that isn’t really you
for something that didn’t happen to you
for a hurt you pretend to suffer
for emotions you pretend to feel
how far are you willing to go?
was it worth it
taking your pillow
and casting your feathers of jealousy and hate to the wind
can you gather them back now
repair the damage you’ve done
tell me, is your popularity worth the price
does it really feel that good
when you know in your heart
it is based on lies
and in hurting another

A little bit of whimsy, that’s what Spring is all about.

Lady Cage by © FilleDeLEau

Lady Cage by © FilleDeLEau

Another great poem – as whimsical as the image at a first glance, but again like the image with far more meaning hidden in plain sight.

Magic Trick by © lovelyrita

I have a sunny disposition
but I am a dynamo of volition
on a major, life-long expedition.

I put the eccentric in tradition – –
while working toward my ambitions
and I don’t need to ask your permission
to turn the key and start the ignition.

You know, I’m a limited edition – –
The cat’s meow.
I finished my search
and rescue mission now
and I got my gun cocked, emitting frisson
Pow!
with every spark of ammunition,
you wonder how I do it.

I am a fucking magician.

Frida Kahlo was a fabulous artist and woman and therefore very deserving of this beautiful homage. The imagery used – the flowers, the ornaments, the green all speak of renewal and connection to the world around us (at least to me).

My homage to Frida Khalo by © Madalena Lobao-Tello

My homage to Frida Khalo by © Madalena Lobao-Tello

Spring is the time when we make plans for the rest of the year… it might also be a good time to decide our fate?

choice by © dab –

I see giant power-lines blowing in the wind
and a bus barreling down on me
am I being saved
is this the end of me
should I jump out of the way
or is this Destiny
I could always hop on the bus
it desires to pick me up
but that would glue fate to the driver’s hands
I think I’ll jump
and polydream my own plans

The next image reminded me of a Renoir – the light, the feeling of almost floating and the gentleness and dance like pose. There’s is a lightness and acceptance and renewal about this image which felt like Spring to me.

I left my hat on… by © Lucky LaRue

I left my hat on… by © Lucky LaRue

But here’s Winter again… sometimes no matter what you do, it’s just not enough.

When Sorry’s Just Not Enough by © mnkreations

When Sorry’s Just Not Enough
What do I do when the road comes to the end? What do I do but follow the bend? You walk the line never looking for things you can’t find. I search for dreams, I reach for the sky. It’s my time to fly, it’s your time to cry, it’s my time tell you goodbye. What do I do when your going’s too tough. What do I do when you say it’s too much? How do I say I’m sorry when sorry’s just not enough?
We stood side by side. We watched as the future marched on; never a plan, never a word. Time passed in a blur. You thought I’d never leave. But here we are, we drifted apart—I toward the sunrise and you toward the night; searching for lost love, searching for light. What do I do when I say I’m sorry and you say it’s too tough? What do I do when you say it’s too much? How do I say I’m sorry when sorry’s just not enough?
I watch as you bleed, heart torn open wide, wanting to run, wanting to hide. You say sorry’s only a word, empty, without feeling, never wanting to be heard. What do I do when you hurt to the core? What do I do when you say life’s not worth livin’ anymore? What do I do when your going’s too tough? What do I do when you say it’s too much? How do I say I’m sorry when sorry’s just not enough?
How do I say I’m sorry when sorry’s just not enough? How do I say I’m sorry when sorry’s just not enough? How do I say I’m sorry…

A perfect finale – a Spring symphony in greens. You can almost hear the music…

Symphony by © Cabisha

Symphony by © Cabisha

This I just had to include. What a perfect poem to elaborate on the thoughts I started off with on this journey although it might leave you with more mysteries to solve… 🙂

The romance of living the most subtle of absolute deaths by © Kristin Reynolds

In the end there is only fantastic vision—
an end to diversion, and the division
of most likely scenarios.

Where have all the Baudelaire’s gone?

Fuck the cowboys, leave them to their beans.
What we need here is some goddamn fantastic
sock smokin’ madness—
offset by some, Je vous aime follement
and
Te amo.

When you close your eyes, what do you see?

Who do you see when the lights
in your room
are dark—
as dark as the streets behind corners on a moonless night,
alone, with nowhere to go?

Can you see the new world you’ve created,
simply by flicking the switch
in your skull marked: DREAM
to OFF?

Do you see the object of your desire?
or just a bed
and absence of corners;
or a dark horse riding out your window
screaming as the light
in it’s eyes

goes out.

Or are you the one
who sees heaven in hands?
holding your face like a whisper,
the way a tulip’s outer petals hold
its inner,
as delicate hours
inside it’s fragile
unfolding heart.

Or is it the old warehouse you see,
down by the docks—
a ghost-town
full of dead ghost riders, floating
face-up in a stagnant,
still water pool?

Go ahead. Be brave. Look.

Open your eyes, and see your world
looking back,

and then tell me you’re not a poet:
together
and impossibly gone.

Have a lovely week everyone and enjoy the first signs of Spring (if Spring is starting where you are or the first signs of Autumn and Winter if you’re on the other side of the globe).

Sybille xo


Sunday Features – Winds of Emotional Imbalance – 20/03/2011

With a new season upon the horizon, the winds of promise usher in a dissonance of emotional imbalance. The atmosphere shifts while the earth quivers in anticipation of what’s been planted within her womb. Each fragmented seed a part of the whole to be reconciled with the beating of one united heart.

Now what if in her broken numbness and wounded state she’s simply not ready to emerge into this new season?

