TBF Features for the week of July 3, 2011

Hello again, friends. Hope that all of our US readers enjoyed your Fourth of July holiday festivities. Here’s our latest batch of sexy/hopeful/emotional art and writing, chosen by yours truly, Duffboy.

 

Believe in Kindness by 8upchef

Believe in the kindness of others
Believe in their intentions
Believe that there is no hidden agenda

Believe
That even now
In these days darker than others
That a person can show kindness
And then

Believe in kindness

 

My Lord Carpathian by Arcadia Tempest

Reload my arrogant heart
drink of it
if it will please you

My Carpathian Lord
I am not one of the in-tune
lacking of beat
a retracted tempo

Feast on me

Then
drift me to a figment
of imagination
when your savoring
in me is done

I will not remember
cast black eyes into me
slumber the memory of you
leave a vision of what lives amongst the hopeful

She wakes.
She remembers.
She sees in her dreaming a wayward witch who covets the fresh liver of the eye painter to bring color to her dead heart.
She screams.
They gather.
They will protect the painter of eyes.

© K S Hardy 2011

 

Contact (t-shirt) by Manana11

 

 

Pájaros Volados by dmcart

 

 

Inbox is full by msdebbie

My inbox is full
of messages I do not need.
My smile is full
of teeth which crack and bleed.

My memory is full
of words which say so much.
My outlook is full
of possibilities I dread to touch.

What should I say?
I feel empty.
What do I mean?
Nothing.

Something is missing.
I feel clammy with malcontent.
We are missing something.
My inbox is full.

 

Ryan by Jascie Epinn

I know there’s nothing I can say
to apologize for this.
And to be honest, it’s all I’ve ever wanted.
From Prom night
When a boy sang to me
such sweet words as we rubbed hips on the dance floor
“And I will never try to deny that you are my whole life
cause if you ever let me go, I would die.”
And I reveled in it
Those words were so delicate and delicious
But now, after promises having been broken
Bones and hearts and spirits past
Those words disgust me
They are empty, meaningless
Only connoted by displeasure and shame
So how dare you look me in the eye
and tell me that you love me?
It’s all so swollen with raw humanity
I don’t want them
Take them back
I don’t want to be your everything
I don’t want to be the one who is breaking your heart
I don’t want to be her
But I know there’s nothing I can say
to change your heart.

 

Goddess of the Mountains by David Mapletoft

 

 

the shape shifter by frederic levy-hadida

 

 

“Awesome” doesn’t really begin to cover it… by singerchick

If I could invent the words to capture the sunset
I’d fill a new book every night.
But even if I could create a language to do it justice,
I could never keep up with the glorious new hues God crafts nightly —
How much less could I begin to describe the breathtaking trail
Each saline drop etches from your tear ducts to my heart?

 

the radiant sun by hollyann

i have a soft heart
and as such
am easily
loved
and love

i wake up
with a radiant sun
in my mind
that fills the day
with the light
of joy
never to be darkened
by anything
or anyone

the radiant sun
of my mind
reflects
the radiant sun
of yours
and everyone
has this
buried deep
or shining
everyone
not one left out
not one alone
it just depends
on whether
it has been found
behind
distraction
behind
reaction
a peace that glows
there to behold

so look in
there it is
for you to
call upon
the radiant sun
the home of calm

 

Hat and a red rose by fotowagner

 

 

Sea of Flowers by Artof Morgaine

TOUCHED BY FIRE … December 13th 2010

This week I’m so excited about the images and the poetry selections in our ‘Touched by Fire Group‘.
There is a running theme throuhout that I call the FIRE WITHIN which is a fire I’ve felt most of my life.
This fire means, passion and humor, questioning life and in the end, acceptance.

When I was in my late 20’s I started to read Carlos Castaneda who hooked me with a great way of storytelling while presenting much to think about on the road to finding out life is not so humdrum; if one looked and felt a bit deeper one may find the magical fabric of life.

