Posts
This week’s features are a kaleidoscope examination of self
from multiple angles. Woman’s journey of self discovery, self recovery,
self preservation, and self destruction becomes a labyrinth of web
openings and web closings, often tangling self and intertwining those within reach.
When I close my eyes I envision a maze of fun house mirrors: row upon row, turn upon turn, there is a new reflection with each step. Some are fragmented, exposing brokenness or offering the day’s puzzle. A few are warped, stretching yesterday into today, and occasionally blending with tomorrow. There are ones that compress the images, contributing to the oppressive forces of mortal existence. And there are those that magnify everything from the smallest grain of dirt to the most minute sparkle of hope. It’s a wonder, I reflect, that there doesn’t seem to be a mirror that offers an ordinary view of reality.
There’s the envisioned reflection that’s fogged by the hindrances attached to fear, to the past, and to condemnation.
Excerpt from
The Challenge of Ordinary Days © by Beautifuldreamer
Who am I when not contending with inexpressible abuse and sorrows? Is it really okay for me to simply be? I suspect my life lacks purpose because it is no longer lived in constant fear. As my days float by I experience a sense of unreality, as if I’m not really engaged in living at all, but merely watching my life from a distance as a curious spectator. I want to emerge from the trance of childhood and get my hands dirty and my feet wet and muddy from living in a place of wild abandonment and joy, but I pull back, fearful. Fearful of being punished for my audacity in enjoying anything. Fearful that if I relax and let myself simply be I will dishonor that younger self who didn’t have such luxuries.
There must be some irony in this, in the fact that I’ve come to a place I’ve longed to be in for decades—but can’t unwind enough to fully enjoy it. What did the warriors of old do with themselves when there were no more wars to be fought, or they were simply too old for the fight and hung up their swords and shields? Did they languish in inactivity, lamenting the absence of enemies to be fought and slain? I wonder if they replayed in their imaginations, over and over again, the scenes of their most vivid, dangerous battles, relishing the courage and triumphs of a lifetime. How to replace the old with the new, how to settle for living in peace when war is all one has ever known?
There are necessary seasons of inward reflection when a soul is rebuilding her internal temple.
cocoon © by Sally Omar
at times
it is necessary
to divorce one’s self
from life
to turn from
all living things
to hide within
a cocoon
to breathe in
the sweet scent
of freedom
to divorce one’s self
from all you knew
to open your mind
to all you don’t know
drink from the cup
of knowledge
indulge in the
book of wisdom
to forget
the people you thought
were friends
to blossom within yourself
to allow yourself to grow
within your very own
cocoon
to divorce one’s self
from family
to just walk away
never looking back
and then
one day when
the world is quiet
and no one expects
to ever see you again
to emerge
cloaked in the veil
of discovery
for you have
discovered yourself
you now see
with eyes made
of diamonds
a heart filled
with gold
and a soul
free from the chains
that once held you
free to touch
the clouds
free to hear
the birds sing
free to live
life the way you
want to live
as the cocoon
slowly opens
a butterfly emerges
are you that butterfly?
Sometimes the image staring back has become one of stone: a monument fossilising everything that is good, bad, and indifferent into one impenetrable mass.
broken © by Heather King
One rotation of the wheel can flip it all into renewed prospectives filled with flickers of hope and alternate possibilities.
Self © by Mary Mac
looking from a kaleidoscope
wondering about clouds
smiling at the future
whistling out aloud
watching for tomorrow
knowing it to bring change
always going forward
trying ever so hard not to refrain
speaking up for children
women
elderly
and animals
as they need additional support
extra assistance through life
always reaching towards infinity
never to give up the plight
until called home
to rest
with no more of this earthly fight
life is a kaleidoscope’s
turn of the wheel
the right angle
into the light
free choice
is given as a gift
grace
to enjoy
or not
the ever changing sights
There is a default state that transcends the external reflections and enters into the empty stare. This portal never leads to the exact same place at the exact same time. It’s often a wonder what it will expose.
lapse © by Cynthia Lund Torroll
There are internal reflections that expose the places (pockets) where the hurts and failures and insecurities are hiding from the world’s view.
