Features 24th October 2010

A few weeks ago I launched a challenge called Happiness in Blue, where I asked people to submit images that portrayed or evoked positive feelings while predominantly using the colour blue. In continuation of that theme I decided to base this week’s features around the same theme. Here are six pairs of pieces, a piece of writing with an image to go with it, or the other way round if you prefer, which complement each other in their portrayal of something happy.

–1–
This image by Mugsy is really exhilarating and just pulsates with joy. I’ve put this one first because it’s definitely the most straightforwardly pure depiction of happiness out of all my choices. To me, the dolphin launching itself over the crests of the waves with such fun, freedom and strength is the very picture of those rare moments in life of clear elation and confidence described in the poem ‘yes!’ by LoveWitness. The poem talks about being on the highest peak; the moment with no questions; the absence of fear; freedom; promise; delight, and screaming YES with all of your being. We can’t go round in a perpetual state of great hope and surity, but we can always draw strength from the times when we have been in that state.

SURFIN’ by Mugsy

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yes! by LoveWitness
remember the pure feeling of joy
remember
recall the sound of your laughter
in your happiest moment
remember the touch
the one that touched your soul with kindness
remember the look
the one that felt like the early morning sun
breaking the darkness of the night
remember the cheer
that made you feel as though
you were on the highest peak
remember the calm
the love that quietened your soul
the moment with no questions
because of the assurance of peace
the absense of fear
remember that purity
that freedom
the promise of the morning star
yes
remember
that yes
that yes
that made all the no’s
a delight
that yes
when you screamed
YES
with all of your being
remember
it is all there
still

(c) siki dlanga
13 Oct 2010

–2–

I love this poem by Blake Steele and this beautiful drawing by LisaMM, which I think could be a nice depiction of the spirit of the woman in the poem as she is described in the first half. I found it hard to choose a favourite Blake Steele poem for this week because so many of his works please me in the way that they really elevate sensual experience and other primal feelings into the higher and most enlightened forms of happiness. This image, ‘Bliss’ I think achieves the same thing – it’s saying ‘I’m passionate about sex’ and defying anyone to call that shallow or crude. And to round it off, LisaMM writes that the image was ‘inspired by the sensual delight of Klimt’s work’.

Bliss by LisaMM
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REDEEMING A PICTURE OF BEAUTY by Blake Steele

You are beautiful
because you are sexual
in a fuller way:
with childlike open innocence,
deep feelings of wonder,
and the steaming forth of spontaneous joy!
Your energies swirl
like wild hair about your face,
whirling out of your beautiful body
which you have trained,
mastered, made free,
so that you may both laugh and play
like any free child,
then turn suddenly to silence and discipline
if you choose to stay up night after night
— sleepless, weary, raw —
that you might paint masterpieces
upon bathroom walls.

–3–

This image by TamLocke might seem an odd choice for the theme of ‘happiness in blue’especially given the title ‘wishing for you…’; it’s an image of ending, and dimnishing in strength, and the moment before complete loss. But I can see a happy message in this too, which I think is expessed well in hollyann’s brilliant poem ‘Time’. Sometimes it’s appropriate to hold on, and then there comes a time when you have to let go, and we can’t stop this change from happening in ourselves. One day you just wake up and the last remaining thing that was weighing you down in the old life just floats away without ceremony and you calmly note that you’re standing at the beginning of a new and unpredictable phase of your self, ‘leaving old scars and new potentials’. For instance realising that you’re not going to go into that career after all, or deciding that you finally don’t mind any more that he/she left you. I was reminded of this poignant poem by Emily Dickinson: “We outgrow love, like other things / And put it in the Drawer— / Till it an Antique fashion shows— / Like Costumes Grandsires wore.”

wishing for you… by TamLocke
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time by hollyann

there is a time
for moving on

a time
for staying still

a time for dreaming
a time to act on the dream

there is a time
of realisation
aspiration

there is a time
for watching
and a time
for taking part

this moment now
will pass
and different from the rest
will never come again
leaving new potentials
and old scars

the sun will pattern
the wall
and shadow
the room
in it’s journey
leaving the stars
to decorate the night

and i here
am watching
their distant light
as time
ticks by
and leaves me standing
looking up for answers
praying for the
wisdom
not to hold on
too tight

–4–

Another poem by hollyann here, accompanied by this beautiful image ‘Ray of Hope’ by valzart. Both say something about our relationship with nature, in the sense that we can use the phenomena and rhythms of nature to guide our feelings in the right direction, and to an extent this happens involuntarily anyway. As well as dawn and sunrise, there are various other images in nature which can signify new hope, such as Spring, and birth.

