Features 3-13-11

I have to admit that I often pick art to be featured and then try to find writing that fits into some theme with the art. Today I went into the writing first and was a little spooked by all the poetry with the same theme. I am guessing it was the earthquake in Japan that roused peoples emotions. There were many poems on the theme of the earth and our treatment of her. Also Spring is beginning in the Northern hemisphere and it is almost as if you can feel the Earth awakening from her winter sleep. So these are the themes for the features today. The art all shows Earth energies through color and theme and lots of birds because they are returning now. The writing all seems to speak for the Earth herself. Enjoy!
egret
Great Egret by Rosalin

Mother Earth by LisaMeryl

Mother Earth is…

Paint by number
heaven and Earth
swimming in colour

Drowning in tears
consumed and raped
destruction for years

Beauty with grace
land and water
our sacred place

Full of rage
neglected and abused
confined by cage

The human race
past, present, future
time and space

Choking on pollution
blind and helpless
without a solution

Every living creature
great and small
our bountiful teacher

Looking for blame
man and war
a crying shame

tree
Blossoming Tree of Life by Elspeth McLean

There is an earth attached to my feet by Kristin Reynolds

Even when
I lift them up,
there are still invisible roots—
like gum on a shoe
on a day when the sun
is most high

like diamond
elastic violin strings playing
the sweetest song.

Ask the earth,
she will tell you the same:

how we are all long hearts
through the soles of her feet,
eternally bound
and in love,

A love
more precious than fruit

on a planet
full of starving men

who have never
even felt
the sun.

We are dancing,
each day we are
dancing!

at opposite ends
of the same
diorama,

in the space
between a butterfly’s wings
flying in the face
of heaven.

robin
The Robin by Selina Ryles

Fledgling by Hollyann

sing
little thing
your supper’s
on it’s way
from the mouth
of your mother
grubs and snails
to feed your song
and your growing wings

bird
From the (insert color here) sky by Lenny La Rue

It’s Time by cosimopiro

I have roamed this shaking Earth
but for a little while,
walked upon her skin
like scattered dust
and saw the scars
of what we’ve done
and tried to console
Her anguished pain,
but my touch alone
had small reach,
and those I encountered
who felt the same
was not enough
to embrace Her girth.
So in my helplessness
I withdrew
to a cave of my making
and found little comfort
in solitude
and lost my way.
So,
I awake now
with pleading words,
reach out
to those who care
and feel the same,
let’s take each other’s timid hands
and link
in one purpose,
to cradle this living world
in love’s ultimate light
for the One who has given
more than She can bear.

graces
The Three Graces by Cynthia Lund Torrell

The Flaming Hosts of Gaia by Blake Steele

We are all part of a wild, flaming company
holding the Earth
like a pearl in our translucent hands,
in our radiantly loving hearts.
We are dreamers within the Dream
of the Wide Awake One,
the Wide Open One,
in whose eyes of beauty
we roam through unseen beauty
created by the Beauty
in the act of seeing Beauty.
These truths are alive
just beyond time and space
— right now, right here —
in the tiny spaces
between bird feathers
between atoms,
between quarks,
down in the high
open empty space
of Pure Singing Light
flooding everything.

angel
Black eyed angel by Scott Black

The Angel Blue by Mohawk Man

3-11-10 @11:23am

the angel blue
for whom does she weep
for souls lost to
eternal sleep
or for the homeless
without a bed
or the poor mother’s
children that go unfed
do her tears wash the blood
caused by mans lust and greed
from the hands
of the monsters
that created this need
or will they cleanse humanity
of all of it’s ills
like crack, and dope,
and meth and pills
perhaps she cries
because the damage is done
and the battle is over
and evil has won

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Spread the Fire: Sacrifice like a babe in the belly

A touching, beautiful poem by Kristin Reynolds was worthy of a Spread the Fire feature:

Soon the walls will collapse,
the fields turn commonwealth gray,
the sun will become red
with tears—

while the moon recites Winken, Blinken and Nod
under covers with arsenic lace,
and the secret sunny-eyed pearl
I’m growing in the wicker-man’s
false-bottom garden,
will flicker
and spit at the shadows—

as time raises fists to fire
blowing a prison yard wind,
and deserts eclipse
every bone I’ve buried
like a dog

(a small god
who’s reversing her name)

whose tides are pinned
to her chest,
while her love of bones is suckled
torrentially painfully
dry

like long shafts of wheat
in my hair,

and foxtails
beneath my skin

after the burn of deluge.

