In our latest challenge, we searched for those images that touched our soul, while titillating our sensual nature. Please congratulate (and purchase some of her pieces, why not?) Margaret Bryant for her winning work: Stone Cold Fox Says Reading is Sexy. And, to top it off, it’s a self-portrait! That’s double the genius…
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.
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 nurtureselflessly
So many faces
smiling and laughing
biting of the apple of Eve
with no more
than a conversational pauseFaceless, armful giving
from breasts
filled with hearts
of abundance
and joyAnd if never a word spoken
to fill an ear
or a heart space
with thanks
or gratitudeeven well springs
can run dry…And arms once sought
hang limply
at ones sides
in forsaken
abandonmentTrue selflessness
comes from a place of fullness
and self worth
where selfish footsteps have taken care
of the Goddess Spirit withinAs the Earth turns
i see so many women
spent
and
so many others
satiatedJoy comes
from the gifting
and receiving
to ones self
and othersDon’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.
The artists words underneath the painting says it all to me.
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 landsBut 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 knowif 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 becomingas 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 momentto be
beautifully
perfectlygone.
© 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.
Beautiful in her natural femininity, today’s feature is a lovely big eyed girl whose hair winds around her body like silk. For a moment, I wanted to be her.
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.
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 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 thoroughmeeting on a moonlit night
my lover and I’s heartbeats true
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 youIf 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 beIf only for you
I could be
Still
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 beBuild 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
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 watchingI 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 thinkingI am virginal
To human flesh
But not to the sanitising discreetness
Of toilet paper
And washable bed sheetsI am virginal
And beyond the pacifying
Labels of straight
Gay or Bisexual
Knowing that any orgasm will doI 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 eyeI 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
‘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 breathand 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
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.
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.”
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.
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 dawnsunrise stirring
veridian gardens~
though
i swear…
i could kiss you
into the morning of a next dayits 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 mineI 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 wishesbaby giggles, liquid smiles—
riverlets drowning
delicate silence
the jasper tinge of yourcheek-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
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.
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.
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….”
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.
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.”
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
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 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 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. ©
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 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
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
One of our latest challenges dealt with a partial view to our own physical embodiment: “Pieces of us. As whole beings we are beautiful, but focusing in on specific pieces of us can have a tremendous impact”.
Lilynoelle‘s work, a self-portrait, Perfume received the most votes. Here’s what she wrote about it:
Inspired by “Perfume: Story of a Murderer” ~ book by Patrick Suskind, film by Tom Twyker
roses and the scent of a woman …
This self-portrait was inspired by Perfume. The film and book are both beautiful reminders of the gentle, mysterious loveliness that all women have. Virginity is prized in the story, with the virginial women possessing a certain beauty in their Pheromones that make for a perfume so pure, so sublime, that it has the power to control the world (which our anti-hero, Grenouille, chooses not to do.) The story enchanted me and I felt honored to be a woman and virgin – not that being a man is any less important, but hey! We need to feel that beauty can come from something as simple as a scent or virginity. It’s not all about makeup and clothing. A scent of a rose … the scent of a woman.
Greetings, friends. Though this update is long overdue, we have another tie in our hands, this time in the Masks challenge. Feast your eyes on the shared first place:
Idyll -from “Hidden Light” series- by dorina costras
Mystery of Identity by strawberries
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
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
I’ve teamed it up with
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
There’s something so fabulous about this. It makes you wonder what she’s thinking, who she’s looking at.
I thought this one worked well with
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.
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. 🙂
I teamed it up with
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.
I thought it goes well with
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.
To go with it a great poem of self affirmation and inner strength.
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
I love the emotion and depth of this portrait. It’s of the moment and captures it so well…
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. 🙂
A moth to flame.. undeniable attraction.. the sting and burn of love.. in a few sentences writer PJ Ryan was able to evoke a lifetime of feelings.
She’s a moth, that girl; with butterfly eyelashes and her wings made of difference.
You’re the light; all flicker and enlightening and dark and moody sometimes.
There’s the attraction.
And you think it’s instinct, whilst she can only feel.
