Touched by Fire features (week of December 26, 2010)

Hello, dear friends. So… it’s time for 2010’s last features. Please enjoy this assorted bits of passion from our Touched By Fire artists and writers. May you cherish all within your life, this and every other night of the year.

My best to you, Duffboy

 

Iceman by Gabriel Forgottenangel

 

Vision by LisaMM

 

[couldesac II] by Bande I part

 

Light by Rishani Sittampalam

 

Miami by Isa Rodriguez

 

catch the wind by vampvamp

 

Culture Shock by lovelyrita

I will never be like you
With your beer bottle in hand
Your hair a parachute, land
on the floor, big feet small shoes.

You wave your Budweiser high
in the air where all can see.
You’re buzzed and you’re a beauty
still – your hands reach for the sky

And I watch you raise the roof
From my lonely letter seat
Wearing shoes to match my feet
I’ll look for lingering proof

That the lettuce you’re eating
tastes like the leaves on my dish
Despite my desperate wish
for flavor’s visit’s fleeting

In each fork and dress and square –
And even your figure-eights
Dry like wine you pour like greats
I add salt and pepper there

You’re a doll and I’m a wolf
Village moppet, discount rate.
Pour another, stand up straight
The camera’s on you.

 

through the vines by robin ellen lucas

through the vines
connecting my blood to infinity
i move so that i can water
your roots.
they reach out to me so…
each with its own strength, its own sound
its own breath, its own life
yet moving together as one.

i find you
where you are raw
not dark
but vulnerable
needing to be held
to feel safe
my breath, my attention
to your every need
your every call for touch
to be an open room
for you to pour your soul into.
you ask that of me
and i hear you.

your warmth has the power to soothe
and pierce me
to puncture the balloon
where i keep my secrets
can you feel it now?
as a bit seeps out
released in the air, to the open
to find its way
no longer trapped, no longer secret.

a veil between you and me
its thin yet it covers
that which we need to protect
until time opens its wings for our flight.

r.e.l. 4/7/10

[ as also posted on my blog … entitled, through the vines ]

 

DO IT, IT’S CHRISTMAS by HamperRefuser

I would love to stay
But
Apparently I am leaving
Not
Through choice
I
Do not control
My
Own being
For
I
Have
People to do that for me
In
This stilted way
How
Could
I
Think
In
This
World of confusion
Fuse on
The means of giving
Buy into it
It is
Christmas
A great
Excuse
For
Armed robbery
And taking someone’s
Soul
That they trapped
In
Commercialism
And
Consumerism
What I take is worthless in
Truth
As it is unessential
To cling onto
That
Idiot box
Think for yourself
And
Be there
For
One
Other
In spirit
Not
For
Financial
Purpose
Merry Christmas
Blinded buyers
Of my
Product
I
Am
Pleased
It is
Always
Coca Cola
Is Santa’s
Suit
Green
Not
Red?

Oops
I screwed you idiots
Over
And over
Again.

 

Rape by ShadowDancer

A smile appears on your face
as you pillage her body and
discard her soul;
as if you told a timid joke
that she could hear
but not understand.

Pain gushes inside of her,
rushing forth like blood
from a morbid wound;
it’s a knife that twists her heart
into a tangled pile of hate.

She is now
but a small scar on the world.
She would rather enter the throne of Hades
than relive that fate-less moment,
for it has reduced her to a painful fear
that she is unable to ignore;
a fear that causes
her to live in a frozen world,
one where she watches
others moving forward
yet she herself no longer knows
how to move on.

You touched her for your own sick joy,
to fulfill some twisted fantasy,
while removing her ability to feel.
You never thought of love or trust,
of the way a woman dreams for it to be.
This is why you are not a man,
you are a serpent, cold, calculating,
and always searching for your next prey,
shedding your skin in between
as if you could so easily discard
the terrible things you do.

She will survive your
probing fingers
and your coy smile possessing no shame.
But you- you have the blood
of her free soul on your hands,
a part of her soul that will forever be pillaged.
This is a mark that will never fade,
even when you change your skin
and smile at the next pray
with your forked tongue
and slithery heart.

