Sunday Features - 28/11/2010

Some wonderful art and t-shirts chosen by VenusOak for your delectation.

Hidden by ©afeeefa


The Core Spirit of Earth by © journeyheart5


Mirror Mirror On The Wall by © Varry



Puzzled by © Lacey Scarbro


lips lie (I'm fine)...in her eyes you will see the truth (I'm shattered)... by © NumandisArt
 
Leap Of Faith by © AnimiDawn


tee - free as a bird ©LanaWynne


tee - I draw the line ©Cynthia Lund Torroll


tee - Kleopatra © Tulay Cakir

tee - Miniature Mixedup ©DesignBakery

 

 tee - Alter Ego ©Micklyn

tee - Organic ©Bec Schopen


Congratulations to all the artists!

All Things Considered

One of the sayings that I remember from my childhood is “all things considered.” The phrase is used to punctuate the explanation of why a bad event or a setback in life is not so bad, “all things considered.” So I learned to look at the world from a larger perspective and to examine my life with “all things considered.”

When I was 2 years old I experienced an epiphany. I found out that Santa Claus was a poor, hard working coal miner. I also learned that life in the Mountains of Eastern Kentucky was not so bad, all things considered.

My parents were quite typical in many respects. Like every typical American parent, they lied to their kids. They told me the story of a delightful, jolly old elf that lived at the North Pole. They told me that if I was a very good little girl, ate my vegetables and did not talk back I would be rewarded with gifts. On the other hand if I was a bad girl, I would find no gifts under the tree and lumps of coal in my Christmas stocking. I knew all about coal because my father was a miner. His fingernails had a seemingly permanent buildup of coal dust underneath and he always smelled of the creosote that was used to coat the wood timbers that held up the roof of the underground mine. I wanted no coal in my stocking!

One day in December 1963 my mother asked me, “What would you like Santa to bring you this year?”

Weeks earlier I saw a doll on the shelf in the store that served as a grocery for sugar, flour and coffee, a hardware store, and an auto parts store. The store was owned by an elderly couple and for many years was the only place in town where we could buy things as we needed them because they would extend credit. I asked my mother to buy the doll for me. She scolded me.

“We don’t have money for foolishness Helen!” she hissed. “Don’t ask again.”

I hushed about the doll and unlike today’s 2 year old kids, I knew better than to attempt a tantrum.

Later when mother asked me what I wanted Santa to bring for Christmas, I hesitantly asked for the doll. It was a beautiful doll! I can not now remember the name of the doll that was emblazoned across the front of the pink and white box, but I remember she had the longest dark brown hair, brown glass eyes that closed when you tilted her back and she was nearly as tall as I was. If you held her hand and ever so gently pulled her toward you she would walk forward in a stiff legged march across the floor. I thought she was the most beautiful doll in the world.

Christmas morning came and went and the doll was not beneath the Christmas tree. There was a nice stack of coloring books and a new box of wax crayons. My grandmother gave me a package of frilly panties with the days of the week printed on the front of each – “because you are a big girl now” she told me since I had learned to hold my bladder and go to the toilet. The evening wore on, and as darkness crept up on the Eastern Kentucky hollow where I was born and where I would live until my 30th birthday, I was convinced that Santa Claus would not be bringing the doll I wanted. Relatives came and went, and each brought a small present of books, and hair ribbons, and paper dolls, but no Santa and no walking doll. Then there was a knock at the door and a tall skinny man dressed in a “Santa suit” entered the house. I immediately recognized him. It was my great uncle Bill.

Great Uncle Bill had served in the Navy during World War II and was “shell shocked.” These days we call it “Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome” but way back then, it was considered a craziness caused by what he experienced in the war. I used to think that Great Uncle Bill was a giant. He was at least 6 feet 3 inches tall but thin as a rail. He had a long smiling face, but there was a deep sadness behind the smiling eyes if one had the ability to see beyond the surface. The fake Santa beard swung loosely beneath Great Uncle Bill’s chin and the suit hung on his body like scarecrow garb.

“Uncle Bill!” I shouted.

“That’s Santa Helen,” Mother corrected.

