Touched by Fire – Features for the week of August 7, 2011

Hi everyone, a few days ago I chose this week’s features. An interesting mix of drama, visual metaphors, sensibility and overall statements. Please congratulate all the wonderful and talented artists. Duffboy

 

“its paradox” by robinellenlucas

ever emerging
all sides
of you

choose the
one in your now
who is
in between
your dark night
your early dawn

rising
because it knows
what to do
…next

is it the
mystery
u n f o l d i n g
its view
its paradox
that chooses
without limits
to protect you?

© r.e.l. 7/20/11

“Your spirit looks a lot like the fog but boy do I know the difference” by DominicSavio

Oh God
Your
spirit
in
vades
my
person
hood
like a
spiral
around
my
spine and
You
wrap
around
my
spirit
man
like a choker
with black
ribbon
and
precious
gems
like
replicas
of
Your eyes
and I
am
ice
without
You.

“The Loop” by RC deWinter

It does no good to say “Forget,”
what is experienced burns in the brain.
It does no good to say “Move on,”
what is within simply follows along.
And not looking back doesn’t alter
the past or wipe away memories, feelings, intent.
If buried, these things resurrect
doggedly as surely as some claim Christ rose from the tomb.
But they appear not miraculously
restored but as ragged skeletons clothed with shreds of flesh,
now grinning, exhibiting their
fragile framework for what it ever was –
a wish, a hope, a dream, a curse –
to accompany silently down all the years
the unfortunate pilgrim who
struggles to make sense of misplaced affection,
unfounded trust, perception
colored by desire and losses that could not be cut,
but must be paid for again
and again with the rising and setting of the
eternal sun.

© 2011 RC deWinter ~ All Rights Reserved

 

 

 

“inVisible” by wildwomenlove

As a receptacle for your rape and pillage
i remain invisible
to your lost sense of humanity

As a middle child to the nuclear family
i remain invisible
to your parental nurture

As a daughter to women who cherish men
i remain invisible
to your favouritism

As you label me a person with some kind of incapacity
my achievements remain invisible
to your boxed-in concepts

As an artist in a world motivated by greed
i remain invisible
to your economic rationalism

As a child in a world of responsibility
my childlike wisdoms remain invisible
as they fall upon deaf ears

As a mother waiting tables of bloodline
i remain invisible
to your gratitude and recognition of value

As aging attempts to put all my eggs in one basket
i become invisible
in a society which romanticizes youth

The flame of my Self burns brightly
whether it is seen by others or not
it lights my way

on my death bed I will meet my Self
and all shall be visible
Once and for all

Blessed be

© wildwomenlove poetry

 

“Uncontrollablefailure” by Nathan Emery

She
fell down so far,
out of my reach
but not out of my sight.
I watched her
crash and burn
in the bottom of a bottle of crown
and I tried to reach down
but she didn’t even look up
to see my expression;
the red in my eyes.
I didn’t want to let her go
but she was never
really in my grasp.
So maybe I’m the one that fell;
into a bottle of vodka and vicoden,
to drown her out
to drown the world out…
to drown me out.
She split and spilt in every direction
except the one I was standing in;
just trying to catch her,
trying to clean her up
but missing every single drop.

“lay down now, little sister” by greeneyedlady

i still see him
walking up and down the darkened street
he held a shotgun in his hands
he held our lives as he always had
and two faces too little to be seen
were peeking over the edge of the windowsill
and i was whispering hollow words
lay down now, little sister
it’s just some cats running through the garbage cans

and for the fear he brought down
a father’s raucous shouts and a mother’s terrified cries
shatter the quiet of the night
would he shoot the gun?
she knew very well he might
and she waited
for the night to edge a little toward the light
and when the neighbors said settle down
or we’re calling the police, man
i thought
they’ll take you in and dry you out
and i hope you never get out of the can!