Solace by © Unbeknown

Solace by © Unbeknown

She knows one thing, though: the sweet scent of ancient days still lingers in the air.

Sacred Romance [Stay] by © Beautifuldreamer

Sweet Ancient of Days,
Come to me wearing any disguise:
thorny rose
soft-footed snow
mournful wind
or rain tippity-tapping my window pane.

Romance me, though all around me prove false
though mountains shake
and the hills be removed—-romance me then, or not at all.

I will learn to love the snow because of you
learn to pick out the disparate notes of your serenaded love in melancholy music,
in the fresh smell of cotton dresses steam ironed
in the remembrance of my father’s laughter ( though now its merry swirl is lost to me.)

Wear wood smoke as your cologne
and autumn’s vulgarity of colors as bold contrast to my drab little self.
Like a blind woman whose fingertips have grown accustomed to Braille,
to the unique texture of things, I will caress the barks of trees
the familiar landscape of knee scabs;

will tremble with desire
to be the warp and woof of your weaver’s loom,
my self woven (bones, hair and all) into a gorgeous tapestry,
another kind of tapestry than what I dreamed I could be.

Ancient of Days,

my dreams are too big for me;
my child’s hands fumble them clumsily
even as I blink back tears at my ineptness, my lack of grace.

I turn at the slightest rustling sound
my ears keen for your approach.
Oh! I love you so,
I betroth myself to you
to your light in my baby brother’s eyes,
and to the sound of your lullaby meant just for me
in the sighing of falling embers
and in sun drenched streets I dare not explore without you.

Sweet Ancient of Days:
tarry with me one more hour
linger near while mother frowns over the stove
and the step-dad smirks at my stupidity;
stay lest my soul wither away
and I lose myself for want of you.
Stay.

So she balances upon the threshold of the shadows of yesterday’s scars and the hope of what can be found
in the day’s new illumination. Can her feet take her where her heart must travel?

I by © rubyjo

I by © rubyjo

Once spirit and soul realign, the displaced friends will embrace once again.

Witch Switch by © RC deWinter

And when I finally knew that
I would never have another lover
I looked inside and embraced my shadow,
holding it, cherishing the power hidden in
its murky depths.

And when I finally knew that
I could change the landscape of my life
I stood, with steady feet on that stone sill
and looked with witch’s eyes across the plain
and, grasping broom, flew.

She cleaves to life and death as if they are one. Does she know something no one else knows?

Life and Death Entwined by © Alenka Co

Life and Death Entwined by © Alenka Co

Will she emerge from a season’s slumber only to fashion herself into a multi-dimensional mask of hiding?

The Mask by © SimplyRed

she wears a mask
layer upon layer
of porcelain veneer
a crumbling fragility
with magnolia coloured
tear drops….

spread thinly with smiles
for they expect it…
dull flickering flame
flambouyant red hues
blinded but sees…
a half grin
expected…always

she wears a mask
of fool them all
only flesh of heart
remains true to self
painted on smile
of ruby red

quietly weeping
scented jasmine tears
creeping softly into dawn
blown away on a breeze
not visible at daybreak

she wears it well
a perfect fit
of velvet glove
each digit enveloped
a perfect print is she
transparent to none

falling on ears of fragility
listening ,
dancing a merry tune
as birds chirp freely
on branches of freedom
she wishes for wings
elusive….

putty hands
soft and supple
form no solace
grasping eternally
for life’s love

Or out of the miry clay will the shards of last season’s fragments begin to reform her in all of her splendour, and pepper the earth with the flavour of new birth?

Elementar Particles by © Marlies Odehnal

Elementar Particles by © Marlies Odehnal

Now upon the canvas of this new season, what treasures can be found hidden within the spaces in between?

The spaces in between by © wildwomenlove

As charcoal dust
gets up my nose
I sneeze

I’m looking out
upon the montage
dressed before me

My left hand jitters
in it’s new role
as capturing scribe

It’s not the objects
that you see
it’s the spaces in between…

Light and shadow
SHAPES and juxtapositions
line and form

Life’s like that isn’t it?
What we are truly looking for
are the spaces in between

Those diamond moments
connecting us with the who
of what we are and what we do

Making meaning
of the little things
in our everyday existence

So I draw with gusto
without a care in the world
and it’s difficult to recognize what it is

It’s not the destination
that counts
but the journey

as I courageously attempt
to scale the mountain of inanimate objects
pyramided within my view

I look to find life in those spaces
the diamonds of moments
of life and living

that morph in
and out
of my sensual frame

When I shut my eyes
I draw from my heart, which beats
in the spaces in between

The charcoal dust
gets up my nose
and I see…

And when the laurels bud, Daphne’s prayers can bloom, whose sweet nectar will float into the heavens.

Daphne by © Janelle McKain

Daphne by © Janelle McKain

Perhaps it was all just a manifestation of those vanilla scented dreams that illuminated the way to the waters of absolution.

in dreams by © autumnwind

reflections of deep greens and blues
danced like Northern Lights
floating suspended in the air
in ritualistic manifestation
…I dreamt about tealights last night

I tasted the scent of vanilla
and thought of white spirit roses
as I undressed and tested the waters
of absolution

immersed in baptismal velvet
my breath held as I saw your face
you radiated new life through me
in billowing raptures

your soul went through me

eons slipped by as stories were told
red moons and black suns
flickered before my eyes

millions of years went by as time ceased to exist

fading slowly, falling gently
through swirling layers of vortex
I awoke

…finding my breath
trying to hold on to enlightenment
I retain very little
but enough to know
…I dreamt about tealights last night

…and you…

Regardless, in technicolor full bloom, she’s freed from yesterday’s captivity.

