Posts
The features this week reflect the growing works of art and
poetry being submitted to the group, celebrating and embracing the
whole concept of freedom. Freedom to be who we are, to look as we would
want to look, to express ourselves without fear of censure; freedom to
open our wings and fly. Let’s put away those self-imposed blocks that
hold us down and wave farewell to the fear that prevents us from
flying. Let’s shout to the world “I am who I am” and feel proud.
Meoise expresses this concept with a simplicity that takes my breath away. In so very few brush strokes she has totally conveyed this need.
Woman freeing herself © by meoise
Again, minimalist to the core, Rhenastarr’s poem reminds us so powerfully how freedom is so easy to lose.
Freedom by Rhenastarr
Rising above the mist
freedom effortlessly slips by
on the wings of eagles
Sandra’s intriguing and beautiful image is a potent reminder to be ‘ourselves’, that we are responsible for our own enlightenment.
Enlightenment © by Sandra Bauser Digital Art
Read this insightful and moving poem by Zi-O, and see if you had the same feeling of joy as I had, as I absorbed the words, the sentiments and the wisdom of her words. The last few lines simply will not shift from my consciousness. Stunning!
The Age of Invisible © by Zi-O
This grace of a woman
Today is past her prime (so they say)
Seldom are the blue-green eyes
Dark hair (now streaked with gray)
Objects of fantasy
Unlike when
She swayed sensuously
Full lips bewitching
With invitation
This is the age of invisible (so they say)
Once a storm—turbulent
She now abides in the eye
Of tranquil surrender
Where the years have faded
Like water color exposed
To sun—light
The skin
Once iridescent
By way of youth
Is now etched with memories
She smiles
Blissfully aware
That heads do not turn
When she walks in the room
She is older
She is wiser
She has arrived……..
In this oh- so- beautiful image by Nicole McBride, I was transfixed by the feeling of having arrived, having come home after weathering life’s obstacles.
Blue Ulysess I am home © by Nicole McBride
What a brilliant poem this is by autumnwind, who is finding her wings and beginning to soar.
Forsaken Angels © by autumnwind
I am dreaming of flying
On butterfly wings
To a place far away
Where magic holds sway
My heart will be light
So smooth be the flight
As I glide through the wind
As it sings
I am dreaming of flying
On butterfly wings
Away from the storms
Where I do not belong
I will meet all you there
Those who need care
And together we will dance
With the stars
I am dreaming of flying
On butterfly wings
Such a gentle caress
Wings of loveliness
I will soar through the rain
As the sun shines again
No more sadness and pain
In my life
I am dreaming of flying
On butterfly wings
Through the vast milky way
To a much better day
Love and light is the key
Happy children run free
I will be strong and belong
Come with me!
I am dreaming of flying
On butterfly wings
Won’t you join me my friend
To where rainbows intend
A dazzling surprise
Freeing spirits to rise
It’s your time to be free
Butterfly
Tammera’s image makes me smile out loud, forcing us to think about our wild side. She makes me want to shed my clothes and simply dance, – just for the sheer fun of it!
WILD THING © by Tammera
Cynthia is such a wonderful artist and writer, and her witty and thought-provoking poem encourages us to shed our layers of fear and enjoy the process!! She is right, it is her best statement yet.
Untitled © by Cynthia Lund Torrol
I’ve heard…(was it you Eckhart?),
that when the thumb of fear lifts: (oh mine – so thick, elephantine),
One is So Alive.
I thought…(felt. known. attest.), mine left.
But oh – (Big but here), I would soon find
another blanket of it knitting itself
upon me.
Time after time (tics of doubt tock), as I right/write myself,
THIS I observed…
(felt. known. attest.)
Each shedding I believed was the last -
the crinkly skin of false
on the floor -
nevermore…
Surprise. Surprise. Welcome to process.
My new skins however are velvet. (sigh on soft/soft as sighs).
Inversion is my choice adventure.