but for any of you who have ever tried
to reason with a wickedly drunken man
well, you know the decision to put the gun down
wasn’t made out of love at all
he just stepped wrong took a little fall
and it dropped from his unsteady hands….
now i don’t know how we ever did it
how we managed to pretend it never happened
our eyes would meet but we’d just look away
and two faces, too little to understand
but never too old to pretend
to be sleeping
in their beds
in that house
in the way that only scared little kids can
lay down now, little sister
it’s just some cats running through the garbage cans…

Artemis by Lynnette Shelley

End by Matteo Pontonutti

White Light by Lissie Rustage

Porcine by Lynnette Shelley

The Pecking Order by Glitterfest

4 Eyes by Paul (Quixote) Alleyne

TBF Features (sample), week of June 19, 2011

Hello, fellow art and poetry lovers. This is just a quick update to showcase some of the art and writing hand-picked on Touched by Fire by our cohost lroof:

I’ve chosen images and writings that remind me of my recent journey

 

“Taurus” from Zodiac signs series by Dorina Costras

 

playground by vampvamp

 

Have you ever??? by wildwomenlove

Tickled the cat on the belly
Gone knickerless to work
Read a whole magazine on the shop stand
Skipped lunch and gone straight for dessert?

Worn high heels washing the dishes
Leant over a fence for a rose
Danced naked in a rainstorm
Painted hot chilli red on your toes?

Taped ‘kiss me’ on your friends back
Made your own bubbles in the bath
Sung Madame Butterfly in the shower
Ordered a fake fur rug hearth?

Gone skinny dipping at midnight
Learnt a little burlesque
Tried painting a self portrait blind folded
Enjoyed a chic flic with girlfriend and Kleenex?

Guzzled Perrier watching the sunset
Dipped strawberries in chocolate and munched
Handed out smiley face cards on street corners
Acted on an impromptu hunch?

Have you ever tried tango
Or dyed your hair burgundy red
Sniffed at the musky scent of lilies
Bought silk sheets for the bed?

A little bit of naughty goes a long way
To reviving a neglected heart
Your spirit will sing in your heart space
It’s never too late to start

Have you Ever?…

©wildwomenlove poetry
16.06.11

 

A poem of Sally’s words by Blake Steele

To listen to a recording of this poem

I’m almost home now,
almost at the end of this weary road,
almost within small, welcome fences,
almost circled by curling vines and flowers
where I may lay down safely in someone’s arms
who knows my wounded, torn ways
and loves me, placing their hands tenderly
on me to sooth… until I allow the simple luxury
of slipping into old rhythms.
I’m listening to birds singing ancient songs:
homing songs, songs of wild flight.
I’m listening to the lullabies
of my own breathing,
and the whispered syllables of wind —
the wordless longing of silent love within.
For a moment, I’m a child again,
crying myself to sleep;
until someone wraps me warm in light
streaming through their gentle eyes
and I cautiously let fingers play with mine,
and touch my hair,
seizing my soul in a suspense of silence,
breathless and unknowing —
until words begin.
Your words are light:
like small fireflies in dark woods
where frightening creatures move.
Like feathers of light
they drift carelessly and somber
amidst the fearful shift of shadows.
Now I’m nesting down in two worlds,
still afraid,
yet running towards small lights,
small miracles in the dark,
your words amongst them…

Features for the week of January 9, 2011 (part 2)

In continuance of this weeks features, please enjoy the final six pieces of amazingly inspirational pieces.

A very inspiring piece about what happens when we let go of our inner child. Do adults really have to give up on their dreams, stop drawing doodles, stop pretending to be a princess waiting for her prince (or the prince waiting to rescue her)? I personally don’t want to grow up, but in any case I love Suzzie’s collage, even if she has grown up.

Set my Spirit Free by Suzzie

I really love this piece by miss wildwomenlove that talks about the art of giving of yourself, from a woman’s perspective. I loved how it touched on the feeling that so many of us have felt, of being overwhelmed, of having too much to give and not enough ‘get’, matched with the gentle reminder that we do have power in how things play out. It’s up to ourselves to make sure that we see the beauty and worth in ourselves, and then demand that from others. I found this a very empowering piece.

