Features July 31st 2011

My theme for this week is women and winged creatures (e.g. birds and butterflies). No particular reason except that after more than one image I liked contained these elements I decided to continue in the same vein. Enjoy!


Butterfly
by fotowagner


Hope
by Elvenspot


Those Watchful Eyes
by Matteo Pontonutti


Branwen
by MoonSpiral


The Owl Lady’s Midnight
by MaureenTillman


The Crow Knows
by MaureenTillman

 
Girl with Magpie
by Sybille Sterk


there was a girl ..
by Alenka Co


COLOUR IS THE BEST FRIEND OF BEAUTY
by GittiArt


Keep Dreaming
by AngiandSilas


So Close…
by Sandra Bauser Digital Art

From Rebecca Tun

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Features 1-23-11

I don’t really know what these features have in common this week. The images and writing just really jumped out at me. I think they all have a story to tell and a strong emotion to express. So here you go, this week’s features full of beauty, pain, and all that’s in between:

man
Untitled by Thomas Acevedo

A Walk Down Joshuas Path by Jascie Epinn

Two nights and a day had passed
when we walked along Joshua’s path
You had a cigarette behind your ear
Clearly you could see I was sad
about how we lost all that we had
But you couldn’t stay somber
You turned to me
Your heart in your lungs
And you took my hand
before you sung to me
to me…

And you said
What’s the kind of guy you dream of?
Who is he to me?
What are the kind of clothes he wears?
Cause that’s who I ought to be.
You said
I don’t know if I can find him
But I’ll try my best
I’ll turn my life around
and God will handle the rest

Three weeks and eight months had passed
when we took a ride down Joshua’s path
You had a look on your face that was unclear
Clearly you could see that I was mad
my hardened eyes were iron clad
But you couldn’t stay somber
You pulled over
Your mind in your heart
I turned my head
before you could start again
again..

And you said
What’s the kind of guy you dream of?
Who is he to me?
What are the kind of clothes he wears?
Cause that’s who I ought to be.
You said
I don’t know if I can find him
But I’ll try my best
I’ll turn my life around
and God will handle the rest

Four weeks and two years had passed
when I went walking down Joshua’s path
holding a letter ending in sincere
Because that day, I didn’t crash
but I’d prefer that I had
then maybe I’d forget about that summer
I knelt over
My heart in my soul
and placed that letter
near your bowl
and it reads…

And you said
What’s the kind of guy you dream of?
Who is he to me?
What are the kind of clothes he wears?
Cause that’s who I ought to be.
You said
I don’t know if I can find him
But I’ll try my best
I’ll turn my life around
and God will handle the rest

3 hoods
Sigh No More by Matteo Pontonutti

Drum Solos are Boring by Antonio Raymondo

Stop beating your own drum!
It’s a tiresome sound.
It rings hollow.
It’s got no rhythm.
Like your life, meaningless, shallow!

Stop beating your own drum!
It’s a terrible din!
You’re an empty vessel,
A pathetic charade.
Like a cheap Hollywood set,
A flimsy facade!

STOP BEATING YOUR OWN DRUM!
I can’t jam with that noise!
You’re like a spoilt child
Who won’t share their toys.
When will you stop beating your own drum?
Hasn’t anyone told you that……

DRUM SOLOS ARE BORING!!!

pagan
Sometimes When by Rowanmacs

The Master Drinks life’s Elixir by Blake Steele

Eyes wide open, mouth open,
hands grasping and releasing
the Master drinks Life’s elixir
and gurgles his delight.
In his eyes stars shine,
bears waltz, leopards prowl,
a horse kicks up and prances.
Upon the soft pink mountain
he laughs:
he gave up a kingdom for this,
the fame of a thousand worlds,
even the wild love of his heart:
that woman whose will
had brought down castle walls
and slain ten thousand men.
Someone had slapped him
when he came through the door.
He forgave the poor fool instantly
though something in his bones
would not forget it.
Blind fools! Insolent arrogance!
So much to accomplish here
in another alien world.
So much to do
as soon as he
outgrew his nappies.

hat
You can leave your har on by madworld

Re.Joy.Sing by Cynthia Lund Torroll

Welcome Home
to the place
that is inviolate
to the place
where patience waited
graciously…

The timing is meaningless
It happened –
The joining
of a lost soul
to her hearth
Manifestation
over Cacophony –
a wellspring of pure peace
rendering the outer shell
as window dressing
a tiny fraction
of The Life beneath…

She’ll reside there
without fear –
the impostor seen
and still loved
for all her heartfelt efforts
for all her machinations
she thought she knew
aWay but finally saw
she just had to
get out of Her Way…

The storm is over
The time is still
Sensations tickle
her outer form
She can laugh
She can be
She rejoices
and greets
each noble guest
each mystery
each thought cloud
with Her Beingness…

boat
Comfortably Numb by Carol K

Dark Wings of Night by Redqueenself

Dark Wings of Night

Darkness of the heart
from unexpected paths flies in.
The questions start
and the doubts begin,
flickering in the corner of your eye,
whispering a dark and wicked lie.
Soft wings of grey
flutter with the dawn.
The wolf hour floats away
in the brightness of the morn.
Quivering briefly, just in sight,
faith so hard to grasp at night.

girl
Sweet surrender by Strawberries

Forests of the Heart by Sybille Sterk

Bitter-bitter word shards
Cutting my lips to shreds
Dripping black ink snakes
Onto the pristine white paper
Shaped by the solicitous pen
Into syllables and words

Sing-song word notes
Dancing on the page
In undulating conga lines
From the left to right
Called to order by the pen
Into verses and rhymes

Pineapple-scented words
Flavouring the ink
With little bursts of lemon
Golden sunshine days
Forever engraved by the pen
Into minds and hearts

Pen in my hand
I get ready for the day
Exorcising demons
Banishing shadows
Sharing my heart
Baring my soul

Painting mindscapes
Sketching soulscapes
Growing Forests of the Heart

TOUCHED BY FIRE … December 13th 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reflections of Fire on Water


David Hatton

tie a yellow ribbon around my dancing feet …..


ARCADIA TEMPEST

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© Arcadia Tempest 2010

THE FIRE FROM WITHIN


Vasile Stan
/

Song Of Songs


Trenchtownrock

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

Endless Possibilities


Animi Dawn

The Infinite Kiss


Stephen Gorton

DO YOU REMEMBER?


Cosimopiro

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

RAINY DAY WOMAN


RosaCobos

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

ROSA COBOS

IMPRESSIONS OF FRANCE
Blake Steele

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

Dance Like You Mean It


Sybille Sterk

Dusk Wing Butterfly


BiographyofRed8

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

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

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

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

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

,

ASPIRE


Mark Stanley