Great Uncle Santa Bill beckoned me forward and I approached him timidly. He knelt down and then reached into his gunny sack – no red velvet bag trimmed in white fox fur for a Mountain Santa. He pulled out a big pink and white box from his sack. It was the doll from the store. I was delighted, but I was very sad at the same time. You see, I discovered that there is no Santa Claus at the North Pole. He is not a kindly old elf that keeps his watchful eye on the naughty and the good, but a poor coal miner with dirty fingernails who always smelled of creosote. My father went back to the store that day in December 1963 when I asked for the doll and he bought it for me on credit. He asked his uncle, my great uncle Bill, to dress up as Santa Claus and to bring it to me on Christmas night.

Years later when I started school, I was surprised to learn that many children still believed in a jolly elf from the North Pole. I knew that my Santa was real and that he loved me. Even though he smelled of coal and he dirtied my dress when he picked me up, he cared about my happiness. Knowing the truth from a young age was not easy to take, but it has served me well, all things considered.

Goody Santa Claus - A light-hearted look at gender roles in thisholiday season.

A light-hearted feminist look at gender roles at this season.

Santa, must I tease in vain, Deer? Let me go and hold the reindeer,
While you clamber down the chimneys. Don’t look savage as a Turk!
Why should you have all the glory of the joyous Christmas story,
And poor little Goody Santa Claus have nothing but the work?

It would be so very cozy, you and I, all round and rosy,
Looking like two loving snowballs in our fuzzy Arctic furs,
Tucked in warm and snug together, whisking through the winter weather
Where the tinkle of the sleigh-bells is the only sound that stirs.

You just sit here and grow chubby off the goodies in my cubby
From December to December, till your white beard sweeps your knees;
For you must allow, my Goodman, that you’re but a lazy woodman
And rely on me to foster all our fruitful Christmas trees.

While your Saintship waxes holy, year by year, and roly-poly,
Blessed by all the lads and lassies in the limits of the land,
While your toes at home you’re toasting, then poor Goody must go posting
Out to plant and prune and garner, where our fir-tree forests stand.

Oh! but when the toil is sorest how I love our fir-tree forest,
Heart of light and heart of beauty in the Northland cold and dim,
All with gifts and candles laden to delight a boy or maiden,
And its dark-green branches ever murmuring the Christmas hymn!

Yet ask young Jack Frost, our neighbor, who but Goody has the labor,
Feeding roots with milk and honey that the bonbons may be sweet!
Who but Goody knows the reason why the playthings bloom in season
And the ripened toys and trinkets rattle gaily to her feet!

From the time the dollies budded, wiry-boned and saw-dust blooded,
With their waxen eyelids winking when the wind the tree-tops plied,
Have I rested for a minute, until now your pack has in it
All the bright, abundant harvest of the merry Christmastide?

Santa, wouldn’t it be pleasant to surprise me with a present?
And this ride behind the reindeer is the boon your Goody begs;
Think how hard my extra work is, tending the Thanksgiving turkeys
And our flocks of rainbow chickens — those that lay the Easter eggs.

Home to womankind is suited? Nonsense, Goodman! Let our fruited
Orchards answer for the value of a woman out-of-doors.
Why then bid me chase the thunder, while the roof you’re safely under,
All to fashion fire-crackers with the lighting in their cores?

See! I’ve fetched my snow-flake bonnet, with the sunrise ribbons on it;
I’ve not worn it since we fled from Fairyland our wedding day;
How we sped through iceberg porches with the Northern Lights for torches!
You were young and slender, Santa, and we had this very sleigh.

Jump in quick then? That’s my bonny. Hey down derry! Nonny nonny!
While I tie your fur cap closer, I will kiss your ruddy chin.
I’m so pleased I fall to singing, just as sleigh-bells take to ringing!
Are the cloud-spun lap-robes ready? Tirra-lirra! Tuck me in.

Off across the starlight Norland, where no plant adorns the moorland
Save the ruby-berried holly and the frolic mistletoe!
Oh, but this is Christmas revel! Off across the frosted level
Where the reindeers’ hoofs strike sparkles from the crispy, crackling snow!

There’s the Man i’ the Moon before us, bound to lead the Christmas chorus
With the music of the sky-waves rippling round his silver shell —
Glimmering boat that leans and tarries with the weight of dreams she carries
To the cots of happy children. Gentle sailor, steer her well!

Now we pass through dusky portals to the drowsy land of mortals;
Snow-enfolded, silent cities stretch about us dim and far.
Oh! how sound the world is sleeping, midnight watch no shepherd keeping,
Though an angel-face shines gladly down from every golden star.