Set Me Free by © salena

Set Me Free by © salena

And now that she has been set free, what rhythm will infuse her passions to flow as freely?

thread by © Cynthia Lund Torroll

Like a drum beat
it begins –
a slow
and steady drilling.

One sentence
pulled from thousands
starts
to pound away…

You left without saying goodbye.
You left without saying goodbye.

Some would say
it’s just bad manners.
I might scold,
I hurt myself,

I don’t know,
but I don’t like it,
it’s hard enough
to Be Here Now.

But there is
always
another story
that soon will surface
if I’m still

While what is seen
as impoliteness
might simply be
an empty well.


Within the Compost Piles Spring Rustles Her Restless Hands – Sunday Features – 13/03/2011

As promised, I’m pleased to present PPM’s ALL POETRY Sunday features.

Spring is pushing and pulling her way out of slumber, and with her rustling ways she’s stirring up all kinds of things. Mixed amongst the compost piles, along with thoughts of blossoms and rebirth, are the unforgotten things that are finding the light again.

I hope you are all moved by this week’s poetry features as much as I was. Congratulations to all of our featured writers.

© Lisa Jewell’s to turn or not to turn

It has been an elongated and worthy day. I have had time to contemplate. Not the in between distraction sophistry. A brain striptease.

hook and eyes
pop halleluiah
revealing the secret door at the top of my spiralling spine staircase
the door is not pearly
the door is the colour of Demeter’s tears

dead centre of the door is a knob fashioned out of Noah’s Ark
a bouquet of peacock, lyrebird and siren boa feathers is knotted around the knob
above the door is a stained glass window undressing the seven deadly sins
there is light passing through the waves of coloured glass that waltz at the foot of the door
honey holds anise, cumin, myrrh and cassia in the air

beyond the door strings of a harp are being perfumed
the sound feels like lush green grass through toes
a Sunday when you wake next to love that stays a lifetime
mathematical notes square root your outer and inner the only equation is
turn the knob.

© Lovelyrita’s Goya

 

Goya by © lovelyrita

Goya by © lovelyrita

© Rhenastarr’s Elusive Love

The night is thick with memories
Cinching, thicker and tighter
Coils around her heart
Love a thread that wouldn’t stay
Put, unraveling time and time
Again
She felt as if her heart was encircled
By an invisible barbed wire
Words recoiled in her brain
Like the fence’s metal barbs
Causing her heart to bleed
Invisible tears that leave no trail
As they slowly ebb and flow
Down her face
She wipes but nothing is felt
Upon her hand
Time stalls, taking her down
Familiar paths
One’s she has walked over
And over
Love has played such a fickle
Game
Leaving her alone and empty
Except for her memories
Memories that enfold her in
The sweet heady mixture of
Passion’s elusive pursuit
She recalls arms as they
Held her
A cocoon embrace sealing
Her within the moment
Kisses that rained down, devoid of
Tenderness but blazing
Hot boldness as passion
Rose
The night is shrouded in folds
Of voluptuous velvet
Wrapping her in a sensual
recollection of spent desire
She longs to feel the touch
Of skin on skin
Of sweat slicked bodies
Entwined in mutual gratification
She longs for the promise of
Forever
For the words of love to have
Meant something other than
A prelude to another sexual
Encounter
Another one night stand
Another night of broken dreams
She longs for the youth that
Seemed to disappear with
Each disappointing encounter
She was so naive, so lost
In the fairy tale of love
And happy ever after
Now in the twilight of her life
She dwells on stolen moments
Brief touches with the elusive
Prince of her dreams
And facing the delusion filled
Life she has lived
Why was love not meant to
Find a place within her heart
Someday she hopes that
She will be granted
An encounter with Love
Until then she will continue
To live in the shadow of what
Was dreamed of and what
Was reality
Time is ticking down
Each tick tock another wrinkle
Upon her face
Each day another sad reminder
That she lives alone
With her hunger
Love as fleeting and elusive
As a touch of a butterfly’s wing
Eludes her, dancing just out of
Reach
Slipping by her yearning
Aching soul
Someday, perhaps it will slip
Effortlessly , quietly into her
Waiting heart

© Cynthia Lund Torroll’s Statement

If I could write,
I would not draw.
I’d let these melodramas
be told
through whichever format
best fit.
I would box haiku,
or bind circumlocution,
to carry with you
on the bus.

Many years ago,
when more emotionally mute,
I made vessels of pain.
I speak better now,
but when faced
with so many words,
I draw blank.

Therefore I draw.

How to measure the breadth of a word?
I learn a Russian dancer’s name
and roll it over and over
like a lozenge in my mouth.

Can darkened space
on light compare?

These lines I leave
talk louder than I.
Their cadence is
the tug and pull
of my wrist on pulp.

As with so many lines,
it is best to read between them.

