Tag Archives: Feminism

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.


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


Midweek Features 09/02/2011 – Feeling Blue

I am feeling the Winter blues and I am yearning for Spring… So here are some images and writing that encapsulate the blues for me – either because of the colouring or the mood within.

The first image caught my attention because of the beautiful colouring and the windswept flowing movement within the image.

Lost Forever by © Amalia Iuliana Chitulescu

Lost Forever by © Amalia Iuliana Chitulescu

The perfect companion to the image.

Blue by © Tracy Faught

Blue,night,murky twighlight dances across the lake,waves washing cool carvings in the sand.

Aqua,water pebbels moving under my feet, grating into the cool bottom, looking down I see the rippling surface.

Saphire reflected from the sky,sun gone, moonlight passing through the dappled mystery in the blue below, splashing, cleansing,cooling, a window open to a watery world…below the waves, the mist and to the horizon beyond.

Envelop my senses.

Jacqleen’s image just seemed to be the logic continuation. I love the colouring and the depth.

just BREATHE… by © jacqleen

just BREATHE… by © jacqleen

From air to water…

Colour of water by © Unique-Mystique

Colour of water
Flows on blue
Like your deep eyes view
Waves upon the crest
Smooth motion moves
Way back on the brink
Of the fast paced sink
Filling to the top
Where one chooses to bathe
Memories are compelled
All earth is scathed
To undo the tiny kots made
Swim on by this ocean blue
Let night fall become you

The next image just encapsulates the ‘blues’ for me. Fabulous image and text combination.

stark by © awdigitaldreams

stark by © awdigitaldreams

What could be more blue than missed chances and opportunities?

I’m Sorry by © lovelyrita

I miss you sometimes
But I’d never tell you

The black box
matches the bottom of the ocean
and it’s locked,
sealed
closed.
I triple-checked.

I’d like to for you open it
but I’m scared you’ll laugh,
or cry,
or ignore me completely.

Maybe years from now,
when I’m dead
and you’re living off your art,
your heart will reach into the depths of the ocean
and dig out a little red or orange box
dry it off
read its contents

and say,
“Me too.”

There is so much honesty in this self portrait. The misery and unhappiness come off in waves.

Self portrait from 2006 by © homesick

Self portrait from 2006 by © homesick

Another triumph by Kristin and another truth and hard lesson to learn.

Karma’s a bitch: love comes whether you see it or not by © Kristin Reynolds

Feed me to the lions—
God knows I
would do the same
for you.

If not you,
than who, my love?
Who better than to gift me
a death?—
the miracle
of beginning again.

Who better
to sew up my dues
with black ribbons
fool wrapped
in honey?
By Kali’s
three-way black eye,
weaving
her head-turning poisons
back
like hurricanes
into the mouths
of prisoners.

Who better to chance me
a more beautiful shape
of being,
than eternity with her gown
to the floor—
her body
made of heavens and sweet
succulent blooms
spun from a lyre’s
hazy
immaculate web—

and just that much
closer to God.

I thank you,
my horrible, beautiful,
lost and found love
for learning each chord
of my lute,

then breaking it’s notes

down
to feed.

And following are two of the most beautiful portraits I’ve seen in some time. I love the celebration of feminity of this one…

May by © TaniaLosada

May by © TaniaLosada

And one of those special poems by Cynthia – they are intricate and delicate as her art.

one.seven.twenty.eleven by © Cynthia Lund Torroll

It is so early
to be so long now
to see terrain
of noted exhales
of knots of energy
that pool around throat
and lungs

She heard the birds
falling from night skies
the black with red wings
found with blue
streaming from their mouths

They were her favorite
she liked their strange call
back twenty years more
a message noted
of orbits forming
of winds that gather
or sweep entirely free

and I love the depth and strength in this one. It doesn’t get much better.

