Welcoming Spring and Looking Back at Winter – Midweek Features – 23/03/2011

I chose a theme of green for this week’s art and a theme of renewal and contemplation for the writing. Monday saw the Spring Equinox and I felt with everything suddenly bursting into bloom whilst some of Winter’s remnants are still hanging around this would be a good idea. LOL See for yourself…

This image seemed to encapsulate everything I wanted to say with this week’s features. There’s something romantic and melancholy about it, something contemplative and celebratory, just a very special atmospheric image.

Rose by © miruna uzdris

 

This wonderful poem just stayed with me ever since I read it, and although it’s maybe looking back in contemplation, there is a seed for a new Spring in still chasing…

Chasing ghosts in the night by © Sukhwinder Flora

I say goodbye at the station

Knowing he is heavy with time

Time that’s has passed us by

Unnoticed

And I can see his struggles

In his hands and the lines of his face

And I see that he’s not looking at me

But at the might have beens

The future yet to be written

And doors unopened

This restlessness in his heart

Seems like it will never leave

He’s chasing ghosts in the night

Sometimes wisdom lies

In all those things you cannot say

I see myself in the mirror

Older,

still trying to find, my own way

Cant you see

That I’ve been searching

And it’s the only way i know how

All my temples are ruins

And reduced to rubble

From chasing ghosts in the night

The four winds have surrendered

And now there’s no way back home

There’s no shelter back there

I put on a song to save me

Hoping it will make me feel what i cannot say

Some kneel and press palms

Some play a track

Walking into some oblivion

Never looking back

Chasing ghosts in the night

He is silent in the car

Knowing that something ain’t right

That freedom is hard to find

That the change can be worth the fight

But I know she is also leaving

I saw it as she walked through the door

And I hear it in her silences

A tear falls in the streets

Another step into the dark

Chasing ghosts in the night

More looking back and looking into the mirror, but in a good way… Love this image – the striking contrast of the red and green and the title.

Time engraves our faces with all the tears we have not shed by © strawberries

 

Here’s the perfect match for it. Or it least that’s how it feels to me. ;-)

how does it feel by © Alenka Co

they say to be popular you have to lie

but how does that feel

knowing their praise, adulation, support, sympathy

is for someone that isn’t really you

for something that didn’t happen to you

for a hurt you pretend to suffer

for emotions you pretend to feel

how far are you willing to go?

was it worth it

taking your pillow

and casting your feathers of jealousy and hate to the wind

can you gather them back now

repair the damage you’ve done

tell me, is your popularity worth the price

does it really feel that good

when you know in your heart

it is based on lies

and in hurting another

A little bit of whimsy, that’s what Spring is all about.

Lady Cage by © FilleDeLEau

Another great poem – as whimsical as the image at a first glance, but again like the image with far more meaning hidden in plain sight.

Magic Trick by © lovelyrita

I have a sunny disposition

but I am a dynamo of volition

on a major, life-long expedition.

I put the eccentric in tradition – -

while working toward my ambitions

and I don’t need to ask your permission

to turn the key and start the ignition.

You know, I’m a limited edition – -

The cat’s meow.

I finished my search

and rescue mission now

and I got my gun cocked, emitting frisson

Pow!

with every spark of ammunition,

you wonder how I do it.

I am a fucking magician.

Frida Kahlo was a fabulous artist and woman and therefore very deserving of this beautiful homage. The imagery used – the flowers, the ornaments, the green all speak of renewal and connection to the world around us (at least to me).

My homage to Frida Khalo by © Madalena Lobao-Tello

 

Spring is the time when we make plans for the rest of the year… it might also be a good time to decide our fate?

choice by © dab -

I see giant power-lines blowing in the wind

and a bus barreling down on me

am I being saved

is this the end of me

should I jump out of the way

or is this Destiny

I could always hop on the bus

it desires to pick me up

but that would glue fate to the driver’s hands

I think I’ll jump

and polydream my own plans

The next image reminded me of a Renoir – the light, the feeling of almost floating and the gentleness and dance like pose. There’s is a lightness and acceptance and renewal about this image which felt like Spring to me.

I left my hat on… by © Lucky LaRue

But here’s Winter again… sometimes no matter what you do, it’s just not enough.

When Sorry’s Just Not Enough by © mnkreations

When Sorry’s Just Not Enough

What do I do when the road comes to the end? What do I do but follow the bend? You walk the line never looking for things you can’t find. I search for dreams, I reach for the sky. It’s my time to fly, it’s your time to cry, it’s my time tell you goodbye. What do I do when your going’s too tough. What do I do when you say it’s too much? How do I say I’m sorry when sorry’s just not enough?