Statement by @ Cynthia Lund Torroll

Statement by @ Cynthia Lund Torroll

© Lilynoelle’s Frantic Life

I have discovered
Recently uncovered
Buried deep
In the minds of men
In waking sleep:
Secrets.
That death is the passage of wonder
That life is the fountain of power
Seeping blood and tears on Eden’s bower.
In the beginning
Man was mad
He must have been
He is now
So I wonder how
Evolution is fixing this.
Death’s cool embrace in life’s mad kiss.
I have discovered
A world where everyone I am
Drawn to is damned
To mental sickness and disease
To tumors and waters and leakage of
Secrets
Aged and wise and cunning
Powerfully deceitful in innocence
Underestimated by the rest of the world
Harmless in acts and dangerous in thought
They have sought what I sought:
To understand and discover
Sanity
Lunacy’s infertile lover.
Life is
To behold the grace and force of legends deep
To dance in the threshold of pain and beauty
Where we stand, you and me
Eyes locked and knowing
Understanding flowing from iris to iris
Color to color
Until your pond water eyes
And my forest glades
Collapse into one rich and vibrant hue
Of green and blue:
Green for nature and blue for sorrow
My experience in life:
Here today,
Swiftly fled tomorrow.
Let it not be you whom the angels seek
Let it not be me that the heavens keep
Let me be
Alone with my intrepid dreams
Alone with my torturous fears
No one else here.
Lost so many, found so much
Lost an embrace, found gentle touch
Lost to such
Realms of laughter and butterfly lives,
Short and swift, so tender and alive
But once gone, once frost has come
They tell their tale with broken wings
Scattered on the bedewed ground
Muted colors fading with each breath I take
Finally understanding why the one who walks
Angelic and placid
Can never know my Soul
And why it is they who sit
With passionate eyes and fiddling fingers,
Busy in their minds, lost in morbid daydreams
Or endless fantasies
Every bit as afraid
Every bit as passionate as me
-Why it is they who so entrance my spirit
And lure my secrets as I lure theirs!
Because we are the Old Spirits,
We know too much
We know the nature of dreams is such:
That each man wakes, alone and pale,
Longing to hang on to one moment more
Of that sleep-heavy wonder
To stand before death’s veil,
Immortal.
Our souls are torn asunder
But still we smile and know this much:
Life isn’t thus.
Life is the dance of dreams, fanatical and raw
But dying is innocence
And death is the road to awe.

© Sunrisegirl’s Emotion

On the edge…. I feel it there….. Will it fall……

It sits; a big ball,
Changing colour.

Mainly Blue it stays,
holding existence in its ether.

My body relies on it,
for protection, / security,
comfort,

I hope it won’t break.

For then the knock on effects will be too big…

please don’t
I whisper

Only after it has been placed
upon a large cushion
in a padded room
with no windows
or doors,
Only then will it be safe…

A knock on my door,
A man… with bad news
and harsh words…

I listen,
I absorb,
I hurt…

The ball moves,
rolls over the edge,
whizzing fast towards the floor,
the speed increases, suddenly…

… it lands,

CRACK

It is damaged.

So am I.

I fall to the floor.

I have shattered.

It is too late.

© Lisameryl’s Mother Earth

Mother Earth is…

Paint by number
heaven and Earth
swimming in colour

Drowning in tears
consumed and raped
destruction for years

Beauty with grace
land and water
our sacred place

Full of rage
neglected and abused
confined by cage

The human race
past, present, future
time and space

Choking on pollution
blind and helpless
without a solution

Every living creature
great and small
our bountiful teacher>

Looking for blame
man and war
a crying shame

© Sally Omar’s Pieces of Me

pieces of me lying on the side of the road
my flesh is now shredded
by the footsteps of inhumanity
a heart which carried a song of love
blackened by the tar of lies and deceit
of those I once loved
eyes which only saw the beauty of life
were pulled from their sockets
thrown onto the roadway by the racism and intolerance
of those who preach their hate in the name of god
my lips once red and pursed
now lie in a pool of blood, the blood of the homeless
and hungry who are cast aside
the scents of lavender which tickled my nose are
now gone from my nostrils
and the stench of death permeates

pieces of me

© Electriclstorm’s Mother Why Does It Hurt so Much

I wonder if you still think of me,
As I often think of you.

Your presence made me feel alive.
Warm with memories, I still feel your embrace but the cold absence tends only to an unsealing wound.

My haven, my adventure, my muse, my love…

I wonder if you still think of me,
As I often think of you.

Slowly waking, half conscious, I remember my new title and adaptations.
Watching the sunlight play on a cold shapeless pillow that misses your form.
Strong and focused on the outside,
Shattered splinters on the inside.
Constantly barricading the bulging archway, verging on the breaking point.
Altering my appearance as penance, all the whilst praying for the phoenix.

No elixir could cork the bleeding, even if I were into such things.
One of the hardest lessons to recognize and swallow is to love more than to be loved; everything else is bearable, adaptable. We can not have it all…or can we?

A nagging longing,
Held firmly by a will-power that is stoic, persistent, and selfless.
My roots run deep but they are expansive. They are a network of wonder.
And all the while, I can not forget, will not forget, to be true to myself.

The distance between leads us on our own journey,
With our screenplay’s to write,
And our soul’s to feed.
This shall be our connection.

I wonder if you still think of me,
As I often think of you.
How can I not?…With all my love…

© Kristen ReynoldsThere Is an Earth Attached to My Feet

Even when
I lift them up,
there are still invisible roots—
like gum on a shoe
on a day when the sun
is most high

like diamond
elastic violin strings playing
the sweetest song.

Ask the earth,
she will tell you the same:

how we are all long hearts
through the soles of her feet,
eternally bound
and in love,

A love
more precious than fruit

on a planet
full of starving men

who have never
even felt
the sun.

We are dancing,
each day we are
dancing!

at opposite ends
of the same
diorama,

in the space
between a butterfly’s wings
flying in the face
of heaven.

