TBF Features for the week of April 3, 2011

Greetings and salutations, fellow art and poetry lovers. My picks for this week’s features have a flair for drama, hope and passion.

Lollipop Rain by Keith

The Gift by Matteo Pontonutti

Cross Pollination by Sean Phellan

Take me higher by Kym Slark

Steely anguish by Roger Mann

Lost the second set… by Philip Gaida

New Thing by Soxy Fleming

The cracks have grown large and great chunks fallen out,
so I’m eating to fill the holes in the plaster.
An icy cold wind whistles through sad and lonely
I keep eating – those holes they don’t fill any faster.

The stuff just keeps building up great piles inside there,
the holes in the walls remain gaping wide.
That might be a good thing, it may be that something
new will blow in from beyond the divide.

I can’t hide the inside when cracks are a-forming.
I think I can fill them but then, should I try?
The cracks will keep cracking to make a way inwards,
when the doors are all jammed and the walls, so high.

the walls will all crumble
and pile up as bricks
the chairs will all wobble
and turn into sticks
the wind will keep blowing
both fresh and with sting
and one day, yes one day
there will be a new thing…

june, and you are falling out of love by Alondra Blick

Outside it is june again
I can hear the rain trembling
through canopies of green
and it’s all I can do
to stop myself
from ending it all.
Isn’t that what every poet says?
And who’s more brave
the ones that do,
or the ones who don’t?
Evening weeps in
with the smell of honeysuckle
and warm wine,
and I know all too well
the way your body moves inside me
humming,
and the rain is humming
and the way it all crashes together
is a sad soft love
is sea spray drowning the moon
is an ache for you
and for me,
lost inside ourselves
and the inconsolable mess
that we have made
of each other.

Hero None by ManInTheBox

Hero no, none have I
When head upon pillow I lie
Villains cloaked in yellow green
Camouflage heroes in a dream

Quench thy thirst on acid rain
Deliver not a mortal drain
Bleed you none in shades of red
Feast on flesh unholy bed

Hero no, none for me
Darkness falls it should be thee
Rather know thou art not mine
Echoes through this empty shrine

Into the night feathers fly
Knowing not eye for eye
Let bleeding hearts’ veins be blue
Become not hero untrue

Death of Ophelia by Sarah Bentvelzen

My feigned misery,
My feigned madness
Treason of my love for you,
Dear Ophelia

I be the death of you
Grief-stricken
With sadness;
A disease of my mind

Your violets in vain
For I did not offer
A love to satisfy
Your needs

While your rue
Grows unnoticed
In the broken womb
Of our love

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Features for the week of January 9, 2011 (part 2)

In continuance of this weeks features, please enjoy the final six pieces of amazingly inspirational pieces.

A very inspiring piece about what happens when we let go of our inner child. Do adults really have to give up on their dreams, stop drawing doodles, stop pretending to be a princess waiting for her prince (or the prince waiting to rescue her)? I personally don’t want to grow up, but in any case I love Suzzie’s collage, even if she has grown up.

Set my Spirit Free by Suzzie

I really love this piece by miss wildwomenlove that talks about the art of giving of yourself, from a woman’s perspective. I loved how it touched on the feeling that so many of us have felt, of being overwhelmed, of having too much to give and not enough ‘get’, matched with the gentle reminder that we do have power in how things play out. It’s up to ourselves to make sure that we see the beauty and worth in ourselves, and then demand that from others. I found this a very empowering piece.

Selfish footsteps by wildwomenlove

As the Earth turns

so many women
dancing around tables
bringing offerings
of food and love
gifting of their nurture

selflessly

So many faces
smiling and laughing
biting of the apple of Eve
with no more
than a conversational pause

Faceless, armful giving
from breasts
filled with hearts
of abundance
and joy

And if never a word spoken
to fill an ear
or a heart space
with thanks
or gratitude

even well springs
can run dry…

And arms once sought
hang limply
at ones sides
in forsaken
abandonment

True selflessness
comes from a place of fullness
and self worth
where selfish footsteps have taken care
of the Goddess Spirit within

As the Earth turns

i see so many women
spent
and
so many others
satiated

Joy comes
from the gifting
and receiving
to ones self
and others

Don’t let
your mirror be faceless
your beauty
resides
in your heart

© wildwomenlove poetry
29.12.10

This poem by Alondra is a crushingly painful poem. Each word has melancholy and sadness written throughout. Even as I read the desperation in the daughters voice at the end, it left me acknowledging how liberating it must be to be at the place inside yourself where you can get these kind of memories out of your system. This piece definitely left a mark on my soul, and a longing for something I can’t put my finger on yet.