I have given
and I have received
violets and black widows, both

with the innocence
of a dreaming child
picking wildflowers
from mother’s wild garden
on a clear
and warm Summer’s day—

for the love
I thought I’d forgotten
in my creases
of abalone skin.

© Kristin Reynolds 2 2 2011

First Features of 2011 – 02/01/2011

Here are the first features of the year. It is always a joy to do the features for Touched by Fire – there is so much interesting art and writing that the difficulty is deciding what not to include.

I am starting this journey off with a little house, an unusual house in a setting that seems to to draw you in.

SHELL HOUSE by © KEIT

SHELL HOUSE by © KEIT

And since the house looked like something from a fairytale it naturally lead me to this fantastic poem…

No Fairytale Ending by © kat86

What happens when you spend your whole life
Thinking you’re the ugly duckling who turns into a swan
Then you realise there is no fairy tale ending
and the hope you had is gone.

What happens when prince charming finds your slipper
But your foot is just too big
The frog you kissed goes missing
and your pumpkin turns out wrong.

Just because you dont love your reflection
Doesn’t mean the clouds will always rule
Look beyond the magic carpet, the jokers not always a fool
Don’t play the damsel, the world has enough distress

Heroes save your heart, you’ll have to do the rest.

In the neverending story of this thing that we call life
Your time is just beginning, don’t end it with a knife.
Just put on your overalls, wipe off the cinder ash
Finish your chores, steal from the chocolate stash.

Get your dress ready, dance with your bestfriend
Be home by midnight
A curfew is not the end.

There’s something special about this image. You’re not sure if she’s fleeing or running towards something. I like a bit of mystery.

...come Closer…...... by © CORA D. MITCHELL

...come Closer…...... by © CORA D. MITCHELL

Assuming that she was running towards something, I wondered if it might be the new year and all the things that might be on their way.

hello new day by © hollyann

the start
of the new three six five
lucky to be alive
and hovering on this new
extension
the light looks clean
and showing me out
of the tunnel

i am moving towards
the next horizon
and when things
feel an uncomfortable
fit
i twist and turn
until the landscape
bends
making amends
for the new seeds
and the new branches
poking through
the dirt

we are on this journey
together
your hand in mine
after all this time
we take the road
together
the road
less travelled by
mostly gravel
but leading to
the open sea

with sails unfurled
and winds caught up
we move across the
white capped waves
with telescope to eye
looking for first sight
of land

But life’s not always gentle and there might be some dark days ahead…

Dark Days by © Rebecca Tun

Dark Days by © Rebecca Tun

BUT there is always hope…

Adrift by © AnniG

Tonight I cast my sins, fears, tumultuous thoughts
upon the vast inky waters of this bottomless ocean
sending them to drift along the turbulent raging tides
to wash up upon your pristine sundrenched shore
buried on a coastal beach of bleached salty sand
to shrivel under the sweltering gaze of unrelenting
sun

perhaps you will hear the primal wails in sheer agony
perhaps you will pick and weigh them in your palm
perhaps you will rescue, cleanse, hold them close
perhaps you will breathe new life in purification
perhaps, you may even learn to live with them
perhaps you could learn to love this part of
me

maybe the new year will bring release
maybe it will come in time to let go
maybe I will finally be set free to
be

I loved this image for the focus on what’s important and the hope it makes me feel.

H-K264 by © hsien-ku

H-K264 by © hsien-ku

And the next poem seems to encapsulate all that I felt when I looked at the picture.

Circumnavigation by © Kristin Reynolds

It was dark when the light came
like a memory
like a firefly
like a nerve—

like the last of the fallen angels;
like the most beautiful thought
tossed off a bridge
in the quiet
and absolute still

of stars making waves below.

I find myself in this madness,
shaded and sharp
as a moment of glory;

curved
like the palm
of the moon;

two steps behind
never-ending.

I can’t say I was surprised
when the whistle blew
my hair back
like wheat in a gale—

or when the gods
poured down like
slow golden rain

from the crown
to the sea
to the wind;

to life growing seeds for angels

to will
to union
to root—

gifts of the being alone;

or when dawn
washed through
like infinite hands

anointing
my shroud
with the currency
of a perfectly fluted memory

with which
to see
in the dark

an arc
of bodiless
gold.

This next image impressed me with its composition as well as the feelings it evoked.

Wings of Desire IV – II When No One Comes by © Darren Vannoy

Wings of Desire IV – II When No One Comes by © Darren Vannoy

The next fabulous poem makes the perfect companion with its thoughtful whimsy.

