Features 12-5-10

If we could reach the farthest recesses of human memory, we would find that the Winter Solstice has always been a time for humans to look deeply within. It is a time of reflecting on your soul, and on the meaning of your life. I am often drawn to art and writing that contains bits of the esoteric, mythological, or spiritual within it. Although, one could easily argue that art and writing always contain these things because the very act of creating is a spiritual act. Nevertheless, this week’s work weaves myth and metaphysical light as we have entered the month of the Winter Solstice.

The first piece of art is of a raven. Ravens are the prominent bird seen at this time of year in the Northern hemisphere as snow begins to blanket the ground. It is no wonder that many ancient myths around the world have Raven as the creator. Raven comes out of the void of winter and helps to bring the sun back at the Winter Solstice.

Raven
Tulugaq by Lynnette Shelley

Primordial by Alenka Co
you emerged from the primordial ooze
with all the other life on earth
but your evolution had an interesting twist
that made you separate from all else

it’s not that you are more intelligent
don’t kid yourself about that
I’ve seen a raven make a tool from wire
to pull food out of a jar
and it’s not that you developed speech
I’ve listened to swallows converse
it’s something more intrinsic
that makes you strive beyond yourself
can it be that you alone are aware of death

you’ve searched for the meaning of life
in every corner of the planet
and now you’re off to the stars in your quest
what if the answers are not out there at all
but inside your primordial soul

This next piece of art has to do with the grail mysteries. It seems to literally represent the place behind the veil where our primordial soul originated.

grail castel
Monsalvat by angiandsilas

TIME’S CHILD by Cosimopiro

1.
In Time’s distant mist
I was born
a supple thought,
a floating
whimsical spectre,
the subtle whisperings
of Sleep’s
passing visions,
no spine,
no body,
colourless,
odourless,
without lips
to utter my name,
no eyes
to see my form,
no ears
to hear my breath,
without touch
to feel my essence,
and yet I pulsed
within translucent walls
in search
for substance
in the infinity
of that moment.

2.
I am
born from night’s soft crest
and gently suckle
upon Moon’s golden breast.

At Sun’s yawn
I crawl from dawn’s embrace
and play with shimmering colours
of first morning grace.
In midday’s blazing sight
I stand proudly alone
to finally walk my unknown path
and call it my very own.
When nightfall beckons with sleepy song
I rest my weary bones
and into night’s deep sleep I repose
clutching a twisted cane.

In restful slumber
I dream a dream within many dreams
of a time I visited a distant land
now all but a fading memory, it seems

I picked this next work because one of my favorite myths are the ones similar to the swan maidens and selkies. They are myths of beautiful faerie women that are swans or other animals but when captured by a human man they turn into beautiful women. There is deep symbolism in these myths of our desires and longings for union with our source. This image seems to capture that longing.

koi
Koi by Manolya F.

Our Design by Hector A. Encinas

Mannerisms change,
Opinions change,
Destinations change,
The past gets written and
The present slowly evolves,
Into the future.
men fade,
Into another blank page in history.

In the history of man
almost everything changes.

There are only
“strange”
Recurrences in between,
And there is
Sex.
And there is death;

Two faces on the same coin.
And alike,
Both equal

They are
Birth

And they are renewal.

Sex,
is the light of a new generation.
Death,
Opens the doors of perception,
Into our elaborate imaginations in which
We conceive
Our own design.

One of our greatest abilities as humans is our gift of transforming pain and sorrow into beauty. This next image shows that in an almost fluid-like way.

phoenix
Phoenix by SFlora

This next poem, well I can’t really tell you what it “means” and that is exactly why I love it. It seems to stir something in my subconscious and I put it with the last image because it feels dreamy and fluid-like too.