Selfish footsteps by wildwomenlove

As the Earth turns

so many women
dancing around tables
bringing offerings
of food and love
gifting of their nurture

selflessly

So many faces
smiling and laughing
biting of the apple of Eve
with no more
than a conversational pause

Faceless, armful giving
from breasts
filled with hearts
of abundance
and joy

And if never a word spoken
to fill an ear
or a heart space
with thanks
or gratitude

even well springs
can run dry…

And arms once sought
hang limply
at ones sides
in forsaken
abandonment

True selflessness
comes from a place of fullness
and self worth
where selfish footsteps have taken care
of the Goddess Spirit within

As the Earth turns

i see so many women
spent
and
so many others
satiated

Joy comes
from the gifting
and receiving
to ones self
and others

Don’t let
your mirror be faceless
your beauty
resides
in your heart

© wildwomenlove poetry
29.12.10

This poem by Alondra is a crushingly painful poem. Each word has melancholy and sadness written throughout. Even as I read the desperation in the daughters voice at the end, it left me acknowledging how liberating it must be to be at the place inside yourself where you can get these kind of memories out of your system. This piece definitely left a mark on my soul, and a longing for something I can’t put my finger on yet.

Mother. by Alondra Blick

She held me
like she wanted time to suffer.
Like she wanted
to return us both to creation.
And her skin was musty
with old boyfriends
and from new ones
whose names
I never learned.
I remember that night
at the apartment,
the night the pipes burst,
because in Canada
we have the long cold hours,
and because that was the night
Joseph never made it home
from the office.
And when it snowed,
crystalised flecks
stacked high,
I always thought of Russia,
of paper dolls
folded inside foreign skirts,
and of that night
she told me something
I can’t now recall.
She said it
when the fire burned low,
like an offering
of the flesh,
and I said Yes Mamma
Love me Mamma.

This magnificent piece of work is not only art, but also a tribute to the memory of the artists lovely daughter. I love the way she paints her so beautiful, so alive, vibrant, and happy.This is how we should all be remembered, with tenderness and grace.

Tender Regard / A Pillanat by Mariska

The artists words underneath the painting says it all to me.

Heal my scar by artsmitten

you write destinies …

your mercy is my salvation

chose stones for yourself

and placed heart in humans….
…………………….

( based on an ancient hindu mythology epic
….)

…………………………….

I would not find the burning domes and sands…
Where reigns the sun, nor dare the deadly snows
Nor seek in mountains dark the hidden lands

But where they bloom those flowers fair…….
In what air or land they grow
What words beyond the world I heard
If you would seek for know

if silent prayers are ever answered …

In just a few lines this beautiful poet reminded us how fleeting things are; life, joy, even memories. The beautiful things we experience can be like twinkles of light from a star a thousand lifetimes away.. leaving us wondering if we really ever saw it in the first place.

quivering sunlight from the belly by Kristin Reynolds

There is a risk
when the music comes,
of becoming

as lost as a moment seen
within
the heart of the eyes.

The divine discovery
of this seeing:

nothing this beautiful can be held.

That the whole of the world
you have kissed
in a moment

to be

beautifully
perfectly

gone.

© Kristin Reynolds 1 9 2011

Congratulations to all the writers and artists that grace the pages of this blog. Happy New Year to everyone, and looking forward to making 2011 even brighter, more inspirational, and uplifting to us all.

TBF Group Features – Week of April 4, 2010

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

In the chapel by Auquier

I like trains by ArcadiaTempest

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

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

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

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

© K S Hardy 2010

Rainy day by Elox


Troubles Everywhere

by oscarelizondo

Troubles Everywhere

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vinyl Nut by Myn B


I makcufehtohwneht ©

by Hector A. Encinas

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

What now..


God’s Benevolent Love
by Rhenastarr

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

Marie Harris (Rhenastarr) April 2, 2010


Couple
by Angilellajoseph

Have you ever watched a young person die? by wildwomenlove

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

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

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

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

and that golden oldie
time will heal…

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

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

It’s about being robbed
and broken dreams

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

as well as your heart

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

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

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

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

© wildwomenlove poetry
20.03.10


DuskyPink Encircles Her Heart
by Anthea Slade

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Anthea Slade 1 April 2010

XDDD by HollyGoLightly


Serial by Lisa Jewell

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

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

“dazed and confused” (Led Zeppelin)

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

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

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

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

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

i should not write tonight.