Go ahead,
pray for your own soul, bastard,
be assured that no one else will ask
for God to give you mercy,
the mercy you never thought to give to her.

 

Flowers for Kathleen – In Memory of Kat (journal entry) by lilynoelle

A beautiful artist and writer has left us. In memory of her, I would like to start the “Flowers For Kathleen” project: submit a photo, painting, or poem revolving around a flower. Title it “A Flower For Kat” or “Flowers For Kathleen,” etc. If we can come together and do this, it will be a beautiful reminder of our commitment as artists to stick together, and – more importantly – a good memorial for a woman who only lived 23 years.

Here is a link to one of her lovely poems: http://www.redbubble.com/people/katcollins
And here is a link to a beautiful artwork: http://www.redbubble.com/people/katcollins/art/5685684-1-dreaming-about-tomorrow

Peace

Lily

 

Car Wreck by kashmirecho

We were in a car. You were driving, an odd thing because you never drove. I was always the driver. But for some reason you had to pick me up in my car. You were driving my car. I was the passenger. We were driving on the interstate, driving at interstate speeds. We were talking. I don’t remember exactly what about. But you turned and looked at me, with this look on your face. I knew in that instant there was no stopping you. You looked back at the road and yanked the wheel to the left directing us into the median. No stopping us now. I don’t think I even had a seat belt on. I lunged at you and held onto your waist for all dear life. I held on. I held on. I closed my eyes and held on. We crashed. The car crashed. Other cars crashed. There was smashing and grinding and metal scraping. It was a car wreck on the interstate. You caused it and I couldn’t deny it, there was evidence everywhere. But I did not let go of you. I held on. I held on to you because you are all I needed and you needed me worse.

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Flying towards freedom – challenge winner

This challenge originated from Moonspiral‘s recent feature picks: “writing that conveys the feelings of spreading your wings or defeating your fears”.

The most voted work was Hope is a thing with feathers by gaele

The silenced voice speaks again within the confines of my mind, I want to paint. That’s what I want to do. I want to paint this to-grey-day. I don’t want to do anything for you!

He comes over and looks at me. I can see he is worried.
He asks, Are you sure you’re alright?

I heave myself out of bed and walk to the kitchen. A Willy Wagtail darts after an insect. Someone told me the wagtail is a harbinger of doom, of death, of unmistakable misery. I don’t think so. I watch the fan of its tail unfold flirtatious as the rustling silk of a Japanese courtesan, dramatic as a flamenco dancer. I pull my dressing gown tight and clumsy around my body. Everything is painfully dark inside me. I don’t want to shower or get dressed. I don’t want to brush my hair. I put some music on. Cucurrucucu paloma, the lament I’m hungering after. A rosella, closely followed by another, flies across the seasonal purples of Autumn, the billowing Tibouchina, the wild asters. Like paint their bodies streak brilliant blue and red across my garden. Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay cantaba, the sound touches a sadness so deep within, I cannot claim it as mine, deeper than muscle memory, wider than gene imprint. I just want to submerge myself until I’m saturated with this no-start, no-finish unexplainable sorrow.

Softly the night wind singing
Tells me it’s bringing my love to me
With every breath it’s sending
Love never ending across the sea
My heart and I are trying
To keep from crying
But we are lonely
Fly little bird go winging

He’s standing in the doorway now, yelling, turn that fucking noise off! What do you think you are doing? I’m trying to read my newspaper! Turn it off!

I think I’m laughing. I swirl around and around. I see him but I am not here. I turn slowly, my feet no longer touch the ground. I am soft, I am feathered, I am flying. My wings make a whistling noise as they slice effortlessly through the air…

Features – 23/05/2010

My turn again. 🙂

I love doing features as there are so many fabulous images and great writes to choose from. The only difficulty is that I can only choose six of each. 😦

This time I’ve chosen portraits for the image features. There’s something about the face that’s amazing and these are all wonderful. See for yourself.

The first one is

The Illusion by Cynthia Lund Torrol

I love the emotion and the mystery int his one. And it includes one of the most amazing flowers ever – the Bird of Paradise flower.