We stood side by side. We watched as the future marched on; never a plan, never a word. Time passed in a blur. You thought I’d never leave. But here we are, we drifted apart—I toward the sunrise and you toward the night; searching for lost love, searching for light. What do I do when I say I’m sorry and you say it’s too tough? What do I do when you say it’s too much? How do I say I’m sorry when sorry’s just not enough?

I watch as you bleed, heart torn open wide, wanting to run, wanting to hide. You say sorry’s only a word, empty, without feeling, never wanting to be heard. What do I do when you hurt to the core? What do I do when you say life’s not worth livin’ anymore? What do I do when your going’s too tough? What do I do when you say it’s too much? How do I say I’m sorry when sorry’s just not enough?

How do I say I’m sorry when sorry’s just not enough? How do I say I’m sorry when sorry’s just not enough? How do I say I’m sorry…

A perfect finale – a Spring symphony in greens. You can almost hear the music…

Symphony by © Cabisha

This I just had to include. What a perfect poem to elaborate on the thoughts I started off with on this journey although it might leave you with more mysteries to solve… :-)

The romance of living the most subtle of absolute deaths by © Kristin Reynolds

In the end there is only fantastic vision—

an end to diversion, and the division

of most likely scenarios.

Where have all the Baudelaire’s gone?

Fuck the cowboys, leave them to their beans.

What we need here is some goddamn fantastic

sock smokin’ madness—

offset by some, Je vous aime follement

and

Te amo.

When you close your eyes, what do you see?

Who do you see when the lights

in your room

are dark—

as dark as the streets behind corners on a moonless night,

alone, with nowhere to go?

Can you see the new world you’ve created,

simply by flicking the switch

in your skull marked: DREAM

to OFF?

Do you see the object of your desire?

or just a bed

and absence of corners;

or a dark horse riding out your window

screaming as the light

in it’s eyes

goes out.

Or are you the one

who sees heaven in hands?

holding your face like a whisper,

the way a tulip’s outer petals hold

its inner,

as delicate hours

inside it’s fragile

unfolding heart.

Or is it the old warehouse you see,

down by the docks—

a ghost-town

full of dead ghost riders, floating

face-up in a stagnant,

still water pool?

Go ahead. Be brave. Look.

Open your eyes, and see your world

looking back,

and then tell me you’re not a poet:

together

and impossibly gone.

Have a lovely week everyone and enjoy the first signs of Spring (if Spring is starting where you are or the first signs of Autumn and Winter if you’re on the other side of the globe).

Sunday Features – Winds of Emotional Imbalance – 20/03/2011

With a new season upon the horizon, the winds of promise usher in a dissonance of emotional imbalance. The atmosphere shifts while the earth quivers in anticipation of what’s been planted within her womb. Each fragmented seed a part of the whole to be reconciled with the beating of one united heart.

Now what if in her broken numbness and wounded state she’s simply not ready to emerge into this new season?

Solace by © Unbeknown

She knows one thing, though: the sweet scent of ancient days still lingers in the air.

Sacred Romance [Stay] by © Beautifuldreamer

Sweet Ancient of Days,
Come to me wearing any disguise:
thorny rose
soft-footed snow
mournful wind
or rain tippity-tapping my window pane.

Romance me, though all around me prove false
though mountains shake
and the hills be removed—-romance me then, or not at all.

I will learn to love the snow because of you
learn to pick out the disparate notes of your serenaded love in melancholy music,
in the fresh smell of cotton dresses steam ironed
in the remembrance of my father’s laughter ( though now its merry swirl is lost to me.)

Wear wood smoke as your cologne
and autumn’s vulgarity of colors as bold contrast to my drab little self.
Like a blind woman whose fingertips have grown accustomed to Braille,
to the unique texture of things, I will caress the barks of trees
the familiar landscape of knee scabs;

will tremble with desire
to be the warp and woof of your weaver’s loom,
my self woven (bones, hair and all) into a gorgeous tapestry,
another kind of tapestry than what I dreamed I could be.

Ancient of Days,

my dreams are too big for me;
my child’s hands fumble them clumsily
even as I blink back tears at my ineptness, my lack of grace.

I turn at the slightest rustling sound
my ears keen for your approach.
Oh! I love you so,
I betroth myself to you
to your light in my baby brother’s eyes,
and to the sound of your lullaby meant just for me
in the sighing of falling embers
and in sun drenched streets I dare not explore without you.

Sweet Ancient of Days:
tarry with me one more hour
linger near while mother frowns over the stove
and the step-dad smirks at my stupidity;
stay lest my soul wither away
and I lose myself for want of you.
Stay.