Her eyes hold the world by © madworld

Her eyes hold the world by © madworld

I leave you with a free falling poem by tinhearts.

past time by © tinhearts

days dream into space
inviting me anxiously
watching my life
a cat chasing his tail
i’m allowing this blank face
releasing all strife
luring me into oblivion
instincts don’t rely on details
fallacies open door
the world, as small
as it has become
seeing there is no opinion
i follow anymore
except the voice
i do believe in wearing nikes
this unknown world
i made a choice
feeling actually unattached
yet a part of it all
peace at the end of my flag pole
being alive i am free
innocence in the form of a snack
treasures in every beak
tapping on my window
they know i am their soul
skies, mountains peak
tipping their hat
watching the view
smiling in relief
i am 5 ft 0
a giant sized handful at that
in my minds eyes
looking in the mirror
not my cup of tea
common
take a trip on the wild side
become invisible
with me
i promise i’m not contagious
as far as i can see
however
who will be the judge
if i am
twirling your uncertainty
innocently cleaver
but courageous
catching you in a snare
freeing you as i am free
signing the dotted line
with my smudge
knowing we are thin air
dance with me
since it’s my dime
who knows when we will be
the next eclipse
spectators scopes observe
as the world turns
into bliss
in no time
we return
sublime
smiling as we
are the observers
wild and crazy
maybe
escaping
past time

*

Here’s hoping you enjoy feeling blue on this Winter’s day… 🙂

Sybille and Anna


Sunday Features – 30/01/2011 – Different Worlds

My theme for this week are the different worlds we live in – not the ones everyone can see, but the inner worlds. This was inspired by Kristin’s fabulous image. I have to admit I felt attracted to this image in part because of it’s title. It’s something that a character says in one of my favourite books – Jack in The Dark Tower by Stephen King – and it was always one of those lines that stuck with me.

There are other worlds than these by © Kristin Reynolds
There are other worlds than these by © Kristin Reynolds

The next poem I chose because it’s so in contrast with the acceptance of Kristin’s poem – someone still trying to find ‘their’ world.

My voice by © SFlora

Sometimes i feel like im wedded to passivity
I have shed many skins
To be reborn
From myself
From within
But this ingrained
Trained behaviour
Seems embedded in my brain
I dont camplain
Or wont complain
But should
Not be a slave to the system
To uncontracted duties that demean
Till my dreams become
To distant to recall
And remain unseen
For fear of the fall
Of unimagined consequenses
Where is the choice in this
When the option is
Automatically erased
And the thought censored
And why does my strength vanish
When i need it most
When the suit is boss
My voice is a ghost
And i am lost
In the tension
Between where i am
And where i want to be
Who i am
And who i could be
The longer i stay
The more i know
That i dont belong
In places where ticking of clocks
Are in sync with hearts beats

The next image with it’s vintage feel reminded me of ‘lost worlds’, the times that have gone and it’s nice to remember them too.

My First Pearls by © jacqleen

My First Pearls by © jacqleen

I couldn’t resist this poem by Kristin. There’s something so timeless about it and I am still thinking about what it all means.

Of a Wingless Bird by © Kristin Reynolds

I do not remember you;
I am like a thousand feathers
each flying in the other direction.

Nothing is relative here.

Here, relativity grows cherubs
like rain keeps on bringing
heaven new pails of tears.

Everyday
is thousands of days
all in the span of one breath—
the same time it takes
to erect a new galaxy
in the belly
of a miracle man.

I walk to the garden
a dirty orchid—
hands covering my face;
I run from the willow,
a grove:

when sun sets its eye
upon the earth,
all it sees
is love.

There is a radio tower
of fluted glass
riding the top of my
TO DO LIST;
it is filled
with two thousand wings
trying to make sense
of the moon—

while each wingless bird
holds their tongues in place
with rich golden apples;

while Polaris makes a nest
in the watchtower
made of hummingbird down.

Sometimes I see
all of this happening,
and whistle a tune in the dark—

until the bodiless feathers
are still,

and the apples
rise up
to the top.