The Illusion by Cynthia Lund Torrol

The Illusion by Cynthia Lund Torrol

I’ve teamed it up with

i know everything by greeneyedlady

i know
the depth and breadth
of everything you felt for her
i know the joy
and the elation
i know the sadness
and the devastation
i know everything
you’ve tried to hide
every sweet nothing
every passionate embrace
and every tortured goodbye
i know
i’ve seen it all there in your eyes
you try to pretend she didn’t matter
you try to convince yourself
that you can come back
and i will fill the void
and you think i don’t know
that you’re losing the battle
but i know everything

The second one I selected is

It’s about time by Terry Hinkle.

There’s something so fabulous about this. It makes you wonder what she’s thinking, who she’s looking at.

It's about time by Terry Hinkle
It’s about time by Terry Hinkle

I thought this one worked well with

Sex, death and violence

by Chitrali

Tonight I want sex and violence,

And death.

Oh yes, Death – not of many, not grisly, not butchered nor ‘arty’…
just ‘that’ Death.
Literally.

Yes, ‘that death’ of ‘that one’.
Y’ know the one I mean.

I want to let The Beast out.
I want it to rip and tear and shred to pieces that,
Which it must.
Serve, it’s own justice.

For in ‘that death’, lies it’s own slaying.
For with ‘that death’, there may be no more Beast remaining,
After, either.

With ‘that death’,
I might begin to be born anew…

After all, aren’t all births violent and red?:
A near-death, of one to create another?
A near-death of 2, to become one?

With ‘that death’, sex and violence,
Re-born,
like no other.

One of her many fabulous poems. 🙂 This on struck my with it’s intensity and power.

Perfect Day, Elise by Duffboy

was my third choice. I know, I know, it’s not a portrait, but it qualifies for mystery. This caught my eye the first time I saw it and I just loved it. 🙂

Perfect Day, Elise by Duffboy
Perfect Day, Elise by Duffboy

I teamed it up with

MR. FREER (EMMA)reworked by 8upchef

Monday 13:59
John Freer walks along Ludlow Avenue. A stranger calls out, “Come to the Freebird Baptist Church! Hear the VanZant Choir perform!” Freer accepts a brochure from the crier, and walks on. On the Back is written,

Ms. Emma Mays
14 W 40th
Ovarian. Inoperable

John drops the brochure in the next trash can, and carries on.

Tuesday 8:10
Ms. Emma Mays feels, what she believes is a mosquito, on the back of her leg, and waves it away.

Tuesday 8:12
Emma boards the #8 headed uptown. She sits in her favorite seat, lays her head back, and closes her eyes forever.

Wednesday 15:16
John enters his apartment to find a single Red Rose and a card. It reads simply…

John,
Thank You!
Emma.

John’s heart warms, as a vibration comes from his phone.

This is one fabulous story – just the bare bones, work it out yourself – but marvellous because of it. I love the way it includes the reader and makes the reader flash out the gaps.

My next choice was another not quite portrait, but again it qualifies for mystery and I love the way the light has been used.

Tracey Mac‘s When hope and dreams are far away

When hopes and dreams are far away by Tracey Mac
When hopes and dreams are far away by Tracey Mac

I thought it goes well with

Janis Zroback‘s story The Old Place

At the end of the story I had all those questions and loved the fact that I got to make up the answers all by myself… 🙂

The Old Place

Frank wanted to drive up to the Old Place one more time..

I didn’t want to go…after all we had not been there for more than 30 years and it had changed hands many times since then…why rake up the past!!..too much had happened there that I did not want to revisit…the place always gave me the creeps anyway and since the incident..well I didn’t even want to think about that…

Besides it was too cold…it was December and snow was in the air…the Old Place was miles away…what if we got stuck on that god forsaken road again…but no.. he felt he had to go and I finally gave in…we loaded up the car with the remaning stuff and headed towards Old Farm as it was still called, even though it had not been a farm since the 50s.