Undone but not done by Erich Biemer

crow is on the line about omens
omens of thumb prints
on red ochre skies
smelling of ghost blood

it’s hard to pay attention
as a neighbor vacuums
up another universe

as another brother,
black bear
performs a requiem
for the poles

too tired for an easy fiction
too warm i hang up
undone but not done
to tell him
the ghost blood is mine

Well there is no stronger image for this time of year than the image of the Christ child and the madonna. The birth of the sun bringing back the light into the darkness of our lives.

madonna
Madonna by Shanina Conway

Butterfly by Drew Trotter

I
Her life’s flame illuminates from within
The sanctum of your belly, your essence and hers, entwine
in an intricate balance of fertile beauty
your being and body nurture her fire.

II
Within the welling waters of your womb
our little butterfly flutters her wings and dreams
of life outside.

III
You are goddess, mother, full moon rising
to nourish and sustain the life of Lucy Lu, our baby
who emerges under the eye of Artemis
in high tide of the full moon dancing
through occluded February sky.

Sometimes I think that god is music and this next painting makes me feel that even stronger.

troubadour
Troubadour by Caleb Hamm

A Disclaimer of God for God by Blake Steele

There is a dead way to think about God,
a way of oppressive connotations:
a baggage ladened, bickering,
constrictive way; a gray way,
all pinch-nosed and guilt riddled
of an angry old man in the skies,
or of three prudish guys — the status quo
we’ve institutionalized.
I would like for you to set all that aside
if you can, and consider with me a second way:
a way of glacieral freshness, of deep belly laughter,
of love’s naked longing, of star spattered vastness
and the eruptive white spume of whales —
of delirious songs of birds drunk on berries.
It is about the greatest freedom you have ever known;
the wildest abandonment in beauty!
and a light that melts you
every time you see it shine in a human eye.
It is about the repose of a rose garden
in a face you instantly love…
and the greatest fairy tale of sacrificial love come true!
It is a Voice that captures your heart forever…

Or, being electric with life — like the Wild Christ!
Shaking your head in a dance,
refusing oppressive existence,
breaking open until you are brimming with life
— being crazy with love —
spinning in wild circles, singing
for no one — not even yourself —
just because you must sing to say it
and move in it, the eternal spume,
the gurgle in the gut: drunk and giddy,
angry and blatantly sober —
snapping the chains!
Passionate and flaming,
thirsting and howling,
green and all growing,
falling and flowing,
forgiving and free —
like a river!

When I mention the God name,
please know that I’m referring
to this second, more primal way

Okay, so that is it for this week. All I can say is Wow, you people inspire me and have brought the light into the darkness of my winter today!

brightest blessings,
Tammy, aka MoonSpiral

Features 7-11-10

Our little group, not so little anymore, is overflowing with amazing imagery. I am a traditional artist myself, and so my eye tends to wander to traditional art first. Not because I love it more, but simply because it is my craft and I understand it more. Traditional art is definately in the minority in Touched by Fire, and so this week I wanted to highlight some of our outstanding traditional works. The writing I chose for this week is all centered around the themes of human greed, lonliness, loss, despair and the illumination that these emotions bring. It is not that I feel particularly dark today, but I feel that as we reimagine the world we need to understand our darkness. We can’t change what we don’t understand. Sometimes it is our darkest places that teach us the truth of who we are as humans.

Waiting For the Sunshine
Waiting for the Sunshine by LisaMM

I love the feeling in this piece, the waiting for change, metamorphosis, or rebirth. The cycles of death and birth are also in this poem by lolowe. It is written in a dreamy metaphorical cadence, speaking of death, but also of life.

The Layer of Death’s Tree

Before I escaped
The drought my ancestors created
I watched my mother sleep
I saw her face smooth out
The apple core in her hand
The last of its kind
Fell to the floor
Within the withered brown
Of its paper thin core
It held a black seed
I took it
So she would know
I left to plant ourselves
A new world

I am a thief
This I know
But my place in this life
Has become worn down
By the emptiness continuously
Digging out the illusions from our eyes
Like coal from a mine
We are left barren
And without the use of tears
The diamonds pressed into the
Furnace of our bellies
Lack the fire needed
To mourn the passing of what we
Once knew