Mother. by Alondra Blick

She held me
like she wanted time to suffer.
Like she wanted
to return us both to creation.
And her skin was musty
with old boyfriends
and from new ones
whose names
I never learned.
I remember that night
at the apartment,
the night the pipes burst,
because in Canada
we have the long cold hours,
and because that was the night
Joseph never made it home
from the office.
And when it snowed,
crystalised flecks
stacked high,
I always thought of Russia,
of paper dolls
folded inside foreign skirts,
and of that night
she told me something
I can’t now recall.
She said it
when the fire burned low,
like an offering
of the flesh,
and I said Yes Mamma
Love me Mamma.

This magnificent piece of work is not only art, but also a tribute to the memory of the artists lovely daughter. I love the way she paints her so beautiful, so alive, vibrant, and happy.This is how we should all be remembered, with tenderness and grace.

Tender Regard / A Pillanat by Mariska

The artists words underneath the painting says it all to me.

Heal my scar by artsmitten

you write destinies …

your mercy is my salvation

chose stones for yourself

and placed heart in humans….
…………………….

( based on an ancient hindu mythology epic
….)

…………………………….

I would not find the burning domes and sands…
Where reigns the sun, nor dare the deadly snows
Nor seek in mountains dark the hidden lands

But where they bloom those flowers fair…….
In what air or land they grow
What words beyond the world I heard
If you would seek for know

if silent prayers are ever answered …

In just a few lines this beautiful poet reminded us how fleeting things are; life, joy, even memories. The beautiful things we experience can be like twinkles of light from a star a thousand lifetimes away.. leaving us wondering if we really ever saw it in the first place.

quivering sunlight from the belly by Kristin Reynolds

There is a risk
when the music comes,
of becoming

as lost as a moment seen
within
the heart of the eyes.

The divine discovery
of this seeing:

nothing this beautiful can be held.

That the whole of the world
you have kissed
in a moment

to be

beautifully
perfectly

gone.

© Kristin Reynolds 1 9 2011

Congratulations to all the writers and artists that grace the pages of this blog. Happy New Year to everyone, and looking forward to making 2011 even brighter, more inspirational, and uplifting to us all.

TBF Features – June 20, 2010


“Run your fingers through my soul. For once, just once, feel exactly what I feel, believe what I believe, perceive as I perceive, look, experience, examine, and for once; just once, understand.”

It’s time to experience the passions of life through the eyes of someone else. Be prepared to be awash with emotion from the following features.

Water Souls by Ming Myaskovsky

for Mariette by Wingpoem

And we talk
Of lambs and doves
Trust and friendship
Marriage and poetry
And we play
In deepest sincerity
Vulnerability
And nakedness
And we love
For what else is there?
And we laugh
Because we need to
And we cry
Because we can’t hold back
And we come together
Because it fulfills
Everything

New Beginnings by Cherie Sayer

new beginnings by cherie sayer

The Number © by Hector A. Encinas

I want you to know.
I’m not coming back.
Shut the screen off and,
look into my eyes,
Before I go.
I’m not coming back.

If my soul had been a dog.
I would have drowned it,
At birth.

I keep thinking of the dirt nap.
And my mouth buzzes’ like a fridge.
I don’t know myself anymore;
And I don’t know my nature,
Like I probably should.

If I could,
Keep writing what I write.
What comes to me from inside;
Somewhere.

I wouldn’t want to.
I wouldn’t,
Want to know who I am.
I don’t.

Ill take the midnight drive.
Tonight;
A hundred past miles an hour.
I’ll take the midnight drive.
Tonight;
And take that final flight,
Off the road,
And into eternal night.
Where I’ll see death in the eyes with o fear.