Ray of hope by valzart
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the rising by hollyann

wake up day
your horizon
is glowing with new promise
the pale lavender edge
gives way
to a magnificent dark blue
further up
is nothing
is everything
we breathe in

the morning sky
is bidding us rise
take haste
take heed
and make your day
today
count
for the beauty
of this world is
changing
ever changing
and we
are grains of sand
filling it up
and shifting
at the shore
we still exist
but not
forever
never waste
an earthly dawn
fuelled by last night’s
sleep
dream treasure
digging deep

now rise
and find your feet

–5–

Continuing the theme of sensuality, I chose this photo ‘Extase aquatique’ by Auquier, which has an interesting mix of smooth, warm, voluptuous textures with sharper, cooler visual representations of pleasure such as the glistening jewels of dancing light. This poem ‘Pathways to Pleasure’ by Anthea Slade, dense with diverse luxury, paints a series of different pictures, each with its own colours and flavour. Auquier’s photograph shares some things with this stanza in particular: “Soft glow generates generous heat, / sizzling with lucid hunger. / A spontaneous quiver that pulsates / the skin making the flesh ache.”

Extase aquatique by Auquier
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Pathways to Pleasure by Anthea Slade

Sinuous skin with supple curves
that burst in graceful dismay.
Lithe sensuality that skips
through delectable daisies.

Speechless dirge that teases
with tantalizing seduction.
A knowing eye that magnetises
to the point of soul surrender.

Languid lovers lament that
sings of unrequited fantasies.
The tick tock of transparent dreams
that etches ways to forbidden pathways.

Beckoning red wilderness
ceremoniously carves tracks
into streams of tantalising vision.
A whisper kiss that creates an essence ache.

Heart embers can be startled
into dance with a poke of pleasure
from a punishing stick of desire,
that captivates delicate wings.

Transparent liquidity stimulates
the tumultuous tumble of articulate minds.
Creating blossoming flowers of inspiration,
unlocking Pandora’s mystery.

Soft glow generates generous heat,
sizzling with lucid hunger.
A spontaneous quiver that pulsates
the skin making the flesh ache.

A torpedo of sultry desire that provokes
the balmy body to shiver,
arousing a longing pink rosebud,
to open with spectacular delight.

Damp dreams of spontaneous sexuality
stutters and slips into a tattoo
of breathtaking beauty on the soul,
etched forever in a secret cave.

Fertile imaginations trip and
skip over all that is banal,
pedestrian, dull to luminous heights.
Smouldering seduction radiates from your lips.

The ability to see the process of emotion
from the blood veins in
the mind trip to the heart connection,
thoughts transported by their utter expression.

Gentle whispers that tickle with dulcet tones
into the tunnel of the ear to the
the doorway of a receptive mind,
that smiles with scintillating life.

So many pathways creative,
aching images divine,
juxtapositions poetic flow
to the blood beauty of your heart.

Anthea Slade 2010

–6–

‘Dreams and fantasy : the Evening star’ by Amalia Iuliana Chitulescu is ‘second-order’ happy I suppose – it depicts a mental state in reltion to an imagined happy thing, some dream or wish or fantasy, but I think the use of the cold blue tones and the drooping cloth makes us ask ourselves how much happiness we get out of fantasizing (which could be a lot, but the question has at least been raised). I like the title because the Evening Star is the very same as the Morning Star; one star was mistaken for two as given two names. But this doesn’t make ‘the Morning Star is the Evening Star’ a tautology – which goes to show that just because terms have the same reference it doesn’t mean they have the same meaning. And talking about fictions also goes to show that you can have meaning without reference. ‘SHALL WE?’ by Paul (Quixote) Alleyne paints a picture of an imagined situation, but his invitation to partake in it is put as if it is real, largely because the clause is introduced by ‘when’. It has meaning, but no reference.

Dreams and fantasy : the Evening star by Amalia Iuliana Chitulescu
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SHALL WE? by Paul (Quixote) Alleyne

Shall we dance
Under the stars in the sky
When the moon is at it fullest
And the perfume of flowers
Permeates the cool air
And I am in love with you again

Paul Alleyne 01/24/08

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Touched by Fire: Trust (challenge winner)

Trust – the feeling of knowing you can rely on someone and having a feeling of security. Please enter your best work depicting trust.