You watched her landing with a subtle crash. She was expecting to burn. And it did. And it does.
In that room with a lantern heart and seven boxes of the other you, she saw it; that thing that you do.
What a fire
to stare into
flame, you are
interesting.You’re good at running; backward, forward with a finger on the switch.
On.
Off.
Come here.
Go away.
She can only fly.
Goodbye.
The residue of you is tucked beneath her wings, destined to fall away with flutter.
Eventually.
© ryan
the need to cut off those pieces of yourself you no longer want lingering around, the dried up parts that no longer offer nourishment to your soul.. this is how i feel when i look at this stunning piece
Pruned by Sue Smith
i love poets.. i love people that bleed their lives in ink for the rest of us to gobble up like hungry blank pieces of paper… and i love poems that talk about the poet themselves..
Let the Poet Sleep Tonight by Hector A. Encinas
Let me in.
Deep,
deep,
deep,
deep…
Deeper, and deeper.
The king of dreams awaits tonight.
Dive into the pool.
And leave them breathless….Of all your elaborate plans.
Do you see me in them?
Flying.
Freely,
Through the dead desert land.
While the children of men,
Lay lost in a wilderness of pain;
Hung from their neck ties;
Waiting for the sunrise,
To wash them clean.
Again.Guide me through the open highway tonight.
Through the danger at the edge of time.
He rides.
One hundred miles an hour;
Two hundred,
A thousand hundred miles,
per second.
The poet, rides the dusty desert storm.
To reach the diming stars at the horizon.
Awaiting heaven, at the end of the night.Driver…
Where are you taking us?Pay me a visit before you go.
Look inside and tell me what the ancient film,
Spoke about.
Look inside.
What penury do you see?
Look inside.
And tell me,
With no lie,
To anchor your word.
Tell me what you see inside,
With your broken eyes;
Poet…..And will you let the other voices fall on mute?
And let the poet sleep tonight.
Let the poet take a ride,
To the sun and back.
Where no one remembers our name.Beds climb,
And shadows dim,
when we collide.
A special drug.
That you and I know so well.
And takes us where no one knows our name.Am I the lizard in the cupboard;
Whispering secrets of himself to the ear of the quiet room?
The tiger on a leash?
The killer on the road?
The red moon glow?
The desert in heat?Or am I you?
The poet with no voice;
With nothing to say, and all to do.
Let the poet sleep.
Let him climb up the moon,
and let him fall where gravity always wins.
To the edge of mad laughter.
Let him sleep.
Where no one remembers our name.And does anyone here get out alive?
i am drawn to green.. perhaps because of my connection with nature, its suggestion of growth or renewal.. i also ponder a lot about those things i want to remain unanswered.. perhaps that is why this piece by Mimi truly spoke to my soul
i don’t want to know…. by Mimi Yoon
i don’t want to know if you’re unhappy…
i don’t want to know if you’re happy…and i won’t tell you if i’m unhappy…
Bill’s pen has the softest touch.. he often writes of things i’d never consider writing about.. little stories and journeys all condensed into featherweight lines that float around my eyes and then crash into my heart.. a dreamy girl like me especially couldn’t resist this piece of his on sleep
One day I’ll wake up
and my bones will ache
from too much sleep
my lids far heavier
from too much dreaming
not the wishful type
the steaming mirages when awake
but like death in a box
surrounded by talismans
and images
and coins.
I’ll be eternal there
an ever existing flame.I’ll speak
and reach out with searching fingers
will they fall upon stone
will they feel your own sleeping face
and think it that of a mermaid
a figurehead on the ships leading edge
as we head off into the unknown.
From your own universe
will you bite me
believing I’m trying to silence you
with a blindfold and a muzzle
make your escape
and we’ll meet at that coffee house
you spoke of last week
in your phony French accent.I used to never dream
blackness from dusk til dawn
getting older the bubbles creep in
thoughts and stresses
and worries intermingle
with joys and hopes
leaving you naked on a bus
or inserted into your favorite TV series.