Here’s a roof. I’ll hold the reindeer. I suppose this weather-vane, Dear,
Some one set here just on purpose for our teams to fasten to.
There’s its gilded cock, — the gaby! — wants to crow and tell the baby
We are come. Be careful, Santa! Don’t get smothered in the flue.

Back so soon? No chimney-swallow dives but where his mate can follow.
Bend your cold ear, Sweetheart Santa, down to catch my whisper faint:
Would it be so very shocking if your Goody filled a stocking
Just for once? Oh, dear! Forgive me. Frowns do not become a Saint.

I will peep in at the skylights, where the moon sheds tender twilights
Equally down silken chambers and down attics bare and bleak.
Let me show with hailstone candies these two dreaming boys — the dandies
In their frilled and fluted nighties, rosy cheek to rosy cheek!

What! No gift for this poor garret? Take a sunset sash and wear it
O’er the rags, my pale-faced lassie, till thy father smiles again.
He’s a poet, but — oh, cruel! he has neither light nor fuel.
Here’s a fallen star to write by, and a music-box of rain.

So our sprightly reindeer clamber, with their fairy sleigh of amber,
On from roof to roof , the woven shades of night about us drawn.
On from roof to roof we twinkle, all the silver bells a-tinkle,
Till blooms in yonder blessèd East the rose of Christmas dawn.

Now the pack is fairly rifled, and poor Santa’s well-nigh stifled;
Yet you would not let your Goody fill a single baby-sock;
Yes, I know the task takes brain, Dear. I can only hold the reindeer,
And so see me climb down chimney — it would give your nerves a shock.

Wait! There’s yet a tiny fellow, smiling lips and curls so yellow
You would think a truant sunbeam played in them all night. He spins
Giant tops, a flies kites higher than the gold cathedral spire
In his creams — the orphan bairnie, trustful little Tatterkins.

Santa, don’t pass by the urchin! Shake the pack, and deeply search in
All your pockets. There is always one toy more. I told you so.
Up again? Why, what’s the trouble? On your eyelash winks the bubble
Mortals call a tear, I fancy. Holes in stocking, heel and toe?

Goodman, though your speech is crusty now and then there’s nothing rusty
In your heart. A child’s least sorrow makes your wet eyes glisten, too;
But I’ll mend that sock so nearly it shall hold your gifts completely.
Take the reins and let me show you what a woman’s wit can do.

Puff! I’m up again, my Deary, flushed a bit and somewhat weary,
With my wedding snow-flake bonnet worse for many a sooty knock;
But be glad you let me wheedle, since, an icicle for needle,
Threaded with the last pale moonbeam, I have darned the laddie’s sock.

Then I tucked a paint-box in it (‘twas no easy task to win it
From the Artist of the Autumn Leaves) and frost-fruits white and sweet,
With the toys your pocket misses — oh! and kisses upon kisses
To cherish safe from evil paths the motherless small feet.

Chirrup! chirrup! There’s a patter of soft footsteps and a clatter
Of child voices. Speed it, reindeer, up the sparkling Arctic Hill!
Merry Christmas, little people! Joy-bells ring in every steeple,
And Goody’s gladdest of the glad. I’ve had my own sweet will.

This poem, and four other Christmas poems, were also included in Bates’ Fairy Gold (New York: E. P. Dutton & Co., 1916). See:
Poems of Christmas by Katherine Lee Bates

Feminist Art, What is it?

I found this fascinating article today and wanted to share it with you all.

Source….
Feminism & Feminist Art
The Art History Archive – Feminist Art

Feminist art sometimes poses or confronts such questions as:

1. How is a woman’s gaze different from a man’s? How does that difference influence the ways in which the two genders view the world? And how they view art?

2. What constitutes obscenity and pornography? Where do they come from? What are their results? Are they always transgessive? What place do they have in art?



Especially since the late 1960s, when the feminist art movement can be said to have emerged, women have been particularly interested in what makes them different from males — what makes women artists and their art different from male artists and their art. This has been most prominent in the United States, Britain, and Germany, although there are numerous precursors to the movement, and it has spread to many other cultures since the 1970s.