Pocket full of air © by SimplyRed
I like my pockets
it’s where I keep
my stuff you know
keys,tissues, notes to self
you know the kinda stuff
day to day dreary….
sturdy, useful pockets
but there are other pockets
hidden and tattered….
the ones I keep my heart in
there is a special pocket for
the young heart
I once owned
full of wonder,
life and expectations
my pockets of happiness
are often full
twinkling and teasing
to overflowing……
brimming are the pockets of joy
that keep the pleasures of life
and make us smile with wonder
the pocket of acceptance
makes me smile
and even linger
I like ME….
and where I’m at
the useful pocket
holds a big,colourful crayon
it’s where I draw my day to day
bold, bright and beautiful
oh yes these pockets
are handy indeed
for they are full of my life
and other tell tale parts of ME
but every now and then I stumble
into my secret pocket
you know the pocket
hidden from everyone
small but more important
than any other pocket
this pocket is
cupped…….
in the palm of my hand
it’s where my heart bleeds
like a waterfall….
overflowing with hidden pain
hurt and courage of fake smiles
this special pocket
is deliberately hidden from view
a blindfolded glance
if you wish….
this small pocket
gathers lint and dust
until I feel the need
to scuffle around
and feel in the dark
with my bare hands
grappling and grabbing
not pleasant to the touch
but there none the less
it’s sharp edge….
cutting and weaving pain
into lifetime’s scars
never healing
these pockets are
cosmetically covered
and lightly perfumed
for all to poke around in
as the new day breaks……
Sometimes the image reflecting back is one of frustration, one completely bored with self.
I Feel So Alone Sometimes © by Laura Broussard
Like an artist with a muzzle on………….
It is feeling so frustrating,
so depressing,
I feel so useless,………
at times.
All these visions of creative thought,
within me…….
but, my toolbox is sparse.
I need to go back to school.
Learn how to master new technology……
layering, and blending, and ………….
Oh, how alone I feel.
And, this RedBubble landscape,
feels so desolate,
right now.
I wish I could just do it.
Learn it through osmosis.
I am impatient…..
and so utterly bored with myself.
There’s no denying the power of the portrait exposing the pecking order.
The Pecking Order © by Glitterfest
And where there are friends, there will be disappointments, dis-enchantments, and disfigurements that eventually find their way to the surface.
Beyond the Grey Sky © by lovelyrita
She has the means
to play a part in coloring your sky
a bright, rich, less lonely hue.
She can help
paint away the clouds
to reveal a clear blue – -
You’re holding her paintbrush
with both hands
in a fit part juvenile
part cancelled plans.
With each tired breath (you draw)
with each heavy exhale (you let go)
the regret spills out from your quiet mouth
and drains you slowly…
You send her second-guessing
to undo what you’ve worked on these past eight years.
While each day unfolds,
the heartbreak grows – -
you bend to break her contribution
to your life’s canvas.
There’s something to be said about the memorial footprints that leave lasting imprints upon one’s heart and soul.
“For all the beautiful ones who blossomed for a short time and are no more. Whatever the reason, and there are many, they can never be replaced. The space they leave behind cannot be filled. Long after we have forgotten their faces, the memory leaves footprints in our hearts.”
The Broken Flower © by Rosy H
What about the imperfect image, the self-destructive image; the image that self mutilates in its OCD, multi-dimensional dysfunctional mannerisms? Will the reflection staring back ever unite with the one in direct opposition?
don’t © by wordthrift
Please.
Please, don’t touch me.
Please don’t touch me.
Please don’t touch me.
I’m going to lay down a while.
My mind is fermented in images bathed in electric blue from the television screen, stolen brief glances through one slitted eye.
Close it tight and forget what I’ve seen,
I can’t shower enough,
I will never be clean.
You can smell it on me.
Sweating out whiskey, too much whiskey,
and some nightmarish half memory.
Maybe I was never there.
Hands all grabbing and lips, breath, teeth,
Struggling beneath you.
My stomach is sick and heaving,
And I’m having trouble believing you’re that fucking sorry.
I won’t look in that mirror again.
Shatter glass into sharp, reflective friends who lay their aid at my feet,
to help take off this skin.
And there are not nearly enough of them.
Please don’t look at me.
Please don’t look at me.
Please, don’t look at me.
Please.
Ahhhhhhh, there it is: the presence of a clear image that draws a breath of hope within the imperfect reflection, the one determined to see the silver lining behind the glass block of such confining restriction.
