The six-word memoir

I really should be in blogger’s rehab: not that I was ever able to write more than a few weekly paragraphs in english, I have been addicted to limiting myself to the six-word memoir, since January. I blame Marcy (and my Twitter habit) for my lack of blogger oxygen-intake, but hey… at least I’m writing, right? Though I’ve posted a lot of them in the writing section of my Red Bubble page, I share with you some of my Duffboy ones…

Your credit card is ready, sir

Recently experiencing late-night drama, not NBC-related.

Please say something, anything… well, nevermind.

No, this is far from over…

He refused to close his eyes.

The six-word memoir in Red Bubble? Here you go 🙂 Expect a challenge soon…

Advertisements

Features – 4-25-10

It is a joy to be involved in feature selections for Touched By Fire!

For me, I really enjoy figuring out if there is any thematic trend in what I am most drawn to – because with so much that is compelling and eye-catching, this becomes an interesting counterpoint or framework for observation purposes.

Today, I believe one element that has run through the features is a strong sense of the dreaminess which can come from inspired art and writing.  For me, this is best captured in a quote from one of my favourite philosophers, Bill Hicks

…all matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration, we are all one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively. There’s no such thing as death, life is only a dream, and we’re the imagination of ourselves…

WRITING

My love, the lightbulb

We were a sprig in a lightbulb
A green tendril dancing in such personal warmth
Convinced she had just climbed into bed
With the big orb in the sky

We are a shrub in a lightbulb
A miracle of leaves basking in greenhouse insulation
Casting a muted glow
Over an envious world

What awaits? A jungle in a lightbulb?
Curled and convoluted until atoms tesselate
A curiosity – the choked filament then unlit
Lest it burn

I especially loved the line

Curled and convoluted until atoms tesselate

Lyrian Shifting

not about. existing
as one. they crossed
water and mountains.
touch what’s
felt. holding inside.
selfless love escapes.
in your breath.
an oozing embrace.
scented with sandalwood.
sounding like tschaikowsky.
dreams.
behind now.
unconscious.
inclination.

Oh my an oozing embrace – this is so evocative and tender!

For LS

If there was anything
I could give to you;
then certainly, I would.
Yet so unconditional
as existence is
I have learned my “should”
from “could” :

One thousand days.
One thousand weeks.
One thousand sordid years.
I see the world in words
refracted
in reflections of our tears.

The world is great…
The world is poor…
The world is great again?
Extremes it seems
and those in between.
“I am sure glad you are my frein.”

For those who never lost their way.
For those who never came.
How can I respect what you say?
How can you be the same?
Upon the nails on which we lay:
It never was a game.
Think of another and their mother today
or I and my brother will see you pay.

Encrypted, prescripted, conipted:
Yet true.
I will see that it is done.
For the refracted, reflected
image of you
is upon the Web and spun.

Immortal is just beyond this life.
Corporeal is just pre-corpse.
Forever and Never are just absurd word.
That the less than clever of will will endorse.

“Coffee anyone…?”
“But of course.”

I see the world in words
refracted
in reflections of our tears.

This was an especially touching tribute to Lightsmith

Just Be

Can we as people…
go to a place,
we have not seen.

Bake in the sun…
naked,
no one else has been.

We have no pain…
we have,
no sorrow.

We have no inclination…
of what may be,
tomorrow.

I really love the questioning tone without any question mark in sight. Gorgeous!

Kiss me deep in bones

She carved a cloud from the sky
where the Atlantic meets the Caribbean Sea
and invited me to lay
and watch the orange angel
come alive with breath from our nostrils.
Life.
She opened my ears to enjoy
the gleeful sounds of waves
chanting early morning verse
to caravan of birds at their first feed.
My eyelids massaged with her soft lips
discarding veil
genesis of beauty
painting its magical chorus
from awakening sky
sang across my fragile heart.
Her silky tongue wrote poems
like I have never seen in my body
cracking open my soul
removing my body double
that had guarded my heart. Role completed.
Her breasts
an accordion of joy on my chest
feed my excitement
my man once quiet
roars with thunderous applause.
Hands under her dress
feel the bald exterior of her revelation
and my finger tips broke the seal
of the unseen city
unmasking her inner feelings.
Drips.
Ocean of excitement
parades down
and she drank my fingers
feasting on her spirit
as her woman became one with my man
a slow dance
her spine a ballerina of movement. Trance.
All is quiet.
a hyperbole of waves break the silence.
Our gods and goddesses meet.

a slow dance
her spine a ballerina of movement. Trance.