Here is a quote I still hold dear today as I work with the tools of the Law of Attraction; from the book Fire Within:

“Think about it: what weakens us is feeling offended by the deeds and misdeeds of our fellow men. Our self-importance requires that we spend most of our lives offended by someone.”
— Carlos Castaneda (The Fire from Within)

I find the work below quite stunning, sturring up my heart-fire. The poems sing and prod lovingly at my core.
I know without a doubt as I weave inside and out, this gallery of verse and vision, I am not alone. The passion and the wisdom from this group and this blog give me pause and a lovely sense of joy.

So fasten your heartbelt and let the potbelly stove of your dreams start to simmer. Welcome to this weeks journey of the FIRE WITHIN


Reflections of Fire on Water


David Hatton

tie a yellow ribbon around my dancing feet …..


ARCADIA TEMPEST

I ‘m not the same person since I met you.
I believe I’ll not see my world quite the same way again.
There’s been a shift in me, funny how things are now louder in my head and I thought they were loud before.
A reflective surface inside me is gently paving a subtle deliberate sense of love.
The rain feels on some days warmish with the innocence of a deer, doe eyes gently blinking shyness against my skin.

Yes there’s the usual unbroken curves , shore lines that are too far away and boxes that nag at me to be ticked.
The clothes mending I can’t be bothered doing still sits , I’ve been mending me instead.
Electricity holds the same childlike fascination, the wonder of what a marvelous invention with the flick of a switch.
I’ve not lost the tendency either to be more practical minded later in the afternoon.

I still remain loyal to a fervent disgust of that activity called ironing which I’ve renamed crease killing.
Chocolate’s the usual currency of treason to weaken my resolve to open the pantry door and peruse the shelves.
I will always feel uneasy when I witness the act of deliberate meanness which now I find myself uncomfortably shifting my weight.
I can be unkind at times and it doesn’t make me feel like wrapping a smile to my heart…

Since I met you I have noticed the colors are different.
Greens seem deeper in rich oxygen delighting my lungs in healthy exhalation.
Walking in the park heals at every step.

Red is hungry and hot as always but the heat of red sometimes will now hermetically seal those conversations with argument tailored around the edges.
I’ve bitten back into those moments with a hope to re-open dialogue and teethed badly on the risk I took.
Words forever trapped in a stale moment, though this could perhaps be a view of ‘not so good’ judgment.

Since I me you I have to write my thoughts down for I fear I won’t know how to speak them without the courage of my written page.
You have taken my corners and unfolded me like a long lost letter.
I rejoice feeling more seen in more ways and that’s so very good for invisible ink.

I love yellow so much more, sunflower yellow, believe yellow, egg yolk yellow, dazzle yellow and ribbon yellows…
I can dance in yellow even when I can’t feel my feet.

© Arcadia Tempest 2010

THE FIRE FROM WITHIN


Vasile Stan
/


Song Of Songs


Trenchtownrock

She knew I was Joseph
a prophetic hypnosis confiscated
in Egypt all these years
subliminal messages delivered through
the Pharaoh’s dreams
but no parting of the desert
leading to steps into heaven
an old testament warrior
beaten down with life’s echo
wanderer
needing soul justice
to heal the branches in the middle of the storm
she was hungry to be my salvation
as her mind slipped away
in the movie reel from the bourbon
flavored breeze that commenced
life on her ripened lips
her breast a palm tree
waving firm hands
gathered wind
kissing my barren lips
drowning the trumpet sounds
of death’s angels
freedom lilies exhaled
crawled on marble scent
to her valley
where I feasted on orchard of pomegranates
drinking from her Lebanon river
while laying on a bed coated with frankincense and myrrh
her foreign spices sprinkled on my fallen skin
brewing a garden of ten thousand lives
O I love thee extol from the catacomb
of my chest
words resting on her eyelids
she tasted my vine
drinking the flourish
chariots of happiness stemmed from her body
don’t make haste my beloved
her accent trembled by my ears
as I closed my ability to see
feeling stream of middle eastern river
washing away desert miles.


Endless Possibilities


Animi Dawn


The Infinite Kiss


Stephen Gorton


DO YOU REMEMBER?