Soon we left the paved highway and turned off on to the rutted dirt road, the car labouring over the ridges and sinking into the many holes, splashing muddy water as high as the windows….I marvelled at the sameness of the landscape…nothing had changed….it seemed stuck in the past century…

Just when I thought we’d never get there in one piece we turned the corner and there it was..in silence we drew up and got out of the car…
Shocked, I gasped “where is the house?”… all that seemed to be there were the two outbuildings and a heap of rubble where the house used to be….
The sheds looked lost, bereft of their reason for living…there was snow already on the ground up here and I could see clouds approaching…the house was gone…there was no reason to stick around…I sighed with relief…now we could turn right back again…..I tugged Frank’s arm…

“Let’s go” I urged…”there’s no reason to stay”…but he shook me of as if I were a fly and moved forward, not saying a single word..reluctantly I followed…the hills seemed to press in on us and I felt the old familiar claustrophobia as I got nearer to the buildings..

“You’re not going inside?”…”there’s nothing there..look no more house…they must have torn it down“

He kept on walking closer as if he was being drawn forward against his will…suddenly I stopped…damn..my shoe had stuck in the mud…why didn’t I change before we left?…I stooped to free it and then straightened up…Frank had disappeared…

Suddenly frightened, I ran towards the sheds…”Frank Frank” I called…but there was no answer…

“Frank” I screamed again…but the only sound was the silence of the Old Place.

I really, really love this portrait – the natural light, the slight smile, the beautiful face… there’s just something captivating about this.

It’s just the little glances by Matthew Dawkins

It's just the little glances by Matthew Dawkins
It’s just the little glances by Matthew Dawkins

To go with it a great poem of self affirmation and inner strength.

….never enough? by JaNae Boswell

When they look at me
I wonder what they see
Another mixed breed
My ancestors history

Just a incomplete girl
To never belong in the world
Never to fit in
Not the right color of skin

Too Dark
Too Light
I’m just not quite..
good enough to meet your standards…

have you felt it..
Unaccepted
Rejected
Well I can never be perfected
from the colors they see

will they ever understand
how it’s been so rough
how it can be so tough
that to some I will never be enough

Should I just swallow my pride?
Should I just stand aside?
and let them walk all over me..

On either side I choose
There is someone I might lose
Its given me an open mind
It’s made me colorblind
I only have eyes for the beauty in life

Well this is what everyone must see
I’m still me
Even if to you I’m not right
African American and Chippewa
my French blood makes me light
I don’t give a fuck what you say
the world is revolutionizing its histories ways
Sorry I’m here to stay
haven’t you heard the news
I’m starting up a brand new day.

The final selection is

Enjoying the Applause by Berns

I love the emotion and depth of this portrait. It’s of the moment and captures it so well…

Enjoying the applause by Berns
Enjoying the applause by Berns

The final written offering is

Macolm by Trenchtownrock

I let the poem speak for itself. I found it touching, powerful and intense.

You are Malcolm
the red headed negro boy
who manifested
before the eyes of sixties America
into that venom that needed to be silenced
you were never Martin
who preached kissed the other cheek
while the other cheek
shackled him
with memories of middle passage
you were never Gandhi
who fought his British daddy
with hunger strikes
non violence
while his head got split opened
waiting for heaven’s redemption

you were the by any means necessary negro
who stood by his window
with loaded AK47
gently peeking through curtains
ready to avenge the loss of your papa
his papa
slave masters
whose lack of humanity
was written out of history books
and whose legacy still can be smelled
their fragrance hidden in America’s bosoms

you brought dignity to the ghetto
with your well dressed Islam
telling the black man to love self
before the white man can love him
you found a new respect for women
and stood on crate boxes mountain high
calling out house Negroes
who thought they had arrived
with the shilling and pence
dispense
their chicken came home to roost

but before that twenty one gun salute
was fired in your chest
while your wife and children
witnessed your funeral dress rehearsal
you brought America to the mirror
one more time
telling her about her apathy
for the colored
letting her taste some of her vile
as your blood flowed
down the river of soul brothers
with Martin
and Evers
washing away the stench
momentarily
etching your offerings
that will be forever read
on America’s tombstone.

