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

Features 8-30-10

This week I am going with a theme of the dreamworld and the subconscious mind. We often dream to vent out our fears and stresses from our waking lives. I was looking for images that were dreamy, spiritual, and surreal; and also ones dealing with our deepest fears. Writing, especially poetry, is often dreamy and full of subconscious imagery. I tried to pick writing that dealt with two of our biggest themes in dreams, death and love. Some of the writing just sounded like a dream feels.
I will start with the image that inspired the theme:
Power of dream
Power of a Dream by LisaMM

I Give You My Flower by Linaji

I am giving you my flower,
Because I feel your seed explode
The cosmos gets lonely on Saturday.

My flower has a shameless smell that may
conjure you a dream
This dream will give you strength

Where you are I have been
The soil was rich with nitrates and oxides
But come certain times of the year
That soil turns to dust

You are left to fend for yourself
And the barren garden burns your
Eyes and nose

So come over here and let me hold your
Hand, let me just understand
And give you my flower.

Linaji 2010

Dolphin
Dolphin Dreaming by Angel Gold

The Crescent Moon by JetMannHenry
Tonight

You will lay;
Alone
on the crescent moon.

Leave yourself behind.

Tonight

I will play
vigorously
in the memory of..

Love

in the memory of…

Us

in the memory of….

You

Tonight

We will stay,
masked in the shadows
dancing on mood dust
running on crevises
sleeping alone
on the surface of..
the crescent moon. ©

Seum
Seum by vampvamp

Unfolded Down-Under by Lenny Carpet Cleaner

spring is the rising of the leaves
the thinning out of Steves

jack and jill lying on a roll
fit for the uranium pit

licking up the frost off the clit of now
the hills are alive with the likes of you

beyond the outsiders, momentary gods
trip the liff of thought, vanity’s fete

of course you can stay
august is really the month of may

holy spirit! blasphemed the puritan
tan 61 degrees is just a PhD

oh, it’s a long way to the prawn shop
if you beget to sell Johann’s Seoul

dude looks like a lady
but(t) the lady is a tramp
tom thumb waits, I just can’t

a tragicomedy reversed
the cacophony of
well meant rehearsals, a-ha!

“time for elevenses?”
the buck stops here.

steel breast
Steel Breast Light Arms by Rosa Cobos

When Nothing Is A Good Thing by Sandy Sutton

They tell me that
having nothing is
good for the soul
being nothing is different
the art of having nothing is
refreshing
replenishing
it makes you realise
who you are
when you may
count yourself
as possessions
and a figure on paper
that is an accrued
total of your fiscal wealth
the art of having nothing is
an accrued total
of you
of your
accomplishments
of your good deeds
and your bad
it is the thing
you will carry
with you when
the end is near
when in your fear
you realise
that it’s your
vision of yourself
that matters
in the end
not your possessions
not your money
not even the love you see
in the eyes of your children
or even their children
for that matter

it is the art of you
the art of life
the paintings you create
within yourself
the sculpture
you have created
out of you
for you and only
you
the image
you have of
you
is the only you
that matters

It Is You

Judgement
Judgement by Martin Muir

Stalks
It Stalks All of Us by Berns

But to die in the joy of knowing that I pursued my dream to the end or just the beautiful beginning by Blanchot

How poor a creature he must be who in his last moment cries out,
“But if only, I had followed my heart, eschewing the cold logic of my head and the creeping ice of the compartmental crypt so soon to be?”

I refuse that being.
I refuse his cowardice and the stale scent of the pillow at his side.

Rather, I celebrate my dream: realized!
I steadfastly refuse all issue of doubt:
“Do you have any idea what you are in for?”

Fools to have even asked: for my answer can only be a celebration of the equivocal. Nonetheless an unprecedented celebration it damn will be.
“Yes, I am ‘in for’ a love sublime: a love, which most will approach only in the perfection of nature’s allowance of the summer peach’s nectar.”
“No, for I am also in for an adventure the likes of which would make a proud woman of Scheherazade herself.”

Will I make it through the thousand and one nights?
“Seek thy oracle not in this stone abode.”
Will I live every night I have to the fullest?
“You’re goddamn right!”

While the life of the mind may well appear—as it so often did to me—the apogee of human achievement; it is only through the chambers of the heart that transcendence sings its siren’s song.

Long live the heart!
Mysteries, joys, pains, and all; glorify the hymn of love and of lovers!