Longingby Tara Lemana

TBF Group Features – Week of March 7, 2010

“A work of art is a world in itself reflecting senses and emotions of the artist’s world.” Hans Hoffman

Michelle, ma bell by Sophie-Berger

A POEM’S ESSENCE by Cosimopiro

If every poem ever written,
since the first scratch
chiselled in rock,
was placed in a wizards pot
and
boiled down
to one last syllable,
can one single grain,
lone letter,
a poem be,
capturing essence
and
feelings
or
does it need company
to give it more meaning?
Can “I”
stand alone
and be read
with self satisfaction
or does it need “YOU”
to stand beside
for conviction
and
recognition?

A breeze came through by Vicki Griffiths

I never could pull off a good poker face by Lisa Jewell

There is no pretence in being contradictory. If I travel from the east then shift course and hitch a ride on the back of the west wind, am I a free spirit or am I flighty? I can wake with my shattered heart curled up next to me; then the very next morning, I have to tightly hold the string of my balloon heart, so it won’t escape out the bedroom window. How is this possible? How can one heart behave in such contradictory ways? My cave is cosy and deep within its walls I feel bliss, but I would be remiss in not confessing. I do long to be held and kissed for a lifetime of hours.

Sense by Manoyla F.

Praestus Proboscis by ianez

snap.

snap.

snap.

snap.
my fingerprints a linger,
upon each shiny little culet.
fondle, then press __ snap…
each pearl so perfectly fits.

your scent has perfected its continuity.
brushing of itself amidst my olfactory.
bringing with it hints of your palms,
pressed paralax to this she.
to me.

© Jorjia Ianez

Fragments by Elox

Soul by Bill Bell

By the sunshine
in the narrow crack below the blinds
I’d judge that I’m late for something
reaching down I find the sheets
and go back to sleep
Then I don’t know
if I’m dreaming in the twilight
people come and go
some I haven’t seen in years
I guess they’re dead to you
out of sight and out of mind until
you either find them in the obituaries
or knocking at your door
between the planes of interpretation
at the edge of the morning light
trying to be real
trying to extend the story
trying to be something more
then merely soul.

I saw her in the grocery store
coming up the cereal aisle
no older then she had been before
until we were upon one another
then she aged in an instant except for a smile
she’d kept intact then built experience around.
She had two grown children and one in high school
she patted me on the arm and walked away
shedding time as she went an old ache
blossomed and died.

Theres a piano playing
someone left the radio on
the voice of John Lennon singing Imagine.
Clouds streaming over
days on rented beaches
feverish whispers on summer nights
with the windows open
hearing other peoples conversations
no different then your own
there’s a muted piano playing
someone left the radio on.

I rolled over on my left shoulder
noticing I was alone without opening my eyes
the void is warm and I go down again
Standing at a bus station
my father extends his hand to shake
and I hesitate
knowing we will meet again under different rules.
Hold on tight
give a firm handshake
your interpretations of other peoples thoughts
are only by accident right
do it for yourself and the rest will turn out
said a voice already in my head.

Trying ot extend the story
trying to become something more
then merely soul
they’ve forgotten what they were
they merely hearten on
an echo
catch me on the dew point of morning
half awake
turn the radio on softly
see what comes to visit.

Alice in Wonderland – 20 years later by MagpieMagic

dear friend… by Siki Dlanga

let them rip your skin,
let them rip your clothes,
let them rip, let them rip.
the cells will grow back the skin you lost
you will have better clothes
but don’t let them rip your heart….
if that does happens,
if at all it does!
then know this;
there is an everlasting promise
of a brand new heart
and that one cannot be touched
by any vile thing.