I had a dream the night before

I woke to the sound of the world ending
I found the courage to run
But instead
Found my feet journeying
To the source of the sound
It was there I found an ocean
It was not the world
But the crashing of waves against
Each other
I wanted to taste
The legend of waters just like this
And slowly I leaned over
To find silvery fish
Swimming in the shed of their own scales
Not water
Just themselves discarded
Sustaining what they knew
In their evolution

I felt the cloak of my skin
Tremble
I wanted to swim
In the fluidity of my own
Body
But found
That I had nothing to shed
Nothing to
Give
Nothing to keep me
Afloat

But I had a seed
The onyx remainder
Or a world lost
I took it to my mouth
The water of my tongue
Cradling it
Wishing it life
And it broke it open
Sprouted within me
A temple

I couldn’t swim
In the scales of fishes
I couldn’t
Cry the gemstone tears
Long since excavated
But I could bring life
To a layer of Death’s own tree
The apple core soul
Shining red
Reminding me of the skin
Still clinging to my mother’s lip

White Leather and Chrome
White Leather and Chrome by Secretplanet

What can I say about this image. This is amazing figurative work. I predominately paint women, I think men are harder to draw. To me this work just shows the beauty of the human form. The man seems lost in his own thoughts or possibly in meditation. This next poem by Gretchen Cello hints to the eternal now moment and the losing of oneself in quiet contemplation. It is the illumination that comes with the letting go of self.

Ingredients of Purified Proximity

Initial appearance. Greeting morning.
Clouds break. Illumination. Cream. Skin. Slide.
Tracing shape, fit puzzle pieces. Soaring.
Simmering syllables. Low boil. Inside.
Gestures of questioning undermine fact.
Speak to me. In stories. Turning up voice.
Bodies. Introduced. Reinvent react.
Hushed aspiration of becoming… choice…
Awaking to dream. Physical presence.
Absorbing observation. Sacred look…
Ocular mandala. Gold. Transcendence.
Unspoken. Devotion. Fresh chapter book.
Elimination of time, distance, space.
Perpetual. Dejavu. Finding. Place.

Colibri
Colibri by Erika

Just a beautiful painting with a beautiful poem attached to it. The woman in the painting is dreaming of a new world, and I believe we all have the power to dream up a new and better and more colorful world. In this next poem by Purplecactus the trouble with our world is blamed on one source, money.

Too Much is Never Enough

Such a simple word
A single syllable
Spoken in whispers
Shouted in pain
Mouthed in silence
Screamed in anger

This, the cruellest of
Emotions
Unrequited by some
Lost by time
Unobtainable for many
Stolen by others

Destroyer of lives
Ripper of hearts
Killer of families
Crusher of hope
Harbinger of sorrow

It gives us no choice
Sometimes it’s power
Sometimes it’s sin
Money, for many
Too much is never enough

It strikes like a virus
No warning or cure
A life spent without it
Is no life at all
So we risk all these things
In the name of love

Burden
Burden by Redqueenself

I am always a sucker for symbolism. Here Redqueenself is presenting a symbol of women as the bearers of humanities burdens. I really liked how she put the apples on the water jug, hinting to the dominate religious views that women bear the burdens simply for eating from the tree of wisdom and life. In this next poem by Anthea Slade she speaks of the fragility of life. I also liked the symbolism she uses to get her point across.

Fragile

An untouchable eagle soars high above
the mountains to the heavens
powerful, majestic beauty wings outstretched
but can be dropped earthbound
by one hit of the hunters bullet.

Life can rise you out of the ashes,
smiling free falling with smooth caress
then boom, crash you are hit
Achilles knew the spot on that heel…ouch…
Jack and Jill fell down the hill.

Indeed, how very precious this one life is!
How sacred it is to breathe in
to breathe out
to touch the breast
and feel that red muscle pounding life…
powerful yet so achingly vulnerable.

You can skip and play
You can dance the day away
Hip Hop cool staccato moves
Step and flow hot Latin grooves
You can talk and smile
and live a life of dreams for a while
but when it hits you fall you STOP.

