“We all have our own life to pursue, our own kind of dream to be weaving. And we all have some power to make wishes come true, as long as we keep believing.” Louisa M Alcott
Time To Unleash Your Dreams / Whispers Series by © Mariska
about being able to distinguish between reality and fantasy;
Literally by © Cynthia Lund Torroll
She believed every word
that was written
She took them straight
to her generous heart
Once there, she decorated
Lined the membranes with
a richer shade
with a gift so rare,
She’d be philistine
She’s be shallow
She’d be none of those words
Who would guess that revering
could be harmful -
That believing might be
though she still doesn’t believe this
just maybe -
pretty words are sometimes
about being able to show our multi-faceted selves to the world;
The Many Facets of Me by © by Sandra Bauser Digital Art
of our young hearts and dreams;
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 onced owned
full of wonder,
life and expectations
my pockets of happiness
are often full
twinkling and teasing
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
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
these pockets are
and lightly perfumed
for all to poke around in
as the new day breaks……
of being able to come out from the shadows;
Out of the shadows by © Samantha Aplin
of being recognised fully for our true contributions;
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.
of making the world a better place in which to live;
Giving Birth to a New World by © dmcart
of being recognised for who we are;
The Unborn by © Regina Coeli deWinter
like smoke like fog
the words are taunting me
catch us if you can
pin us to the corkboard of your imagination
and make something coherent
out of what is no more than
luminous ghostly reflected in moonlight
submerged in the shallows of some long-forgotten pond
they call me they lure me with sirensong fatal
misstep and you’re lost
misstep and you’re laughed at
misstep and you may as well bury alive
all your hopes of redemption
your dreams of desire
your pounding insistent tsunamaic voice
beating ceaselessly endlessly nevergiveupingly
bury them deep yes and bury them quiet
laid in a grave as forgot as the pond
while like smoke like fog
the words whirl in silence
windborne and wild
to some other palace of misguided song
of the wish to unify those parts of ourselves that are torn apart by our roles and responsibilities;
Balancing between reality and dreams by © Ina Mar
of opportunities lost and talent wasted;
Selfish Longings by © restlessd
Oh I loved you so,
And I still do.
I put my dreams away
Just to be with you.
Now don’t take me wrong,
I love my children as well.
But there are times when
Upon my lost dreams I dwell.
I had such great ideas.
Aspirations beyond compare.
Talent that should’ve been nurtured.
An ability that was to be shared.
Instead I fell into love,
I gave my heart and soul.
To be a partner in happiness
Became my lifelong goal.
I learned happiness is just a word,
When other things come first.
When my hopes and expectations
Became an long forgotten thirst.
I’m asking why, why, why?
Why am I not fulfilled?
Am I selfish in my longing
For dreams long ago distilled?
What will I tell my children
When they to must make a choice?
Shall I keep my secrets hidden?
Or let them hear my voice?
of being the joyous and free spirit that is within;
rockabilly roller girl by © wildwomenlove
of being ME.
A beautiful body by © msdebbie
I have a beautiful body.
An unexpected statement from
a full-figured, curvaceous girl.
But let’s try it on for size.
I understand the weight of memory,
and in my family, size matters!
It was established in school -
You’re a fatty boom-bah! -
that thin is in. I was six,
and much more interested in books,
than mindful of my looks.
I have always understood
that it is preferable
to be capable, intelligent,
than condescend to mere appearances.
My father learned his lesson
on looks at 34. A heart transplant
saved his life, but laid his body
to waste. Some strangers would point
and stare at his morbid obesity -
murmuring of the disgrace, his laziness -
never knowing of the terrible medication.
Steroids and cyclosporine experimentation;
just witnessing an after-effect
of his body’s annihilation,
deteriorating from a welder’s strength,
to a frail man gasping for breath.
That’s a weighted memory
I don’t wish on anyone.
Then there was my Grandma.
A stoic farmer, who combined
strength with maternal elegance.
Her body destroyed by strokes,
something that perversely seems to mingle
atrophy with the indignity of shingles.
She could not even speak,
became inclined to moan and weep,
reminding me once again that bodies
are nothing next to disease;
they can only crack, collapse and bleed.
Never has this creed seemed more true
than as I ponder what to do for my Mum.
A loving and gentle parent, now facing
her own kick to the head deterioration.
. . . Just a passing reference to Parkinson’s,
a terrible waste of her body
as it succumbs to shaking and
central nervous system desecration.
So when I can confidently assert
I have a beautiful body.
part of it is attitude:
I have a cheeky smile;
I repudiate labels and guile.
With an easy-going stride
I am drawn to better people,
greater places, which abide.
When I look at people
I offer warmth and compassion.
Such things mean a lot more
than skinny jeans,
the width of my chest,
or how much I might
holler and jest.
With my arms upraised,
I used to pretend I was a tree.
Nowadays I let that be a symbol;
I am carefree, happy to be me.
Whatever shape or size you might see,
I know what type of person I want to be.
Beautiful, inside and out,
because that is the measure
of all the people I care about.
Plant impossible gardens. Look forward to dreams. Cry during movies. Swing as high as you can on a swing set, by moonlight. Cultivate moods. Do it for love. Take lots of naps. Take moon baths. Giggle with children. Listen to old people. Entertain your inner child. Build a fort with blankets. Get wet. Hug trees. Write love letters.
Congratulations to all you talented artists and writers featured here.