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
Followed by Kristin’s mythical mystical poem.
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
…as shown here by Cynthia… This poem started the whole idea of ‘skin deep’ as a theme for the features.
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
And here’s the question we should be asking.
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
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
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
Here’s some striking poetry by Jenifer to show how such a killing works…
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
Finally, Rhena’s soul search poetry.
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.
Pink Panther Magazine 