“To be trusted is a greater compliment than being loved.” George MacDonald

Let’s congratulate Lynnette Shelley for winning this challenge with her work The Union.

Details of the work, as written by the artist:

Two elephants entwine trunks in this mixed media artwork. I used complimentary colors on the two elephants to represent the union of opposition.

19×25 inches on pastel paper. I used oil pastels, colored pencils, liquid gold leaf, gold acrylics and marker.

The Hunting of Creativity (poem)

Whenever our muse decides to drop by, we must entertain her and grasp her attention. This poem by Guy Hoffman (aka creative365) tackles this moment. The author states: “The creative spark is elusive and once I have it I am reluctant to let it go”.

 

I won’t let it escape
I watch it, staying quiet
Keeping my eyes fixated
I sink low to stay undetected
Stalking it as it moves
Prowling under the moonlight
Hiding in the shadows
I position myself
To prevent it’s escape
The air thick with inspiration
Eyes forward, ready to pounce
Shifting as I prepare
I leap for it
Surprised by my attack
It darts for open ground
It’s imaginative and magical
In it’s attempt to escape me
Just as it always is
Extending my claws
I swipe once, twice
Damn it, I missed it again
I bolt after it
My heart pounding
I catch up quickly
Its dodging moves
Difficult to follow
I take a leap of faith
Sink my claws into it
And drag it to the ground
My grip so tight
It’s difficult for me to hold on
As is bucks and squirms
Just before I grasp its throat
I remember I don’t want to kill it
Oh I would never want to do that
It twitches and fights
Slowly it concedes
For a moment we are one
I can hear its heart beating
Each thump resonating through me
I can feel its pulse, its warmth
I move close to take in its scent
My flared nostrils fill with
The smell of innovation
All my senses awakened now
I lick my lips to ready my self
My mouth waters with anticipation
I lean in and drink from its wounds
The sweet blood of originality
I know I can never get my fill
Realizing satisfaction can never be had
And grateful for what it has given me
I release it reluctantly
With hopes of catching it again tomorrow

Features 10-17-10

Personally all I paint is people. I wonder all the time why I don’t do landscapes, and often I tell myself it is because there is no emotion in landscapes. With these features today, I hope to prove myself wrong. Today’s features are all about the landscapes, and how an artist can paint or capture emotion in them. The poetry selected today somehow uses imagery of land or sky to capture emotion.

pure gold
Pure Gold by RoseMarie747

The Rising by hollyann
wake up day
your horizon
is glowing with new promise
the pale lavender edge
gives way
to a magnificent dark blue
further up
is nothing
is everything
we breathe in

the morning sky
is bidding us rise
take haste
take heed
and make your day
today
count
for the beauty
of this world is
changing
ever changing
and we
are grains of sand
filling it up
and shifting
at the shore
we still exist
but not
forever
never waste
an earthly dawn
fuelled by last night’s
sleep
dream treasure
digging deep

now rise
and find your feet

tree
Autumn Illuminated Tree by Elspeth McLean

Painted in Sunlight by Guy Hoffman

Painted in Sunlight

A delicate shape
Defined by the glow
Of the early Sunrise

If I were an artist
I would paint you using
Only a brush of sunlight

For only the most beautiful
Of golden light
Would be worthy of you

mountain
Only the Mountain and I by Angela Burman

Yin-Yang-Wilderness by AnniG

This is our untamed wilderness
the yin yang of our landscape
our day sighs while evening creeps
sunny warmth turns dark and cold
dim shades and chilly grimness grows
eating away joy’s hues in autumn glow

this is us in a rich vivid display
a truthful rendition in color of
emotions in contradiction
mere puzzlement of intent
a quagmire of uncertainty
a paradox of intentions

consider, contemplate
this picture complete
so precisely balanced
flawlessly composed
impeccably captured
magnificence defined

black night is fast approaching
will reap the day, bury us soon
and I ponder the cycle of love
yin so worthless without yang
is it just me or does all of this
still deliver a spectacular image?

forest
The Forest Floor by secretplanet

The Ministry of Trees by Blake Steele

Trees gift a shimmering voice
to the free blow of wind.
From rough roots dark water oozes,
flooding thickened trunks,
branches, twigs and stems,
bleeding flat to brighten
translucent leaves.
And as wind-blown twigs tremble,
leaves shimmy and clatter,
spewing oxygen bursting
mist into air,
freshening sky-birthed breath
to soak into bodily cells,
until brains dimple and dazzle
with bright Light of Life.

birds
Gates’ Keepers by Hotshots

A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Breaks by imagineation

I dreamed that I was carried,
I dreamed that I was dropped.
I dreamed I had one red balloon,
And then I dreamed it popped.