I hope you enjoy this week’s features. They certainly impressed me. 🙂

Embedded literature (teaser)

There are great ways to share our work as writers and reach new audiences. Though I haven’t received much feedback on my profile, I acknowledge scribd.com as a powerful channel to readcast your words, and have them downloadable on several formats. A few minutes ago, for instance, I uploaded a Word document, now available to you, my dear TBF friends. I call it, Tuesday Afternoon EP. Continue reading

Writers beware

As I shared with ShadowDancer and through Twitter and Facebook, I was pretty excited about the possibility of my first short novel being published in the english language through an enterprise called, among several things, Strategic Book Marketing. My skepticism said: “Not so fast, Duff!”. I asked Romi Moondi, a fantastic writer/blogger and overall positive soul, if she could shed more light on an email I received from SBM. I share with you some of her insights regarding the “joint venture” they were proposing. Hope this serves as a proper cautionary tale:

You mentioned this literary agency/publisher. Are they one in the same? They should be separate and distinct, otherwise it is a conflict of interest (i.e. a literary agent will target the publishers that work with them, so that they all make money except you). The truth is, you should not have to pay a dime to publish your book, unless you specifically take the route of self-publishing and doing all the work yourself. But if a publisher is working with you, you should not be paying, otherwise it is a vanity publisher (i.e. fees, but they won’t actually sell a lot of your book).

And I noticed that they mentioned if your book sells 1,000 copies with them, they will “almost certainly” publish your next book at no cost..well what does “almost certainly” mean? Continue reading

$5,500 Short Story Contest

John Howard Reid & Tom Howard Short Story Contest – due March 31, 2010

Submission Period
Entries accepted July 15, 2009-March 31, 2010 (postmark dates). Early submission is encouraged.

What to Submit
Short stories, essays or other works of prose, up to 5,000 words each. There are no restrictions on style or theme. Each entry should be your own original work. You may submit the same work simultaneously to this contest and to others, and you may submit works that have been published or won prizes elsewhere, as long as you own the online publication rights.

Prizes and Publication
First prize: $3,000. Second prize: $1,000. Third prize: $400. Fourth prize: $250. There will also be six Most Highly Commended Awards of $150 each. The top 10 entries will be published on the Winning Writers website (over one million page views per year) and announced in Tom Howard Contest News and the Winning Writers Newsletter, a combined audience of over 25,000 readers.

Entry Fee
The reading fee is $15 per entry. This covers your submission of one short story or prose work of up to 5,000 words. Contestants may submit as many entries as they like.

Click here to view & enter this contest.

Poetry Contest – Bellingham Review

The Bellingham Review describes it’s mission as “Literature of palpable quality: poems, stories, and essays so beguiling they invite us to touch their essence. The Bellingham Review hungers for a kind of writing that nudges the limits of form, or executes traditional forms exquisitely.”

They are holding a contest for the 2010 49th Parallel Award for Poetry. 1st prize earns $1,000. There is a small entry fee and a few requirements that need to be met – read the details here. The final deadline is March 15th.

TBF Group Writing Features – Week of January 31, 2010

“There’s nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.”
~Walter Wellesley “Red” Smith~

I know I’ve read good writing when I can taste the blood that was laid down to make the words. Each one of these pieces have that element – the raw outpouring of soul that gives them their own life. They each amazed me in their own right and I’m so glad to have the honor to blog about them.