This image caught my eye because the colours and composition are arresting. Another world… one gone mad and possibly bad.

Enfant terrible! by © FilleDeLEau

Enfant terrible! by © FilleDeLEau

And here’s the perfect match in Rhonda’s poetry…

Don’t You Say I Told You So by © restlessd

I think back on those past times.
I know I did commit those crimes.
They were so very long ago.
I’ve served my time, please let them go.

Yet you still hold them in front of me.
No day goes by where you see just me.
In your eyes I am not true.
I’ll never be good enough for you.

It is as if I am still jailed.
My heart & soul have been impaled.
My wounds did heal but left a scar,
A constant reminder is what you are.

Can we ever just start over?
Can I stop looking over my shoulder?
Will we ever let the past be gone?
Won’t you let me forget my wrongs?

You smile that smile I know says NO.
In your eyes the scorn does show.
In your heart you won’t let go.
Don’t you say I told you so.
I have to leave now, I must go.
Don’t you say I told you so.

The next image is about the people that make our world and help us ‘hold it together’. I’ve loved this image since it first appeared in my image stream.

If I had no place to fall by © madworld

If I had no place to fall by © madworld

Here’s a different kind of world, a world where wishes might come true and I haven’t quite decided if this would be a good world to be in or not. See what you think….

My Wish For You by © Tracy Faught

I wish for you to feel my presence when I’m not there, like a blanket that wraps you up in a sweet heat.
I wish you dreams of joy that I have renderd by once whispering into your ear,long ago.

I wish for the forgetfulness of your pain and a rememberance of me when something makes you smile. I wish for your mouth to water when the thought of a kiss can bring back your passion, and the recovery of the taste of me on your lips.

I wish for your dreams to be kind and that the lover in them is me, even when your with another, I wish for you to not forget the feel of all that is my body…I wish for you not to compare the sensation aloud, but to relish it’s memory, silently, deeply, sinfully, exquisitley…all to yourself so that I’m with with you unkown to whomever your loving.
I wish omnipotence over all your carnal knowledge. I wish to be all your sins when I’m not around.

I wish to be held in your hand, and touched in memory. I wish to be the salt you lick away from the efforts of love, the concentration of thought and the daily grind of life.
I wish to be the sweat that rolls off your lip, caught by your tongue.

I wish to be the button always pushed that can make your heart race and the sensation that makes your body yearn, I want to be the pleasurable pain you feel when your begging for release.
I wish to be the memory that haunts you, causing you to wonder why…why did all that pass away?

I wish to not be forgotten, so I send these wish’s out as a dark prayer every night, from the depths of my bed, cold and deep. I wish for you to hear my voice from so far away. I won’t be any more forgotten than I already am, and if my wishes are granted, than I never could be.

I just couldn’t resist this image. I love the depth of colour and the subject.

Love Hurts (Like Hell) by © strawberries

Love Hurts (Like Hell) by © strawberries

Nikki’s poem shows the kind of hurt and pain we go through in those worlds that no one sees…

Doldrums Drams and Drudgery by © Nikki Ella Whitlock

Enough enough doldrums drams, and drudgery, my limbs are heavy with non-compliance, And my mind is bursting it seems, with words and images, its composed calmness a folio of offloading, I overflow, I navigate winding worm holes throughout life’s general mishmash, “it’s a mixed bag” they say “and the spice of life” but there’s no heavy petting, keep you head down, and cleverly disguise your misdemeanours in labels, groups and genres, an assemblage of misfits are we, enough enough, I’m so weary.

Enough enough sighs, shams and spitfires, this mortal needs peace, just a small a piece of land to twirl and sing with conviction, I’m occupied with the woods and rivers and I can no longer contain myself in, brick, metal and wire, society’s heavy bulkhead of fortification, sucking the air. Terra firma calls me, claiming my lungs and loins with spores and pollen, planting seeds in my mind and womb, its blissful abandonment. Social order is in disarray, and I’m going under, I rage, I rampage, quietly, on the face of things, a smile for a while, it appears to be slipping, enough enough I’m fading.