© Sybille Sterk’s Echos

Your face tattooed
With invisible ink
To the inside of my lids

A name echoing
In the halls
Of lost hope and
Buried fantasies

A fervent promise,
A silent wish
Never come true

The scent of a
Blown out candle
Ripe berries
And abject failure

Gone
Carried away
By the wind

A ghostly touch
Cold and frightening
From a past
Dead and buried

Relegated
To the graveyard
By a butterfly’s wing.


Midweek Features – Strength and Weakness – 16/03/2011

Looking at the art that has come in over the past week or so, I found there were many portrayals both of the strengths and weakness that we all feel from time to time. I thought it would make the perfect theme for this week.

I am starting with this powerful portrait, full of fire, passion and confidence.

Firefly by © skye oshea

Firefly by © skye oshea

But what if it is all for show, or even worse, delusion?

One Woman Show by © wordthrift

Once,
at dinner,
you showed me,
the “proper” way to steep my tea.
“Not like that,
like this”, you said.
And as selfish proclamations go,
they’re only a small part
in your endless one woman show.
You will never know all the things I know.

The next image struck me like a woman looking at herself VERY closely.

orange by © Manana11

orange by © Manana11

Followed by this fab poem about a woman trying to avoid mirrors altogether.

Her bits and pieces ….. by © SimplyRed

pretty as a picture so young and so firm
all of the fellows they did confirm
she was a looker and that was for sure
until age came knocking at her door

first thing she noticed was her lovely bust
no longer looking pert , a bra was a must
swimming in water was such a delight
the breasts went all pert again
even stayed upright!!!

a nice taut tummy was what she once had
a little swelling there wasn’t sooo bad
best viewed front on rather than the side
must start walking or take a bike ride
fooled herself for a while indeed
no full length mirror did she need

sideways glances were not on her mind
she hadn’t noticed that thickening behind
her firm butt was as hard as cement
lots of pinching, for men it was meant
still no long mirror for this ageing duck
if it got broken seven years bad luck….

next thing she noticed these small little crinkles
under the eye there where most folk get wrinkles
a small crease it was…not noticeable at first
another appeared it was a damn curse…
those few lines looked cute for a wee while
her face paralysed she didn’t want to smile
I swear each night as she went to bed
a new crease would form right there on her head
so crows feet she had and this she was to accept
new lines started forming she really could o’ wept

one day she did noticed it caused her no harm….
when she read the phonebook she’d stretch out her arm
smaller and smaller the writing was getting
off to th eye doctor she now was a sweating
for it seemed that the print wasn’t shrinking
she needed glasses oh what was she thinking

after a few years she adjusted and felt clever
breasts pert and firm …gone now forever
tummy not flat and butt not so hot
even liked her specs which she wore when reading
a hearing aid she would surely not be needing
for her ears they worked well for many a year
nothing else could go wrong surely not Dear!!

in her forties and the top lip felt hairy
into the mirror for a look that was scarey
for upon the top lip lay a tale of woe
hormones were going she now had a moe…
so to the chemist shop she did scurry
raced home with a waxing kit now in a hurry
what’s next she thought as she made her lip bare
Oh Fuck it all …..is that a grey hair!!!!

I think we’re all guilty of lying to ourselves now and again, be it about that wrinkle just being a laughter line or the big red elephants…

If you can’t lie to yourself, who can you lie to? by © Ina Mar

If you can’t lie to yourself, who can you lie to? by © Ina Mar

However, here’s a poem asking for the truth to be faced, and, personally, this totally resonated with me.

mortal by © Cynthia Lund Torroll

I’m an inconvenient
truth –
a girl who
passion ate

I’ve a heart that
runs
on fumes –
and is rarely ever
neat

You had said
I came for you
but tell me
are
you sure

that you want
a girl like me –

who arrives
without
a
cure

Courage is one of those strengths that is hard to achieve and even harder to maintain. Maybe this should be on every fridgedoor and next to every bathroom mirror?

There Is No Virtue In Silence by © unbeknown

There Is No Virtue In Silence by © unbeknown

It is so much easier to deny what’s happening to yourself and others…

Denial by © singerchick

Disregard the naked truth
Evading its cloying taste
Never mind compelling proof
Instead, present your bogus case
And trust whatever fills the hole
Little lies, warm milk for the soul

What more truth than a self portrait, especially one like this where you accept yourself inspite or maybe because of your weakness?

 

When I Need Protection by © Laurie Search

When I Need Protection by © Laurie Search

And here it is, all the protection and haven one could ask for.

Twilight Moments by © AnniG

Serene is the twilight hour
when I wait for you to wrap me up
in wordless conversation
comfort me with your calming presence
inspire me with your ethereal aura
simply sit with me as we share the silence
staring through shattered windows
of an erstwhile existence
patiently waiting with firm intent
for swift transportation
to a sacred place in infinite space
exalted, untouched

from the mysterious nebulous shadows
I atone for multiple sins
as you wash the grief from my heart
with clear crystal tears
readily spilling from angel eyes
revitalizing my weary mind
with jubilant rhapsodies
effortlessly dancing upon your lips
sweep me up, raise me on high
to glide along wispy skies
slowly restoring trust
in the truth of kindred spirits

in the crepuscular dimness of dusk
you shelter me as I curl into you
finding safety in your guarded haven
while countless shimmering knights
appear in primordial heavens
the mellifluous song
of raven skies and babbling brooks
lull us into gentle slumber
twinkles picked from effulgent dreams
of sanguine encounters
and lucid memories conceived
under a twilight tree

satisfied magical memories
of twilight moments

However, in the end we are all a secret to be discovered, made up of our own unique strengths and weaknesses.