Vagabond Odyssey by Trenchtownrock

I am more than just words
that rain from my tongue
becoming pure fire
that burns passion of pumping fist
removing the callouses from the chambers of heart
reminding feet to get up and march
the dead needs a voice.
I am more than the history of my skin
that provokes my heart to do and say things
causing stares from those who are tired
of this journey and has gotten off the road
maybe someday they will need a hand
of a Samaritan.
I am more than the noose that still speaks
their stories written in my head
searching for a proper ending
my ink has not yet dried
so I am still trying to write it for them.
I am more than fire hydrants’ voices
whose wet bodies are dripping with the sixties
and church pews mercy for strength
they still speaks to me even when I want them to be quiet
their cries still haunt me
waking me nightly
they sit and wait though I feel tired.
I am more than the many trouble I have caused
prompting God to send his angels numerous times
to defend my actions
keeping me an uninvited guest
from Lucifer’s party
I will fall short again tomorrow….it is written
and I hope they will come once more.
I am more than the Caribbean sea
and the death in the ocean from centuries ago
that still walk on waves hallucinating
they can’t find their way back
their cries break me.
I am more than the laugh
and silliness that overcome me at times
wearing that feel good moment
I have learned that peace is good
and tears are tiring.
I am more than the back porch tears
with morning prayers to a God
I am struggling to hold onto
I can feel his fingers peeling away
while my wings rest in a holding room
I haven’t made my case fully yet.
I am more than that knife held with a teenager finger
my adult hands still reminisce the pinch
feeling the love that I thought it held
some days I wonder what if.
I am more than the eyes in my head
that play the memory of bedroom secrets
stealing from a boy who is still standing and watching
I have never recovered
I can’t recover
my heart is too precious to open
it is all I have
a woman’s body I will always love
their tongues I will never trust.
I am more
just give me sometime
to look more deeply in your eyes
and see if your heart and my heart
can walk this narrow path.

© 2010

Umbilical Mother by Wildwomenlove

Looking up
amongst her leaves
I lay quite still
the air I breathe
smells pure

I roll face down
and claw the ground
send my umbilical
spiralling round
her earthen core

I breathe in grass
and shoot a blast
of pent up rage
down my umbilical mast
back deep into her molten well

She adds my rage
to the molten fire
co-creating earth
and my hearts desire
as one

This loving Earth
with great round girth
holds me, and tree
is inter-planetary
and so much more

She lives
she breathes
my rage she sees
clawed to her crust
and sets me free, once more

I hope I didn’t burn the worms…

© 2010

The Poet by Bill Bell

The Poet

I heard you died in Tibet
no doubt dressed in black
the walls of your dispair
too high to climb
so your friends
played music around the walls
and waited.

Your gums turned black
yet you smiled aware
your brothers death
your mothers health failing
you turned the haiku
for in a breath the senses
can confirm
a candle in the window pane.

High upon the snows
high above the world you expired
falling into heaven
falling from the spire
exhausted flame around you
the smoke streams from black to white
I expected a pulling up
but you fell into the frozen sea.

Where one day
like Virgil you emerge
into the wood it was but but a scene
that you had taken me on
the seventh ring
I hear music
and the beating of my heart
you gave me the word
that had always existed
the poet that you were
exhausted
and the light then emerged.

© 2010

Wrap Remedy by ianez

my plexus a mess.
i awoke in unfamiliar spaces.
pressing my eyes around
four walls of some
unfurnished room.
there hung a fervor of estrus in the atmosphere.
i felt every utterance that escaped
my ample tonguesnips.
they devoured the exhausted aftermath
of labored.. … . breaths
and sebacious finger.prints. … .. no.presses.
ten digits tune my facets.
i was alone, ardent in the glow that snuck into my oubliette.
the omnipresent peering of a sickle soft moon.
lunar silent stalker, you do what you must do.

want to scape a for you tonight
feeling lushly
the lusc,
less romance
more; precise decimation.

you are a guided missile.
i am the film of mosquito wings
i am you, as neuroptera.

swoonly into your palms.
penned in the posture of your
plebeian grammar.

© 2010

how many parts walk in an alley by Lisa Jewell

I walked home alone
thinking
what if I turned tricks?
and
what if I licked my lips
while
holding hands with a demon
would
I no longer be sweet
if
I looked for ways home
would the heart of death
point the way
if
I spewed pomegranates picked by winged angels
would I
see the future
if I told you
I
do not
aspire
to be heavenly
I do not aspire to be the burning pit of Hades
if
I told you
living in a cave
is not cold
it is
like heather on a hill
it rides the tiny hair on my legs
if you met me
walking down a dark alley
would
you walk on by, scared
or
take a chance
not knowing
if
I’m sweet
or
dark

© 2010

Permission to be Brilliant (on Mandela) by Siki Dlanga

In a dream I wrote you a speech. I was important enough to be in the same room as you. No, I will be honest in the dream I was still not important. It was the fact that I only had my name which holds no weight that made me feel significantly more important to you in the midst of great names. In your presence was every reason to feel so much more significant because it was dreams of my freedom that kept you imprisoned for 27 years.