So she balances upon the threshold of the shadows of yesterday’s scars and the hope of what can be found
in the day’s new illumination. Can her feet take her where her heart must travel?

I by © rubyjo

Once spirit and soul realign, the displaced friends will embrace once again.

Witch Switch by © RC deWinter

And when I finally knew that
I would never have another lover
I looked inside and embraced my shadow,
holding it, cherishing the power hidden in
its murky depths.

And when I finally knew that
I could change the landscape of my life
I stood, with steady feet on that stone sill
and looked with witch’s eyes across the plain
and, grasping broom, flew.

She cleaves to life and death as if they are one. Does she know something no one else knows?

Life and Death Entwined by © Alenka Co

Will she emerge from a season’s slumber only to fashion herself into a multi-dimensional mask of hiding?


The Mask by © SimplyRed

she wears a mask
layer upon layer
of porcelain veneer
a crumbling fragility
with magnolia coloured
tear drops….

spread thinly with smiles
for they expect it…
dull flickering flame
flambouyant red hues
blinded but sees…
a half grin
expected…always

she wears a mask
of fool them all
only flesh of heart
remains true to self
painted on smile
of ruby red

quietly weeping
scented jasmine tears
creeping softly into dawn
blown away on a breeze
not visible at daybreak

she wears it well
a perfect fit
of velvet glove
each digit enveloped
a perfect print is she
transparent to none

falling on ears of fragility
listening ,
dancing a merry tune
as birds chirp freely
on branches of freedom
she wishes for wings
elusive….

putty hands
soft and supple
form no solace
grasping eternally
for life’s love

Or out of the miry clay will the shards of last season’s fragments begin to reform her in all of her splendour, and pepper the earth with the flavour of new birth?

Elementar Particles by © Marlies Odehnal

Now upon the canvas of this new season, what treasures can be found hidden within the spaces in between?

The space in between by © wildwomenlove

As charcoal dust
gets up my nose
I sneeze

I’m looking out
upon the montage
dressed before me

My left hand jitters
in it’s new role
as capturing scribe

It’s not the objects
that you see
it’s the spaces in between…

Light and shadow
SHAPES and juxtapositions
line and form

Life’s like that isn’t it?
What we are truly looking for
are the spaces in between

Those diamond moments
connecting us with the ^who
of what we are and what we do

Making meaning
of the little things
in our everyday existence

So I draw with gusto
without a care in the world
and it’s difficult to recognize what it is

It’s not the destination
that counts
but the journey

as I courageously attempt
to scale the mountain of inanimate objects
pyramided within my view

I look to find life in those spaces
the diamonds of moments
of life and living

that morph in
and out
of my sensual frame

When I shut my eyes
I draw from my heart, which beats
in the spaces in between

The charcoal dust
gets up my nose
and I see…

And when the laurels bud, Daphne’s prayers can bloom, whose sweet nectar will float into the heavens.

Daphne by © Janelle McKain

Perhaps it was all just a manifestation of those vanilla scented dreams that illuminated the way to the waters of absolution.


in dreams by © autumnwind

reflections of deep greens and blues
danced like Northern Lights
floating suspended in the air
in ritualistic manifestation
…I dreamt about tealights last night

I tasted the scent of vanilla
and thought of white spirit roses
as I undressed and tested the waters
of absolution

immersed in baptismal velvet
my breath held as I saw your face
you radiated new life through me
in billowing raptures

your soul went through me

eons slipped by as stories were told
red moons and black suns
flickered before my eyes

millions of years went by as time ceased to exist

fading slowly, falling gently
through swirling layers of vortex
I awoke

…finding my breath
trying to hold on to enlightenment
I retain very little
but enough to know
…I dreamt about tealights last night

…and you…

Regardless, in technicolor full bloom, she’s freed from yesterday’s captivity.

Set Me Free by © salena

And now that she has been set free, what rhythm will infuse her passions to flow as freely?


thread by © Cynthia Lund Torroll

Like a drum beat
it begins -
a slow
and steady drilling.

One sentence
pulled from thousands
starts
to pound away…

You left without saying goodbye.
You left without saying goodbye.

Some would say
it’s just bad manners.
I might scold,
I hurt myself,

I don’t know,
but I don’t like it,
it’s hard enough
to Be Here Now.

But there is
always
another story
that soon will surface
if I’m still

While what is seen
as impoliteness
might simply be
an empty well.

Within the Compost Piles Spring Rustles Her Restless Hands - SundayFeatures - 13/03/2011

As promised, I’m pleased to present PPM’s ALL POETRY Sunday features.