Every single day © by Vensa VD
every single day
she does it her way
she is flying free
his beautiful lady
every single day
she comes out to play
she starts to bloom
looking for more room
every single day
constraints are in the way
but rather than feeling a rage
she leaves the birdcage
every single day
he teaches her to stay
to take the food from his hand
on his shoulder stand
every single day
they dance, swirl and sway
they rock and roll and swing
together they sing
When I close my eyes I envision a maze of fun house mirrors: row upon row, turn upon turn, there is a new reflection with each step. Some are fragmented, exposing brokenness or offering the day’s puzzle. A few are warped, stretching yesterday into today, and occasionally blending with tomorrow. There are ones that compress the images, contributing to the oppressive forces of mortal existence. And there are those that magnify everything from the smallest grain of dirt to the most minute sparkle of hope. It’s a wonder, I reflect, that there doesn’t seem to be a mirror that offers an ordinary view of reality.
There’s the envisioned reflection that’s fogged by the hindrances attached to fear, to the past, and to condemnation.
Excerpt from
The Challenge of Ordinary Days © by Beautifuldreamer
Who am I when not contending with inexpressible abuse and sorrows? Is it really okay for me to simply be? I suspect my life lacks purpose because it is no longer lived in constant fear. As my days float by I experience a sense of unreality, as if I’m not really engaged in living at all, but merely watching my life from a distance as a curious spectator. I want to emerge from the trance of childhood and get my hands dirty and my feet wet and muddy from living in a place of wild abandonment and joy, but I pull back, fearful. Fearful of being punished for my audacity in enjoying anything. Fearful that if I relax and let myself simply be I will dishonor that younger self who didn’t have such luxuries.
There must be some irony in this, in the fact that I’ve come to a place I’ve longed to be in for decades—but can’t unwind enough to fully enjoy it. What did the warriors of old do with themselves when there were no more wars to be fought, or they were simply too old for the fight and hung up their swords and shields? Did they languish in inactivity, lamenting the absence of enemies to be fought and slain? I wonder if they replayed in their imaginations, over and over again, the scenes of their most vivid, dangerous battles, relishing the courage and triumphs of a lifetime. How to replace the old with the new, how to settle for living in peace when war is all one has ever known?
There are necessary seasons of inward reflection when a soul is rebuilding her internal temple.
cocoon © by Sally Omar
at times
it is necessary
to divorce one’s self
from life
to turn from
all living things
to hide within
a cocoon
to breathe in
the sweet scent
of freedom
to divorce one’s self
from all you knew
to open your mind
to all you don’t know
drink from the cup
of knowledge
indulge in the
book of wisdom
to forget
the people you thought
were friends
to blossom within yourself
to allow yourself to grow
within your very own
cocoon
to divorce one’s self
from family
to just walk away
never looking back
and then
one day when
the world is quiet
and no one expects
to ever see you again
to emerge
cloaked in the veil
of discovery
for you have
discovered yourself
you now see
with eyes made
of diamonds
a heart filled
with gold
and a soul
free from the chains
that once held you
free to touch
the clouds
free to hear
the birds sing
free to live
life the way you
want to live
as the cocoon
slowly opens
a butterfly emerges
are you that butterfly?
Sometimes the image staring back has become one of stone: a monument fossilising everything that is good, bad, and indifferent into one impenetrable mass.
broken © by Heather King
One rotation of the wheel can flip it all into renewed prospectives filled with flickers of hope and alternate possibilities.
Self © by Mary Mac
looking from a kaleidoscope
wondering about clouds
smiling at the future
whistling out aloud
watching for tomorrow
knowing it to bring change
always going forward
trying ever so hard not to refrain
speaking up for children
women
elderly
and animals
as they need additional support
extra assistance through life
always reaching towards infinity
never to give up the plight
until called home
to rest
with no more of this earthly fight
life is a kaleidoscope’s
turn of the wheel
the right angle
into the light
free choice
is given as a gift
grace
to enjoy
or not
the ever changing sights
There is a default state that transcends the external reflections and enters into the empty stare. This portal never leads to the exact same place at the exact same time. It’s often a wonder what it will expose.
lapse © by Cynthia Lund Torroll
There are internal reflections that expose the places (pockets) where the hurts and failures and insecurities are hiding from the world’s view.