Feminists point out that throughout most of recorded history males have imposed patriarchal (father-centered) social systems (in which they have dominated females). Although it is not the goal of this article to recount the development of feminist theory in full, the history of feminist art cannot be understood apart from it. Feminist theory must take into account the circumstances of most women’s lives as mothers, household workers, and caregivers, in addition to the pervasive misconception that women are genetically inferior to men. Feminist art notes that significant in the dominant (meaning especially Western) culture’s patriarchal heritage is the preponderance of art made by males, and for male audiences, sometimes transgressing against females. Men have maintained a studio system which has excluded women from training as artists, a gallery system that has kept them from exhibiting and selling their work, as well as from being collected by museums — albeit somewhat less in recent years than before.

Here is a notice posted by the Guerrilla Girls (founded in 1985, a New York based group of otherwise unnamed women “artists, writers, performers and film makers who fight discrimination”) in a list they published in 1989:

The Advantages of Being a Woman Artist:

Working without the pressure of success.
Not having to be in shows with men.
Having an escape from the art world in your 4 free-lance jobs.
Knowing your career might pick up after you’re eighty.
Being reassured that whatever kind of art you make it will be labeled feminine.
Not being stuck in a tenured teaching position.
Seeing your ideas live on in the work of others.
Having the opportunity to choose between career and motherhood.
Not having to choke on those big cigars or paint in Italian suits.
Having more time to work when your mate dumps you for someone younger.
Being included in revised versions of art history.
Not having to undergo the embarrassment of being called a genius.
Getting your picture in the art magazines wearing a gorilla suit.
Feminist art history must be considered as part of this discussion. Its proponents have demanded that women’s arts from all cultures, of all periods, be included in studies and exhibitions of art. In 1971 Linda Nochlin (American, contemporary art critic) wrote a landmark article, Why Have There Been No GREAT Women Artists? giving tremendous momentum to feminist scholarship concerning women in the arts. Numerous histories of women artists were published in the 1970s, and several others have appeared in the years since then.

Before the late 1960s most women artists, struggling to participate in the male-dominated art world, had overwhelming disincentives to put feminist meanings into their work, and sought to de-gender their art. Often, on the basis of appearance alone, their work could not be identified as woman-made. Several countercultural movements arose simultaneously with feminism in the 1960s. At this time the United States experienced social upheaval coming with the Civil Rights Movement, the Vietnam War, economic prosperity, the arrival of oral contraceptives, reforms in the Catholic Church, nostalgia for the presidency of John F. Kennedy, and experimentation with psychotropic drugs. Many other countries experienced social unrest of various kinds during this period. Some gender issues have been of interest to both male and female artists. Although feminist art has arisen more from the concerns of artists of one gender, and some of those concerns are sexual in nature, more often than not feminist issues have been about women’s power in arenas of which sexuality (reproductive acts and roles) is an important part.

Feminist art sometimes poses or confronts such questions as:

1. How is a woman’s gaze different from a man’s? How does that difference influence the ways in which the two genders view the world? And how they view art?

2. What constitutes obscenity and pornography? Where do they come from? What are their results? Are they always transgessive? What place do they have in art?

Although feminist artists have shown great interest in the depiction of nude figures (both male and female), very few feminist artists have shown interest in creating erotic work. Learn more by reading Feminist Art Practices & Political Art.

Link to the original article.

Examples of Feminist Artists:

• Cindy Sherman
• Joyce Wieland
• Frida Kahlo
• Artemisia Gentileschi
• Lilith Adler
• Caroline Folkenroth
• Candice Raquel Lee
• Jennifer Linton
• Martha Rosler
• Rachel Stone
• Victoria Van Dyke
• William Blake

Other Famous Women Artists:

• Emily Carr
• Georgia O’Keeffe
• Berthe Morisot
• Rosa Bonheur
• Elisabeth Vigee-Lebrun

Articles about Feminist Art:

• Feminist Art Practices & Political Art
• Women Artists of the 20th & 21st Centuries
• 20th Century Feminist Artists
• Gender in the Visual Arts
• Slavery is a Woman
• Why Have There Been No GREAT Women Artists?
• Estonian Feminist Artists
• Turkish Feminist Artists
• A Feast of Feminist Art

Featured Artist November 2010: Autumnwind

To celebrate my new status as a host of Pink Panther I was asked to choose the next featured artist. Without a moment's thought I knew who I wanted to bestow this honour on and my co-hosts couldn't agree more with my choice.