I looked at your face and it lit. Lit by dreams that have been fulfilled as you looked back at me. Your aspirations would be fulfilled through me, my friends and grow through our children. I would love to see you but I would rather I gave you rest so that you would greet one less person and have more rest so I visited you in a dream. I remained brilliant for at least 2 whole minutes. My heart spoke a fresh word because I had seen your face in the reality of my dream. I tried to read my speech but my words diminished because your person filled the room in a way that contrarily suddenly made me feel great.

What makes you so much greater is that our country is rich in resources and minerals. We have diamonds and mines rich with different kinds of gold as if it were all not enough, we have you. In that moment my heart realised your South Africanness makes us so much more affluent.

The name Mandela now robes the hills, the mountains, seas and islands of our country with a royal mantle of dignity and honours anyone who calls themselves South African. Your name adorns our many coloured flag with admiration. Your name is no lesser currency or wealth than the gold and minerals of our land.

The children covered by your 46664 campaign will benefit not only for themselves but their children’s children also. You gave us a future. By your life you lifted the lid that kept us in captivity in the land our predecessors had once freely grazed their cattle. By your carefully chosen words as you declared the new South Africa born you made us realise our own greatness. You challenged us to get out of our inferiority complexes’ and gave us permission to be brilliant.

I know there is a God because it had to take a superior-being to design such a master plan. We were a country that was so broken and desperate for a miracle. You are the perfect miracle at 90 you still amaze us.

Last year in the 90 minutes for Mandela, I wrote a poster hoping the camera man might put it on TV but decided to etch it in my dreams. It reads; “you have shown us how great we can be. My gift to you is that you will not be the last great South African because there is nothing enlightening about shrinking back.”
© 2010

TBF welcomes MsDebbie

Touched By Fire’s Latest Blogger!

I’m so excited to see Touched By Fire growing exponentially. In order to keep up the pace I’m excited to announce we have another blogger joining us. MsDebbie, as she is known on the bubble, has been a member of RedBubble for nearly a year and has made herself quite cozy. She’s a highly motivated and emotive writer who shares her inspirations with everyone that she comes across. My first impressions of Deb were her sincerely supportive and sweet comments that she would leave for others writings. She always leaves an artist feeling worthy, like what they shared was truly valued.

Deb is definitely a woman on the prowl for inspiration in everything around her. She is a lover of poetry, music, art, books, thinking, challenges, conversations, and so much more. She will be sharing with us commentary on poetry, art, motivational thoughts, and whatever else floats through her dreamy beautiful mind.

And to use a quote that she uses “The aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware” – Henry Miller. So here’s to having our joyous, aware, and divine Debbie join us – welcome Deb, we already love you!

p.s. don’t forget to check out her bubble page to see her art, writings, and journal ramblings!

touched by fire – writing features for January 10, 2010

“A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman” – Wallace Stevens

Writing is my biggest love and passion and Redbubble has some of the finest writers I have come to know. It was very difficult to narrow down writing features to a mere six. It’s been such a blessing to have such amazing artists join our touched by fire group and submit their musings to us. I want to personally thank each of these writers for allowing me to share their amazing talent with you. Here are this weeks writing features:

extinct, i won’t forget you

You are a weight sitting just above my collar bone, creeping over my shoulders and radiating down my back. Your tail slides down my spine and slaps against it occasionally.

Camouflaged within my vertebrae, you still remain extinct.

There’s no mistaking it when you slide beneath my lumbar; stubborn little penetrator.

Hiding within me, you settle into the places you like best.

You cause me to ache.

Dinosaur, I still miss you.

………to read this in its entirety – please click here.