Instead of walking into rooms assuming amiss -
new chart now:
try on the reverse.
Self deception? Self preservation?
Does my root really know the difference?
Does that matter to my matter?
I do not know.
And that,
my fine friends, is my best
statement yet.
Catrinarno has such breath-taking talent, and here she is perhaps urging us jut to let go, release our inner child and fly.
Airmail © by Catrin Welz-Stein
Su2anne writing with clarity and heart-felt emotion, persuades us never ever to take ourselves for granted.
Self worth © by Su2anne
I yearn for some peace
Some quiet.
These whisperings
Are driving me crazy!
Like a child
They follow me about.
I can’t shower, eat or drive a car
Without having to stop
And Jot!
But when they disappear
No matter how hard I look…
I suddenly regret my recriminations.
So many days silent.
Perhaps I am Dead?
When suddenly
And in a rush
The noise is back
And the words
Come tumbling out.
Relief mixed with excitement
I pen my next verse.
And know never again
To take me
For granted.
I really love all of Thelma’s art, with its irreverent and insightful look at the way women are portrayed. Cinderella is a story familiar to us all, in which we do not have to do very much for ourselves, but wait for a Prince Charming to come and make us happy.
Cinderella © by Thelma Van Rensburg
Beatifuldreamer writes from the heart and often moves me to tears. Here is a wonderful reminder that we are our own Princess Charming and that we must recognise our own worth.
She © by Beautifuldreamer
She’s the bag lady in several layers of clothing, toothless and greasy-haired, pushing her shopping cart like a silent wraith along the sidewalks of your block.
She’s your elderly neighbor who willingly hid behind her husband for 40 years and who now, with his passing, lives in frightened invisibility.
She’s the woman you see every day at the bus stop on your way to work, her perfectly made-up face a carefully arranged mask of aloof inaccessibility.
She’s the morbidly obese woman who hates herself as thoroughly as she loves to eat. To avoid any chance of intimacy, she builds layers of fat around her core self and, by this means, hides in plain sight.
She’s the rude cashier at your supermarket, handling money day after day, too bankrupt in spirit to afford what it would cost her to question her easy acceptance of her unchallenged life.
She’s the most popular girl in jr. high (and how you envied her!), an early bloomer with full curves and naturally blonde hair, who a year later walked the school corridors with lowered head, muted by the shame of a bad reputation—a parting gift from the boy who swore he loved her before using, and then abandoning, her.
She’s the 8 year old suddenly robbed of her childhood, aged beyond her years by unwanted touches.
She’s the teen forced to bear her own father’s child.
She’s the woman whose mind fractured during a brutal childhood of constant rapings, whose survival depended on her ability to dissociate, to create many separate personalities to cope with the horrors lurking within the 4 walls of her suburban torture chamber.
She’s your sister, your mother, your best friend. She’s your daughter, your niece, your aunt, your cousin.
She’s shallow, to all surface observations. Her entire world revolves around her dual roles of wife and mother. Dull, you are swift to conclude, not comprehending that if she’s obsessed with recipes and laundry it’s because she can’t talk about the weightier matters (such as losing her virginity when she was pre-verbal) that keep her awake far into the night, long after her hubby and brood have fallen into peaceful slumber. You will consider her frivolous, if you consider her at all, not someone you wish to befriend, for the parameters of her domesticity would smother you. You can’t know that her easy submission to her responsibilities is her only lifeboat, providing something tangibly solid to cling to for dear life.
She’s a prostitute selling what she hates most: her flesh. When she lies beneath a stranger, going through the motions of feigned intimacy, she is remembering the scent of a particular aftershave, and furtive, middle-of-the-night gropings which resulted in the alcoholism, and self-mutilation, that began at the tender age of 11.
Sometimes she’s your soft place to fall.
Sometimes she’s your doppelganger.
Or, she’s your Princess Charming rescuing you in the only manner possible: by reminding you of your inherent value, thus awakening you from your trance of surface compliance, and decades old self-contempt.