Enough enough, vandals, voids and vampires, they suck drain and bewilder, leaving me broken, forlorn and empty, I’m fighting for who I am, but not sure what that is yet, the only sense I make, is a breeze on a tree, it whispers to me, “come home”, I have a burning in the heart of me, that matter doesn’t matters, it just expresses who resides inside, we are socially chastised and constrained and I yearn for pastures new, lush greens, burnt umbers and soft mellow, it travels to the eye so swift and calms the psyche, leaving self behind, a friend in kind and comfort, enough enough no more I’m already gone…

But back to life and what it can be and should be when you’re starting out. Again, a vintage feel but with a totally different look and seemingly a different world altogether.

Remember Paris …. by © Berns

Remember Paris …. by © Berns

Finally, this poem by lovelyrita. Worlds colliding? Justice? Revenge? I am not sure. I just know I loved it when I read it, there’s something compelling about it that makes you think and wonder…

Peek-A-Boo by © lovelyrita

I see you
you’re off in the water,
in your boat fashioned of lies

I see you
bobbing
up and down
each wave a new surprise

I see you
headed for an iceberg,
a cold, hard
bitch

I see you
one hand on the life preserver,
the other on your itch

I see you
stranded in the sea
but you don’t see me.

I hope you enjoyed these Sunday features and congratulate all the lovely artists without whom RB wouldn’t be what it is. 🙂

Anna and Sybille xoxo


Midweek Features – 26/01/2011 – Just because

Today’s features are ‘just because’ as there’s no theme. The art and writing just caught my eye and so here they are. 🙂

There’s something special about this image. I love the colours and the delicacy of the lines and textures, but also the subject – the masks we wear…

masquerade, 2008 by © Thelma Van Rensburg

masquerade, 2008 by © Thelma Van Rensburg

and the secrets we keep. I love the way the poem reaches out. Sometimes poetry really is the only way to express those feelings we have to hide from plain sight.

Secrets by © lisameryl

If you knew how much I care
longing to confess everything
there’s so much I want to share

I can never speak your name
nor the feelings in my heart
aware you’ll never feel the same

It’s far from love yet
you and I are dear friends
for we’ve recently just met

I feel a deep connection
my soul is drawn to yours
I’m filled with much affection

You’re on my mind everyday
to hold and kiss you
would be like Christmas in May

I’m aware we’ll never be more
but with every passing moment
these feelings burn me to the core

I may be strong and brave
but there are some secrets
one must take to the grave

The bright colours and the flow of this painting just caught my eye.

Destiny by © Ming Myaskovsky

Destiny by © Ming Myaskovsky

I love the sensuality of this poem, the ebb and flow and somehow Ming’s painting and PJ’s poem seem to flow together…

lunar tides by © ShadowDancer

when the suns gold
gives its last flash
across our bed,
like a nuclear bomb
in reverse,
the moon stands above us,
white luna holding heaven together
supporting the sky,

you loom above me
dark over light

my body is your moon
holding heaven inside of us

night begins as
your body crashes slowly
into me,
my luna spirit
hearkening your deep ocean

I beg for you to unleash
a thousand floods inside of me
drown the world
drown us
drown me

with you
I am no longer
impenetrable
your waters move
in rhythm to my heartbeat
and sink the ghosts ships
that were clinging to my skin

your ocean is the pulse
of my silent pull

and as your tidal wave dissipates,
there is now a calming,
my moon sinks into its own horizon…
we drift together
into the sky, across the earth

you rest into me
dark over light

Okay, this is a bit of a turn to the ‘other side’, however life and death lie close together…

Marie-Antoinette’s Nightmare by © VenusOak

and another turn about, from nightmares to dreams we cherish. I certainly have had dreams like that.