WHEN WE SLEEP by © Kirrill D’Kainn

When midnight points to the moon
With the voice of wolfs
And when all winds motion bloom

The night … she replies

In the realm of fragrant foliage
Smooth are the sounds of shadows

Flights of silver owls feeding
In fashion of rose-mooned pearls
And the scent of carrion

A little true twisted crescent
The humour of this quintessence
Shift in daydreams of desire … and

The night … she replies

With melodies
That gather the spirits of rain … and
Pain of lightning struck twice

Strange and dying winds
Where desolation
Runs in rivers of cold gray sleep

End

However I wanted to end these first features of the year on a hopeful note and this image seemed to show me all the little tendrils of hope for the year just started.

Meditation of Green by © linaji

Meditation of Green by © linaji

May we indeed “step gracefully” through the coming year.

Doors of Life…. by © SimplyRed

Stained with life’s destiny
solidly standing
but gently framed
the doors of time
always slightly ajar
are closing fast

cautiously peering outwards
a gentle nudge of passage
the door creaks softly
hinges hung with peril…..
on threadbare scent of cedar

hold tight to my forever key
unlocking…
each knot of wood…
forged in place

my right of passage
peering along time aging corridors
onwards to the rapid hands of time
forever taunting….
slow the hands on the clock

please set them free
I want to stay in the real life
so many more memories
I want to take with me

realisations of harshness
tightening hinges
too young to surrender,
more things to remember
wishes sliding through key holes
close not my solid cedar door
instead …..
knock gently
and wipe your feet
softly ….
as we step gracefully
through life

I hope your enjoy the features and have a very happy New Year.

TBF features for the week of November 8, 2010

It’s been so long since I’ve had the opportunity to select feature works, so I’m very excited! I hope you enjoy this passionate and emotional picks.

 

Together agains the waves of life (by robinellenlucas)

we are
together
against the waves
of life…

take my hand
move forward with me
quietly
to discover…

only because i whispered it
only because i asked you

r.e.l. 10/23/10

 
Foolish girl (by Jet…)

Foolish Girl-
One sided heart.
You let it fall…

Foolish girl

 
Ange blanc by Auquier



50-Foot Barbie Has Some Questions About God by Margaret Bryant

 

Moonlit Hands by lolowe

Your hands
Resemble a leaf struck
By the moon
Veins
On a surface
Of transparent brown
Paper thin
Fragile
Shaking in the wind

 

Your Eyes by kashmirecho

I was wrong about your eyes. They are not blue. They are a golden hue- a color I’ve never seen before except maybe in a crayon box. Not a gold like 24K jewelry-a deeper color but still as bright-twinkling like a star. Glowing like war embers in a hot fire, especially when we hold each other’s gaze for more than a few seconds. The heat is in our eyes, I’m sure you can see it in mine too. I think our eyes were meant to meet.

 

ever-present by David Mowbray

 

Hello Grandpa by KLPJPhoto

 

Your Eyes by kashmirecho

was wrong about your eyes. They are not blue. They are a golden hue- a color I’ve never seen before except maybe in a crayon box. Not a gold like 24K jewelry-a deeper color but still as bright-twinkling like a star. Glowing like war embers in a hot fire, especially when we hold each other’s gaze for more than a few seconds. The heat is in our eyes, I’m sure you can see it in mine too. I think our eyes were meant to meet.

CONVOS WITH GOD THE 3:16 FILES by 8upchef

As I listen to you
Speaking through John
I am glad to have you
Sitting beside me
I have so many questions

Why did you send him
Why didn’t you come
Were you afraid
Was he afraid
Did it work

You sent you’re son
He whom you love most
Which is a better jesture
Than coming yourself
And we believe

You could not come yourself
That would be self serving
You teach us against that
We heed your warnings
And we believe

You were afraid
But not for yourself, for us
What we could self inflict
But you guided us
And we believe

Christ did fear
Not for himself
But for our deaf masses
But he made us listen
And we believe

It worked so very well
In him you sent lessons
You sent salvation
You sent your truth
And we believe

So thank you
For sitting here with me
And talking with me
For answering me
And putting me at ease

 

Orbiting Space and Coffee Rings by Kristin Reynolds

My Grandmother
hummed songs
to no-one—
to darkness,
to anyone

while circling
the rim of her coffee cup
with three crooked
middle fingers.