© 08/25/09

goddess
Goddess of Light by Scott Black

Features – 15th August 2010 – Reaching Out

This morning I was moderating all the art and writings that had come in over the past hours and I took my time over it with the view that it is my turn to do the features today. I am so glad it that I get to do the features once every month as there is always so much wonderful art and writings for me to choose from, if anything too much!

The one that inspired this feature made me think of why we do what we do and why it is so important that we do. For each poem I chose a picture that for me encapsulated the spirit of the writing.

Cosimopiro, you inspired this week’s features with your most wonderful poem. 🙂

THE ECHO OF EMPTINESS

I see you
gorge
on generous banquets,
python like,
swallowing whole
to gratify
a hollow unending
without
ever savouring
its many delicacies.

I watch you
quaff
aged juice
from the blood of grapes,
imbibing
intoxicating potion
into numb stupor
but
never relishing
divine nectar.

I spot you
pluck
tender, ripe fruit
craving fingers
bruising,
covetous lips
sucking soft flesh
but
only tasting
bitter seeds.

I hear you
rant
the madness
of self delusions
reverberating
in a vacuum
of unrealized dreams
without
ever listening
to the silence between.

Together we stand
gazing
into clear night sky
scanning
our destinies
across time’s hardened face
but
you only see
the darkness
betwixt the stars.

I recognize you,
restless,
eyeing me,
reflecting
my own wilderness
in waiting,
ready to spring
and capture
my final
berry of grace…….

…….and I wonder…….

is it best
to have company
in the void
or to feel lonely
in Paradise?

If I was to share
this morsel of joy
will it satiate
your wanton appetites
or
will I stand
where you are now,
an echo
skipping
in our emptiness
across the flat plains
of infinity
searching
for watering holes
to quench
our thirsty wanderings?

I see you
behind the looking glass
see me,
with your pleading eyes
and I with wary glance
pass the flesh
of my fruit
into your outstretched hand,
the seed of which
I keep safe
to plant in my heart,
to watch over it
in its dormant state
and nurture it
when it takes root
and buds,
in the hope
that it will bear
more fruit.

© Cosimopiro

… and here’s Martin’s wonderful image to go with it.

The Heart Of Everything

The Heart of Everything

© Martin Muir

This next poem touched me deeply:

The Ecstatic Air

I think about God and I see Him in my situation
this situation entangled in thorns and priceless misery,
whenever I move forward I am behind myself
living my life trying to catch up,
but I stumble and I fall in slow motion into that quagmire of grief
I am lost without you, and am lost with you,
If only I could learn how to breathe other people’s stale air,
if only I could live on the stale emotions of others,
and on their salty breaths and recycled kisses
my lovers and your lovers exhausted and torn up in the blender
of divorce and no reconciliation,
please don’t come back to me
God doesn’t murder, He gives us numbers in the womb
we are living, and we breathe, the ecstatic air,
I don’t think about yesterday, and the sand that stuck
to my toes on the beach, and the kisses you left upon my heart,
I can’t think about what broke us apart, the waves that crash,
and the imposssible task of holding onto them,
Time slipped through the cracks of my dreams,
my daughter has grown and is the teenager I once was
but I was silly then, full of naitivite dressed badly,
and hid behind a shy smile then
the illness in our souls became the signatures we signed
in our sleep and we still dream to escape to
we forge similarities to make the differences bearable,
we’ve attempted to love each other, but only end up
loving ourselves,
pretending we haven’t lived through this nauseuous nightmare before

Pretending we just met, when we’ve known each other for centuries,
we married ourselves to the lies we believe, and we can’t commit to
the memories that we lived,
I’ll write until I can find the words to paste the years we ripped to shreds
and wasted back together
I’ll dance until I spin myself useless and faint dead away,
until I can get back to the precise moment you walked away,
to the second you knew you didn’t love me
to the moments my voice sickened you,
to the time you became my jailor, and I lived the sentence
of missing you, and spent years trying to get back there to that
space I offended you, when we offended each other, and spit each
other out like chewed tobacco,
when our uses outlived us,
when God seemed to forget us,
when the angels stopped singing, and the demons descended
and the howling of our anger became the reasons we stayed
pasted to the wounds of our past, and to the expressions of our emptiness
when loneliness became the beating heart of our existences
and we wandered through hundreds of miles of wilderness
the dishevelled forest of our lust, a lost cause of animal instinct
the grave of the intimacy we lost, the priest that read us our last rites
when God couldn’t keep us alive anymore, when dying seemed better
I bit the ecstatic air like bits of glass to my tongue, like chunks of diamond
to my teeth,
breaking and chipping teeth until my gums bled the life of me away,
sometimes there isn’t a happy ending and lovers are really strangers
who got confused in the rain.