 

Secrets of My Soul You Will Never Understand…angry red, passion blue, but mostly shades of green by © CarmenHolly

Secrets of My Soul You Will Never Understand…angry red, passion blue, but mostly shades of green by © CarmenHolly

I couldn’t resist this poem. Someone discovering a new aspect of themselves. Perfect to end these features, something to think about.

exercise by © Lisa Jewell

The atom living in breast foam that desperately clings to a pure squeaky shore is lonely.

My pace slows as I approach a simple restaurant on a less than simple street. This slowing occurs each workday. Time is 5.15 pm. He is always there. An elderly man seated at the same table at the same window. He is eating soup. Each day I slow my pace that bit more, so that I might catch his eyes. My craving to know him is escalating. I have thoughts racing through my mind. But the most significant I think is. Is he alone out of choice or is he alone because his wife (partner) has left him, or has died.

You don’t miss what you don’t know. Is that really true? The logic seems sound but what of rumour? Or a vivid imagination. Or that little ache that bubbles into an eruption of wanting a one. And what of the living after death. Gone. Sugary life goes on clichés are plastic. Plastic might last but what of aesthetics and character? It can’t be the same. It is not. I see it in the way he places each spoon into his mouth. There is ache and lonely.

The sadness is building in me. It is the type of sadness that brews from that deep part. No metaphor, analogy or symbology to convey. You know it. And what startles me is that I can feel the sadness building and it is me but I am living and happily so. Life is so fucking peculiar. There are times I feel I must be living two lives concurrently. I can’t possibly be happy and sad at the same time. Can I? And what of this man?

I hope you enjoyed these features. Please let the artists know if you did. 🙂

Sybille xo


Love, loss, hope and acceptance – Monday Features – 7/03/2011

A collection of additional features this week.

These were chosen, not because there is a particular theme, but because they all held a bitter-sweet flavour for me. Some made me want to laugh, others made me want to cry with their poignancy. What they all have in common is a power to move and affect our emotions.

I hope you will enjoy them as much as I have.

Congratulations to you all.

The Cost of Freedom by © Geraldine (Gezza) Maddrell

The Cost of Freedom by © Geraldine (Gezza) Maddrell

1984 – the mannequins by © moyo

1984 – the mannequins by © moyo

Maybe for your birthday darling.. by © Berns

Maybe for your birthday darling.. by © Berns

The other ones by © Michele Meister

The other ones by © Michele Meister

After the Hunt by © catrinarno

After the Hunt by © catrinarno

Contemplating Loss (Self-Portrait) by © RC deWinter

Contemplating Loss (Self-Portrait) by © RC deWinter

02-23-2011: The Dangers of Drunk Dialing (limited) by © Margaret Bryant

02-23-2011: The Dangers of Drunk Dialing (limited) by © Margaret Bryant

I Have Not Left… by © Janis Zroback

I Have Not Left… by © Janis Zroback

Our War: Day 206-20110222 by © Cara Schingeck

Our War: Day 206-20110222 by © Cara Schingeck

SELF MERGING THEN TO NOW. by © eoconnor

SELF MERGING THEN TO NOW. by © eoconnor

Where is my head? by © Marlies Odehnal

Where is my head? by © Marlies Odehnal

Queen of Spades by © Dokmai

Queen of Spades by © Dokmai

Enjoy.

Anna xx


Introspective – Midweek Features – 02/03/2011

A mixed day today – foggy and grey in the morning with sunshine and blue skies in the afternoon. Hence we’re having muted features today – just suits my mood.

I just loved the use of space and colour in this image. Fabulous!

Only Me by © Laurie Search

Only Me by © Laurie Search

This poem seemed to fit perfectly…

Alienated by © singerchick

Alienated by my own design
Unintentional, yet it can’t be denied
No blame falls beyond the evil trio
Whose aliases are Me, Myself, and I

Craving pleasant contact from the outside
Still I deny myself and make excuses
“This one is busy, and that one won’t do”
Never admit that my reasons are useless

Oh yes, I am quite the intellectual
Cleverly outsmarting myself once again
Stay safely within my fortress of stone
No risk is taken, endure no more pain

Yet what barb pierces deeper than loneliness?
I’ve yet to discover a wound more unkind
Nor a crueller dispenser of heartache
Than the tricks I play on my own witless mind

Oh yes, I am so foolishly wise
Cunning deception is my perpetration
Pretending my solace is to be found
Only through safeguard against penetration

I love the gentleness in this image. There’s something very thoughtful about it.

Walay Sapayan by © Geraldine (Gezza) Maddrell

Walay Sapayan by © Geraldine (Gezza) Maddrell

A match made in heaven. The next poem seems to continue from the image (at least for me).

Autumn by © msdebbie

When autumn leaves
tumble from a tree,
I gain a sense that
she offers praise.

She seeks to dance
with each twist and wave,
arms raised, uncertain
how to move gracefully,
but trying nonetheless.

Even with my beloved
weeping willows,
she effects a tender whirl,
tendrils curl, and slide,
along an impressive trunk.

Always conscious
of her groundedness
she offers safety,
security, year on
year, and still,
despite her heritage,
she rejoices in dance!

As for me in autumn?
I gleam and glimmer.
I take my cues from the trees,
glorying in red, brown, orange hues.

A living sunset.
Breathing in the grass.
Twirling in light rain.