I love the image conveyed by Chris in the lines above – leading to a religious experience indeed as gods and goddesses meet. Sublime writing!

Come Home

Come home
climb aboard these words
drift on them as you sleep
come home
to the wind that knows
the colour of your hair
come home
to remember living
touch the dreams you made real
come home
time will have to wait
there are plans to make
come home
they have your light on
shining in their hearts
come home
hear this prayer O’ Universe Man
please make it so
for them

KS Hardy links to the Coldplay song Clocks – a favourite of mine. I love its resonance to her repeated pleas to come home

ART

Underwater fantasy
Rising to the surface

Wet dreams (SF botanical garden)
Wet dreams

Tree for when I am old
And when I am old

The Frail/The Wretched/Inspired by NIN
The Frail

Namaste - an ocean prayer
Ocean Prayer

Hope - The Flow
HOPE – The Flow

FEATURED ARTISTS AND WRITERS

Please congratulate them all and visit the impressive portfolios of work

ArcadiaTempest

Donna Ingham

Emma Wetheim

Evitaoz

Gretchen Cello

Jessica Walker

Linaji

Nebsy

Sonya Smith

Trenchtownrock

Willow Wyles

Xadrik

Inspired by faces and new avatar

Ok, so we’ve been very busy with several challenges. In case you haven’t dropped by, ShadowDancer launched a writing challenge a few weeks ago:

The human face is an incredible thing. With just one look it can render one speechless, cause joy, spread feelings of unity, and cause our biological clock to tick. It’s an easy target for photographers, but for writers it takes some excellent pen-waxing to bring the image to mind.

Clipics took a shot at merging visuals (audiovisuals, he included a Nick Cave song with his submission) with poetry:

Patience 

sit by the window

a wistful feeling

my battered heart

still prepared to love

one day, I whisper

love will come my way

I have the time

to sit and wait

meanwhile

I sit by the window

and patiently pray

for One Day

Also, we had a new avatar challenge and gaele received the most votes…

As always, we urge you to pay more close attention to these featured artists’s galleries and… why not? Maybe purchase some of their art.

Fancy free: the outdoor nude, challenge winners

Yes, your eyes do not deceive you, there is not one, but two winners in our latest challenge (which aimed at capturing the freedom of the naked human form outside an enclosed environment): Jessica Walker and MagpieMagic. Both artworks are incredibly representative of a timeless beauty. We urge you to visit the artists’s profiles and discover the rest of their amazing work.

Nimph by Jessica Walker

I Want to Be by MagpieMagic

Collaborating minds (part 1)

I have my mind set on exploring the many possibilities that collaborations, with one or more artists, can provide. However, I’m short on time, so I’ll just share with you a collaboration between Isa Rodríguez and Linaji, that caught my eye today.

I asked of my dear friend , Linaji
to write a poem. ….she sees so much … vivdly Lina……. you have been such an inspiration to so many of us. and thankyou for seeing the everglades today. many do not know that the everglades and Miami are in the same county . side by side. heres to both of them .as I blended them together .

Gray Bouquet in Florida Sun

Written for and inspired by: Isa Rodriguez
By: Linaji

Blood red
Blood shed
Through principals of tropical sun
And sandy water blue and green
In this case unseen
Unheard of choking death
Where life grows fast
Birth is cut in half
Perpetual summer and spring
Bring…
Unheard of hearts
Blood red
Upstarts
Grey whispers death
It seems
But unlikely foliage streams
Promise to survive
after our own
unknown
demise

Linaji
2010

Silence by Tahnja

On the wings of a butterfly
Let my words be transformed

My sins silenced

Worldliness evaporated

Whispers erased

With each flutter may my soul be cleansed
Renew me oh God
To shine with Your Spirit!

This piece is not only aesthetically beautiful, showing true artistry in it’s design, the symbolism woven into it really took my breath away. I loved the idea that silence is not always a bad thing, and can offer us moments of transformation. Please view Tahnja’s portfolio here.