In black silence you crawl
and creep along holding the wounds
in slow motion life returns to the basics.
Your heart opens so wide bursting
with gratitude just to know that
one breath follows another and you
can still taste and can feel love.

Like a child, a tender baby
your survival needs are all that count
smiling it is enough to feel the breeze
on your cheek and to see
the suns rays dance through the shadows
on your window pane.

Turning points
Crossroads
Competition
Empowerment
Challenge
Stress
EGO… it all fades and your eyes
glisten as rain drop tears scud
down your cheek and a smile breaks
and then dances…ah you are ALIVE.

And life is Beautiful.

Lest we forget just how fragile we are.

Titok
Titok by Cynthia Lund Torroll

Once again I am amazed by the artist’s ability with a male subject. In this work the man also seems to be lost in his thoughts. With the moon over his shoulder you get a dreamy feeling to this. Something about the positioning of his hands makes him seem powerful in his ability to dream and to create. In these words by Hector A. Encinas, there is a feeling of the mundane of life. It is almost as if the subject has lost his ability to dream of new world as he is lost in the grey of life.

Grey Afternoon’s

Shave;
Shower,
Go to sleep.

Lost in the madness of a dream;
In a minutes lifetime.

Will I wake again?

Will I wake;
Smitten,
in sour hands,
Of another routine day.

This is just jail,
To those who have to wake up in mornings,
And work for such unusable standards.

I find myself taken;
Yet again,
By another grey afternoon.

Bewilderment,
Drapes the eyes of the dead beat corps,
On the bed.

Letting go
Letting Go by Helene Ruiz

Everything that Helene paints seems to come from a place of deep emotion. This work is no exception. She is paying tribute to a friend that has passed. This last poem by Linaji echoes this sentiment as she is missing a dear friend that she feels the busy pace of life is making them grow apart.

For a Girl With a Heavy Heart I Love You

I don’t know what to say,
so I feel,
I wanna say something is brewing
but what?

climbing vines
nostalgic need
strangling off the tree for a life of it’s own
roots that lift cement walkways
unfolding in low murmur:

“this is not enough, I am growing”

peeling paint where essence of Cedar lay
smell begins tri color release

“here I am!”
you pray

you say…
“life’s dissapointments
cannot hide my smell”

It lingers now (your scent)
full of wants and desires
that are soaring off the charts.

like a forest of forgiveness
like a sky-way lit up with dreams

you wrote in parchment pieces
made from mythical meaning

“I will have mine and I will envy too
Because;

Sometimes, I just cannot love you
when all that I am still does “

Slowing as I look deep inside
this beguiling soft core

I hear her once more saying
without any reservations;

“forgive for now, yes?
but you already do
I feel you
I shall still be like a soft whisper
in your shadows
where the cool space of knowing
exists.”

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.

TBF Group Features – Week of April 4, 2010

Fellow blog/art lovers: it’s that time of the week again. We urge you to visit these talented artists and experience their work more closely.

In the chapel by Auquier

I like trains by ArcadiaTempest

I like trains and the tracks people make in their lives, understanding fascinates the watcher.
Thoughts about life, the picnic, the clean up afterwards and which clothes best fit now.
Surely we must notice each other on the days we wait to catch our train or at least there’s a wait together for a while.

The young women waiting for their train with expressions of derailed love deflecting their loneliness in the busy click clack of their chatter.
“ Love your coat!”
“ Thanks, he gave it to me”
“ The colour really suits you ”
“ He said it would”
“Oh… he must have really really loved you ”
The coat hangs on her frame with rebuttal , the colour scoring her skin a ten in jaundice but she doesn’t mind , he had loved her enough to buy her some warmth.
I watch and hold my tongue in an agitated place wanting to shout “ Get another coat that one is full of holes!”

