Secrets, Puzzles and Enigmas - Midweek Features - 31/08/2011

I went to Bletchley Park this weekend and it made me think. Bletchley Park is where they decoded the secret Enigma machine and it had it’s fair share of secret agents, including Ian Fleming the author of James Bond living and working there. It made me think about the things we hide from view, our inner most wishes, our desires, our secrets and thought it would make the perfect theme for today’s features.

Here’s my first choice. I like this image because it’s an unusual selfportrait, hiding more than it shows.

A windy day on the bricks link to art/writing by © fourthangel


Here are some of the secrets we may hide from view…

Touchstone by © Cynthia Lund Torroll
She has a lining,
A secret pocket,
That’s of the finest thread count
Velvet.
Sometimes her fingers
Reach down to touch it
Without the need to actually
Open.
Inside it holds those things
That cannot or never will
Fit into frames.
Like how the light takes over
Corners when it tries
To cling to day.

The things that make us who we are, often hidden in plain sight, a puzzle to others and often to ourselves.

PersonalPuzzle by © dmcart


Often we’re still trying to find our way, understand who we are and what makes us tick.

Me, Myself & I by © shelleybabe2
I’m naughty,
but nice.
I’m cruel,
but I’m kind.
I easily forgive,
or dont mind.
I make mistake’s,
of any kind.
I’m still learning,
in body and mind.
And I know that,
it will take me quite some time.
For I’m not perfect,
or designed.
To suit the needs,
of other’s minds.
For I will pace,
at my own time.
Take baby steps,
In which to find…..
Me, Myself & I.

Our secret desires and wishes and the readjustment to reality.

It was supposed to be a new start for us by © madworld


The way we’re shattered by the winds and then have to try and put ourselves back together again from the puzzle we’ve become.

Fragments by © ShadowDancer
I come to you in fragments of a dream
pieces & stems
& half chewed morsels of flesh
alive, dripping with honey
bittersweet
my eyes an awkward attempt
at seduction
digging my way down to your open
wound
to lick away your tears

Always looking for the secret to happiness and sometimes finding nothing but emptiness.

“Time is a cruel thief to rob us of our former selves. We lose as much to life as we do to death.
Elizabeth Forsythe Hailey”

The Pursuit Of Happiness by © Mindy McGregor


And sometimes we find ourselves alone in a room with many people and no friends, hiding our innermost selves from everyone.

Pride and Pestilence by © Jenifer DeBellis
In a room full of people I am alone.
Mary’s just asked me what I’ve been up to.
Grateful for the interest I begin to tell her.
Three words in and her eyes are dancing
over my shoulder assessing the newcomers.
I repeat the same sentence twice without her notice.
She moves on as Pat finishes her hello greetings.
Pat is with Debbie, who nods continually
as she says “uh ha, uh ha, uh ha,”
in between every third or forth word I speak,
not really listening to anything I say
while she bides her time before she takes the floor.
It’s hard to think straight in between each uh ha.
Pat’s expression is a cross between melancholy
and absence until her phone vibrates in her pocket.
As she reads the message (perhaps a text or the latest
Facebook update) her face comes alive and her eyes
ignite. She smiles as she punches her keypad
in rapid succession and returns the phone to her pocket.
She and her distant expression resume their position.
I remember when I used to be the recipient of Pat’s smile.
Finger food has been set out, giving me an escape.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “I haven’t eaten yet today.”
If I move slow enough I can draw out the time.
I’ve already scanned the room for the perfect hiding place;
I slide into an isolated chair that sits near the corner –
set up as an afterthought or mercy offering, who can tell?
It is the perfect spot. Voices are nothing more than the hum
and buzz trapped within the heart of a busy bee hive.
There’s a group of women sitting to the side of the table.
They crane in toward one another creating a shield
that shelters their conversation while it keeps others out.
I will escape their notice until Laura’s husband stops
to ask me if I’ve been put in the corner for bad behavior.
I laugh even though it’s not funny. Where’s my poker face
when I need it? The one with a get out of jail free card.
It’s not clear to me why I shouldn’t be talking to Ken,
but while he and I refill our wine glasses I’m polite
enough to say “Hi,” which causes his smile to fade
mid-stride as his wife bolts from her chair to his side.
From some secret reserve I muster up a smile to offer
Kelli who flashes me one in return and says something
but I’m not quite sure what as my mind has already
retreated to a safer place – the corner at the back of the room.