(c) siki dlanga
05.03.2010

almost up close and personal by wildwomenlove

Where did our love go? by Laurie Search

TBF Group Writing Features week of February 21, 2010

I’m so excited to blog this weeks writing features for the Touched By Fire Group. This blog post brings a wealth of emotion, inspiration, self-examination, and moments frozen in time.

First of all I have to say that I’m a huge fan of Faith’s painting and art, and didn’t realize she was also a poet. Her paintings have such vivid color and emotion and power embedded within them, and you will find by reading her featured poem she paints the same emotions with her pen. I felt empowered after reading this piece. Each time I read it I found different ways to take the words that she strung together. One thing is for sure, she let lose and the rain fell and it was quite a storm.

The Rains by F. Magdalene Austin

You pray and dance your rituals
Created a god to whom you offer sacrifices
In exchange for a promise
That the rain will fall.
For the harvest must be full
And the tide must pull just right.

I could bring in the breeze with a few clouds to break the sun’s sting
Or shower upon a land fire and cut off its hunger for power.
When dry grass gulps from drops that make your windowsills ping
I hear no sigh of relief.
Why did you wait so long?
Why didn’t you save the trees and
Why did you let destruction take so many?

How cramped are the clouds with their tumultuous hordes of
Resentment and disdain that churns into a spring storm
And brings the driving rain.
The roar and lightening gives you a glimpse of what I fully perceive.
Release upon your land is the only way to maintain my sanity.

I’m bound in so many separate places
Across a sky that does not end.
Frightened by fierce rage, my courage is running thin.
The eye of the storm is here
I can’t hold this in.

It is clear I’ll do too little or too much
And some how mess it up.
Heaven cannot hold me, and mere men cannot prevent
The reclaiming of my sanity when I let go and the rains begin.

F. Magdalene
Copyright 2007 © F. Magdalene All rights reserved

Another writer I recently fell in love with is wildwomenlove. This passionate wordsmith lays it all out there with writing full of wit, despair, humor, romance, the list is endless and her writing is fearless. She’s been working on a series with a character you will meet in this feature that has quite the personality. I encourage you to go back and read the rest of the series.

Eloise Le Blue thinks aloud, do you? (part 4) by wildwomenlove

One should never forget to love someone…

Eloise was kicking back and having a glass of red, she loves a good Pinot, or Merlot, or Shiraz in a blend, so long as you couldn’t stand a stick up in it, I mean some red’s are just so full on, don’t you think? Anyhow she was just chilling and she started to thinking about hanging out with friends, and having a good laugh. Eloise snorts when she laughs, she loves to laugh and when she does out come the snorts, like piglets at a trough, which make her and everyone else laugh all the harder, snorting and laughing, snorting and laughing till she’s rolling around holding her stomach. Funny that her favourite song is Babe’s la la la la laaa song, cos she can remember all the words! ha haa haaa snort, ha haa haaa snort.

Well anyway just the other day she was banging away on the keyboard conjuring up a short story, cos she loves to write and it occurred to her that she hadn’t checked her emails, so she logged on to Red Bubble and here was an email from her friend Sudsy Malone, it’s always so cool to hear from Sudsy. Sudsy had been up to some extraordinary mischief, and it occurred to Eloise that it’s so fun to share random concepts with friends of this calibre, so cool. So she banged up a punchy retort, and sent it flying across the ethers, smiling all the wider for her luck in captivating a friend like Suds, woohoo.

Anyway back to Californication, oh sorry we weren’t quite there yet. Eloise loves Californication, not that she gets to see it very often, cos she always forgets what night it’s on, but when she does happen to flick on the television and Hank Moody smiles down at her from it, with his brooding good looks and his designer stubble, she purrs a little purr and settles in to catch a few of his smart arse comments. She so appreciates a good smart arse does Eloise, a funny one, not a pointy one.

Just then Elektra walked in, followed by Elsie and Elvira and one at a time they each jumped up to sit with her on the couch. Elektra jumped onto her lap and immediately started purring, and jabbing and Elsie and Elvira lay together spooning, while they all watched Hank slink out his funky moves. The little tribe cohabited in a purring fest, sharing the love and licking their bits, a lot like Hank really and life was good on Ebenezer Road.