Spring is pushing and pulling her way out of slumber, and with her rustling ways she’s stirring up all kinds of things. Mixed amongst the compost piles, along with thoughts of blossoms and rebirth, are the unforgotten things that are finding the light again.


I hope you are all moved by this week’s poetry features as much as I was. Congratulations to all of our featured writers.

to turn or not to turn by © Lisa Jewell

It has been an elongated and worthy day. I have had time to contemplate. Not the in between distraction sophistry. A brain striptease.

hook and eyes
pop halleluiah
revealing the secret door at the top of my spiralling spine staircase
the door is not pearly
the door is the colour of Demeter’s tears

dead centre of the door is a knob fashioned out of Noah’s Ark
a bouquet of peacock, lyrebird and siren boa feathers is knotted around the knob
above the door is a stained glass window undressing the seven deadly sins
there is light passing through the waves of coloured glass that waltz at the foot of the door
honey holds anise, cumin, myrrh and cassia in the air

beyond the door strings of a harp are being perfumed
the sound feels like lush green grass through toes
a Sunday when you wake next to love that stays a lifetime
mathematical notes square root your outer and inner the only equation is
turn the knob.

© Lovelyrita’s Goya

 © Rhenastarr’s Elusive Love

The night is thick with memories
Cinching, thicker and tighter
Coils around her heart
Love a thread that wouldn’t stay
Put, unraveling time and time
Again
She felt as if her heart was encircled
By an invisible barbed wire
Words recoiled in her brain
Like the fence’s metal barbs
Causing her heart to bleed
Invisible tears that leave no trail
As they slowly ebb and flow
Down her face
She wipes but nothing is felt
Upon her hand
Time stalls, taking her down
Familiar paths
One’s she has walked over
And over
Love has played such a fickle
Game
Leaving her alone and empty
Except for her memories
Memories that enfold her in
The sweet heady mixture of
Passion’s elusive pursuit
She recalls arms as they
Held her
A cocoon embrace sealing
Her within the moment
Kisses that rained down, devoid of
Tenderness but blazing
Hot boldness as passion
Rose
The night is shrouded in folds
Of voluptuous velvet
Wrapping her in a sensual
recollection of spent desire
She longs to feel the touch
Of skin on skin
Of sweat slicked bodies
Entwined in mutual gratification
She longs for the promise of
Forever
For the words of love to have
Meant something other than
A prelude to another sexual
Encounter
Another one night stand
Another night of broken dreams
She longs for the youth that
Seemed to disappear with
Each disappointing encounter
She was so naive, so lost
In the fairy tale of love
And happy ever after
Now in the twilight of her life
She dwells on stolen moments
Brief touches with the elusive
Prince of her dreams
And facing the delusion filled
Life she has lived
Why was love not meant to
Find a place within her heart
Someday she hopes that
She will be granted
An encounter with Love
Until then she will continue
To live in the shadow of what
Was dreamed of and what
Was reality
Time is ticking down
Each tick tock another wrinkle
Upon her face
Each day another sad reminder
That she lives alone
With her hunger
Love as fleeting and elusive
As a touch of a butterfly’s wing
Eludes her, dancing just out of
Reach
Slipping by her yearning
Aching soul
Someday, perhaps it will slip
Effortlessly , quietly into her
Waiting heart

© Cynthia Lund Torroll’s Statement

If I could write,
I would not draw.
I’d let these melodramas
be told
through whichever format
best fit.
I would box haiku,
or bind circumlocution,
to carry with you
on the bus.

Many years ago,
when more emotionally mute,
I made vessels of pain.
I speak better now,
but when faced
with so many words,
I draw blank.

Therefore I draw.

How to measure the breadth of a word?
I learn a Russian dancer’s name
and roll it over and over
like a lozenge in my mouth.

Can darkened space
on light compare?

These lines I leave
talk louder than I.
Their cadence is
the tug and pull
of my wrist on pulp.

As with so many lines,
it is best to read between them.