Features 4-18-10

I am so excited to do my first round of features in TBF, but it was definately not easy.  The quality of art and writing in this group is superb.  Narrowing it down to 6 pieces of art and 6 pieces of writing is an incredibly hard job.  I tried to pick writing that not only grabbed at my emotions, but was lyrical and had a deeper; almost mythical meaning.  I chose art that either had layers of symbolism to bring out emotion, or deep emotions that were right on the surface of the work with no need for symbolism.  Some of the work managed to do both.  I hope you enjoy all of this work as much as I did.

"KAUS" by Mimi Yoon

“KAUS” by Mimi Yoon grabbed me on too many levels to mention. Mimi is one of the most prolific artists on Red Bubble and always amazes me. Lately her work has been addressing deeper issues. This work points to the disruption between the dichotomies of science and religion in such a incredibly emotional way.
Her work goes well with the words of Cosimopiro:
THIS IS MY LIFE
I have but an inkling of a divine spark,
it’s purpose I know not.
In truth I am a young soul,
infant,
trying to learn the way of this world.
I go about my daily rituals
like a zen master
yet wonder if I should do more.
If reincarnation
is the order of the day
then this journey I feel
is just opening the first door.
And what of sacrifice?
What must I surrender
to save this world from itself?
The cross I bear
will it suffice?
No,
I tell you,
I am but still a foetus
awaiting to be born,
my only nourishment
is the love of the womb
that houses
my fragile form.

"I want to be" by Magpie Magic

Magpie’s work so beautifully symbolizes transformation as the woman reaches up for the light. The power of this image almost surpasses it’s beauty.

Erika’s beautiful poem “mi luna” is like a enduring song written for moonlight. Also she include the word moonspirals in it, so of course it had my attention. Even without her inserting my username in there, I would have been captivated.

Mi Luna
I scribble
sandlines of secrets
into my hands

the ones I whisper to you

who would’ve thought that I would never be a foreign language to you?

always dreaming of hieroglyphs
and ancient tongues
that taste like tree sap

moving in a golden river,
words flowing in comet form

but I’ve always wondered about stars
especially
the ones
that pour down
your eyes

and make moonspirals
of dark gravity

that leave me

breathless

I see
your handwriting
moving in your soul
like memorized poetry

whispering

like a prayer –

sacred

quiet

hauntingly beautiful
like a broken piano

and

murmuring

like darting fish
in a holy book

you always told me to believe
and when I search for the moon

I do believe

who would have known that my eyes would be born again
at the sight of you?

for you’re the moon
spilling
through the darkness
carving
stars in my hands
because you know my words aren’t foreign

they’re the same as yours

you take my blindness
and turn it into constellations
because you say there are galaxies buried in the future

and you’ve showed me your silver veins in the night sky
in the sandlines of our palms
because you say we’ll need our maps for dreams

you make a hole of light
in my abyss for us to sleep in

and create songs
only
a heart could understand

you always tell me
to believe

and when I look at you

my moon

I do believe

"Remember" by Tania Losada

“Remember” by Tania Losada is an amazing capture of emotion. I am a total sucker for beautiful portraits like this, and especially when there is strong emotion focussed on the eyes.

tight rope-walker’s poem was lyrical with mythical references and poignantly speaks about our current times.

The Tower of Shittim
In the time of my indulgence
You look after and before
With the inclination of
Doctor Jekyll and Mr Hyde
Wicked winds whisper secretly
“Its smarter to confide”
Oh but, you sell sea shells
Floating, out by
The Dead Sea shore
Chased by Prince Caspian
And the chill of the sun
On the back of waves
Of frequent mutiny crews
Executed instantly
Like the heart-attack hairs
Of unspeakable family feuds
Fish fingered
Not wanting anymore

I gaze into confessions
Of the wild flowers
Fighting in the night
I see every leaf that’s falling
And Ruth amongst the yellow
Alien delight.
Venus erected perfectly
Inside the floodlit mirror
Of events currently
Arranged. Sitting back
While Pandora’s glory box
Falls into the hands
Of Bathsheba’s exponential
Spelling mistake.
Held together by
Delilah’s imaginary face
Green eyes tied at both ends
With untugged strands of fear
Punched out by the holy weeds
Of overcrowded tears
And then choking
On the brown envelope
Of unlicked despair
Simply to cut off what some…
The fishermen supply