I dreamed a thousand toothless smiles
Sang see-through lullabies.
I dreamed an antique white haired crow
Ate poison butterflies.

Dream strangled by a spider’s web
Dream laughed at by a fox
Dream drowning in a pool of grass
Dream swallowing sharp rocks.

I dreamed the yell of “WALK THE PLANK”
And dancing off the edge.
You caught me as the sharks did snap
Your palm, to me a ledge.

I dreamed you drew a candle.
Dream nailed it to my wall.
It came to life and burned for real
Through the red smoke I crawl.

I dreamed I had a backwards clock
Tick-tocking in reverse.
But none the less you’ll arrive late
My daydream mind I curse.

Tonight I know I’ll dream again,
But now I know what matters.
When I dream, my dream’s a wish
It breaks my heart, it shatters.

horse
Trail Blazer by Penny V-P

Salud por el fuego y la lluvia (joy in fire and rain) by BiographyofRed8

at the end of the day there is no one other than you
i would come home to. the mirrors of the shop windows
bend to break the shattered illusions and rejoice
in the simple art of breathing. the witche’s cauldron
of gentle fire rushes and brushes past the crowds moving
on and off the platforms,
as we shed our skin to the grey slanting rain
your fingers slide into my fingers
as the glove of heart’s contentment.

tomorrow is passion, where hot bread with a soft centre
and crunchy on the crust, is cut up into squares to drop into
vegetable soup. a cat will purr in delight at the fresh kill
of a wood spider

and when the rain stops, change will dry up the muddy puddles that only the day before
soaked our socks right down to the heel.
with whiskey dry hands we retire to our thirsty
exchanging of keys in the lock
before switching off front- porch lights. at the end of the day
I only want to be awoken at night to your sharp coughing
and the sound of embers emitting joy, as it is here
in all that you are.

Role playing – Writing challenge winners

Once again, dear friends, we seem to have a tie. This time around, Alison Pearce and ClothoTwine put on their literary masks, for this writing challenge centered in role playing. For your reading enjoyment, here are the top 2 works:

One by Alison Pearce

It was a game we used to play a lot when we were young. If we became annoyed at each other, instead of fighting we would simply switch roles. Astrid would bury her nose in a book, flick her hair behind her ear and begin every sentence with “Did you know”.
I would prance around the house in what I considered Astrid’s “prissy” clothes and dance in front of every mirrored surface and bounce up and down on my toes until everyone’s attention was drawn to me.
The original source of aggravation would be forgotten and we’d burst into giggles when our parents got us mixed up. We could mimic each other’s personalities so fluidly that with our identical appearances, it seemed to others that we had in fact truly switched roles.
It stopped being a game and became more of a reality for me on the day Astrid’s physical presence was taken from this world. Astrid was at dance class, I was in the school auditorium running through a final rehearsal before our debate team faced off against a competing school when the storm broke.
It was a freak event people would later say. Astrid had run outside to grab her water bottle from her knapsack only to be greeted by a bolt of lightning that almost seemed to have been waiting for her.
The moment she fell, on the other side of town, I felt something inside me being torn viciously away. It was painful and terrifying, an agony I have never been adequately able to explain even to myself. The closest I could come was to imagine that someone had reached inside me and pulled my heart out with red hot, blunt, knife.
I fell at the same time Astrid did; but unlike my sister, I got up again.
I remember the sudden clarity I had in the moment the lightning struck. I knew exactly what I was losing and my mind had cried out, “God, no! I can’t live without her”.
When I woke up I knew my wish had been granted. It was a strange feeling; instead of feeling like I had been torn into pieces, I now truly knew what it felt like to be whole. A complete person. Now, after I have finished delivering well thought out speeches in front of judges and juries I come home to twirl and dance in front of mirrored surfaces. I tend to bounce up and down on my toes as I read through case files, beginning me sentences with “Did you know” and making sure everyone’s attention was drawn to me.
Twice, Astrid and I have been torn into two separate pieces.
Once in the womb.
Once by lightning.
But now Astrid and I are what we were always meant to be.
One.