I Wish I May, I Wish I Might….. by © LauraBroussard

I wish I may,
I wish I might,
have the dream,
I dreamt last night.

Deep, deep sleep,
which carries me over….
to a place of unknown wonders.

I wish I may,
I wish I might,
have the dream,
I dreamt last night.

Flying through the air,
pulsing my arms,
to go up there.

I wish I may,
I wish I might,
have the dream,
I dreamt last night.

Kissing that person,
strange as it seems,
oh well,…….
it was just a dream.

I wish I may,
I wish I might,
have the dream,
I dreamt last night.

Beneath me now,
a world.
Beneath me now,
a new world………………..

I wish I may,
I wish I might,
have the dream,
I dreamt last night :))

From nightmares and dreams to the way we see ourselves. I find self portraits fascinating, especially in a group like ours. It’s so interesting to see the way we view ourselves – the things we have in common and the things we don’t – and this is a particulalry beautiful image.

Untitled by © Cate Legnoverde

Untitled by © Cate Legnoverde

LovelyRita’s poem is a self portrait in the form of a poem. It caught my eye because it was so honest and true and we all struggle with the way we change towards age. How odd it is to see the outside change, when inside we’re still the way we were and then we look in the mirror and we feel we don’t recognise the person looking back… and then there’s the issue of the way woman are potraited in the media… don’t get me started!

White Girl by © lovelyrita

I am white like her
But my nose is longer
My flaws are more defined
Far more circles than lines

My figure is a maze
Too rough to finish –
Even gaze at
Unlike her streamlined form
She’s perfect weather, I’m a storm
I know this

I am white like her
But not as bright as her
I have brown hair too
And my eyes are blue
But her hair is silk and fine
Nothing like mine
which is coarse
and short
and breaking
resembling my lifeline
gradually flaking off,
unlike the creases below my eyes

She has none, of course

And no matter how I try
I will never look like her

This image caught my eye immediately when it appeared in my image stream, it impressed me so much I asked Jacqleen to submit it to the group. There’s something so ‘wild’ for want of a better word, something so raw about it… deeply touching.

Filth.. by © jacqleen

Shar’s poem just fits the feeling in the image perfectly. Some peope indeed…

Provoked by © autumnwind

unleashed once more
your bitter acerbic insolence
warp and sabotage
the integrity of good intent

you linger way too long
upon the self indulgent
banal enhancement
of your own delusional ego

are you not aware
of the wall
you have so steadfastly erected?

my anger turns to pity
I see the true colors
of which your eyes have been deprived

it is YOU
the handicapped
despite your perfect mind and body

it is YOU
the afflicted
despite your exemplary life

you cannot see
beyond your fabricated barricade
you cannot swim the moat
polluted with the excrement of your
thoughtless, self-serving
self absorbed uncharitable convictions

you make me scream in silence

Finally, Helene’s strong image about what a ‘man’s world’ has done to the world…

Capicu! by © helene ruiz

Capicu! by © helene ruiz

… and MoonSpiral rediscovering her writing roots. I am glad she did. 🙂

Chasing the Mystery by © MoonSpiral

Tonight I’m reading Milton and Keats,
Eliot and Yeats,
trying to siphon off the secret.
No one else has dreamed of it.
I know it’s there….
somewhere,
hidden in plain sight.
This is my elevated goal tonight.

I must find the mystery.
Unravel it to shreds.
I will make it old and weary,
until the mystery is dead.

Bleary-eyed hunger
sinking into my root.
I am beginning to wonder
if it was that religious fruit
that soured me to what I have become.
Half ready to be numb.
Half ready to be alive.

“But why?”
said the little beetle
rolling around on my chest.
He is now completely fetal.
It happens to the best.

And the un-rational
are so full of passion.
While the wise no longer
stand at attention.

It makes no sense.
It was never meant to.
That is the mystery.

But I digress
into memories of you.
It is a wretched reverie.

