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A mixed day today – foggy and grey in the morning with sunshine and blue skies in the afternoon. Hence we’re having muted features today – just suits my mood.
I just loved the use of space and colour in this image. Fabulous!
This poem seemed to fit perfectly…
Alienated by © singerchick
Alienated by my own design
Unintentional, yet it can’t be denied
No blame falls beyond the evil trio
Whose aliases are Me, Myself, and I
Craving pleasant contact from the outside
Still I deny myself and make excuses
“This one is busy, and that one won’t do”
Never admit that my reasons are useless
Oh yes, I am quite the intellectual
Cleverly outsmarting myself once again
Stay safely within my fortress of stone
No risk is taken, endure no more pain
Yet what barb pierces deeper than loneliness?
I’ve yet to discover a wound more unkind
Nor a crueller dispenser of heartache
Than the tricks I play on my own witless mind
Oh yes, I am so foolishly wise
Cunning deception is my perpetration
Pretending my solace is to be found
Only through safeguard against penetration
I love the gentleness in this image. There’s something very thoughtful about it.
A match made in heaven. The next poem seems to continue from the image (at least for me).
Autumn by © msdebbie
When autumn leaves
tumble from a tree,
I gain a sense that
she offers praise.
She seeks to dance
with each twist and wave,
arms raised, uncertain
how to move gracefully,
but trying nonetheless.
Even with my beloved
weeping willows,
she effects a tender whirl,
tendrils curl, and slide,
along an impressive trunk.
Always conscious
of her groundedness
she offers safety,
security, year on
year, and still,
despite her heritage,
she rejoices in dance!
As for me in autumn?
I gleam and glimmer.
I take my cues from the trees,
glorying in red, brown, orange hues.
A living sunset.
Breathing in the grass.
Twirling in light rain.
Arms raised,
carefree,
happy to be me.
This is an amazing picture and as far as I am concerned should be shown to girls at school to learn how to feel comfortable with yourself. Such a difficult thing to master.
This poem just resonated with me. Can’t quite put my finger on it… LOL
car doors by © Marie Monroe
there are intimacies that can’t be spoken:
touches.
images tacked over a desk.
a stray monopoly piece, a red hotel.
hand holds from a vehicle like a drive-in fast food love.
a tiny teenage valentine: molded plastic caught in a forgotten web of my life’s string.
they come at you through the sacred heart or the solar plexus…wherever you need them.
each satisfies like the last one, but it is a hungry feast.
where hope comes from is far away.
where hope comes from is here.
some hope comes with vision, some with viscera, some with bounce.
the absolute best is not from courage.
courage lives in terror.
courage is only possibility.
this is the zone.
most brave soldiers are not warriors who walk this earth.
there is a walk that shows it.
muscle, bone, levitation.
this is the zone.
this is the warrior.
chat boxes spring up.
human languages form intelligibly as they speak.
they’ve never been spoken before.
typing is a wondrous affair.
for example, there is always fowl.
for example, circumambulation is love spinning out its lines of power,
the grids of this earth tightening.
we are safe from collapse.
we are calibrated.
we have points and between them…
there are geese.
always, for me, there are geese
flanking the wounded, waiting, waiting.
escorts.
smoke cigars in imagination.
hell, light one.
car doors will save you.
regressive speech and its sentiment will sustain.
some will fly again.
all of them.
all of them are precious.
these are the tender things.
how can you speak them?
you just dare.
I agree with Lily, making things by hand is utterly satisfying and almost meditative. It’s good to do things with your hands and let your mind flow where it will.
From ‘womanly arts’ to ‘female wiles’...
Return to Sender by © Jenifer DeBellis
Got the message
you so thriftily taped
to the door frame
of the place I can now
only refer to as ground zero.
I refuse to be a casualty
of the justifications
you’ve so easily graffitied
upon the pile of ruins –
the pile that you
pieced together with
the confetti of words
you cut out of thin air
and are selling to the masses
as pretty little party favors.
I often forget that your
seeing the world through
the limited scope of foggy
perceptions and preconceived
biases is par for the course.
But what, really, I must ask,
can be gained from
such premeditations
of miscalculated motives?
Can any of it be reconciled
within the framework
holding together any one
of these bleeding hearts?
Okay, maybe not quite so introspective but I thought it worked with all the other images. :-)
This poem really touched me.
Will I Always Feel This Way? by © Spiritinme
I lift my skirt up to my knees and roll through the sands of time
in my chair, crying in the rain.