I am so proud to present to you Autumnwind, one of the most profound and inspirational writers on Redbubble. Not only are her poems dear to me on a personal level, they are also thoughtful and very well writtten. Her writing touches on often scary topics and describes them in a personal, touching way that is exclusively Autumnwind's way of approaching them and sharing them with us.

Her poems made such an impression on me that I illustrated several of them, but more than that her poetry (and that of a few others here on Redbubble) encouraged me to pick up the pen again (after many years of denying myself) and to write my own poetry. For that I will forever be grateful to her.

Not that she understands all the fuss and when I told her that I chose her to be the next featured artist, she was over the moon and asked me if I was sure. :-) I have no doubt you'll all agree that her poems are fantastic and that she well deserves this honour.

Without further ado, here are a few of the poems I love best.

deep breath by ©autumnwind

do you know what its like
to live dead

to wake up each day
to not get out of bed

to stumble to the bathroom
pass the mirror from hell

and not recognize
where a human once dwelled

do you know how many women
are trapped

whose life force is
violently zapped

fear is a paralysis
immobilizing the heart

suffocating the soul
ripping
hope
apart

but wait…

put on that painted face
and the smile of a clown
the lie upside down
where
reality drowns

please your abuser
the cowardly loser

take a few pills
wash it down with a wish
for an hour of escape
or forever bliss
to the beautiful sea
or the clouds up above…

love?

fairy tales for some
scary tales become

lies to yourself
are the worst lies
of all

is it better to take chance
of the bite of a snake
or to know how he slithers
watching you quake

will you survive living dead
in shadow and dread?

NO

It is not just for you
to me there’s no choice

I am thinking of HER
your pure unborn voice

GET OUT NOW
please, I implore

you know the truth
this is warning not blame

real love does not hurt
nor does it bear any shame

 phoenix by ©autumnwind

for those of you
who feel
who know
they have learned
to bend with the wind
suddenly find
but once again
nothing is certain
and all things change

all knowledge
truly is
akin to the wind itself
…as there you lie
broken in two
disappointed
shocked
by the ferocious gusts
of
disillusionment
and hurt

I say
mend yourself
find new roots
grow stronger
though you feel
only half your former size
stand tall
and you will rise
day by day

let
tears and sun
nourish your spirit
rebuild your foundation

when their winds howl
and spit acid rain
burning holes
deep within the heart of you

remember
your scars
have made you stronger
and those breaking wounds
have made your soul
more limber

when you are fooled
yet once again
by the self indulgence of others
the sly mirage that tempts you
remember..

in truth we are alone
we must believe
in ourselves
and rise
to the glorious life
of our own giving spirit

ascend and consent
to the clouds
take shelter from the storms
shine and give forth
the warmth of a thousand suns

and most of all
when shadows fall
upon you
and breath is fierce and foul
remember what’s inside you
hold on tight
and ride
find you…
become the wind

doubt by ©autumnwind

a seed
desperate to grow
no space
and the pain is
restless
harrowing
angry

I can fly
like I swim
legs kicking
hands and arms together
dividing
the water/air

I take off
I am happy
realizing my abilities

back to reality
before sleep
I feel this seed
ever expanding
I am trapped

we all are

why are we nothing
without our dreams
when we cannot live them

I want to be free
yet
who is really free
while caught
in the in-between

it is a paradox

I reside
in bits and pieces
within moments
memory dots of happiness
dreams that are no longer in reach

were they ever

a key perhaps
constantly dangling
always just out of reach

slipping further away
have I even forgotten
the face of my mother?

I understand my choices
I devoutly cherish the gifts
I own

what then
is this more
that I need
so desperately

how many times
do I need
to lose my way
before I am truly found
(deja vu)

I hurt so deeply
an ache so profound

losing momentum now

these anchors
upon my shoulders
a weight
I can no longer bear

so…

I’ve been wondering
have I already
been the butterfly?

perhaps then

I

should

stop

trying

to

fly

breakdown by ©autumnwind

my dreams of late
are but whispers of dark madness
sparkling demons kiss my name in the howling wind

the resonating shriek razor thin
pierces deep the lines of cerebral logic

awake is only temporary coherence
fear dangles it’s ice picks above
poised to plummet and shatter
my fleeting grasp on reality

I am an optical scream perceived
distortion of violent overbearing colors
reverberate their haunting torment
weighing me down

a desperate prisoner…help me.