Half the time she would whistle—
half the time it was
just the click of her
long fingernails
seeking new orbits
from memory,
touching what she could
of earth;
holding her feet
down.

My five year old daughter
just asked her eight year old brother:
“Are you still blind?”
Just as I was about to write the next line
of this poem—
about how their Great Grandmother
was blind;
and how I figured,
that the reason she circled that coffee cup’s rim
was:
because touching anything
is better
than touching nothing.

No answer.
My daughter asks louder:
“Are you still blind?”
My son is Frankenstein armed, and grabbing
my shoulder;
I am staring in disbelief.
“Mom? Is that you?” he asks,
pretending around corners
through time.

I answer him—dumbstruck and smiling
at the way it all works, the clock guts
and genius of this whole operation—
“Yes, dear, it’s me.”

“Oh.” He answers,
then gone.

“Are you still blind!”
His sister yells
through space—through
hollow-mouthed threads

as I am circling
around the last time
I saw
my Grandmother’s face;

and how I just…

walked out
that door.

gone.

© Kristin Reynolds 11 7 2010

 

Verte Eco-Friendly by Shanina Conway

 

love and gravity 2-a tribute to Newton and Einstein by Frederic Levy-Hadida

Features for September 5, 2010

Ralph Waldo Emerson once said: “What lies behind us and what lies before us, are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.”

Our self history, the things we’ve experienced in life, and our future aspirations, those dreams that follow us even when we are awake, are merely glimpses of the soul we carry inside of us. All of us have a collective within our story, fragments and pieces of life, hope, loss, gains, longing, happiness… Sure we have weaknesses and make mistakes, and always will, but what sets humans apart is that there is a truth and grittiness that burns inside of ourselves that allows for personal growth. It is our spirit that makes us who we are. The only real theme for my feature selections is that each one depicts strong, raw, and true emotional moments. Together they form a collection of the fragments that make up what life is. Thanks to each artist for sharing a piece of what lies within their own souls for us to nibble on and gulp down.

My Lover Calls Me by Linaji

The luxuriously soft colors and lighting take me to another time and place. I sailed away into Lina’s ocean deeply feeling thoughts and calls of love from lovers-to-be.

my lover calls me by linaji

My lover is just around the corner,
I can almost hear my name
leaning into paradise he tells me
it is time now that I came;

with him in riding hearts desire
with him in sailing thorough

meeting on a moonlit night
my lover and I’s heartbeats true

To Be by Lolowe

To inundate your every breath with the essence of someone that has captured your heart, to feel their existence breathe life into you and a desire to breathe them into your world, to create a part of them that is a part of you also… oh ‘longing’, you deep crevice of emotion, you kill me every time. Lorna slayed my poetic heart with this inky black substance of a write.

In all of this
You cease to be
The torn paper
Shreds of my memory
But rather
You are the ink
Spilling out of
Each pause
Each letter inscribed
Into the flesh of
Blank whiteness
As a sea of black
An ocean of dark meanings
Rushing from the depths
Dripping into the beautiful
Makings that have become you

If I could
I would devour each word
That hinted at your name
Swallowing the sweetness
Of your image
Until I am one with
Everything
You are
I would brave
The torrents of tears
The stark depravity
Of a touch left cold
On my bare shoulder
Like the night’s own
Sorrowful kiss
If only for you
I could be

If only for you
I could be
Still

Fireflies & Dragonflies by Tracey Mac

fireflies & dragonflies by tracey mac
Upon first glance at this piece, I drew in the feelings of otherworldly dreams. Those hidden places in your heart that reside between half-asleep and half-awake. The rivers and mountains we create in our mind when we want something with every cell of our being. Tracey’s poem that accompanies the piece was the cherry on top.

Caught between the spiders web
Of love and lost
Somewhere between the moon and the sun
Fireflies and dragonflies
Skim over the surface
Of the way it used to be

Build me a rope ladder
Lead me through your dreams
Upon lace tipped wings
Through the shadows of your thoughts
Between prisms of hope
Take me back….to where it all began

Virginal by Thomas W. Richardson

The raw desire in this, the brutal truth that the writer is expressing about sexual craving and (unwanted) abstinence. Such self-awareness and honesty really grabbed at me like a breath of fresh air.