I am losing sight of my goal.
My dreams are even less drastic,
somewhat similar to plastic.

So we wave our white flags
of surrender.
While screaming at those
who remember.

I am older than I was.
And soon,
it will again be September.
And the moon,
so full and luminous,
will wane once more.

Where do I go?
Now that my neck is sore
and my eyes are dry
and reddened.

I could just go to bed.
Try again tomorrow
and tomorrow…
and tomorrow…

Chasing the mystery
into the halls of joy
and the seas
of sorrow.

I hope you enjoy these ‘Just because’ features. 🙂


Skin Deep – Midweek Features 19/01/2011

There’s some amazing writing and art out there – meaningful and deep. I thought it deserves a special feature.

So without further ado…

…Mizuna’s soulful image.

Sorrow waste by © miruna uzdris

Sorrow waste by © miruna uzdris

Followed by Kristin’s mythical mystical poem.

Donum Dei by © Kristin Reynold

Her love is a wheel set in motion
with hands
that were never
her own.

Each spoke speaks
with regardless clear eyes
and black
velveteen ears
unencumbered—

and before words
spoke softly
of movement,
there were chests
born of Rune shields
and The Enoch’s
one-way horns.

With each turn
she is moving
in place

in a space
far too tight for her nest,
her rats nest of laborious breath—

only more than enough
in her mind;
past her breast and her
skin born of crystalline frost
under winter’s
hungry-eye moon.

Hush.

There is a small something
stirring her motions—
her blood towards
heaven once more;

steeling her cart towards rest,

where love
will be
love

alone.

Sometimes the piercings are on the outside, sometimes on the inside…

Pierced I by © Kallena Kucers

Pierced I by © Kallena Kucers

…as shown here by Cynthia… This poem started the whole idea of ‘skin deep’ as a theme for the features.

mute by © Cynthia Lund Torroll

Self acknowledged since seventeen,
though more imposed than chosen,
it’s been nothing of a quiet life.

That first wave forgiven
because unawares are, well, unawares –
(even herself)
and secondly, why add to the noise?

(pencils all sharpened)

That actually became comical –
the glaring eyes and cries for help –
point blank
in your face
“Nice frame” a response.

Rinse/repeat. Rinse/repeat.

Later, much later,
all the words she’d been craving
covered her like the warmest blanket ever sewn
holding her suspended
holding her
holding her
HOLD.
HOLD.
HOLD.

Nine years of hold,
but not a day went by without hope
that she’d be given voice again.

And finally, without seconds to spare, soul dangling –
a channel appeared.
Happy turns of nouns and verbs – hour after hour.

She dove in.
Heart first.
Head second.
Deeper.
Deeper.
DOWN.

She’s quieted again.
Plug pulled.
Powered down.
Quieted.
Quieted.
Hush.
Shush.
STOP.

(but her pencils are sharper than ever…)

This caught my eye because pretense is what we do? Isn’t it?

Pretense by © strawberries

Pretense by © strawberries

And here’s the question we should be asking.

Making a difference by © mnkreations

The question was posed: “What does it mean to ‘make a difference?’”

My reply is : Making a difference can have several implications good and bad. Most people, myself included, embrace making a difference as a means of changing the outlook, standing, or circumstances of others in a positive and constructive way either directly or indirectly, in an obvious or discrete way.

Most often change is made when there is an apparent or urgent need but, shouldn’t making a difference be more than a reaction to an immediate need? Shouldn’t making a difference be an ongoing, continual, present state of mind?

Shouldn’t making a difference, in the long run , be our way of life?