We hide ourselves behind different variations of ourselves, none quite true, not one quite real.

Me repetitive self by © Danica Radman – Tazzina


Shouldn’t life be more than hiding who we truly are just to conform?

thrill by © Sally Omar
man and woman
side by side
man and woman
what do they hide
behind the shades
of blue and red
are their hearts open
or are they dead
do their smiles
and brief kiss
reflect their love
or do they just miss
freedom to walk
down a road alone
to turn to the left
and not go home
to find true love
on a different path
a love so intense
that will always last
or will they go on
hiding their true desires
they’re not in love
just good liars
will they ever realize
time does not stand still
life should be lived
every day a thrill
thrill

Isn’t what most of us really want to break free from the labels we’re stuck with and become more, become ‘real’?

I Want to Break Free by © AmbientKreation


I am not sure if this is the question or the answer… and I’d definitely come along.

Question by © Vesna VD
I have
clouds in the pocket,
Sun in the hair,
many rivers in the body
and a blue star in the head.
I have
forest in the heart,
a tiger in the foot,
a white rabbit in the left hand
and coloured lakes in the veins.
I have
China Wall on the skin,
a handkerchief at the eye,
a train on the lips,
oceans in the ears.
I have
a silver dolphin on the shoulder,
in each finger a different wind,
sand on the face
and
a one-way ticket.
Will you come along with me?
~ ~ ~
Hope you enjoyed today’s journey. Let the artists and writers know if you did. :-) xo