Arms raised,
carefree,
happy to be me.

This is an amazing picture and as far as I am concerned should be shown to girls at school to learn how to feel comfortable with yourself. Such a difficult thing to master.

Comfortably In My Skin (ltd ed) by © Margaret Bryant

Comfortably In My Skin (ltd ed) by © Margaret Bryant

This poem just resonated with me. Can’t quite put my finger on it… LOL

car doors by © Marie Monroe

there are intimacies that can’t be spoken:
touches.
images tacked over a desk.
a stray monopoly piece, a red hotel.

hand holds from a vehicle like a drive-in fast food love.

a tiny teenage valentine: molded plastic caught in a forgotten web of my life’s string.

they come at you through the sacred heart or the solar plexus…wherever you need them.

each satisfies like the last one, but it is a hungry feast.

where hope comes from is far away.
where hope comes from is here.

some hope comes with vision, some with viscera, some with bounce.

the absolute best is not from courage.
courage lives in terror.
courage is only possibility.

this is the zone.
most brave soldiers are not warriors who walk this earth.
there is a walk that shows it.
muscle, bone, levitation.

this is the zone.
this is the warrior.

chat boxes spring up.
human languages form intelligibly as they speak.
they’ve never been spoken before.

typing is a wondrous affair.

for example, there is always fowl.
for example, circumambulation is love spinning out its lines of power,
the grids of this earth tightening.
we are safe from collapse.
we are calibrated.
we have points and between them…

there are geese.
always, for me, there are geese
flanking the wounded, waiting, waiting.

escorts.

smoke cigars in imagination.
hell, light one.

car doors will save you.
regressive speech and its sentiment will sustain.

some will fly again.

all of them.

all of them are precious.

these are the tender things.

how can you speak them?

you just dare.

I agree with Lily, making things by hand is utterly satisfying and almost meditative. It’s good to do things with your hands and let your mind flow where it will.

Born Too Late by © lilynoelle

Born Too Late by © lilynoelle

From ‘womanly arts’ to ‘female wiles’…

Return to Sender by © Jenifer DeBellis

Got the message
you so thriftily taped
to the door frame
of the place I can now
only refer to as ground zero.

I refuse to be a casualty
of the justifications
you’ve so easily graffitied
upon the pile of ruins –

the pile that you
pieced together with
the confetti of words
you cut out of thin air

and are selling to the masses
as pretty little party favors.

I often forget that your
seeing the world through
the limited scope of foggy
perceptions and preconceived
biases is par for the course.

But what, really, I must ask,
can be gained from

such premeditations

of miscalculated motives?

Can any of it be reconciled
within the framework
holding together any one
of these bleeding hearts?

Okay, maybe not quite so introspective but I thought it worked with all the other images. 🙂

Truth and Lies by © strawberries

Truth and Lies by © strawberries

This poem really touched me.

Will I Always Feel This Way? by © Spiritinme

I lift my skirt up to my knees and roll through the sands of time
in my chair, crying in the rain.
You never learned to count our blessings,
You chose instead to dwell on my sins .
You’re never to blame, it’s always the same,
Trying to let go of my pain.
I look through my my tears, and all we’ve collected over the years, now rusting, collecting rain.
Will I always feel this way?
So empty, so estranged, so desperate for my end.

I am so very weary.
If through my soft, crimson lips
I spoke these words out loud would you hear me?
I lay naked out in the open air,
consumed with deep despair.
Realization that this man does not care.
The rain taps on my window
Applauding this reality show,
Watches me weep with nowhere to go
Will I always feel this way?
So empty, so estranged, so desperate for my end.

Well I looked for rainbows after the rain,
my dignity to regain.
Never lost HOPE, no love in your eyes,
Laid bare my soul, to try to survive
Tongue sharp like a razor blade that cuts me at every chance.
With intent to destroy me and make me flee, but
As of late your behavior surely bores me.
Will I always feel this way?
So empty, so estranged, so desperate for my end?

There’s a lot of ways to die, my friend,
And you no longer live,
It makes me ill to watch you
The devil your best friend
And I can’t walk with you anymore
On a path that leads to darkness and despair
For I am headed to the Light,
You can’t hurt me there,
I’ll be loved and taken care of all day and night.
Will I always feel this way?
So empty, so estranged, so desperate for my end?

I just love this whole series and had to feature at least one of them. This one seemed to fit best with my muted, introspective mood.

Whos going to fall down at your feet by © madworld

Whos going to fall down at your feet by © madworld

The ultimate in introspective… talking to yourself?

My Other Self by © SFlora

How did my Universe move so far away from yours
When I am born from you
When the waves of my Seas
Move only to reach you
To meet you at the shore
Who put the wall between you and me
I never knew
Never saw
Forgot about
The internal war
I faced and overcame
With waterfalls of paint
Glazing my emotions
Speaking wordless rhythms
In symbiotic silences
We loved and lived
Today she reminded me
That lions rest in the palms of my hands
That fire can speak from the tips of my feathered fingers
That her voice burns with life
That silent worlds can be born from a pen and page
How is it that I can forget what I am
And at times I see what I missed
The unfeeling kiss
The loveless, indifferent, majestic bliss
At times I see
What I cannot
Without you
At times you move
Like a black cloud across the moon
And I can only feel the shadow you cast

I can only feel

I can only feel

Hope you enjoyed today’s features. xo


Growing – Sunday Features – 27/02/2011

Sorry guys, I am still recovering from the flu and totally missed my Midweek Features. Since Anna is very busy with the magazine, I offered to do the Sunday Features for her.