Cosimopiro

I stand here
watch you pass
in Time’s dim light
like petals of a dream
drifting,
sailing
in the ambience of memory.
Do you remember
floating on air,
walking on water,
plucking stars from Heaven’s vault
to give us light,
kissing Venus
and making her blush?
Do you remember
the silence we spoke,
touching with misty eyes,
dancing with moist lips
to a rhythm of our making,
drunk on moonbeams
and sunrise passion?
Do you remember
naked innocence entwining,
embracing the chalice of youth
like tomorrow ‘s forgotten ghost,
melting as one
with celestial molecules
in a jasmine scented breeze?
Do
You
Remember?


RAINY DAY WOMAN


RosaCobos

Pearls…dying on the broken lava.
Me….tiptoeing.
Long and winding, the steps.
The Woman under the dress,
summer showering the Earth.
You…looking… me… deviant eyes.
You…smelling… me dried heart.
You…covering my shoulders….
me… dreaming forth inside.
Present tense… I love.
Past ago… was gone.
Future…ahead… my back.
Nowhere to go… inviting road.
What is it… behind the Dark?
Twisted trees, crashed souls.
Bowing to the Sea… under shore.
The more we walk…
they seem to recede….
like a trickster rainbow,
feeling our blow.
Rainy Day… Woman.
The Queen and her Escort.
Rosa

ROSA COBOS


IMPRESSIONS OF FRANCE
Blake Steele

Feathers and chestnuts
sea shells and stones,
old churches to pray in
silent, alone:
sitting half in the sunshine
and half in the night,
half naked in shadows,
half blinded by light .
A rugged old country,
red cows in the lane,
a little fox running,
the color of flame.
Mists on the mountains,
wild hawks in the trees
a faint song of freedom
in the gray of the breeze.
Slowly my face
turns the texture of stone,
old village walls
and mystical moons:
slowly my soul
finds the path of the wind
deep in the dark
of a wintry wood.
Chickens and berries
and goats in the grass,
silence and singing
of a love that passes
out into memory
with barely a sigh,
sweet in the shadows
of an opening eye.
Without a glimmer,
bereft of all reason
seasons are passing
into a season
when minds melt down
to the roots of the heart
where music and madness
and ecstasy start.
Feathers and chestnuts
sea shells and stones,
old churches to pray in
silent, alone:
sitting half in the sunshine
and half in the night,
half naked in shadows,
half blinded by light .

Dance Like You Mean It


Sybille Sterk


Dusk Wing Butterfly


BiographyofRed8

A flutter of wings close to my head as I stood under the cumquat trees
Watching the water from the hose spraying the rich brown root-
Inhaling the hot air of the cigarette, watching it burn so close to my fingers
A blink, as the ash falls flying out into the dust filled air,
A blink then a strange weaving, jumping, dip of a dance, defying
The strong gusts of wind, battering serrated green leaves,
Pushing and pressing into the small branches with a startling urgency

Standing transfixed and stock still- holding my breath-
I have never seen one of your kind this close up before
I have never seen the delicate tuffs of fur you wear
Nor the blackness of your wings, trimmed with the most blinding sprinkles of gold-

I leaned into the tree wanting to blend my black shirt-
A colour and texture obviously manufactured in opposition to the lushness of the living-
Hoping to encourage you to stay
And wondered at you- so intent on laying those little white eggs
Would even notice that my shirt was the same colour as your wings-
How very human
To think of myself, as being significant to a creature
That can only be the epitome of the word “miracle”

In the middle of your dance, other insects in the court-yard-
Appeared in my peripheral vision-the helicopter dragon-fly and the pure white
Smaller butterfly- buried themselves in the background,
The chorus to your performance

I was holding my hand up against my fore-head, even though the sky
Was covered in white clouds, the clouds had that hint of sun behind them
Creeping out at the corners to sting my naked eye-balls
The skin at the corners, when I am old will have wrinkles to show for it
And will pull tightly gathered together when I smile or laugh or cry.

,

ASPIRE


Mark Stanley