The zealous priest
Raw with peace
Though not indifferent
To temporarily
Lack direction more
Builds an envious journey
Of unaccountable stairs
Now, up standing
At laughter’s doorway
Barely on patrol
With your disjointed thieves
Arguing politics, just
Hanging around
Having heard Barabbas pass
Overhead, he won’t listen to
The popular harp that’s cold
Blinded too by reigns held
In storey time or fall
Seeing plainly salt and
Servants cannot prostitute
What the Jews have not sold
A cruel, twisted sea of red
Which Time was not required
To unfold.

"Amy" by Mariska

Mariska’s Amy is like a classical work full of passion and emotion. Her keen eye for color and composition are clear in this masterful piece.

I loved the imagery in Arcadia Tempest’s poem.
Seed, ripe, eat, plant
i am the authentic infant woman
laugh with me
truly
let’s laugh together
thoughts the nestle of a new womb
a new conception of me

looking at my past buds
long deliberate breaths press
opening and closing books
feeding my eyes
my mind strolling hungry
a tree talked of fruit to me
i forgot to keep listening
sadness the barren fruit

my belt now notched in years
worn with dignity
the circle blossoms a new harvest
i have grown to reach the fruit
i want to share
it is my need

authentic seeds
fertile from the kiss of friendship
growing my future heart
i want to care
it is my seed

i remember the language of trees
seed, ripe, eat, plant
seed, ripe, eat, plant

© K S Hardy 2010

"Triumph of Love" by Ming Myaskovsky

Ming’s work always garners my attention. It shows raw emotion in a Piccasso-esque fashion. Her bold use of color reflects her passion.

The next piece of writing is by Trenchtownrock and shows his amazing talent with picking the right words to induce a feeling. He paints impressionistic paintings with his words.
I Don’t Want to fall in Love
Love came in a Spanish calypso
with sonnets written under a Guantanamo Bay’s moon
it was smoking a Cuban cigar
filled with verses written by romantic poets
blowing clouds of carnival sounds
trying to rewrite the notes to my heart
I almost fell prey
to the sweet tongue kissing my heaven
but then I was awakened from the hypnotic loving
before it stole my rebel
leaving me like those badass poets
who once wrote the history of America with their hungry teeth
volcanic lyrics that made the devil retreat under words
they can now be seen on road side
foaming at the mouth like Macbeth
after interpreting the wrong voodoo
writing love messages in bottles
searching for that predator
who feasted on their hearts
very shortly they will die
cause that is what love will do
filling your inkwell with roses and soft tunes
making you forget to cry
feel the beating heart from graves
of men whose bravery still bleed on my page
I don’t want to fall in love
and have it take away the pain
yesterday needs unearthing
and tomorrow needs replanting.

"Survivor" by Martha Andreatos

Martha’s work is highly powerful. She chose to show the beauty in a body that has been mangled by cancer. The figurative work alone is beautiful, but the message it sends speaks of the human condition.

Matthew Dawkins writing also speaks of a survivor, one that has to survive the mediocrity of others.

Judging

The thought of thinking that anyone is judging me, makes me worry about the time they are wasting, thinking about me. I don’t want to feel peering eyes or inquisitive minds. Thoughts of being seen in what could be a trendy state of mind, frightens me into feeling that I must act in a way that makes persona look better yet imposes havoc upon the soul.

My opinions are my own, yet they feel suppressed by the society I have surrounded myself with. I have lost the respect that I have shed sweat, blood, and tears to gain. Is the prospect of a brighter future ahead that makes us try another day?

Everyday you wake up is a day you put on your daily skin of the days of the past. Your concern is to cleanse your under skin so that it looks like your outer skin, thus hiding the skeletons of your closet. Fend off and contort your inner demon to reflect your inept ability to change your soul.

