In the Shadows - Midweek Features - 28/04/11

From Sunday’s colours to the inbetween shadows, the spaces between the colours that define us and show what’s so often hidden. There was so much new art work and poetry it was difficult to choose something for this subject. Seems we’re often concerned with the inbetween. So here’s a celebration of looking behind locked doors, into corners and behind closed eye lids.
This portrait and its title started today’s features. There’s something about the play of light and shadows that leads you deeper.

Shadows …… by © Alenka Co



Here’s the text Alenka wrote to go with the portrait:
you don’t see me
you don’t hear me
hidden in the shadows
watching you
listening to your voice
yearning to reach out
to touch you
to make you smile
but I am in the shadows
and you are in the light
and you can’t see me
you can’t hear me ……
photo by © Ron Co
words by © Alenka Co

It’s so hard sometimes to be yourself and to be seen as yourself, even in bright light.

Lemming by © lovelyrita
I am not the moon
to her planet
or the tattoo on her arm
but you squeezed me through the needlepoint,
where I became a design of orbit
she fashioned with her time (and mine)
circling her arm,
her right hand man,
waiting to be told
when and where and
what to spin.
When we’re hiding in the shadows and when everything is dark what do we want more than anything else? Someone to kiss away our tears.


Kiss my tears – Maillol by © 1morephoto 



However, this is not always happening so we hide in a dark corner of our mind behind a buzz and try and forget what it is we really want and need.

Feeling Buzzed by © mermanda
Take whats left
of my empty soul
I know that your addicted
so eat me raw
whole
like a snake ravage me
and take me to your grave
this love has been lost
now we’re running on fumes
here I am drinking
my crazy “four lokos”
hoping to get buzzed
before the night falls on my doom
so my bed looks inviting
like a little cocoon
23oz of 12% alcohol
should do me good
I never used alcohol
to escape from my fears
what am I turning into
using it to drown my tears
never been the girl
to to go party with my peers
never into drugs or alcohol
saw it murder my family for years
how can it be a healthy escape
as I sit in my blue chair
waiting for it to take
wishing away
with a couple of beers
he buys me alcohol at night
says it helps me to
“escape,
unwind”
I get all giggly and bubbly
I guess I shouldn’t mind
falling into a dream
feel a little loopy
like I can’t scream
not fight so much
makes me easier
to control and touch
takes me to the bed and says
“give it to me, make me feel like I own you”
feel like Alice
falling in a hole
living my life now
only a as a half
of my whole
climb into bed
am I really telling this story
letting my secrets win
“Oh well”
I think
feeling buzzed right now
strange feeling this way
I can see the addiction now
climb into bed
rip off my clothes
Oh I feel so high
maybe I could float
I think I could do anything
feeling like I do
want to go with what my body says
let the pain float out of this room
out of this bed
hopefully tomorrow
I will still feel this light
dizzy feeling in my head
my clothes flew out of sight
feel a little freer
what happens now
never seen this clear
it’ll all just be a dream from here on out
I don’t care what I do
just make me feel good
I can’t believe I’m saying this
does this change me for the good
for just a few hours
should I be the young girl
to let go and unveil the hood
let him peer inside my
unguarded soul
this much alcohol inside
how can I fight
keep up my guards
no strength inside
so give up the fight
take a few more drinks
take me away
I don’t think this is what I want
but my body won’t obey
so I give in
fighting the guilt
letting alcohol take control
and letting him win
not thinking of tomorrow
how I will feel
after the deed is done
until it happens again
new pieces of guilt
so tonight I will lay here
take it like I should
doing the deeds of a good wife
making my husband feel good
letting go of the pain
if just for tonight
the curse is a must
just drink more tonight
hoping and praying
I don’t self destruct
laying here in front of him
feeling so vulnerable
just close my eyes
and pray for him to dim the lights
hoping for a way
out of this feeling
willing for a way
to cry after the pain
maybe tomorrow I might be ok

So often there’s something else behind those tears and this image really struck me the first time I saw it. There’s something so true and honest, so stark and painful and yet so important about it.

the man behind the tears, Tonga 2011 by © madworld



Here are the lost souls often created by the man behind the tears, who makes us feel worthless and lost, hiding in the inbetween places and shadows.

the lost souls by © Sally Omar
they call out
hidden in a veil of darkness
the lost souls
looking for comfort
wandering the earth
heaven is not theirs
nor is hell
unfulfilled lives
broken hearts
still searching
seeking someone
to lead the way
to fulfill a dream
to bring them back to life
one more chance
to breathe
to feel
to love
to hurt
they walk
heads bowed
between the living
invisible
discarded
forgotten
the scent of life
is now the stench of death
cursing heaven
fearing hell
life is not theirs
death came quickly
only loss and pain follow
can you sense their presence?
the lost souls

With all the bright and beautiful faces in magazines and TV it’s good to look beyond, to look further and see the soul not makeup, the honest imperfections not the styling, strength not plastic surgery, coming out of the shadows, so to speak….

look beyond the imperfections by © ARIANA1985



I think this is one of those forever Cinderella jobs – not lentils and peas, but finding ourselves amongst all the things we’re meant to be for others.