© 2010 PJ Ryan

a consent by silence

they taught me early on
these men
that there were certain questions
i could not ask
certain answers i could not have
and because i only wanted
to stay in their orbit
only wanted to be pulled along in their wake
i became guilty of a consent by silence
as i tacitly agreed to their terms

© 2010 greeneyedlady

a witness

draw me with the weight
of your invisible form
burn me with the coolness of your fire
sanctify me
with the wonder of your beauty
fire pass through my lips
so that i might not sin against thee
oh i love you
more
for i long to kiss thine feet
when my lips have touched fire
then fuel my flame to desire you deeper
you are uncontaminated water
quenching my thirst with your purity
so i might rise to run after thee
to your sanctuary
i long
there is no greater ecstasy
than you in me
and i in you
sanctify me
i pray you
with the stillness of
your words
that live forever
words that were
spoken long before
i ever spoke
words that formed me
let me return to the mouth
i came from
sanctify me
sanctify me
sanctify me
with many kisses
draw me
wash me
with love
that endures
forever
i pray you
then live through me

© 2010 Siki Dlanga

low laughter at nonsense

lying across snow covered
tracks like a well worn
copper penny
there is no concern
for chaos or control
in a cold face
making snow angels
with eyelashes
some would rage
at the lack of light
while missing ice crystals
building shadow’s night
and the edge of happiness
when the train whistle blows
as i smile
and roll

© by ebiemer
MCN:CN1BE-J3V9M-NK4K4

Hold Me Baby

I feel like some red ant in line
bent on embracing sanguine knowledge
drilling and willing and ‘busy’
Scenes are passing by my window like snowflakes
Coagulating in the corner of my fate filled season
Relying on rewards of reflection and virgin ethics
As I swim down your skin.

My breath rides pheromones fate and I am more alive
Inside your embrace than I can ever remember
I growl and hiss while I plummet into ecosystems
Just now discovered between you thighs
Past your tortoise shell beliefs that just began when
You kissed me on my forehead
graduating slowly to ‘guitar glee and smile strums’

Oh No!
Here it comes

a song from 1956 country top 40’s hits

(you play inside my bones

Sucking morrow for tomorrow)

“ Hold me baby
Let my tears gather round your wrinkled heart
Smooth them out
I will
Smooth them out with my
Allowing sensibilities
For all that can never be
And all that is
Good enough for a bar or two
A whistle may do
as you pass me by
I sigh
baby
When You Hold me

Casue we never saw it coming
We never thought to see
All this loves a humming
Oracle star fire symphony ”

This buzz makes me laugh
my ears are ringing
Can you hear it too my love?

Summer’s coming soon and we’ll give birth to our
Fabricated Dreams
Created here
as we look deep into each other’s eyes
Yours are brown with earth knowing
Mine green with emerald promise
Our past heartaches develop and shape
refine and tone down the sharp contrast of desire…

wild bees in desert hives have dripped honeyed thoughts
saturated with unquenchable longing
trimmed in unfathomable fears.

This is a feeling that I almost

Love

That I almost cannot live without
That I almost swear I shall never let go of

And moreover that feeling of ‘never’
Feels like a prison cell
Stuckedness and without blood flow
Writing on the wall and digging hidden pinholes of relief

Not enough now

As your fingers burn crop circle stories upon
My field of fate like labyrinth lullabies
Smelling lust in campfire dust.
All night long.

The next moment is best spent in each others
Embrace

as you and I

Allow.

© 2009 linaji

The Forgotten Braille (content warning)

Carole, thirty-nine sensed the oil shortage in her world. The constant burning of something non-renewable and her years, getting shorter. Even today the scalpel could not be ridden for long, there was a tip she had to relinquish and her love of pain would have its use-by date. “As I leave work today”, she mused nonchalantly… “I shall stand on that scalpel and feel that lithe incision one more time before I leap into the stream where my tears have cooled.”

That would come at around 5:47 she suspected, the dawning of her Renaiisance when the last five years would be cast into grassfire. Though now, 4:11 and her sex swelled. The space between her eyes was full of vaginal gel, the uprush of her passions turned intellectual and speculative. It was nearly a year since her last resigned fuck, most fittingly kitch at the office Christmas party. She still squelched at the story, the sex remained like graffiti she was too indolent to hose off the walls. The story, its cheapness and unoriginality was what tormented her.

………to read this in its entirety – please click here.

© 2009 Jim Marshall

Please visit the bubble pages of the writers we have featured:
PJ Ryan
greeneyedlady
Siki Dlanga
Erich Biemer
Linaji
Jim Marshall