 © Lilynoelle’s Frantic Life

I have discovered
Recently uncovered
Buried deep
In the minds of men
In waking sleep:
Secrets.
That death is the passage of wonder
That life is the fountain of power
Seeping blood and tears on Eden’s bower.
In the beginning
Man was mad
He must have been
He is now
So I wonder how
Evolution is fixing this.
Death’s cool embrace in life’s mad kiss.
I have discovered
A world where everyone I am
Drawn to is damned
To mental sickness and disease
To tumors and waters and leakage of
Secrets
Aged and wise and cunning
Powerfully deceitful in innocence
Underestimated by the rest of the world
Harmless in acts and dangerous in thought
They have sought what I sought:
To understand and discover
Sanity
Lunacy’s infertile lover.
Life is
To behold the grace and force of legends deep
To dance in the threshold of pain and beauty
Where we stand, you and me
Eyes locked and knowing
Understanding flowing from iris to iris
Color to color
Until your pond water eyes
And my forest glades
Collapse into one rich and vibrant hue
Of green and blue:
Green for nature and blue for sorrow
My experience in life:
Here today,
Swiftly fled tomorrow.
Let it not be you whom the angels seek
Let it not be me that the heavens keep
Let me be
Alone with my intrepid dreams
Alone with my torturous fears
No one else here.
Lost so many, found so much
Lost an embrace, found gentle touch
Lost to such
Realms of laughter and butterfly lives,
Short and swift, so tender and alive
But once gone, once frost has come
They tell their tale with broken wings
Scattered on the bedewed ground
Muted colors fading with each breath I take
Finally understanding why the one who walks
Angelic and placid
Can never know my Soul
And why it is they who sit
With passionate eyes and fiddling fingers,
Busy in their minds, lost in morbid daydreams
Or endless fantasies
Every bit as afraid
Every bit as passionate as me
-Why it is they who so entrance my spirit
And lure my secrets as I lure theirs!
Because we are the Old Spirits,
We know too much
We know the nature of dreams is such:
That each man wakes, alone and pale,
Longing to hang on to one moment more
Of that sleep-heavy wonder
To stand before death’s veil,
Immortal.
Our souls are torn asunder
But still we smile and know this much:
Life isn’t thus.
Life is the dance of dreams, fanatical and raw
But dying is innocence
And death is the road to awe.

 © Sunrisegirl’s Emotion

On the edge…. I feel it there….. Will it fall……

It sits; a big ball,
Changing colour.

Mainly Blue it stays,
holding existence in its ether.

My body relies on it,
for protection, / security,
comfort,

I hope it won’t break.

For then the knock on effects will be too big…

please don’t
_{I whisper}

Only after it has been placed
upon a large cushion
in a padded room
with no windows
or doors,
Only then will it be safe…

A knock on my door,
A man… with bad news
and harsh words…

I listen,
I absorb,
I hurt…

The ball moves,
rolls over the edge,
whizzing fast towards the floor,
the speed increases, suddenly…

... it lands,

CRACK

It is damaged.

So am I.

I fall to the floor.

I have shattered.

It is too late.

© Lisameryl’s Mother Earth

Mother Earth is…

Paint by number
heaven and Earth
swimming in colour

Drowning in tears
consumed and raped
destruction for years

Beauty with grace
land and water
our sacred place

Full of rage
neglected and abused
confined by cage

The human race
past, present, future
time and space

Choking on pollution
blind and helpless
without a solution

Every living creature
great and small
our bountiful teacher>

Looking for blame
man and war
a crying shame

© Sally Omar’s Pieces of Me

pieces of me lying on the side of the road
my flesh is now shredded
by the footsteps of inhumanity
a heart which carried a song of love
blackened by the tar of lies and deceit
of those I once loved
eyes which only saw the beauty of life
were pulled from their sockets
thrown onto the roadway by the racism and intolerance
of those who preach their hate in the name of god
my lips once red and pursed
now lie in a pool of blood, the blood of the homeless
and hungry who are cast aside
the scents of lavender which tickled my nose are
now gone from my nostrils
and the stench of death permeates

pieces of me

© Electriclstorm’s Mother Why Does It Hurt so Much

I wonder if you still think of me,
As I often think of you.

Your presence made me feel alive.
Warm with memories, I still feel your embrace but the cold absence tends only to an unsealing wound.

My haven, my adventure, my muse, my love…

I wonder if you still think of me,
As I often think of you.

Slowly waking, half conscious, I remember my new title and adaptations.
Watching the sunlight play on a cold shapeless pillow that misses your form.
Strong and focused on the outside,
Shattered splinters on the inside.
Constantly barricading the bulging archway, verging on the breaking point.
Altering my appearance as penance, all the whilst praying for the phoenix.

No elixir could cork the bleeding, even if I were into such things.
One of the hardest lessons to recognize and swallow is to love more than to be loved; everything else is bearable, adaptable. We can not have it all…or can we?

A nagging longing,
Held firmly by a will-power that is stoic, persistent, and selfless.
My roots run deep but they are expansive. They are a network of wonder.
And all the while, I can not forget, will not forget, to be true to myself.

The distance between leads us on our own journey,
With our screenplay’s to write,
And our soul’s to feed.
This shall be our connection.