Pocket full of air © by SimplyRed
I like my pockets
it’s where I keep
my stuff you know
keys,tissues, notes to self
you know the kinda stuff
day to day dreary….
sturdy, useful pockets
but there are other pockets
hidden and tattered….
the ones I keep my heart in
there is a special pocket for
the young heart
I once owned
full of wonder,
life and expectations
my pockets of happiness
are often full
twinkling and teasing
to overflowing……
brimming are the pockets of joy
that keep the pleasures of life
and make us smile with wonder
the pocket of acceptance
makes me smile
and even linger
I like ME….
and where I’m at
the useful pocket
holds a big,colourful crayon
it’s where I draw my day to day
bold, bright and beautiful
oh yes these pockets
are handy indeed
for they are full of my life
and other tell tale parts of ME
but every now and then I stumble
into my secret pocket
you know the pocket
hidden from everyone
small but more important
than any other pocket
this pocket is
cupped…….
in the palm of my hand
it’s where my heart bleeds
like a waterfall….
overflowing with hidden pain
hurt and courage of fake smiles
this special pocket
is deliberately hidden from view
a blindfolded glance
if you wish….
this small pocket
gathers lint and dust
until I feel the need
to scuffle around
and feel in the dark
with my bare hands
grappling and grabbing
not pleasant to the touch
but there none the less
it’s sharp edge….
cutting and weaving pain
into lifetime’s scars
never healing
these pockets are
cosmetically covered
and lightly perfumed
for all to poke around in
as the new day breaks……
Sometimes the image reflecting back is one of frustration, one completely bored with self.
I Feel So Alone Sometimes © by Laura Broussard
Like an artist with a muzzle on………….
It is feeling so frustrating,
so depressing,
I feel so useless,………
at times.
All these visions of creative thought,
within me…….
but, my toolbox is sparse.
I need to go back to school.
Learn how to master new technology……
layering, and blending, and ………….
Oh, how alone I feel.
And, this RedBubble landscape,
feels so desolate,
right now.
I wish I could just do it.
Learn it through osmosis.
I am impatient…..
and so utterly bored with myself.
There’s no denying the power of the portrait exposing the pecking order.
The Pecking Order © by Glitterfest
And where there are friends, there will be disappointments, dis-enchantments, and disfigurements that eventually find their way to the surface.
Beyond the Grey Sky © by lovelyrita
She has the means
to play a part in coloring your sky
a bright, rich, less lonely hue.
She can help
paint away the clouds
to reveal a clear blue – -
You’re holding her paintbrush
with both hands
in a fit part juvenile
part cancelled plans.
With each tired breath (you draw)
with each heavy exhale (you let go)
the regret spills out from your quiet mouth
and drains you slowly…
You send her second-guessing
to undo what you’ve worked on these past eight years.
While each day unfolds,
the heartbreak grows – -
you bend to break her contribution
to your life’s canvas.
There’s something to be said about the memorial footprints that leave lasting imprints upon one’s heart and soul.
“For all the beautiful ones who blossomed for a short time and are no more. Whatever the reason, and there are many, they can never be replaced. The space they leave behind cannot be filled. Long after we have forgotten their faces, the memory leaves footprints in our hearts.”
The Broken Flower © by Rosy H
What about the imperfect image, the self-destructive image; the image that self mutilates in its OCD, multi-dimensional dysfunctional mannerisms? Will the reflection staring back ever unite with the one in direct opposition?
don’t © by wordthrift
Please.
Please, don’t touch me.
Please don’t touch me.
Please don’t touch me.
I’m going to lay down a while.
My mind is fermented in images bathed in electric blue from the television screen, stolen brief glances through one slitted eye.
Close it tight and forget what I’ve seen,
I can’t shower enough,
I will never be clean.
You can smell it on me.
Sweating out whiskey, too much whiskey,
and some nightmarish half memory.
Maybe I was never there.
Hands all grabbing and lips, breath, teeth,
Struggling beneath you.
My stomach is sick and heaving,
And I’m having trouble believing you’re that fucking sorry.
I won’t look in that mirror again.
Shatter glass into sharp, reflective friends who lay their aid at my feet,
to help take off this skin.
And there are not nearly enough of them.
Please don’t look at me.
Please don’t look at me.
Please, don’t look at me.
Please.
Ahhhhhhh, there it is: the presence of a clear image that draws a breath of hope within the imperfect reflection, the one determined to see the silver lining behind the glass block of such confining restriction.
Every single day © by Vensa VD
every single day
she does it her way
she is flying free
his beautiful lady
every single day
she comes out to play
she starts to bloom
looking for more room
every single day
constraints are in the way
but rather than feeling a rage
she leaves the birdcage
every single day
he teaches her to stay
to take the food from his hand
on his shoulder stand
every single day
they dance, swirl and sway
they rock and roll and swing
together they sing
No comments:
Post a Comment
We'd love to hear from you!