I am virginal
I have alighted my own desires
At night in bed
When only possums are watching

I am virginal
I have loved and felt No’s returned
And girls saying ‘I have a girlfriend’
And awkward pauses
Where neither of us
Say what we are truly thinking

I am virginal
To human flesh
But not to the sanitising discreetness
Of toilet paper
And washable bed sheets

I am virginal
And beyond the pacifying
Labels of straight
Gay or Bisexual
Knowing that any orgasm will do

I am virginal
In biology only
I have had
All kinds of sex in my head
And I have violated
All sorts of taboos
In my minds eye

I am virginal
And it means nothing
And is nothing
I am not Christian Boy Scout
Waiting until marriage
Or the right person
I want you
To take me home
And the dirtier it is
The better I will feel….

I am virginal
Returning to the thought
Any orgasm will do
And any closeness
With any person
Would shatter me
And I would leak pleasure
From my appendage
And be no longer virginal
And more in tune
With the sex in me

a letter before dying by sesheshet

‘If only’, ‘what if’, ‘why’… I felt every piece of every letter in this write that is soft as powder yet still able to cut into me. Losing a loved one is devastating to the heart, but to lose someone who left us by choice is something inexplicable. Many times children are often left in the wake of the storm long died out, without a guide map as to how to not blame themselves, how to realize they were still loved and it’s just that the person was very broken. Such a painful subject written with a beautifully tender pen.

I stand before you naked as the day I was born.

Remember how I told you I peed on the doctor,
when he called me a “Porky, little thing!”
two minutes after taking my first breath

and how my mother laughed…

Do you know:
I would give anything to hear her laugh?

And I wonder, as the tears roll down my face freely—
eclipsing any metaphor, for tact—
all I can think about is how you could do that to me.

How could you do that to them?

I am the morning dove on the branch,
watching the coming of new day
alone,
wishing only
for yesterday’s dream of myself.

And when the darkness of your being
and not being
any longer,
crushes my heart to black diamonds:

those remaining will fall.

Everything falls through fingers eventually,
cracks have their way with the clocks
every-time.

I promise you:
one day those babies will crack
(like I did, that May 1979)
and all they will want in the world is to hear
you laughing.

And they will wonder how it was you could leave them…

And I will be there to hold them like my Grandmother did with me,
telling them,
“He always loved you, you know. It was never your fault…”

(But they will know how it was in their hearts,
and no words will convince them otherwise.
They will know:
they were never enough.)

Those left behind are still
the red dawn through mist
rolling through the gulf in the valley;
led through the scars
over cool mountain water—
(helpless to stop the will of the corpse in your head
as it dances, rejoicing your freedom from here)

straight to the place you say I will find your suit
after you’ve become all and everything.

Remember when I told you I loved you,
with eyes made of trust and the feathers of doves?
These are the same eyes that found my mom’s body
puking those white feathers
up—

before
she was done laughing
for good.

Perhaps you will see in their eyes
their wishes before you are gone
(oh! How I wish I could have seen hers!);

pluck a white bird
from each of their eyes
and let them sing your heart back together
with fibers from their own nest of being—

so they will not have so much dark road to walk
to reach this retched moment of naked;

and the circle snake eats its own head

yet again.

© Kristin Reynolds 8 30 2010

Taken by F. Magdelene Austin

The self-awareness mixed with spirituality gave me wings in this piece. It made me look deep inside and grab hold of those moments when we receive clarity about our lives and see it in a new way. Awareness of the mind and how to direct its thoughts, beliefs and emotions, opens new avenues of possibility.

taken by f. magdelene austin

Artist’s Note: “This is a very spiritual piece depicting a figure rising in lighting mixed with mist. The figure is surrounded by colors representing all spectrums and levels of self awareness.”

at worlds end. (don’t you cry tonight) by Martin Muir

I so want to be a woman in one of Martin’s ethereal pieces. This is truly a zen moment, lying in peace feeling one with nature and oneself. Thanks to Martin for taking me to this fantasy place in my mind. Artistically, this piece is perfect.

at worlds end by martin muir

because you’re crazy! by lilAj

I was taken by the way this sensual piece spilled out line by line, filling my senses with many flavors of pleasure. Completely seductive writing with a sweet little twist at the end. It brought a smile to my heart as it made me remember a love who once told me the same thing.

its not for wanting
to hold you
where your back narrows, spills
into hips;
not the need to reason
leisure’s lease,
broderie anglaise fingertips
down your sides;
to pull you too close to breathe—

it is not to
find
your lips are-
as tender as they appear;
lemonade,
sea-side dawn

sunrise stirring

veridian gardens~
though
i swear…
i could kiss you
into the morning of a next day

its because you’re crazy

I am freely, prisoner
to the unpredictable
motions of your body-

the slightly tame,
last-for-a-moment, random
trace of your fingers
across my arm;
watching you slow dance to
a wild rhythm
the world around you
fails to hear.