I wonder if you still think of me,
As I often think of you.
How can I not?...With all my love…

© Kristen Reynolds’ There Is an Earth Attached to My Feet

Even when
I lift them up,
there are still invisible roots—
like gum on a shoe
on a day when the sun
is most high

like diamond
elastic violin strings playing
the sweetest song.

Ask the earth,
she will tell you the same:

how we are all long hearts
through the soles of her feet,
eternally bound
and in love,

A love
more precious than fruit

on a planet
full of starving men

who have never
even felt
the sun.

We are dancing,
each day we are
dancing!

at opposite ends
of the same
diorama,

in the space
between a butterfly’s wings
flying in the face
of heaven.

© Sybille Sterk’s Echos

Your face tattooed
With invisible ink
To the inside of my lids

A name echoing
In the halls
Of lost hope and
Buried fantasies

A fervent promise,
A silent wish
Never come true

The scent of a
Blown out candle
Ripe berries
And abject failure

Gone
Carried away
By the wind

A ghostly touch
Cold and frightening
From a past
Dead and buried

Relegated
To the graveyard
By a butterfly’s wing.

Midweek Features - Strength and Weakness - 16/03/2011

Looking at the art that has come in over the past week or so, I found there were many portrayals both of the strengths and weakness that we all feel from time to time. I thought it would make the perfect theme for this week.

I am starting with this powerful portrait, full of fire, passion and confidence.

Firefly by © skye oshea

But what if it is all for show, or even worse, delusion?

One Woman Show by © wordthrift

Once,
at dinner,
you showed me,
the “proper” way to steep my tea.
“Not like that,
like this”, you said.
And as selfish proclamations go,
they’re only a small part
in your endless one woman show.
You will never know all the things I know.

The next image struck me like a woman looking at herself VERY closely.

orange by © Manana11

Followed by this fab poem about a woman trying to avoid mirrors altogether.

Her bits and pieces ….. by © SimplyRed

pretty as a picture so young and so firm
all of the fellows they did confirm
she was a looker and that was for sure
until age came knocking at her door

first thing she noticed was her lovely bust
no longer looking pert , a bra was a must
swimming in water was such a delight
the breasts went all pert again
even stayed upright!!!

a nice taut tummy was what she once had
a little swelling there wasn’t sooo bad
best viewed front on rather than the side
must start walking or take a bike ride
fooled herself for a while indeed
no full length mirror did she need

sideways glances were not on her mind
she hadn’t noticed that thickening behind
her firm butt was as hard as cement
lots of pinching, for men it was meant
still no long mirror for this ageing duck
if it got broken seven years bad luck….

next thing she noticed these small little crinkles
under the eye there where most folk get wrinkles
a small crease it was…not noticeable at first
another appeared it was a damn curse…
those few lines looked cute for a wee while
her face paralysed she didn’t want to smile
I swear each night as she went to bed
a new crease would form right there on her head
so crows feet she had and this she was to accept
new lines started forming she really could o’ wept

one day she did noticed it caused her no harm….
when she read the phonebook she’d stretch out her arm
smaller and smaller the writing was getting
off to th eye doctor she now was a sweating
for it seemed that the print wasn’t shrinking
she needed glasses oh what was she thinking

after a few years she adjusted and felt clever
breasts pert and firm …gone now forever
tummy not flat and butt not so hot
even liked her specs which she wore when reading
a hearing aid she would surely not be needing
for her ears they worked well for many a year
nothing else could go wrong surely not Dear!!

in her forties and the top lip felt hairy
into the mirror for a look that was scarey
for upon the top lip lay a tale of woe
hormones were going she now had a moe…
so to the chemist shop she did scurry
raced home with a waxing kit now in a hurry
what’s next she thought as she made her lip bare
Oh Fuck it all …..is that a grey hair!!!!

I think we’re all guilty of lying to ourselves now and again, be it about that wrinkle just being a laughter line or the big red elephants…

If you can’t lie to yourself, who can you lie to? by © Ina Mar

However, here’s a poem asking for the truth to be faced, and, personally, this totally resonated with me.

mortal by © Cynthia Lund Torroll

I’m an inconvenient
truth -
a girl who
passion ate

I’ve a heart that
runs
on fumes -
and is rarely ever
neat

You had said
I came for you
but tell me
are
you sure

that you want
a girl like me -

who arrives
without
a
cure

Courage is one of those strengths that is hard to achieve and even harder to maintain. Maybe this should be on every fridgedoor and next to every bathroom mirror?