© wildwomenlove stories

clancy214 describes herself as an amateur photographer, singer, writer, and artist. While this poem is untitled and she mentioned it as ramblings, I loved the flow and feelings that drip down each line, rather like taking an evening walk and letting your mind wander. For a wonderful way of taking me on this gradual stroll into the feelings of missing someone and trying to get over them, I was happy to include it in the features.

Untitled by clancy214

and you with your this and that
and here and there
make it hard for me to think about
nothing but you

waking up and falling asleep
and driving
and walking
and writing
and always this constant melody
in the back of my head
singing your presence

so i shift my focus
like they say to do when driving
and those little spots appear before your eyes
but my you spots don’t disappear
they just cloud my vision
and my train of thought
goes off on your track

and i try a little harder
and i keep myself
busy busy busy
so i can hope to remember
to forget
how nice it is when you
are lying next to me

© 2010


Ahhh I do love a good write from Bill Bell. His tender, thoughtful writing never disappoints me. This featured poem is a beautiful write about a moment in time when a person finds themselves in a place of starting over. Such a poignant and moving poem.

Bardo by Bill Bell

A small apartment
found after the relationship
not filled with much furniture
no things to speak of
clothing
a toothbrush
shampoo
survival things mostly.
The view
of the parking lot is peaceful
no arguments or drama
you brought up your boxes
in a state of roaring sadness
but now
even the trees look sublime
everything is new
each breath has a deepness
each smell says hello.

© 2010

MagpieMagic is another multi-talented woman whom I’m so glad to have in our group. She’s a wonder at photo manipulation and obviously quite a writer too. This poem spreads a message about freedom of the spirit, being brave and true to our dreams. A very beautifully written piece with a powerful message.

Join the Revolution by Magpie Magic

As one door closes
another shuts in your face,
your freedom curtailed,
but they always forget
the roof light and
the mouse hole in the skirting board.

Imagination and
the creative spirit
cannot be pinned down,
or filled with lead,
or hanged, or quartered
or buried in the ground.

Snap on your wings
fly in the shadow of the stars
discover the macrocosmos
in the shimmer of a tear
and the microscomos
in the glow of the universe.

The revolution lives
and truth shines in
the light of the moon,
forever in the souls
of those who believe
that there must be more.

You called me monster,
you called me Jezebel,
you called me many things
but my true name
is a secret lodged
in the hearts of the brave.

© Sybille Sterk

Markezz is an inspiration. His poetry always shifts a focus inward, to a point of self-reflection and meditation. This thoughtful piece asks the question – what happens when being true to oneself defies the wants or feelings of those you love? Thought provoking indeed.

INTEGRITY by MarkezzAckui

INTEGRITY

SOME SAY THIS IS DOING THE RIGHT THING
WHEN NO ONE IS LOOKING,

WHAT HAPPENS WHEN THE RIGHT THING FOR ME
ISN’T WHAT YOU THOUGHT,
WHAT IF MY INTEGRITY DOESN’T FIT INTO YOUR BOX?

IS THIS DEFIANCE,
OR ME BEING SELF RELIANT
AND IN COMPLIANCE
WITH THIS WORD INTEGRITY
AND HOW IT COINCIDES WITH MY MENTALITY
WHY QUESTION MY VISION OF WHAT THIS WORD TRULY MEANS

GOOD IS GOOD
BAD IS BAD

YET THERE’S INTEGRITY IN BOTH THINGS

LACK OF UNDERSTANDING MAKES ONE BELIEVE THAT I WRITE THESE WORDS PURELY TO ENTERTAIN,
THE TRUTH IS THEY KEEP ME SANE
BECAUSE
MY BRAIN
CAN’T CONTAIN
THE STRAIN
NOR THE PAIN….

IT’S INTEGRITY ALL THE SAME.

IF I LACKED IT,
SHIT
WOULD BE TRAJIC.

MARKEZZACKUI©2010

Thanks to each of the writers above for submitting their work to Touched By Fire. I hope everyone enjoyed the thoughts they brought to the page.

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