© copyrightmisfit19652009

I found the same sense of connection in this image:

Running thru the fire

Randy Montheith Running thru the fire

Randy Montheith Running thru the fire

© Randy Monteith

… and again a deep sense of connection and longing:

Sonnet To My Soulmate

Dear skin and hands and all things sweet and pure
containing legends deep within the bone,
and holding old romance in their allure
pull me in dreams of you and me alone –

Alone in white rooms, fantasized by me;
alone in orphaned gardens, saved by you;
alone in white-washed castles by the sea;
alone in meadows pale and soaked in dew.

The beauty of your life is intricate
although you may not see its rambling grace;
you’re made of candlelight and fires lit
to warm the pallid shadows on my face.

My spirit flies to you and now I’m whole,
and sweetly, gently, I embrace your soul.

© lilynoelle

… perfectly expressed here:

lovers

vampvamp lovers

vampvamp lovers

© vampvamp

… this is why we put ourselves out there:

The Prodigal Daughter

Thanks to a class offered by a
soft spoken South American professor
who preaches the gospel of creativity
I am whole again.

Seeking the power of steel beams and girders
I had tossed my Muse (my dearest friend) into the sea.
I needed muscle
not watercolor dreams leading nowhere.

I learned to weld and solder
to read blueprints and gauge distances
to hammer and sweat in the sun
until mine was as big as his.

I forgot how to cry.

Finally one day in class (for three credits)
I walked alone across the bridge that
I had built with my own two hands
and found my Muse

waiting
like an indulgent mother
for me to call her name.

Now words and colors and images
leap and dance before my eyes
and I paint golden wildflowers on my bridge
and I sing purple poems
and my tears fall freely now
because I have come home again,
transformed.

It is indeed a form of prayer.

© Maggie Vlazny

…and here this feeling of connection and being part of everything and being yourself is perfectly shown:

The Guardians

MoonSpiral The Guardians

MoonSpiral The Guardians

© MoonSpiral

… and a great sense of being part of it all and being yourself:

Whales on the cusp of everything

Upon waking, before the whale’s sleep drives in and
out of my eyes, I sit: taking in, taking out, turning off—

turning on until a smile births on my face in the shape
of a lightening dark spark—breathing and blooming

in the heart of infinity’s shadow. I am dead; and
more alive than any thing. My heart grows a mouth,

here, beneath and above the pitch of the sea—a baby
in the arms of a forgetful young mother; a whale singing

down the shipping lane sea. When my thumbs are
the only ones still breathing, I rise, a rice-paper basket,

empty, in the fist of the universe, a photo of love
in my pocket, beating with the fragrance of fruit.

© Sesheshet 8 14 2010

… and the connection continues:

after the rain has come

Ingz after the rain has come

Ingz after the rain has come

© Ingz

… ending it with a heartwrenching poem that almost made me cry:

Freeing Myself

sometimes I get soo angry
soo mad I cant even cry
holding that blade to my skin
contemplating suicide

I think of all the times
that I’ve been pushed to the break
my hands are shaking with hate
I dont know how much more I can take

I wish the world would grow silent
everyone would just go away
lifes becoming too much of a struggle
each and every fucking day

I put on my smile
I’m happy is my constant lie
when deep down I am screaming
wishing I could just die

give myself freedom and peace
its not too much to ask
but my mind is slipping
no longer in my grasp
I have too many secrets
that I just cant get past
but I smile real bright
cover it all with my mask

I’ve got alot of issues
that already weight me down
but people keep fucking with me
pushing me deeper into the ground

I dont know what to say
to make my life alright
sometimes I’m soo lonely
I cry myself to sleep at night

then there are the days
where I dont want to leave my bed
I hate it soo much
these voices in my head

I just want to end it all
the pain is to much
the emotions are spilling
I’m loosing grip on the clutch

I want to rip out of my skin
breakaway and be free
no more pain or anger
I just want to be the old me

I want to smile
I want to love life
I dont want to hate myself
I dont want to hold this knife

I’m sorry…I can’t
and you’ll always wonder why
I just needed to be freed
and now I am….goodbye.

© JaNae Boswell


… and leaving you with an image that shows all the longing and heart breaking loneliness of JaNae’s poem:

so much emotion

cerphotography so much emotion

cerphotography so much emotion

© cerphotography

I hope you enjoy this week’s features, Sybille xo