You never learned to count our blessings,
You chose instead to dwell on my sins .
You’re never to blame, it’s always the same,
Trying to let go of my pain.
I look through my my tears, and all we’ve collected over the years, now rusting, collecting rain.
Will I always feel this way?
So empty, so estranged, so desperate for my end.
I am so very weary.
If through my soft, crimson lips
I spoke these words out loud would you hear me?
I lay naked out in the open air,
consumed with deep despair.
Realization that this man does not care.
The rain taps on my window
Applauding this reality show,
Watches me weep with nowhere to go
Will I always feel this way?
So empty, so estranged, so desperate for my end.
Well I looked for rainbows after the rain,
my dignity to regain.
Never lost HOPE, no love in your eyes,
Laid bare my soul, to try to survive
Tongue sharp like a razor blade that cuts me at every chance.
With intent to destroy me and make me flee, but
As of late your behavior surely bores me.
Will I always feel this way?
So empty, so estranged, so desperate for my end?
There’s a lot of ways to die, my friend,
And you no longer live,
It makes me ill to watch you
The devil your best friend
And I can’t walk with you anymore
On a path that leads to darkness and despair
For I am headed to the Light,
You can’t hurt me there,
I’ll be loved and taken care of all day and night.
Will I always feel this way?
So empty, so estranged, so desperate for my end?
I just love this whole series and had to feature at least one of them. This one seemed to fit best with my muted, introspective mood.
The ultimate in introspective… talking to yourself?
My Other Self by © SFlora
How did my Universe move so far away from yours
When I am born from you
When the waves of my Seas
Move only to reach you
To meet you at the shore
Who put the wall between you and me
I never knew
Never saw
Forgot about
The internal war
I faced and overcame
With waterfalls of paint
Glazing my emotions
Speaking wordless rhythms
In symbiotic silences
We loved and lived
Today she reminded me
That lions rest in the palms of my hands
That fire can speak from the tips of my feathered fingers
That her voice burns with life
That silent worlds can be born from a pen and page
How is it that I can forget what I am
And at times I see what I missed
The unfeeling kiss
The loveless, indifferent, majestic bliss
At times I see
What I cannot
Without you
At times you move
Like a black cloud across the moon
And I can only feel the shadow you cast
I can only feel
I can only feel
Hope you enjoyed today’s features. xo
I just loved the use of space and colour in this image. Fabulous!
Only Me by © Laurie Search
This poem seemed to fit perfectly…
Alienated by © singerchick
Alienated by my own design
Unintentional, yet it can’t be denied
No blame falls beyond the evil trio
Whose aliases are Me, Myself, and I
Craving pleasant contact from the outside
Still I deny myself and make excuses
“This one is busy, and that one won’t do”
Never admit that my reasons are useless
Oh yes, I am quite the intellectual
Cleverly outsmarting myself once again
Stay safely within my fortress of stone
No risk is taken, endure no more pain
Yet what barb pierces deeper than loneliness?
I’ve yet to discover a wound more unkind
Nor a crueller dispenser of heartache
Than the tricks I play on my own witless mind
Oh yes, I am so foolishly wise
Cunning deception is my perpetration
Pretending my solace is to be found
Only through safeguard against penetration
I love the gentleness in this image. There’s something very thoughtful about it.
A match made in heaven. The next poem seems to continue from the image (at least for me).
Autumn by © msdebbie
When autumn leaves
tumble from a tree,
I gain a sense that
she offers praise.
She seeks to dance
with each twist and wave,
arms raised, uncertain
how to move gracefully,
but trying nonetheless.
Even with my beloved
weeping willows,
she effects a tender whirl,
tendrils curl, and slide,
along an impressive trunk.
Always conscious
of her groundedness
she offers safety,
security, year on
year, and still,
despite her heritage,
she rejoices in dance!
As for me in autumn?
I gleam and glimmer.
I take my cues from the trees,
glorying in red, brown, orange hues.
A living sunset.
Breathing in the grass.
Twirling in light rain.
Arms raised,
carefree,
happy to be me.
This is an amazing picture and as far as I am concerned should be shown to girls at school to learn how to feel comfortable with yourself. Such a difficult thing to master.