© Alison Pearce 2010-09-30

 

Clotho and the World by ClothoTwine

PRELUDE

Before Birth

Far far away (though according to the whole complicated time-space continuum thing, also very very near), the youngest of the three fates waited. Around her in an eternal halo were the gossamer threads of creation. Most people believed she span these all by herself, and in truth maybe she did. It was hard to remember though.

After the first trillion millennia the past became a bit vague. She wasn’t even sure where she herself came from. She suspected some deviant forerunner of white-anglo-saxonism – hence the eternal work ethic. It could just as easily have been a rogue Salamander from the pink ponds of Vermouthia.

The present however, was constantly interesting. Sentient and self-aware, young Clotho The Maker was asquirm with sensation. And she had an idea.

While browsing through the pages of contemporary earth blogs, Clotho had discovered a poem. The poem was about a thread. The injunction at the nub of the matter was to follow ones own. Like a camera lens stuck on wide, there was suddenly a sustained burst of illumination. Not godlike, but more of a laser beam. It struck Clotho in her fourth eye. With it came a realisation.

Of all the skeins of life-silk now shot through the pluriverse, not one of them was her own. She listened to her womb and knew. It was time to create herself.

After Birth

Dust motes floated past. Clotho could feel the prick and rasp of the rusty dumpster lid beneath her bare thighs. A few fetid odours mingled nearby and then dispersed. Born for the first time, confusion sparred with delight. It seemed as if many deep truths were absent here, and yet….the dimension of body now flooded into everything. She swung her legs to and fro, testing.

Before long another body appeared. Shaping the cyberspace beside her with something unfamiliar yet longed for. The shape was almost human. And so it began…

 

 

 

 

Features for October 3, 2010

Color Theory

For this week’s features, color was my focus. The following artworks captivate the imagination while highlighting a single color.

flower
Red Wine by Ingz

A Single Rose Called to Me by oscarelizondo

For it had been a long time since the rose bush last bloomed,
And not a single pink rose had come to life from any forming bud.
It was a strangle event since I had often taken roses to her grave,
As I had promised to myself and her when I planted it in the mud.

Ill I had been and in bed my heart had taken me to make my peace,
Because the loneliness had crippled me inside since I had lost my wife.
My body had aged a million years and there was no one to hold my hand,
And perhaps it wouldn’t have mattered since my sprit had no real life.

Lost in the desert with no wind to blow upon my face I had ventured far,
Searching for a face to talk to in hopes that it could guide me from this sorrow.
Instead of finding answers to my questions I found a wounded talking vulture,
It pecked on my eye sockets and sent me home blind with the time I borrowed.

As I crawled home no one knew my face as not a single drop of water came,
But I still had my sense of smell when I arrived at my door step with my nose.
I knew the aroma of my garden as my hands reached out to touch the plants,
My nostrils alerted of a single new flower that my heart knew to be a pink rose.
Copyright © Oscarelizondo


Fire by Sue Nueckel

Seek to Be: I Know That You Will Become by Blanchot
To H.H.

You are a seeker who has yet to discover the way in which to fulfill her object
That object being perhaps a little too clear, too pure, in need of dilution
All of this has consequences
Self-destructive in ways not even you fully comprehend
There are those who insist on displaying their self-righteous judgments on this issue in ways that are entirely devoid of critical evaluation
Negative X, negative Y, negative Z
Yet, it is not very difficult to reconceive this vapid disapprobation
Ways to discover the repressed, because suppressed, seed kernel of glory tightly bound within you

For, passion is easily both misinterpreted and misdirected, especially when its outlet has yet to have been fully embraced
One arm holds back because it will not even consider the issue in the light of a possible positivity
The other, which would generally participate in the passion, is doubly incapacitated; the first arm weighs it down with the full force of its misunderstanding, which causes the second to atrophy in the belief it ought to have for its successful participation
The drive for the realization of this passion has thus been amputated before it could ever fully realize its dream as anything but a failure, always-already consummated
A desire that fails to believe in itself is sure to be redirected towards negativity
Who, after all, can imagine anything but radical crisis for the release of beauty, which has been throttled while still in the crib