It’s a bit of a mixed bag this week. Hope you like.

I love this image because I loved the colours and contrast and the fabulous dress! 🙂

Miss Cherry Lush by © Rookwood Studio

Miss Cherry Lush by © Rookwood Studio

And this poem seemed to go perfectly with it, especially the bit “Just look at me disappear”.

Mixed Messages by © wordthrift

Hello,
every time I walk in a room. Just
look at me disappear. The
poor thing.

My mixed messages, they are
exceptional misdirection. Slow

Passing passerby.
listen, you’ll hear my
ear ache, it echoes the
absurd “me”. A
singing scream into a finite
eternity.

I couldn’t resist the colours in this image. Green and blue (I am told) don’t go together, but I love them and they certainly work in this striking image.

Patina Sliced, Blued and Greened by © Cynthia Lund Torroll

Patina Sliced, Blued and Greened by © Cynthia Lund Torroll

Autumnwind is one of my all time favourite poets and this poem just makes so many pictures in my head….

crashing into the moon by © autumnwind

hell is going around again…
its adamant and frantic
in truth its running rampant

though do no bother with a hide
it slithers underneath your hair
horror leaches wretched fear
oh we… why so unaware
Curse these hellish times…

traveling through arteries
up your burning spine
as it makes its crazy tree
of creeping bloody insane vines

hell it un-grounds your hold
lifts you up to scary heights
with scarring, poisoned claws
release is sudden proving power
fall to crawl
to shadow

when this circus finds your town
its carnival so cries
a laugh that screeches
demon lies
bleaching eyes
fooling us
yet one more time

hold onto your very soul
while this tempest turns your way
ones you love…swept away
hell is dark
this day

hell is going around again
a warning come my way
one I had to share with you
to relish
insouciant days

rejoice in freedom’s hour

on this earth
with sun and stars
and moon beams
forging magic

the thunder roars
it’s at your door

hell comes…
and it is tragic

This was one of the images I saw in my image stream and I knew I had to include it in the next features. So many dreams and hopes and wishes…

Girls by © Cabisha

Girls by © Cabisha

Here is one of those questions I am sure many of us asked when we were young and looked at our mothers.

Tell me Mrs. by © callmejulia

Tell me Mrs.
Were you once like me?
Was there a time when you spoke instead of smiled?
A time where you dared to dream instead of dreamt of being daring.
Did you once possess an amber gaze and diamond voice?
And are those stones now set in a golden ring you wear on your left hand?
Did you notice when they replaced your diamond voice with glass?
A song now shattered.
Did you notice when your precious gaze became a dead lead stare?
The stare of the conquered.

Once you were the Shulammite girl with the eyes of doves.
Once you were Isobel, married to yourself.
Once you were Mulan, a flower with the spirit of a warrior.
Once you were Heroine, Queen and Priestess of your own heart.
And once you were like me.

So tell me Mrs.
Will I become you?

All the different stages of growing and all the connections we make.

Reflection by © Anji Johnston

Reflection by © Anji Johnston

I love this poem. That’s what this group is all about.

Sisters by © restlessd

As luck would have it
I am blessed with two
As Sisters we started
Now good friends too!

And then there are my Soul Sisters. . .
These are the ones
Whom I admire,
Who daily inspire,
Not related by flesh,
By hearts we enmesh. . .
In friendship we endeavor
As Soul Sisters forever. . .

You know who you are

A fabulous image, bright and full of whimsy and happiness.

Happy by © MissMoselle

Happy by © MissMoselle

This poem encapsulates all the love of life and living shown in the image.

Breathe in life and love… by © lisameryl

Open up your soul
take another chance
let the dice roll
believe in romance…

Release your inner glow
throw away doubt
let your light show
never live without…

Life and love are to be embraced, explored and shared
have a little faith
you’re never alone
trust in yourself and others…

I leave you with these words from my heart and soul
with all my love always…

Let pain fade away
heal your aching heart
breathe in another day
make a new start

Dancing under the moonlight
taste the midnight air
bathing in the Sunlight
warmth two can share

Follow all your dreams
wipe away the tears
live to full extremes
leave behind the fears

Embrace in the love
kisses you’ll never forget
beneath the stars above
passion without any regret

What an amazing image. Makes you think and wonder.

flw and flw by © mariasole oste

flw and flw by © mariasole oste

Another of my all time favourite poets. There’s something so very special about this poem, a trip and a half round the moon and back.

Moonlight Sonata in the palm of a Poet’s hand by © Kristin Reynolds

It’s no accident
that light comes through
like mosaics of windowless panes:
from Sunday hats and prayer bowls—
to screaming in a crowded room
no-one can hear

but you.

There are heads that know
no bounds,
and comedians who know
no jokes,
and constellations who’ve forgotten
they are constellations—
who’ve forgotten they were
once upon a time:
a man
a god—
a story only they really
ever knew;

not just a memory
of heaven, hung
like a world
in a sky
they cannot
control,
never-mind, remember.

Is it too much to be
able to call home, home?—
Or turn a mountain into
a bale of hay into
a crystal,
which can still sing
of roots
on top of still mountains
and still recall
every last

humble,
and rustling,
word?

I am calling out to you
from between the lines,
to hear my heart playing
Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata
from the palm
of your outstretched hand,
and to kiss
the sparkle
in my eye:

as a child does
a pane
of clear sunlit glass,

reflecting
only
his love.

Hope you like. 🙂 xo