Separating the Pieces of Eternity by © Zi-O

In the flowing quiet
where imagination waves
closing her eyes
she becomes the duty
of small keys
A knick knack of brass
unlocking doors
subtly separating
the pieces of eternity
Time, where is it you escaped
like water eating stone
The fragments disappeared
When brides swirled
In the moon’s wild dance,
When children whispered
I lay me down to sleep
Life, a continual wine
from astringent sweet
In the morning light born
Through the dusk of forever
the hands once fancy
are now tangled thorns
In this stillness
She escapes
A river of wasted strokes
Breathing in Breathing out
where imagination waves
she closes her eyes
and becomes the duty
of small keys
A knick knack of brass
Subtly separating
The pieces of eternity

And there it is, that eternal longing we all feel deep inside us, the one that makes us continue through each day and search and hope and go on and on and on.

This Eternal Longing… by © Melissa R Wilson



Wouldn’t it be nice if we could post ourselves in a paper boat, like a message in a bottle and one day the paper boat arrives at the right destination and we finally know who we are and what we’re for?

paper boat by © dab -
To that place
where rejection reaches
violent brain vomit event horizon
and your spirit jerks and contorts
against the body being
restrained and branded
this world is not for me
Axon finger nails grate and screech
down the chalkboard of bland, petrified, painted-over lies
and the excruciating sound waves
reverberate through the broken harp
of your body singing silent discord
at the top of its lungs
a questioning gaze into the mirror
maybe I’m not for this world
yet…
I am here, still
So you fold yourself up like a letter
addressed to someone you can’t remember
and slide into this envelope that, somehow
requires you for a little longer (…does it?)
You keep it in your breast pocket
for those days when city center heat
induces soundless screaming paralysis
then you take it out
fold it into a paper boat
fill it with tears
and place it on the sidewalk-
A boat, full of salt water
stationary on the parched pavement
waiting to be delivered
to the river flow of
this is what I’m here for

We’re all struggling with them, they’re always there arguing inside our heads where no one but us can see or hear them.

Inner Demons by © Agent7



I am leaving you with Kristin’s strong poem about feeling alone and being stronger for it.

Alone words; and warm sunlight shining, through the window I left open for my self by © Kristin Reynolds
I.
Can you feel the alone words?
Blowing through, like fiberglass stretching
moments into long stale tears, of forgotten,
all too remembered years,
stacking up like refinery towers
when the hours of man
fall short,
just a little short
of himself,
burning off the pain of being
alone.
That thick, foul, internal, human man smog
puffing out all that smog—
can you see it leaking
from your numerous pores?
when the world slows down speeds up,
becoming so loud, it chokes you
when you open your mouth
to sing—
when you were just wishing to be
the lone chickadee
on the raindrop branch:
dry, unafraid, beautiful;
waiting for the clouds to part—
for that one ray of sunlight to shine down
onto your upturned face,
so for a moment, you can feel heaven
and happily lie
beneath God.
Inside that sun’s beam you are
all that there is—
whether surrounded by the hell
of human man smog, or fields
of fragrant wild flowers
blossoming at the side of the road.
II.
Standing in a field of loose gray-day wheat
as the wind takes you further away
from your self:
this, for me, is alone.
Sitting on a wooden chair, one finger tracing
love on a rainy day window:
alone, alone, alone.
Looking around in your happiest moment
and finding yourself alone
in a festering dark,
words hanging soft from your lips,
laughter rolling off of your hands;
your heart in your searching mouth
wishing you had someone to share these things with
and coming up empty:
certainly, this must be
alone.
You feel them? The alone words?
You gave them, spelling out moments
to you, to others:
for alone, strength; for you.
Yet inside, you knew all along:
there have to be long disturbed moments,
where warmth doesn’t touch you at all—
where all that you get
is more maze
and the burden of time,
where no man may see
or know your mourning,
or the black dripping smog
surrounding your head
of wanting
open blue sky;
where you are unseen, dirty, cold,
where you’ve become
refusal itself.
III.
So I tell my self:
“Make yourself warm,
learn to like licking the wounds
you’ve earned
on your walk;
forge a vase inside of your heart
out of twisted
lightening rod glass,
and be filled
with fresh morning sunlight
in the hands of today’s window.”
“You are not alone,” I say,
“when warmed
with a morning blessing
imbued
with chickadee song.”

Enjoy and please congratulate all the fabulous artists and writers featured here. :-)
xo