The dirt chipped old man with his wily whiskers trailing around his chin, the tales of his past evident in the crevices of his skin leather.
His unsteady hand clasps a nurture of today in the warmth of a full swigging bottle. The depreciation of his story slurs more for the passerby that mark him down as lost, never to be found.
His spark that lit the fuse of his destiny may have burned too brightly too soon.
The smell of his life lives a high scent on his skin and it repels us giving us a reason to look away.
We shouldn’t be afraid to sit with him as he waits for his train on the wrong line. He is our father, brother, uncle, nephew and son. He smells of what we hope those we love shall never become.

I wonder if I have a watcher with tickets for my train ride, hope they nudge me and say hello. I do like to ride by myself but I am willing to share my seat even if I seem to be looking the other way protecting my thinking space.

© K S Hardy 2010

Rainy day by Elox


Troubles Everywhere

by oscarelizondo

Troubles Everywhere

What kind of fool do you think I am?
Why should I listen if you don’t give a dam?
Where are the roses I gave you last night?
When you came back did you make it right?

Who was it that you let unzip your jeans?
How did you expect me to take what it means?
Did you expect me to take it sitting down?
Was this outing the end of fooling around?

A fool I am not and to tango it takes two.
You heard daily that I meant it that I love only you.
I picked those roses from a garden in the flower shop.
Your promises meant nothing because you never stopped.

That person that takes your clothes off uses his passion.
Because many of your friends do it, it doesn’t make it a fashion.
When you return the next time I wouldn’t be here.
Your sexual encounters will not be a reason to cheer.

What kind of a person makes a fool of someone who cares?
Why do you neglect to hear my words and continue the dares?
Where am I when you flush the roses down the commode?
When I saw you riding around did hiding make it a cleaner rode?

Who will pay for those jeans that are dirty with filth?
How did you expect for my eyes not see your stinking guilt?
Did you expect for my job to sit and wait to be done by someone else?
Was your last outing a sign that the gases pedal you plan to rescale?

Only a fool in love with themselves finds reasons to throw away a life.
A husband listens to troubles that dare a couple with respect from a wife.
Providing the things you want keeps me busy at work to buy you roses.
Keeping a city safe is an occupation that you shouldn’t rub the people’s noses’.

The money I make pays for the bills and for the children’s many needs.
Watching you take advantage of their time and mind makes my heart bleed.
Someone has to work since you don’t even raise a hand to pay for the gas.
And I shall take the children with me and find a place because this is the last.

Copyright © Oscarelizondo Sunday April 4, 2010 12:12 PM

Vinyl Nut by Myn B


I makcufehtohwneht ©

by Hector A. Encinas

If the things you own inevitably own you.
Then who the fuck am I,
With nothing to give.
Pipers here,
What now?……
What now?……..

What now..


God’s Benevolent Love
by Rhenastarr

Looking down from heaven
God sent his radiant
Light of love
To his mighty creatures
Beneath the waters
His touch of love illuminated
Their liquid world
Instantly connecting them to
The wonder of his power
They swam in happy circles
As the warmth of his light
Caressed
Beauty was alive in their
Domain
Colors floating to them
Magnified in the glory that
Was gifted from above
They played in complete
Abandon
Feeling a security they
Had never felt
A peaceful feeling
Encircled them
They sang their joy
And appreciation
Sending it high into
The vortex created
By the light
Tonight the ocean was their’s
Alone
The water had never been
More clear
More relaxing in it’s calm
They knew this night was
Special
Their creator had given
Of his love in this glorious
Night of rapture
They savored the electric
Elation as it rippled
Across their bodies
To human ears
The songs they sang
Would be likened to
A psalm of praise
Of thanksgiving
Of glory personified
A blessed revelation
Beneath the blue waters
A gift from their creator
A cherished interlude
With his all encompassing
Light of love

Marie Harris (Rhenastarr) April 2, 2010


Couple
by Angilellajoseph

Have you ever watched a young person die? by wildwomenlove

Have you ever watched a young person die?
Watched them go by inches?
Way before their time?

Well I’m telling you
it does your head in
cos you just can’t rationalize it away

Your brain can’t file it
it just keeps going and going at it
like a shark
on a whale carcass

Usually we file grief
with the thinking
she’s had a good life…
she’s fulfilled her dreams…
she died quickly, it’s a mercy…
she was surrounded by those she loved…

and that golden oldie
time will heal…

But not at 6, 12, 27, 43, 52, 63
.