Vile, unholy, yet lacking self-pity. They believe in what they’ve done so unjustly that their soul has no meaning. They feel nothing. They have little to no purpose.
The only substance worth fighting for is your wholehearted, deep-rooted belief that your opinions are sound and true to what you think is…

It’s not the idea to believe in but the idea to believe.

Thanks for reading everyone,
Tammy (Moonspiral)

Day at the beach challenge winner

The Challenge


If you remember Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind, you know how many memories can be made at sea shore. Like the movie, we want an evocative artwork of a day at the beach, where something changed the subject’s (or photographer’s) life forever.

For the first time in our group we had a tie for first place. Please enjoy both winning pieces that carry the subject of memories at a beach.

My Inner 9 Year Old
by Kieran O’Connor

Take all our time
by Christine77

Work in progress by Mimi Yoon

 

I’m really taken back by Work in progress, a painting that’s part of a series by Mimi Yoon. Its straightforward approach to women and body image reminded me of a post I wrote a while ago, regarding Lizzie Miller and her natural body fat displayed in Glamour Magazine. If you’ve watched Nip/Tuck or Dr. 90210, you might be familiar with plastic surgery and its many potential pitfalls. Mimi’s work caught my eye instantly, as a great example of beauty that is skin deep, in this case.

Features – Week 11/4/10

My first ever features, so for this special occasion I chose a theme (although I may do so again, LOL). This week’s theme was ‘story telling’. I wanted to include images and writing that tell me a story and take me away to somewhere else.

The first one I chose was

Bonding

by Laurie Search

Bonding by Laurie Search

Bonding

What caught my eye was the soft ‘memory film’ treatment that Laurie has used and the soft focus on the boat and the people in the boat.

Here’s a lovely story by James Watson to go with it:

Magic like that lasts forever

There are so many memories that I cherish. Memories of joy of wonder and yes even sorrow.
It is difficult to say what is the most cherished of these memories when they are like jewels and pearls set in the crown of life.
Some of those moments are very personal and will remain private at least for now.
I guess for today I shall share a childhood memory of joy and wonder.
I was so very young about four or five and we, myself my mother and stepfather, lived in what seemed to me the busiest of cities in the littlest of states in the US.
I have to mention the size of Rhode Island because it is somewhat of a national unit of measure often used in national news.
But I digress. Perhaps I digress because at the age of four or five you begin to get glimpses of just how large the whole of creation truly is.
Living in the city can be at times a noisy exciting and overwhelming experience for a child.
It was a time for me when walking out the front door of our home, a home that had become an extended womb, was a rush of sounds and smells,
It was a world of children playing laughing and screaming, of mothers shouting their names to recall them home and of their dogs chasing and barking all the way.
A world of smelly cars racing to and fro on the main street just beyond our little side street village.
But there was a blessing in this city just beyond that busy main street and it was called Roger Williams Park.
Roger Williams Park is the place where my mother introduced me to magic. It was a magic so powerful that it brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it.
She would make a simple lunch for the two of us and we would walk, I with my excitement and her with that freshly made lunch and book.
Down our side street we would go, always holding hands when crossing that busy main street that was for me at that time a massive glass wall.
With me in hand she would cross that glass barrier at just the right time and place. She somehow knew where all the secret portals were.
We would arrive at the entrance to the park. A large black wrought iron gate marking the spot where we would pass from one world into another.
From busy city street to a manicured woodland that was surly modeled after Eden it was a passage I would remember.
Along what was to me now a country road we would go, hand in hand me sometimes skipping her always smiling and once again always knowing just where to go.
We would arrive at a small pond and my mother would rent for us a small boat. together we would climb in and she would row to the center of the pond.
The magic in that pond was so powerful that it would magnify all other magic, the magic of the park, of the pond of the boat, of the the book she would read, of the lunch we would eat.
But most of all it would magnify the magic of my mother and me. Magic like that lasts forever. (© James Watson)

The next image I chose was  Myn B’s

[ lien ] -tement

I liked the way it seemed to tell a story of a woman reminiscing and taking stock.