Nonetheless, despair is not inevitable
Embrace what has been, and create what will be: celebrate the sublimity of the greatest weight
Become that most rare and special of beings: what one is
Fuck the rest; they’ll catch up or they won’t
Whatever the case, take creation into your hands
Undertake belief in yourself: there are those who believe with you and who will encourage you to swim when it feels like it’s raining in every direction
Just remember: it is you who has to execute the actual strokes, you who must elaborate her poetic soul though the drenching negativity
Hell, don’t just seek to understand the rain in a new fashion, to slake your thirst
Find that place where lightening is most likely to strike
Become its energy and its brilliance
This, I know is the very promise of your promise
Now, you know it also
© 10/02/2010


Form Follows Function by Tammera

The Knowledge of Time Travel Part 3 by HamperRefuser

Now I have to go and find this fly. Or one of his friends or family. Teach them not to share their knowledge of time! Maybe this is a dangerous thing for me to do. I do not tell of my abilities so maybe someone wants to swat me. I should be careful; yellow has always been the wrong colour for me. This is because I got stung by a wasp when I was younger. But wasps move in normal time. I started to catch them and put them in the freezer. Their stillness was hilarious! I really need to stop these procrastinating thoughts. It is getting stupid. Now with my weapon of choice I am going to hunt flies. Make them drop. Tell them time ‘flies’ when you are having fun. Their time will halt and they will drop to the floor. Bastards. I will have the last laugh.

I have found the place of congregation. A terrifically terrified group of flies. Shame I don’t have a wingman. Distract some whilst I play the game of death with the others. Actually I would not want that. I work alone. All alone. Ooh is that buzzing I hear? I will take my… ugh… mighty sweep and…HA! Got the cheeky fucker. Let that be a lesson to all of you flies. Not quick enough for me are you? Maybe I have mastered it. I managed to get one. I should bring it home for autopsy. Or I could eat it. Then I could inherit the fly’s powers. Ill put it in my pocket for now and continue. I need something sharper for this next game.

Sorry my friend. You have been spotted. You useless piece of shit. That’s a rather tasty looking alleyway I am sure you will agree. Your pattering shoes are crystal clear and in high definition. The sounds you let off impress me. But you are creating this unwanted feeling of sadness within me. You look like me?! But how… Maybe this is my past self. But I don’t remember walking through here. Not ever. Let’s end this… There is only enough room for one of me. So you are going to have to take your punishment like a man. My blade is withdrawn. IM RIGHT BEHIND YOU! There we go… sshhhh. No woman is attracted to a man that screams. Remember how they used to call you twinny one? Well I am number one now. Parents would not have approved but hey, they used to give you all of their time…

Yes, I knew the secret to time travel.


Remnants of Magic by AngiandSilas

shared earth by Alenka Co
the story’s written in the grain ….
of seed and earth
of leaves and sun ….

I know the forest from where you came
I was uprooted from there too
how strange that I should find you here
how strong the pull of a shared earth ….

the blood of my ancestors soaks the earth
of the forest where the beech trees grow.


Alien by Jessican Walker

Upon Bodily Pleasure by Blake Steele

UPON BODILY PLEASURE OPENING
INTO SOME HUGE SPIRITUAL HAPPENING

What is this innocent, mysterious sensation
that permeates every cell of our body
when we dare to stretch as fully open,
as vulnerably open as we can?
What is this God designed drug
that makes our insides a paradise of soft pleasures,
that makes our bodies move to some
music of motion flowing from the core of us,
melting the mind steady in Light,
calling it out of old defenses
into this very instant where Light’s magic happens?
It takes a powerful Love to handle it,
to not get lost in it,
to allow ecstatic pleasure to both fire up every cell
and compassion in our heart,
so that we may overflow in creative exuberance,
to play in all Love’s play yards,
and passionately enter the sorrow,
passing into the dark of it
to weep for the tragedy of a world
so capable of ecstatic jubilation
locked up like this, addicted to manipulations
and miseries. *
After the sorrow, then the dance:
this is what old prophets dreamt
in God-drunk states, reeling within a spirit-fused
fire in their brains.
This world needs to see it, feel it, smell it:
some springtime bursting forth through the bones,
into ever body, every cell, this sensual thing
resonant with the pure innocence of flowers and stars,
fanned out through the lazy yawn of allowance,
as the whole body loosens into its primal health,
into a God-given guiltless joy,
into a wide open, splayed surrender,
arms embracing the naked sky,
kissing existence, drinking in the blue,
gulping down the Limitless goodness
of Love as Life and Life as Love’s
most soul-blazed, body burnt colors
splattered and singing,
flushed free and flowing,
in a wild spirit-wind
of everywhere human happiness —
and we are fully here!: arm around shoulder,
forehead to forehead, eye gazing deep into luminous eye,
circle dancing with children,
laughing with their body-shook laughter,
as they sing with innocent voices of a better world
we are all together birthing:
poem by poem, song upon song,
kindness by imaginative, crazy caring kindness,
turning things upside down and back around,
taking the whole thing back into our own hands
in this laughter-rippled growth
of body-blown joy!