There Is No Virtue In Silence by © unbeknown

It is so much easier to deny what’s happening to yourself and others…

Denial by © singerchick

Disregard the naked truth
Evading its cloying taste
Never mind compelling proof
Instead, present your bogus case
And trust whatever fills the hole
Little lies, warm milk for the soul

What more truth than a self portrait, especially one like this where you accept yourself inspite or maybe because of your weakness?

When I Need Protection by © Laurie Search

And here it is, all the protection and haven one could ask for.

Twilight Moments by © AnniG

Serene is the twilight hour
when I wait for you to wrap me up
in wordless conversation
comfort me with your calming presence
inspire me with your ethereal aura
simply sit with me as we share the silence
staring through shattered windows
of an erstwhile existence
patiently waiting with firm intent
for swift transportation
to a sacred place in infinite space
exalted, untouched

from the mysterious nebulous shadows
I atone for multiple sins
as you wash the grief from my heart
with clear crystal tears
readily spilling from angel eyes
revitalizing my weary mind
with jubilant rhapsodies
effortlessly dancing upon your lips
sweep me up, raise me on high
to glide along wispy skies
slowly restoring trust
in the truth of kindred spirits

in the crepuscular dimness of dusk
you shelter me as I curl into you
finding safety in your guarded haven
while countless shimmering knights
appear in primordial heavens
the mellifluous song
of raven skies and babbling brooks
lull us into gentle slumber
twinkles picked from effulgent dreams
of sanguine encounters
and lucid memories conceived
under a twilight tree

satisfied magical memories
of twilight moments

However, in the end we are all a secret to be discovered, made up of our own unique strengths and weaknesses.

Secrets of My Soul You Will Never Understand…angry red, passion blue, but mostly shades of green by © CarmenHolly

couldn’t resist this poem. Someone discovering a new aspect of themselves. Perfect to end these features, something to think about.

exercise by © Lisa Jewell

The atom living in breast foam that desperately clings to a pure squeaky shore is lonely.

My pace slows as I approach a simple restaurant on a less than simple street. This slowing occurs each workday. Time is 5.15 pm. He is always there. An elderly man seated at the same table at the same window. He is eating soup. Each day I slow my pace that bit more, so that I might catch his eyes. My craving to know him is escalating. I have thoughts racing through my mind. But the most significant I think is. Is he alone out of choice or is he alone because his wife (partner) has left him, or has died.

You don’t miss what you don’t know. Is that really true? The logic seems sound but what of rumour? Or a vivid imagination. Or that little ache that bubbles into an eruption of wanting a one. And what of the living after death. Gone. Sugary life goes on clichés are plastic. Plastic might last but what of aesthetics and character? It can’t be the same. It is not. I see it in the way he places each spoon into his mouth. There is ache and lonely.

The sadness is building in me. It is the type of sadness that brews from that deep part. No metaphor, analogy or symbology to convey. You know it. And what startles me is that I can feel the sadness building and it is me but I am living and happily so. Life is so fucking peculiar. There are times I feel I must be living two lives concurrently. I can’t possibly be happy and sad at the same time. Can I? And what of this man?

I hope you enjoyed these features. Please let the artists know if you did. :-)

Sybille xo

Midweek Features - Celebrating International Women's Day - 9/03/2011

To celebrate yesterday’s Women’s Day, I’ve chosen 12 images to stand in for the different faces we wear and the different personas we take on – from mystery to self portraits, from strong to silenced, from outer to inner persona.

Women have been associated with the moon for a long, long time….

Drawing Down The Moon by © Heather King

 and the same is true for our association with the tide and flow of the sea…

back to her sea by © mimi yoon

 

the next image seemed to encapsulate so many things and concepts that all revolve around us – from time to home to self…

Pristina of time by © Fiery-Fire

 

what can I say? It’s a stunning image and reminded me of one of the Russian paintings of Mary – another persona we seem to take on and slip off…

Tears of the Pray by © Mariska

 

and here’s another icon of the ‘female’ world – Medea a woman used and scorned and out for revenge…

1983 – medea 01 by © moyo

 

who can forget “Gone With the Wind” – however it takes on a different flavour here of all those things we loose along the way…

Gone with the wind by © homesick

a take on the various parts that make up who we are and how so often they make us feel like marionettes or dolls…

Doll Parts by © Glitterfest

 

and here are the sorrows this and other things cause us…

lady of the Various Sorrows by © kasia ikasia

 

however, there is always that book to lose ourselves in…

lost in a story, and the last candid … japan (color version) by © Tatum Wulff

 

and here we are – shut up and silenced…

Be silent by © Marlies Odehnal

 

what better place to retreat to than the cocoon that never seems to be far away and it is a great place to re-invent ourselves…

My Cocoon by © MoonSpiral

 

je ne sais pas by © Irina & Silviu Székely 

(image no longer available on RB )

 

Feel free to add links to more images that show how you feel about being a woman. :-)

Featured Artist - March 2011 - Caroline Caux-Evans (Karo)

Karo Evans (Caroline Caux-Evans)

I am delighted to introduce Karo Evans as our Featured Artist for March.
Karo Evans (caroline caux-evans) is a Photographer and an Abstract Expressionist Painter.
Born abroad in Asia, raised partially in Madagascar,England and France, she has always been influenced by other cultures, from which she takes the riches and uses this throughout her work.