I want you to know.
I’m not coming back.
Look into my eyes,
I’m not coming back.
I’m not coming back………….

(And for a minute there, I lost my self.
Then,
I remembered her.)

I lost my self, deep in her soul.
That light that I had thought extinct,
From the human soul.
There,
It was.
She was something to have faith and hope for.
Something I had lost in complete.

Id found myself in the dodos conundrum.
Wanting to take flight,
And not having the wings to do so.

I lost my self, deep in her soul.
Almost like falling in love with something you don’t know.
I came back to life.
That night,
On the midnight drive.

And for a minute there, I lost my self…..
I lost my self…..

She did quite “the number” on me that night.

Keys by Cherie Sayer

inhaling the heaven or hell of you by Kristin Reynolds

I wish I could say
i smelled you coming
from a mile away—
but all angel’s scents
are one in the same:

graveyards, birthdays,
static and gold,
weapons and blood,
darkness and light.

One way or
another:
you found me

and i
breathed you

in.

© Kristin Reynolds 6 19 2010

ironing out the matters of the heart by helene ruiz

ironing out matters of the heart by helene ruiz

everything and you. by Alondra Blick

It’s really like a symphony, if you listen close enough. Deep enough. Drunk enough. The difference is, I liked classical music, until I met you. I never liked beer, until the taste was like your lips meeting mine, the first time when we were shy. It felt uncomfortable in an exhilarating way. The millions of miles of skin that were still unknown. The lives and the friends and the habits and the way you moved in bed, worried to wake me, unsure of my sleeping patterns or how I’d like to be held. And the feeling of your body, returning to the sheets still damp with soap and a shower taken before waking hours. I would have liked to love you then. Would have liked to picture us standing still, eyes awake and unchanging while the blurred lines of light and lives and memory rushed by us. I would have loved to watch our bodies tumble down the years, gracious and quiet. And on the first night, I dreamt you had changed your mind, and so I buried my head into your back and spent a minute just memorizing the moment. The feeling of your breath shaking your soft frame, and of the mingling of our skin, and the smell of you, and the delicate morning hesitating to push forward. But life moves heavy and quickly and the streets empty and fill like the sea and the waning moon, and small and large things grow steadily, and we are of no consequence. We do not listen to voices in sleep who whisper our mistakes. In another time perhaps, we would have mourned the past, and prayed and shaken the coating of winter from our shoulders, hushed and cold, and moved ahead to the sound of the ritual spring. But instead we gathered our clothes, arranged the morning and made remarks about the future, like it was a living thing that belonged to us. And from the kitchen I could hear the road soaking up the rain and see the mist soaring upwards each time a car or truck passed through. And soon all these things, and all the others would be fragments, nonsensical and vague. Part of a distant time. Mixed up with things that should not have been there. Cluttered halls, and strip malls and afterhours, and the moon, and bars, and cafes, and desperation, and routine, and strangers, and city lights, and admissions, and guilt, and the cold.
It’s really like a symphony, if you listen close enough.

blue profile by frederic levy-hadida

blue profile by frederic levy-hadida

Talk to me by Siki Dlanga

When you talk to me,
I forget that I exist.
Your words become me.

(c) siki dlanga
21.06.2010

mind set, 2010 by flovie

mind set 2010 flovie

Nobody’s Son by Trenchtownrock

I have had many saviors
hung around my neck
rosary prayer tears
fragrant offering
Buddha
Muhammad
the old and new Jesus
gully baptism
still can’t wash
stench of
what never was
what could never be
fingers
planted roots
in the earth’s surface
trying to be born
of something
rotted corpse
unearthed
the I am
without flesh
try to replant
seeped through skin
history’s seed
flourishing
my twenty first century
Golgotha
Pilate’s edict
head to toe
proclamation
midnight hanging
holy water
springing from veins
imperfect gods
becoming perfect
born to be sacrificed
I stopped being afraid
once my mama pulled me
from between her legs
stripping away the umbilical chain
looking at me with closed eyes
trying to stuff me back
in her tomb
a mother’s love
hymen doors closed
modern day Mary
without the immaculate daydream
job completed
heard through a baby’s cry.