She is you.
She is me.
She is.
Please join us by congratulating our fabulous artists and writers, – or better still, take a few minutes to congratulate them on their own pages.
Meoise expresses this concept with a simplicity that takes my breath away. In so very few brush strokes she has totally conveyed this need.
Woman freeing herself © by meoise
Again, minimalist to the core, Rhenastarr’s poem reminds us so powerfully how freedom is so easy to lose.
Freedom by Rhenastarr
Rising above the mist
freedom effortlessly slips by
on the wings of eagles
Sandra’s intriguing and beautiful image is a potent reminder to be ‘ourselves’, that we are responsible for our own enlightenment.
Enlightenment © by Sandra Bauser Digital Art
Read this insightful and moving poem by Zi-O, and see if you had the same feeling of joy as I had, as I absorbed the words, the sentiments and the wisdom of her words. The last few lines simply will not shift from my consciousness. Stunning!
The Age of Invisible © by Zi-O
This grace of a woman
Today is past her prime (so they say)
Seldom are the blue-green eyes
Dark hair (now streaked with gray)
Objects of fantasy
Unlike when
She swayed sensuously
Full lips bewitching
With invitation
This is the age of invisible (so they say)
Once a storm—turbulent
She now abides in the eye
Of tranquil surrender
Where the years have faded
Like water color exposed
To sun—light
The skin
Once iridescent
By way of youth
Is now etched with memories
She smiles
Blissfully aware
That heads do not turn
When she walks in the room
She is older
She is wiser
She has arrived……..
In this oh- so- beautiful image by Nicole McBride, I was transfixed by the feeling of having arrived, having come home after weathering life’s obstacles.
Blue Ulysess I am home © by Nicole McBride
What a brilliant poem this is by autumnwind, who is finding her wings and beginning to soar.
Forsaken Angels © by autumnwind
I am dreaming of flying
On butterfly wings
To a place far away
Where magic holds sway
My heart will be light
So smooth be the flight
As I glide through the wind
As it sings
I am dreaming of flying
On butterfly wings
Away from the storms
Where I do not belong
I will meet all you there
Those who need care
And together we will dance
With the stars
I am dreaming of flying
On butterfly wings
Such a gentle caress
Wings of loveliness
I will soar through the rain
As the sun shines again
No more sadness and pain
In my life
I am dreaming of flying
On butterfly wings
Through the vast milky way
To a much better day
Love and light is the key
Happy children run free
I will be strong and belong
Come with me!
I am dreaming of flying
On butterfly wings
Won’t you join me my friend
To where rainbows intend
A dazzling surprise
Freeing spirits to rise
It’s your time to be free
Butterfly
Tammera’s image makes me smile out loud, forcing us to think about our wild side. She makes me want to shed my clothes and simply dance, – just for the sheer fun of it!
WILD THING © by Tammera
Cynthia is such a wonderful artist and writer, and her witty and thought-provoking poem encourages us to shed our layers of fear and enjoy the process!! She is right, it is her best statement yet.
Untitled © by Cynthia Lund Torrol
I’ve heard…(was it you Eckhart?),
that when the thumb of fear lifts: (oh mine – so thick, elephantine),
One is So Alive.
I thought…(felt. known. attest.), mine left.
But oh – (Big but here), I would soon find
another blanket of it knitting itself
upon me.
Time after time (tics of doubt tock), as I right/write myself,
THIS I observed…
(felt. known. attest.)
Each shedding I believed was the last -
the crinkly skin of false
on the floor -
nevermore…
Surprise. Surprise. Welcome to process.
My new skins however are velvet. (sigh on soft/soft as sighs).
Inversion is my choice adventure.
Instead of walking into rooms assuming amiss -
new chart now:
try on the reverse.
Self deception? Self preservation?
Does my root really know the difference?
Does that matter to my matter?
I do not know.
And that,
my fine friends, is my best
statement yet.