This poem just resonated with me. Can’t quite put my finger on it… LOL
car doors by © Marie Monroe
there are intimacies that can’t be spoken:
touches.
images tacked over a desk.
a stray monopoly piece, a red hotel.
hand holds from a vehicle like a drive-in fast food love.
a tiny teenage valentine: molded plastic caught in a forgotten web of my life’s string.
they come at you through the sacred heart or the solar plexus…wherever you need them.
each satisfies like the last one, but it is a hungry feast.
where hope comes from is far away.
where hope comes from is here.
some hope comes with vision, some with viscera, some with bounce.
the absolute best is not from courage.
courage lives in terror.
courage is only possibility.
this is the zone.
most brave soldiers are not warriors who walk this earth.
there is a walk that shows it.
muscle, bone, levitation.
this is the zone.
this is the warrior.
chat boxes spring up.
human languages form intelligibly as they speak.
they’ve never been spoken before.
typing is a wondrous affair.
for example, there is always fowl.
for example, circumambulation is love spinning out its lines of power,
the grids of this earth tightening.
we are safe from collapse.
we are calibrated.
we have points and between them…
there are geese.
always, for me, there are geese
flanking the wounded, waiting, waiting.
escorts.
smoke cigars in imagination.
hell, light one.
car doors will save you.
regressive speech and its sentiment will sustain.
some will fly again.
all of them.
all of them are precious.
these are the tender things.
how can you speak them?
you just dare.
I agree with Lily, making things by hand is utterly satisfying and almost meditative. It’s good to do things with your hands and let your mind flow where it will.
Born Too Late by © lilynoelle
From ‘womanly arts’ to ‘female wiles’...
Return to Sender by © Jenifer DeBellis
Got the message
you so thriftily taped
to the door frame
of the place I can now
only refer to as ground zero.
I refuse to be a casualty
of the justifications
you’ve so easily graffitied
upon the pile of ruins –
the pile that you
pieced together with
the confetti of words
you cut out of thin air
and are selling to the masses
as pretty little party favors.
I often forget that your
seeing the world through
the limited scope of foggy
perceptions and preconceived
biases is par for the course.
But what, really, I must ask,
can be gained from
such premeditations
of miscalculated motives?
Can any of it be reconciled
within the framework
holding together any one
of these bleeding hearts?
Okay, maybe not quite so introspective but I thought it worked with all the other images. :-)
This poem really touched me.
Will I Always Feel This Way? by © Spiritinme
I lift my skirt up to my knees and roll through the sands of time
in my chair, crying in the rain.
You never learned to count our blessings,
You chose instead to dwell on my sins .
You’re never to blame, it’s always the same,
Trying to let go of my pain.
I look through my my tears, and all we’ve collected over the years, now rusting, collecting rain.
Will I always feel this way?
So empty, so estranged, so desperate for my end.
I am so very weary.
If through my soft, crimson lips
I spoke these words out loud would you hear me?
I lay naked out in the open air,
consumed with deep despair.
Realization that this man does not care.
The rain taps on my window
Applauding this reality show,
Watches me weep with nowhere to go
Will I always feel this way?
So empty, so estranged, so desperate for my end.
Well I looked for rainbows after the rain,
my dignity to regain.
Never lost HOPE, no love in your eyes,
Laid bare my soul, to try to survive
Tongue sharp like a razor blade that cuts me at every chance.
With intent to destroy me and make me flee, but
As of late your behavior surely bores me.
Will I always feel this way?
So empty, so estranged, so desperate for my end?
There’s a lot of ways to die, my friend,
And you no longer live,
It makes me ill to watch you
The devil your best friend
And I can’t walk with you anymore
On a path that leads to darkness and despair
For I am headed to the Light,
You can’t hurt me there,
I’ll be loved and taken care of all day and night.
Will I always feel this way?
So empty, so estranged, so desperate for my end?
I just love this whole series and had to feature at least one of them. This one seemed to fit best with my muted, introspective mood.
The ultimate in introspective… talking to yourself?
My Other Self by © SFlora
How did my Universe move so far away from yours
When I am born from you
When the waves of my Seas
Move only to reach you
To meet you at the shore
Who put the wall between you and me
I never knew
Never saw
Forgot about
The internal war
I faced and overcame
With waterfalls of paint
Glazing my emotions
Speaking wordless rhythms
In symbiotic silences
We loved and lived
Today she reminded me
That lions rest in the palms of my hands
That fire can speak from the tips of my feathered fingers
That her voice burns with life
That silent worlds can be born from a pen and page
How is it that I can forget what I am
And at times I see what I missed
The unfeeling kiss
The loveless, indifferent, majestic bliss
At times I see
What I cannot
Without you
At times you move
Like a black cloud across the moon
And I can only feel the shadow you cast
I can only feel
I can only feel
Hope you enjoyed today’s features. xo
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