It's difficult to share just a few as I seem to feel each and every one. Please feel free to share your favourites in the comment section and congratulate Shar on her well deserved honour.

Huge congrats from all of us,

Sybille, Anna & VenusOak 

Midweek Features 24/11/2010

We're finally finding our stride and here are the midweek features - a mix of art and writing.

Mixed Feelings by ©Agent7

One of my fave images this month. There's so much to see and understand in this. The technique is fab and the look and feel are great. Perfect to start off the features.

Sixty Ticks Of Nothing by ©acquaridan

All the business of life and all the things we need to do, that are expected of us and so little time to just be - perfectly expressed in this poem.

I’m not crazy
Not at all

Seriously

I keep telling myself that
I may just believe it

One of these days

For all intense purposes
No one would suspect a thing
My friend and I we work
In simpatico with each other

We have an understanding
An agreement if you will
To co-exist in a state
Of perpetual normalacy

Normal
What is that

Really

Responsibilities and rules
Governed by obligations
Distinguished with deadlines
Which necessitate compliance

Appointments to keep
Places in which to be
Conversations to be had
Agendas to follow

Stop
Timeout

Sit on the bench

Remove thy mask
Disrobe the facade
Moments of solitude
Minutes of nothingness

Longing to take a breath
With no where to go
Wanting to sit a while
Nowhere to be

Hold it
Wait for it

Release the valve

Stay a while and be
Content with yourself
Let seconds pass you by
You’ll catch up the hours

Take in that which you miss
You must it has missed you too
Absorb the tranquility
Arouse each sense

Craziness
Is not taking a moment

When you need it most

Being consumed by too much
To not know solace and comfort
In moments of serenity
360 degrees 60 ticks
Of peaceful nothing

Thoughts For Company by ©Geraldine (Gezza) Maddrell

There are so many different aspects to women and the introspection and thoughtfulness in this lovely image touched me.

the weight of life moving forward without you by ©ShadowDancer

A thoughtful and beautiful poem, perfectly encapsulating the mood Geraldine's image (above).

While butterflies make love on the tips of sunbeams,
my toes sink into the moist moss near the creek,
its crystalline waters move into a symphony
as it soothes its own speckled rocks,
and the scent of honeysuckle seduces the world.

I watch this day pass in slow motion;
I feel the weight of everything that surrounds me,
tasting the heavy flavor of life moving on…

and I wonder
will we ever be together?

Back to earth by ©catrinarno

And here's yet another aspect of what it means to be a woman. There's romance but there's more to this. It's back to earth with the prize held tightly. Fabulous image, wonderful colours and just that little something extra. :-)

Word Versus Word by ©H M Bascom

An amazing poem full of truth and the duality of life.

I read a word
it was not a big word
four letters
no more

but this word
though not a big word
had power
to hurt

I wrote a word
a really big word
four letters
no less

and this word
was such a big word
with power
to heal

Feel by ©dorina costras

And here is sensuality and enjoyment in it. The colours and movement in this are wonderful and the message is just what we need to hear, guiltfree and beautiful.

When You Were Born by ©Kristin Reynolds

This really touched me. I still remember that first moment of laying eyes on my son, of holding him. It's something you never forget.

The moment that my eyes laid claim
to every atom that makes you
beheld upon your ancient face—
each pore, each crease, each shining truth!—

was when my journey to this time,
this when and where became love clear,
that every hurt which spat me out
was meant to bring my love to here.

Each lifetime I give birth to you
(my greatest gift and work of art!)
and as you search my fervent eyes
I see within my own true heart—

it is this now, right now I see
in your sweet face that time is naught,
we have but now, this perfect breath;
you’re every answer I once sought.

And as we lay skin touching skin
beneath this sky we are but one,
just you and I, love, always here:
a mother and her newborn son.

Run your fingers, through my soul by ©madworld

I have to say, the first thing that attracted me to this image was the poetic title. Don't we all wish for this closeness? The image perfectly shows this. The simplicity of it makes it all the more touching.

Pecking Order by ©Jenifer DeBellis

Intriguing and thought provoking poetry.

It was just plain Weird

to witness nature in action
completely out of context.

A sea of words
can paint
a single gesture
of body language,
yet how many will see
the intentions
of a premeditated mind?

To find a place to hang
the hat of reason
is the kind of challenge
most won’t even
go out on a limb for.