and oh

the heaven-come-down rush of adrenaline,
melt of thoughts
when your bright eyes unravel mine

I am willing captive
to the spontaneity
of your sounds-
my name swaying on your voice
the “what if’s and “amens”
the thrill of uncalled for anecdotes
the lost on the wind murmurs
the rush of moans and whispers,
like me’s and caramel wishes

baby giggles, liquid smiles—
riverlets drowning
delicate silence
the jasper tinge of your

cheek-flushed smile
as your insides curl to scream
and fill the air with crisp,
uncharted laughter.

no,its not love borne on
your body’s confection,
confessions of ‘tell-nots’

I love you simply because—

you’re crazy

Women rise by msdebbie

It is disheartening to me that women still fight to find validation in our world as something more than simply home-makers, emotional beings, and mothers. While those are beautiful rights that we own with pride, there is so much more to us. We are leaders, advocates, warriors, and problem solvers, full of compassion, hope, and creativity. Kudos to Deb for embracing the power of the feminine spirit.

Memory is an oddity
As I fall to a half-sleep slumber.
I feel my brain condense,
Converge, around an elusive number.

When millennia is stored in history
As bitter, twisted falsehoods and lies,
I know, you want to grind me into dust,
But like a once-caged phoenix, I’ll rise.

Does my subtle sexiness upset you?
What gives you the right?
I walk with dangerous curves,
And know just how to rise.

I am certain, like moons,
Like suns, like tides, I abide.
I am hope shining through clouds,
And you know – I shall rise.

I care not for that tone;
Cut by the loathing of your eyes,
Bullet-shot by your vile words,
And yet – you know – I shall rise.

Is the dismissal of strong women offensive
To you? How could it come as a surprise?
Women dance with the knowledge of diamonds
And treasure at the joining of thighs?

What part of some men want women broken?
Ashamed, with bended knee and downcast eyes?
As shoulders collapse, falling like teardrops,
He feels strongest only when she cries.

Throughout history’s shame,
Women rise.
Regardless of past pain,
Women rise.

Think of a red sea, swelling,
Women rise.
Nights of terror and fear overcome,
Women rise.

Greeting daybreak so clear,
Women rise.
As for the power-mongers?
They die.

Farewell by Mariska

Loss is a seemingly unsurmountable emotional to deal with. The feeling never goes away but with hope and a prayer we can eventually find peace. Mariska's beautiful painting depicted a little of both feelings.. the tender longing of a mother wanting to shelter her child, wishing her alive, and the textures, colors, and warm embrace of the daughter giving each of them a sense of love and peace. Thank you, Mariska, for sharing such a vulnerable memory in such a beautiful piece of art.

farewell by mariska

In the words of the artist:
“Dedicated to the memory of Terez Som my dearest daughter…
….We held your hand, kissed you goodbye,
which left us all feeling sad,
but deep down in our hearts we knew,
that you were feeling glad….”

In the arms of an angel by Sherri Nicholas

Some people feel angels are otherworldly creatures designed to guide and help us, others believe angels are the spirits of humans who do the same; I think it can be both. This beautiful piece by Sherri reminded me of the guidance and support that we have in our life, and gave me a feeling of appreciation for all those in my life (spiritual or human) that have helped me through the ups and downs of life.

in the arms of an angel by sherri nicholas

Words from the artist: “The wings of a beautiful Angel fully cover us with their love and protectiveness.
So many times I know and felt my Angel with those beautiful wings holding them over and around me in my fear of an almost accident or a almost or almost most anything that could have been!!!
Sherri
I find myself painting because when I have pain which I do alot that art helps me heal and feel better because I get so into it that I forget..most of the time..at times nothings help, but I feel that the angels and God are here for me..thru prayer and art.”

what little there is left by greeneyedlady

Sometimes the ghosts in our heads that chase us unendingly can be our own self. They can linger in our mind with thoughts that haunt us unceasingly, when in reality they are begging for us to let go. A powerful (and therapeutic) write.

she swims up at me
from the darkest night sky
her eyes like black fire
her teeth bared and looming fast
she wraps herself around me
a grip so cold it burns
she is Truth in glowing glory
she shines her light
and i diminish as she grows
she has me now
what little there is left
i feel her like a death
i buck and writhe
and wretch at her touch
that part of me that needs to die
she is forever
and coming for me
from the darkest night sky

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.