Karo has a wide-ranging portfolio of work, which includes paintings, digital art and photography. She has been exhibited widely, especially in France where she lives. Her work is powerful and challenging, – often uncomfortable to view, but always thought-provokng and passionate.


Karo is very strong about women’s issues and the rights of women. Themes to do with these issues run throughout her work. She speaks out for the victims of abuse, the homeless and against cultures which denigrate women.

This is Karo’s profile…

All Art is worthy of consideration,and Art is for everyone.
I do not believe that it is only for the elite.


Art is like breathing,a MUST to stay ALIVE.
I need to dive into creativity and express my guts, through my paintings and my photographs.
Without ART, I would be amputated of what “makes me”, what has been one of the driving forces in my life.
When one is amputated, long after, the limb has been removed, one feels a “phantom pain”, where the limb used to be.
When some one is an Artist, if he cannot express himself through the medium of his choice, he dies slowly……
With that death, comes the pain, brought by the impossibility, to share, what has been growing inside, deep down, in those corridors and palaces of creativity.


When you drown, you try to gasp for air, you battle with the elements, yourself, the waves…..
An Artist, I do believe, is a very sensitive ( sense it…eves.) person, and can therefore, retranscript, to those around, what he receives, and transforms using his imagination and palette, media….


Artists are a needed category of BEINGS in this world, where we are chasing for troubles, wars, lacking beliefs, left drifting ALONG uncertainties.
My aim is to give birth to what I feel inside my innermost being, whether it is received positively or not.
One can take a medication which taste, is sour to our palate, or pleasing to the papilles.
But the objective is to get better.
To get stronger.TO LIVE. TO BE.


Art can be for some as a medication, but the positive thing that it should do is to make us ponder about certain things around us or in us so that we can overtake them, and this can benefit others if they are open minded and willing to see the world with differant glasses than, the ones they are wearing.


Art is, as well, a challenge to show the world around us, may be, what they really feel inside, and have never been able to express or even been willing to acknowledge, recognize in their own walk along that hard path, that LIFE can be.
ART IS FELT
ART IS SENSED
ART IS FOR EVERY ONE
NOT FOR THE ELECT
ART IS HEART!
What is ART?
As a seed, planted into your flesh,
it takes months, years, to devellop sometimes.
There is a craving which nothing can quench, until, you have thrown onto the canvas, the pigments, and other representatives of that life force which within you , has battled over the hours of sleepless nights, to become,the embryo, the future babe, and child, that will convey the life giving sip of your very soul and spirit. You have agonised, over the shades, the hues, the lines, the perspective, the composition, and at that point in time, you can rest, smile, feeling delivered! Birth has taken place! Your soul can be free,now to browse, at THE PIECE that is now enlightening ,
the world around you.


The viewer , will be able to suck at the” mamelles” of your creation!
The viewer will be fed, of your intimate thoughts, or feelings, your battles, your hopes, your victories!
He will be the receiver, of the most valued instants of your life as an ARTIST;
He will be abble to sense the emotions, that you have offered to him, as one offers an animal for sacrifice.
Ressenti, emotions, feelings!
Not long sentences, big words or concepts!

These are six images that Karo selected as her favourites….

Voyage dans le temps #3 by © Karo (caroline) Evans

Regards de Femme #2: Hommage to the survivors of abuse by © Karo (caroline) Evans

 

Homage To The Survivors represents what in the LIFE of WOMEN , HURTS!

Every line,brush stroke, can be assimilated to vexations, abusive words or behaviour, psychological, mental or physical ABUSE!

ONE OUT OF TEN WOMEN ARE BEING ABUSED

ONE OUT OF SEVEN CHILDREN ARE BEING ABUSED

ACRYLIC ON CANVAS

Bowsprit of old ship  by © Karo (caroline) Evans

(bowsprit showing the staysail and foresail hanked on the forestay and headstay)

Petals of Hope #10 by © Karo (caroline) Evans

Wave #14 by © Karo (caroline) Evans

Man and Wife from the Void by © Karo (caroline) Evans

To see more favourites by our members - check out this post here.