While breadcrumbs leave a trail
on the floor of a hungry babe’s
fountain of understanding,
only the light of revelation
will illuminate
the tree of knowledge.

Papa bird waits for
Mama’s call of warning
that never reaches the wind
in time to derail
the runaway train.

Here the tide washes in,
reeking in ways
that can’t be explained
with a small handful
of pearly, cute-shaped words.

The night owl
watches from a branch
just beyond sight,
mumbling warnings
about the day’s last flight
into the dawn of reality.

It was the weirdest thing
to witness, and weirder still
was the eerie silence.

Even the wind died on deaf ears.

i don't mind waiting... by ©clancy214

And here the finale - what a lovely image, so full of longing and hope and fulfillment. Perfect to end the features. :-)

Bitter Sweet by ©Vickie Bodie

Beautiful poem, thoughtful, and, yes, bitter sweet. Do you remember your first kiss?

Should each bit of Life
Be tasted like a Kiss
Bitter Sweet

Yet linger on
the end of the tongue
tasted off the lip

Full of desire and Passion
with the purity
of the innocents

Or

Should it be like
the fire that burns
within that first kiss

Should that first kiss then
be the only kiss
and remain
Bitter Sweet

Enjoy!

Paradise Lost - Picture Challenge

The Challenge

“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven..”

— John Milton (Paradise Lost)

“Better to reign in Hell, than to serve in Heaven.”
— John Milton (Paradise Lost)

“Farewell Hope, and with Hope farewell Fear”

— John Milton

“Awake, arise or be for ever fall’n.”
— John Milton (Paradise Lost)

“Give me the liberty to know, to utter, and to argue freely according to conscience, above all liberties.”

— John Milton

“Of man’s first disobedience, and the fruit/Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste/Brought death into the world, and all our woe,/With loss of Eden, till one greater Man/Restore us, and regain the blissful seat,/Sing heavenly muse”
— John Milton (Paradise Lost)

Your interpretations of this wide subject can be religious, personal, professional or political – but they MUST have a feminist message with them.

The Winner

Heaven and Hell by MagpieMagic

Previous challenges and winners have their own special place in the magazine and our hearts.

Getting there....

For those of you watching the progress being made, here's some news. :-)

The fixed pages at the top are now full of exciting content and we're nearly ready to launch. Just a few things to sort out in the background and we'll be ready to have a big party (kind of - with cyber champagnes and calorie-free cyber chocolates).

Poetry Features 17/11 2010

I Am by valentina63

In the shiny house that is my family

I have been

The spare room receptacle,

of the superfluous and chaotic.

In the healthy body that is my family

I have been

The liver, enlarged and diseased,

distiller of the toxic.

In the band of miners that is my family

I have been;

The caged canary sent in solo,

singing silent in the darkness.

In the small regiment that is my family

I have been

The loyal foot soldier with bayonet,

bludgeoned out of the trenches and over the top.

In the flock of geese that is my family

I have been

Forever flying last in formation,

tending to the fallen.

But today in the bright epiphany of morning

I am

the creator tenderly joining

each precious jigsaw piece of past,

and seeing for the first time how

each piece of who

I have been

is essential to my Zeitgeist

part of who

I am

© Valentina63 2009

The Woman by Kristin Reynolds

See the woman.

See the face behind its age.

See the beauty of her form.

See the way her way becomes her.

See past her once taught skin, as it was

when it enflamed many a man.

See the way she holds her head;

the tilt of her neck, the ease

of her being.

See the strength that binds her jaw,

unrelenting in its flex.

See her hurt displayed as shadows

falling like night upon the earth,

eager for rest and resolution—

retribution for the ones

she could not save.

See her darkness—see it well.

See it shatter like glass glinting

when she giggles like a girl.

See her shine

as the shades of dark days rise.

See the years that grace her eyes,

like rays of her own drawn sun

exponentially shining forth.

See forgiveness in her patient hands

as they weave memories with a touch.

See the breadth of her breasts, unapologetic

for they have quenched her children’s hunger,

soothed their frantic cries,

and became the safe haven for her beloved

on his rough seas of broken days.

See her empty, scarred abdomen—

round and perfect in its imperfections,

once holding the essence of all things,

carrying creation within:

see the divine home of God.