And so we go deeper into the soul with Shadowlea’s image.

eye of the soul by © shadowlea

eye of the soul by © shadowlea

Here’s a word I had to look up. LOL Apparently it means a positive belief or optimism. Correct me if I am wrong!

aisiodoxia by © RC deWinter

aisiodoxia

the thing with feathers,
the jewel in the box,
the glass half full,
the hopeful heart carries these and more
imprinted ineradicably
well beyond the surface of the spirit’s sanctum.
they share a spark, these things,
that only death can douse
and even then,
methinks that death’s merely the next
great adventure
in an endless loop of life:
life in countless colors,
fierce and frail forms,
spiraling passages to kaleidoscopic planes
of incarnation.
hope never dies unless,
like a child never wanted,
it is exposed undefended to the elements.

Some fabulous striking art created in collaboration by two of our members.

The Killing by © AmbientKreation and © VampVamp

The Killing by © AmbientKreation and © VampVamp

Here’s some striking poetry by Jenifer to show how such a killing works…

Icy Hue by © Jenifer DeBellis

That was the day I went away

as quietly as I could manage.

Stopped asking the questions
that were never meant
to be answered for my sake.

Read the whole thing wrong
in my naivety, consumption
trumping professionalism
with the turn of each new page.
Plotted myself onto the wrong side
of the stylo-thematic map –

missing that first clue.

There was the crux of it all:
the carefree step into the fall;
the unheeded warning.

Thought I was ready to come out
of that box – hell, everyone thought
I was ready for that.

You pulled me out of that safe place
with what I perceived as care.
Even fanned through my pages
with what felt like a breath of fresh life.

I longed to be read that way, again.
And yet I read too much into even that.
Really thought I’d hold that special place
of interest for longer, eternally longer.

I suppose a biased heart judges poorly.

Should’ve just left me there
(where I was safe from remembering
what it felt like to be disregarded
over the time it takes to read
that highly recommended novel).
I knew how to cope with that –
I’d dog-eared that page years ago.

Yesterday was the day I dusted off
the box that I knew better than
to break down or throw out.

Today I stand staring at that box.

There’s something sad and desperate about this image, beautiful and nostalgic, a soul laid bare.

Dead flowers. Kuusisaari, Finland by © homesick

Dead flowers. Kuusisaari, Finland by © homesick

Finally, Rhena’s soul search poetry.

A Dream of Liberation by © Rhenastarr

I hear my name
Whispered on the wind
Not a gentle calling
Rather a dark and gloomy
Utterance
From somewhere outside
My dreaming
Is it the loneliness breaking
Free from inside of me
Offering up a cryptic glimpse
Into the black void of
My ramblings
My dark desires echo now
In the stilled chambers of
My wounded soul
Time lost in the muddy waters
Contemplating the vices that
Led me astray, stripping me raw
A haunting refrain, a lonely
Dirge
Sounding in my head and
I feel myself falling into
The void
I see myself wandering, lost
Down an avenue of deep
Despair
Buried memories surface
Through the chilling haze
Daring to trespass on my
Dark reverie
Awkward steps, faltering in
Their gait, as I feel the bony
Chilling fingers scatter across
My spine
Drumming spirals of dread
Shadows seeking the light
Of my reasoning
Seeking to suck the essence
That remains of the me
That has dissolved into a mass
Of broken dreams and shattered
Illusions, making up the shell that
Now encompasses my weakened
Soul
Fate, ever shifting like sands of time
Stealing the joy that once lit the
Corners of my life
How do I find sanctuary in the
Blackness descending
The ink of it’s dark liquid
Scribbling a bleak eternity
Dripping me onto an empty page
As it gathers I see an image of the
Me that has now emerged and
The mirror glint on smokey glass
Leaves me silent and subdued
Shamed into a figure of pathos
Scrabbling with a burning need
To find shelter, to find succor from
The demons that seek to shred
The remaining sanity that fights
For resurgence
I hear a voice, recognizing it as my own
Singing a song of salvation
I feel myself reaching, lifting myself
Out of the pit into the light
Of a new day
A dream of liberation ends as dawn
Streaks across the sky

I am sorry if I’ve taken you onto a rather rough journey today. It’s easy to just want to see the sunny side, but the darker side needs to be looked at and inspected on occasion, too.