Catrinarno has such breath-taking talent, and here she is perhaps urging us jut to let go, release our inner child and fly.
Airmail © by Catrin Welz-Stein
Su2anne writing with clarity and heart-felt emotion, persuades us never ever to take ourselves for granted.
Self worth © by Su2anne
I yearn for some peace
Some quiet.
These whisperings
Are driving me crazy!
Like a child
They follow me about.
I can’t shower, eat or drive a car
Without having to stop
And Jot!
But when they disappear
No matter how hard I look…
I suddenly regret my recriminations.
So many days silent.
Perhaps I am Dead?
When suddenly
And in a rush
The noise is back
And the words
Come tumbling out.
Relief mixed with excitement
I pen my next verse.
And know never again
To take me
For granted.
I really love all of Thelma’s art, with its irreverent and insightful look at the way women are portrayed. Cinderella is a story familiar to us all, in which we do not have to do very much for ourselves, but wait for a Prince Charming to come and make us happy.
Cinderella © by Thelma Van Rensburg
Beatifuldreamer writes from the heart and often moves me to tears. Here is a wonderful reminder that we are our own Princess Charming and that we must recognise our own worth.
She © by Beautifuldreamer
She’s the bag lady in several layers of clothing, toothless and greasy-haired, pushing her shopping cart like a silent wraith along the sidewalks of your block.
She’s your elderly neighbor who willingly hid behind her husband for 40 years and who now, with his passing, lives in frightened invisibility.
She’s the woman you see every day at the bus stop on your way to work, her perfectly made-up face a carefully arranged mask of aloof inaccessibility.
She’s the morbidly obese woman who hates herself as thoroughly as she loves to eat. To avoid any chance of intimacy, she builds layers of fat around her core self and, by this means, hides in plain sight.
She’s the rude cashier at your supermarket, handling money day after day, too bankrupt in spirit to afford what it would cost her to question her easy acceptance of her unchallenged life.
She’s the most popular girl in jr. high (and how you envied her!), an early bloomer with full curves and naturally blonde hair, who a year later walked the school corridors with lowered head, muted by the shame of a bad reputation—a parting gift from the boy who swore he loved her before using, and then abandoning, her.
She’s the 8 year old suddenly robbed of her childhood, aged beyond her years by unwanted touches.
She’s the teen forced to bear her own father’s child.
She’s the woman whose mind fractured during a brutal childhood of constant rapings, whose survival depended on her ability to dissociate, to create many separate personalities to cope with the horrors lurking within the 4 walls of her suburban torture chamber.
She’s your sister, your mother, your best friend. She’s your daughter, your niece, your aunt, your cousin.
She’s shallow, to all surface observations. Her entire world revolves around her dual roles of wife and mother. Dull, you are swift to conclude, not comprehending that if she’s obsessed with recipes and laundry it’s because she can’t talk about the weightier matters (such as losing her virginity when she was pre-verbal) that keep her awake far into the night, long after her hubby and brood have fallen into peaceful slumber. You will consider her frivolous, if you consider her at all, not someone you wish to befriend, for the parameters of her domesticity would smother you. You can’t know that her easy submission to her responsibilities is her only lifeboat, providing something tangibly solid to cling to for dear life.
She’s a prostitute selling what she hates most: her flesh. When she lies beneath a stranger, going through the motions of feigned intimacy, she is remembering the scent of a particular aftershave, and furtive, middle-of-the-night gropings which resulted in the alcoholism, and self-mutilation, that began at the tender age of 11.
Sometimes she’s your soft place to fall.
Sometimes she’s your doppelganger.
Or, she’s your Princess Charming rescuing you in the only manner possible: by reminding you of your inherent value, thus awakening you from your trance of surface compliance, and decades old self-contempt.
She is you.
She is me.
She is.
Please join us by congratulating our fabulous artists and writers, – or better still, take a few minutes to congratulate them on their own pages.
No comments:
Post a Comment
We'd love to hear from you!