See the innocent baby,

the impetuous youth,

the voluptuous woman,

the devoted wife,

the selfless mother.

See the wisdom of the grandmother—

the epitome of every moment lived

for someone else and at last

for her:

the realization of the circle.

Hear the acceptance in her sigh.

See the gifts she has given—

see the woman!

See the goddess!

The beginning and The End!

See the infinite that bares the name,

Woman!

See her for all that she is and isn’t.

Smell her scent and know you are home.

Taste the strength of her words on your tongue.

Hear her experiences like your own.

To touch her being is to touch perpetuity.

See her face in your mirror.

See the tears that fall proudly

upon the woman you’ve become,

and hope yet to become in time—

or the tears that fall upon the heart

who loves or has loved such

a woman, honoring her still with

your love.

When you have lived

through all that has been set before you;

when you enter that perfect union, and

timeless ancestry;

when you become,

when you come full circle

you will see yourself in all things,

and your journey

will see you

home.

© Kristin Reynolds 2008

The Scar by autumnwind

violent invasion

humiliation

degradation

showering burning the skin

forcing each drop to seep in

to every molecule of the body

the soul cleaning

absolving

extracting the foul unfair nefarious dark intruder

of dreams

screams

into the infinite of why’s

spitting

gagging

regurgitating

eliminating that which blocks the sun

IT

cannot be undone

the barrage of pain

the thunder of anger

cannot be released

in an echo of cries

in the emptiness of when tears are done

and all seems numb

there are no answers

there is only time…

forgiveness

and healing

that never comes

© autumnwind 2010

Songs Of The Universe by H.M.Bascom

Beyond our vision

Below the threshold

Of human perception

The Universe sings

You are 14 billion years old

Stars shine in your eyes

The fabric of the cosmos

Revealed in synaptic patterns

That expand exponentially

With each breath

One memory

One love

One life

at a time

© H.M.Bascom 2010

I am too much myself to change for another by sunrisegirl

^{How it was.}

You used to look at me in a way that made me feel warm inside.

Just to be around you felt like coming home.

The love in your eyes showed a soft tenderness and closeness to me,

it reflected the love we shared… which was so deep, pure, and true…

Your smile displayed an enormous relief for my company,

and yet you were just innocently happy…

Occassionally, I remember, you would be so overcome with joy in my company, emotions would bubble up from deep inside your self, and you would cry with happiness and joy…

^{I felt the same inside.}

Although I could not show it as you did… I did…

Daily, I would experience the most beautiful feelings and emotions…

Constantly feeling a higher love and much deeper affection than I had felt before…

^{Now it is different.}

Time has led you to grow weary of me.

You want me to be more like you, less like me.

When we fight, it is like hell.

When we don’t, we do not talk.

I am too much myself to change for another.

I still love you…

This is the end.

© sunrisegirl 2010

Rocky Horror at Midnight by Margaret Bryant

We went to see

Rocky Horror at midnight,

three women past our primes

convinced we were still

Oh.

So.

Cool.

But those

Damned Kids wouldn’t keep it down,

running amok in the aisles, acting out

scenes they didn’t know all the lines to.

A half-assed job of revelry—

We did it right in my day.

Boys in lingerie borrowed from grandma

forced us to do the “Time Warp.”

Again.

We glared, we hissed,

No means no!

as their insistent hands pried us

from our cozy seats,

one by one.

Was this ever fun?

A cowboy caricature

with pencilled-in sideburns

and a star around his eye

bummed a cigarette,

slobbered on our hands,

and called us each

“Ma’am.”

We are getting too old for this.

Mason, Rocky Horror at Midnight 2

Later I found the rice we brought

to throw at the wedding

in the movie

forgotten in the bottom of my purse.

How had we had missed that scene?

© Margaret Bryant

Midweek Features 17/11/2010

Infinity by NumandisArt

 Erato By Agnès Trachet

Is it in the way the cards fall? or...is it the way we play those cards? by Helene Ruiz

 

Creation by Helena Wilsen-Saunders

Homeless View - Even The Dolls Are Warmer by Tammera

The strain on my mother is starting to show.....and I feel helpless in my ability to take care of her by madworld

Hello world!

Welcome to the new Pink Panther Magazine blog. It will replace the wonderful Pink Panther Magazine, which in its current form is just not sustainable. So to keep you up-to-date with everything going on in the world of women's art we have started this.

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