Impact by TaniaLosada

The Girl by misfit1965
The girl hasn’t discovered her wings yet,
not realizing the strength of her soul
nor realizing that was God’s gift to her survival
so, she walks around as a caterpillar,
unaware of who she is
she hasn’t taken off her veil yet,
and woken up next to a man
she is a virgin of spirit,
even if there have been dozens of men
none loved her, and to be loved,
in the act of intimacy is a sacred act
the demons call her “slut”,
and she calls herself, “whore”
not understanding she is the Lord’s bride,
and He sees her as washed
She hears the whispers that drive her urge
to stick nails up her arms
she bears the wounds of her attacks on herself,
falsely believing she is worthless
demons laugh, seeing her take razors
her thighs undiscovered, she wears the razors on them,
deep slashes, still fresh and unproven
she has the obsessive desire to be punished
to be nailed to her private cross,
not realizing the Lord has done it for her
everything spins around in her like a blender
to shred her decency and dignity
she feels God has abandoned her
even though He never will
demons talk of legalism and works
working your way to heaven or hell
they hand her more razors to crucify
her flesh with
and they laugh some more
grace is a word in a dictionary to her
her prayers never seem to reach past
the ceiling
in desperation she clings to her only friends,
the razors
who smile with their deceptive shiny
silver teeth
stroking her beautifully,
yet cutting tissue
with every touch
she bleeds
straight lines of blood,
rows of faithful and beaten soldiers
rushed down her thigh
past her knees
leaping to their premature deaths
she pushes the razor in like a penis
a few times until she grows weary
of the pain it causes her
she never cries publicly anymore
her mother told her not to make a spectacle
of herself
the girl hates her black coarse hair
men don’t respect her hair
this hurts they never touch it
ashamed she wears a baseball cap
to hide her ugly hair
now, she has shaved it off like a man
to pretend she is not even a woman
the girl has other secrects she hates
too much flesh
she considers it a huge blemish
the worst scar she can think of
to avoid that she rushes to the bathroom
sticking a finger like a straw to suck the food
out of her body
not realizing God puts no pre-requisites on
weight,
He extends His arms out to her,
she misses Him,
her bloodshot eyes blind her
the girl weeps when no one is around
she inspects her nude body in front
of a broken mirror
her skin is bronze, and shiny like mud
nobody wanted the muddy girl
maybe they thought she was filthy
God offers to cleanse her with hyssop,
and make her whiter than snow
but she hates Him right now
and blames Him for her loneliness
she has a doll she sleeps beside
her name is Emma
Emma is her constant companion
she takes her everywhere,
she’s had her for six years
it was a gift that was hard to unwrap
it took twenty long hours to pull
all the wrappings off
the experience of being the one another
depends on changed her forever
children are a heritage of the Lord
and God is a father to the fatherless
the girl creates characters to keep her
company, to guard the castle of her heart,
her bottle is a diet two liter soda,
all she has to inebriate her
her lover Vladimir,
who she threw away
sits beside her,
one of the demons in disguise
the girl takes the raw meat from under
her breast and puts it under her pillow
she protects her lumpy clump of blood
though people falsely believe she wears it
as a fresh badge,
she fools the world and herself
but never the Lord
the girl is a chameleon and changes
able to love many times and many things
her greatest gift is her ability to love others
her greatest flaw is her inability to love
herself
people can change with grace
In the meantime,
the girl exists a prisoner of her fantasies
she cannot escape or will not
and is trapped in a world of illusions
in another place,
where dragons and knights are neighbors
she foolishly believes she has escaped the
rules of morality and has created her own values
God doesn’t exist there,
But God has a way of finding the girl
He always has

copyright 2010misfit1965