Its not about the death
its about the natural order
it’s about a life expectancy unfulfilled
it’s about marriages
and babies
and parties
and love

It’s about being robbed
and broken dreams

See parents expect their kids
to outlive them
partners make plans for combined futures
friends grow lives, with friends
and when death breaks
the natural order of things
It does your head in

as well as your heart

There’s just no rationalizing it away
Time doesn’t heal
there is no timeline for emotions

Go on play that song
you know you want to
the one you heard at your first heartbreak?
You’re 16 again
am I right?
in a nano

No time doesn’t heal jack shit
you’re just learning to live
with a broken bit

have you ever watched a young person die?
I have and it sucks…

© wildwomenlove poetry
20.03.10


DuskyPink Encircles Her Heart
by Anthea Slade

Dusky pink encircles her heart
Deep brown of his eyes
warms her with iridescent power
Her rose bud opens to heat of his stare
Her blue eyes smile as she feels
his eyes see only her.

With grace she follows
the contours of her heart.
Listening to that still soul voice
an alchemist she weaves the threads
of her life into a tapestry of redemption.

In style she moves with
the magnificence of a goddess.
Hugging each archetype within she
surrenders to a complete wild woman
raw she dances where shadow and light kiss.

Her woman’s odyssey unfolded
with courage she lives
beyond interpretation
Her mystery laid bare
naked she slides consciously
into total vulnerability –
raw she is the essence of beauty.

A butterfly with dusky pink wings
she glides from giant flowers
to hidden caves.
She expands her heart in
amazing ways.
Her knowing is from living
that she has transformed
to golden wisdom.

Water droplets tease her nipples
as the golden rays stroke her back
Her heart hot rushes liquid desire
as she reflects and reaches for her equal
her day her knight who knows and can holds her.
Finally she smiles.

Her emotions are an ocean of deep passion
she dives into hidden worlds where her red collides
with planets of venus and mars.
She is her inner child at essence and she
never lets pain make her crusty.
She allows her tears of beauty to wash away
all that is not needed so her eyes are free to see love.

She rides on the back of her horse
naked she dreams of her knight who glistens
His heart adores her as his masculine desire
sees her inner child and her womanhood at once.

A natural beauty she swims with dolphins
against the current. She holds her self
possessed, free she dances for her kings pleasure,
She exudes her feminine scent and
she glows of love that she feels unconditionally
for his masculine fire.

Drawn to his male energy,
her feminine intention becomes
fuel of their dance
Happiness at pure connection at the
reverence that they can honour the real
in each other, and it is beautiful.

Sensitivity is her birthright
she picks up the nuance of expression,
the subtle pulse of heart beat
A quiver of pleasure that races
to passion. She extends her heart
because compassion is as natural
as breathing for her.

She flies on the wings of a dove to her lover
With breast exposed she moves towards revolution
Their hearts connect and pulse in time
and he looks down at his beloved beauty
and says Ah I have finally found you my love…
you are to me the beautiful pink flower, the pure
essence of Sensitivity and Sensuality

By Anthea Slade 1 April 2010

XDDD by HollyGoLightly


Serial by Lisa Jewell

i was not going to write. i was going to sit in my green velvet wingback chair and stare into the dusk light and count down the change to pitch.

a random event, housing more voices than i can count, occurred. the voices ricocheted off my soothed chamber walls; disturbing me.

“dazed and confused” (Led Zeppelin)

between a pane and a colour palette, i felt abused.

the best line I’ve read in a long time
forced itself upon me
ripping at my skin
peeling back
the autumn (of my time) leaves

“i’m haunted by humans” (Markus Zusak)

i was not going to write. but how will I chase away. what will I eat?

if I made a fresco out of the words sent to me, i wonder what shape the design would form. would the light and shade be balanced with the colour?

i should not write tonight.

Longingby Tara Lemana