One day I’ll wake up
and the colors will merge
I’ll fold back the sheets
I’ll walk slowly to the bedroom door
and open it …
taking the leap.. trusting the universe within our human hearts.. these feelings and this painting makes me want to dance on the strength and courage that humans
FAITH – The Flow by Sonya Smith
the universe’s secrets, life and death, human frailty, tearing down in order to build a new, consciousness and knowing… linaji packed the universe in this poem, and it took me to the cosmos and back..
Dying Wish by Linaji
I feel comfort in telling you I am dying.
I am sick
I am man
I am womanPlease: Feel my fragility so I don’t have to
In secret I feel like a glowing volcano
running amuck on the streets of an island
pursuing my dream of the oceans hiss
My Hot
It’s cold
Slowing me down once again
So that I may build this island
create more room for garland making and hair shampooing
pu pu platters
eaten by those who’s lives are simply glorious.You will have to move your home of 100 years… I am burning your land
Your children are in danger, for the butterfly belly is iron hotGet up and walk if you want to
walk on these coals with Jeasus’s permission
He said…AND BETTER WORKS SHALL YE DO, than me ~
How did that truth get past the pope and the megagods?
Who spent mellifluous moments in contemplation
Sipping gold goblets thought to contain comfortable inklings
How ‘they’ could kill the truth.BUT YOU KNOW LIKE I DO…
Truth seeps in like bloodlust at midnight,
Never waiting always flowing to get ‘it’ done!
Truth knows endless possibilities exist
on this road less traveledCONSCIOUSLY
We placate a belief that soothes the exposed rash of harsh understandingOur hearts leave us endless clues,
like truth
both never tiring from their nature.knowing like eating to live;
Accepting all of life’s contrasts
brings about more desireknowing desire is the crack in the Universe
bringing round the babtisim of fire
seeing
what once was and ever will be
the formula ofUS
magnificent creatures,
ever telling ourselves
To hush
To draw the curtainSOMEONE MAY SEE THEMSELVES IN OUR EYES~
And remember…
All is Well.
Linaji 2010
a woman in motion, blood red with life surging inside of her, black hair flowing in curled tendrils laced with golden sun, she is life, renewal, and beauty.. this is an amazing piece of art
Rites of Spring by redqueenself
i adore poems that emit a strong vision, a statement about life, a focus on the struggle of being human and imperfect and how we can limit ourselves by holding too much in for too long.. thank you lowlowe, for opening the floodgates..
Here
There is no evermore
No feathered, fantasy
Escape in echoed chambers
No trick doors or
Hollow walls
To stumble accidental hands upon
The rabbit hole
Is closed
For winterWithout the portal
The film covering the sky
Is flawless
The bubbles bending the painted doors
Of our universe
Clog the wood
There is
No air to let out
To suck in
To crack the porcelain
Disk of a scream
Or envelop the silenceNothing
Is required
In the asylum’s masqueradeExcept for a cut
Just a tear
To rip this cage
Wide
Open
stormy girl, cloudy sky, dangerous mushrooms.. and those hypnotizing eyes.. wowed me
Penny Poison by tiffatron
i love poetry that contains sublime imagry, word combinations, and surprising elements… these kind of moments are meant to be experienced and breathed in, so sit back because here you go
Vista by larkfallen
You’ve got it, haven’t you?
That view
you’ve always wanted;
that patio extension
which fans out from under your eyebrows
under the thick brimmed nightcap
where moments such as this one dance like fragments
of a kaliedescope.Don’t fall. Not yet.
Hold it, at least until
the cactus falls asleep
and the lily
no longer cares to be a lily.You with your special grade repellent –
the gills of the dancers are
too small
to breathe it in
this time
Oh yes you’ve got it, the view;
indigo vines
under the frosty sun
purple wax
creeping through the tiny poplars
of the star-carpet, the night pouts
like Daphne before the advances of dawn.The vine like a sash
refusing to penetrate
the waist of its wearer.
swimming in a sea of poppies, of beauty, of life, she seems to rise up from the earth and look straight into your eyes as if she knows something…
Red ocean by Elena Oleniuc
Touched by Fire 