-tement by Myn B”][ lien ] -tement_MynB

lien -tement by MynB

Which goes well with one of my all time favourite poems by Lianne,

Fallow Heart

The heart, like an overworked farmer’s field,
sometimes must lie fallow for a while,
needing some seasons of replenishment
lest we deplete its rich topsoil of love.
Plow under the compost of last year’s crop,
let the toxin of losses leach away so that
it can do no more harm to body or soul.
The heart is not a thing to be forced
to keep producing what it does not have;
no phony artificial additives result
in a harvest rich with nutrients of giving.
No pretenses can cover the destructive truth
of the constant erosion of our spirits
caused by the greedy agribusiness of takers
who reap the heart’s profits without due care.
In the season when our heart-fields lay fallow
we learn what nourishing renewal requires –
let the birds of hope return like welcome guests
to drop the clover seeds of restful waiting,
let the boundaries of respect and self-care
contain the precious topsoil of our loving self.
Let our wildflowers of self-creative growth
attract the butterflies to play upon our petals
with nothing further asked of us than just to be.
And let the majestic oaks that line our borders
shade us from the fiery heat of thoughtless passion,
be receptors for the rainfall of personal reflection
that will renew, restore and replenish our hearts
so they might bounteously give from love again.

© Lianne Schneider March 2010

The next image

Anxious are we?

by Duffboy I chose because of the nail biting anxiety of the image and because it made me wonder why she was so anxious? What did she do? What is she worrying about?

Anxious by Duffboy

Anxious are we?

Somehow the story in the image seems to go well with Bill‘s poem,

Yellow Brick Road

Dorothy tied her hair back
two long gray streaks of ribbon
from her temples to her shoulders.
Married all these years to a pastor
in a rural Kansas town
some connection to the unknown
Along ths sides of the country path
were flowers
which she half way expected to spring to life
she avoided the trees
the light through which she said made you drowsy
on those long summer days
when you stretched out your legs
and longed simply to start walking
toward the edge of town
keep going and never turn back.

She’d been tempted
for who has more carnal thoughts
then one denied them.
Children had not yet come though she wasn’t barren
she often fanticized the people she met
had helium voices and cotton candy beards.
The voices consoled her
cleaning the pues alone in the church
the smell of polished wood
brought her back to the school days of her youth
following her dog though she’d forgotten his name
he ran off during one particularly nasty
late spring storm.

Thinking about it now
it was as if she had parachuted into Normandy
even in the far flung fields you could find
relics of farm machinery
yelling for that dog
what was his name
something hit her on the head
some deep voice swam in and out
whispering with corn stalk
at times choked with hay
the crows flew down around her
and then laughed
have you met our king
you’ll remember one day
and his brilliantly witless song
will live forever in your head.

When she came too
gathered at her bedside
were her inspirations
but the world outside was so complicated
it had given up and gone black and white.
From that moment on she had figured
that a blanket comfort in her heart
and over all the world was needed.
Plus the pastor had a lovely voice indeed
late in the night
a cornstalk being swayed by a breeze
she closed her eyes and walked
out past the city limits
on streets that in subtle grayish light
had turned to gold.

© Bill Bell

The next image I selected was

Tortured Soul

by Phatpuppy

This is an incredibly dramatic image which makes you wonder what caused the torment….

Tortured Soul by Phatpuppy

Tortured Soul

I’ve paired the torment with a possible answer:

I Dream You

by Kazzii

Can you feel me dream you
when i fall asleep each night.
Can you feel it when i kiss you
and when i hold you tight.
Can you feel my breath
when i whisper in your ear.
Does your skin start to tingle
when you know that i am near.
Does your pulse start to thunder
when my fingers start to trace.
The contours of your body
the angles of your face.
Can you feel me dream you
curled up to me so tight.
Your body firm and warm
nothing else could be this right.
I wish that you could feel me
that you could hold me tight.
That you weren’t just in my dreams.
wish you were here with me tonight.

© Kazzii

Hoop dreams, motor oil and tarps ( Trailer Park america Series )

by Isa Rodriguez

This image is full of the wonder and limitless imagination and hope of childhood.

Hoop dreams, motor oil and tarps by Isa Rodriguez

Hoop dreams, motor oil and tarps

and I’ve teamed this up with ShadowDancer’s myth because myths and childhood go together like ice cream and wafers. 🙂

The Murder of Autumn

By ShadowDancer

She can smell the soul of the trees burning alive today. Their secrets are smoldering and a longing oozes through the cracks of their bark. She knew that trees can bleed but she never realized the color would be the same as loneliness. She translates the rumbling of the words that surge across their roots as it travels up into the core of her feet. They are angry, they say, about something taken from them. She furrows her brow, feeling pensive, and begins to move quietly through the woodland.

But it follows.

There is a restlessness brewing in her forest. The last piece of a dandelion, a miniature spiderweb of cosmos, floats by and urges her to follow suit. “Don’t you hear it?” he says, “just go”. She feels anxious and curious, all is wrong in the air and she can see toxins leeching onto every particle they touch. She inhales deeply and holds.

The water is chanting.

It taunts with a beat she has never experienced, forming in the base of her feet and pulsating into her lungs. This throbbing in her veins causes her to exhale just as she gathers the courage to look into the river.

There they are, an army.

Only now does she understand the quake trembling through the forest. The leaves have forsaken their protection from the boughs of the keepers of their timberland home. In a monumental uprising, they simply unfurled themselves to a new destiny. Soft and shimmering, the silken secret keeper of the woods receives them greedily.

They couldn’t deny the change in the air.

For too long in their season of green it gurgled at them, flirting. But they held fast, feeling nourished and appreciated from their hanging homes, as the breeze of hope tickled their toes and the sun of heated dreams kept them warm. But the stars became fainter and it began to grow cold. The breeze became a bully, always knocking them to and fro from their daily slumber. Weren’t they loved anymore?

Then magic became them.

They began to turn into the color of fire and gemstones. They became the most glorious parts of the forest, and all the earth danced and sang to their majestic adornment. But it was the water spirit that had the most beautiful voice of all, and it called to them day and night, never ceasing. They admired its fervent endeavors to worship their radiance. “Let go,” it would sing to them, “fly to me and I will give you all my secrets.” And when their sacred father ceased paying attention, they simply let go.

But they were misled.

They were too vain to realize the translucent ghost had set a trap. Rather than receiving knowledge of all the secrets of the forest, they were haunted by the whispers of death, images of faded dreams, and remnants of dying wishes of those passed on. They understood far too late that they had been taken to travel on the road that receives the dead from winter to push it out of the woodland. They still didn’t realize they, too, were now a part of this death.

Lost souls dancing for redemption.

But it is too late. As the forest fairy stares into the glistening tormentor’s path, she can see the noble protectors of earth, rooted and stationary, bending and twisting to reach their lost children. In a moment of panic, the leaves claw at the reflection of the trees as if they could reattach themselves to life.

They beg for help.

Still reaching, they implore the rocks and the shore to give them their sacred place back in the high places of the woodland. There is no response to their petition. And so they begin to cry and their life force sinks into the deep parts of the secret keeper, whose real name is ‘collector of despair’, until they became too depleted to remember their once-destiny. They are carried away listlessly, their voices become silent, and in their final act, they become the color of trickery.

They float towards death.

As the water churns and pushes them out and away, their lifeless bodies seem to dance on the shadows of the trees. Memories of what was, memories trying to hold on too long.

She spreads her wings.

This is the story of the forest that is never told. These are the colors of all the sadness of the wind, carried from cloud to cloud and dropped back to earth in liquid forms of regret. This is how it always has been and always will be.

The murder of autumn.

Yet with each death there is life. And as this fairy princess spreads her scarlet wings and flies through the still of winter, she can hear the trees whispering to each other of their plan. They will start again. They always do. And perhaps, just perhaps, this year will be the year that they win the war.

A rebirth.

© ShadowDancer

Last but not least, my final selectionAn image that reminds me of a scrapbook, of decisions made and of a life’s story:

love is the dove that flies above

by carla-marie

Love is the Dove that flies above by Carla Marie

My final writing selection was chosen because of the fulfillment and inner peace in this poem:

MOONDANCE 6….final phase

by Cosimopiro

gentle ripples cross luminuous skies,
incantations of light raise ecstatic cries,
mountains lift to moonlight’s serenade
and shadows frolic in delicate masquerade.
moonrise from cradle sleep,
dreams awake from valleys’ deep,
from inner space a soothing glow,
all movement to time’s ebb and flow.

© Cosimopiro

Hope you like….