Myths, Legends and a Little Touch of Reality. Sunday Features 28/08/2011

We have seen women portrayed throughout history in many different guises. We have been seen as goddesses, angels, life-givers, mothers, crones and whores. In these guises we have been elevated and loved, trashed and reviled. Today I thought it would be fun to take a look at some of these myths and legends through the eyes of some of our fabulous artists, whilst at the same time reminding ourselves that we are who we are, real women, strong in spirit and determination, full of hope and still able to dream. Part 1: Mythology and LegendHere in Madalena’s rich and haunting image we see woman portrayed as mother. “My interpretation of the roman goddess Flora, divinity who was in charge of the flowers, especially those that bear fruit, the germination of seeds and with them the fields and agriculture and her function was to make the grain, vegetables and trees bloom so that autumn’s harvest would be good. She has elements of a Love-Goddess, with its attendant attributes of fertility, sex, and blossoming.The goddess of flowers and seeds was also considered the special protector of women and the goddess of love until it was replaced by Venus-Aphrodite” Madalena Lobao-Tello Flora closer © by Madalena Lobao-Tello Blodeuwedd, painted here so beautifully, is a naughty little minx, but her eyes tell us she is quite enjoying her notoriety. “The Welsh goddess Blodeuwedd (pronounced blud-EYE-wedth), who was banished to the night as punishment for conspiring to kill her husband Lleu. In some traditions she is viewed as a part of a triad: Arianrhod – The Virgin Blodeuwedd – The Lover Cerridwen – The Crone” Miriam Morgan Blodeuwedd © by Miriam Morgan Dakini, beautiful, alive and vibrant, and most definitely moving away from the images of virgins and mothers. I think it is significant that when we are portrayed as sexual beings we are also frequently seen as scary and mean. “A dakini is a tantric deity described as a female embodiment of enlightened energy. In the Tibetan language, dakini is rendered khandroma which means ‘she who traverses the sky’ or ‘she who moves in space’. Sometimes the term is translated poetically as ‘sky dancer’ or ‘sky walker’. A dakini comes in many forms and in some ways is related to angels or thought of as bird women of sorts. In many parts of Tibet vultures are considered physical representations of dakinis. Vultures have been revered by many ancient cultures as they are able to transmute negative energies and disease from the physical plane. It is believed that all women are dakinis, but most do not ever realize this. I like that dakinis are not always pure and perfectly nice, sometimes they are scary and mean too. They are similar to the Valkyries of Norse myth.” moonspiral Dakini © by MoonSpiral I just love this portrayal of a chimera for its subtlety and its simultaneous power. She is certainly a force to be reckoned with. “The term chimera has come to describe any mythical animal with parts taken from various animals and, more generally, an impossible or foolish fantasy.” Wikipedia chimera, the sound of the thunder © by Elisabetta Trevisan Cynthia’s sensitive portrayal of the three graces epitomises the virginal qualities so cherished in art and literature. “Known in Greek mythology as The Three Graces, they were the goddesses of such things as charm, beauty, and creativity.” Wikipedia The Three Graces © by Cynthia Lund Torroll Tammera has created this strong image, depicting so well the threesome of virgin, mother and crone. “Spanning many traditions found around the world is the concept of the Goddess as being threefold. These perceptions shared associations with the moon phases, with the growing seasons and with the phases of a woman’s life. Most frequently they are described as Maiden, Mother and Crone.” Tammera MAID MOTHER CRONE © by Tammera Part 2: Reality In reality, we are not one part of a trinity, but real women trying to make sense of our world. The pathos evident in Nadya’s image evokes many emotions when I look at it. “Hey, out there ~ what are you doing to my world?” Nadya Johnson Broken Window © by Nadya Johnson Rosy powerfully reminds us of those that are forgotten and unacknowledged. “This is dedicated to all those unacknowledged and apparently forgotten whether - because of war unjust imprisonment (especially political imprisonment) the many who were condemned to a life in a mental institution without cause the cruelly tortured - and that is such a partial list. For every marker that cannot be erected to your memory may there be someone who holds your memory close and refuses to forget.”Rosy H The Forgotten Ones © by Rosy H I love this image from Sybille, who is railing against the concept of women as playthings. “My inner freedom and my independence are both important treasures to me, which I’d defend to the death. Sounds utterly dramatic, but being manipulated and steered into a direction as it suits someone else is horrible, no matter how well meaning it might be. I’ve always strongly believed that we need to make our own mistakes. It’s one thing to share our experiences and help with advice and examples and another to manipulate someone supposedly for their own good. It never sat well with me.” Sybille Sterk Not a Toy © by Sybille Sterk Sometimes we feel redundant if we do not fit the stereotypes of what a woman should be. I yearn for this butterfly to spread her wings and fly. “I have the life of a flightless butterfly, perched upon a leaf. Watching life circle around me, waiting to emerge from grief.” unbeknown Life Of A Flightless Butterfly © by unbeknown Here, in ’Renewed Hope" Heather portrays a fully fledged woman who is a complete – and fills us with hope for ourselves and our futures. Renewed Hope © by Heather King We finish with a beautiful belief in ourselves. “I believe that each day offers a new beginning that miracles can happen and that dreams can really come true”Renate Dartois I believe….. © by Renate Dartois Congratulations to you all and thank you for sharing your moving and powerful art with us. Anna

In the Spirit of Feminism - Sunday Features 21/08/2011

The Feminist Spirit is about more than equal rights for women. Whilst it embodies equality for all, it also encompasses every facet of woman’s walk through an ever-shifting world. No matter what season she is traversing, how she views this world and how she coexists in it are what connect her to the Spirit of Feminism.
The works that come into Pink Panther Magazine are full of soul and testimony. These are our stories, for better or worse and in every illness and moment of health they will follow us well beyond the grave. Each image, metrical line and offbeat confession is a direct reflection of the issues that make us the multifaceted women we are. How each woman sees the world is as important as how each woman manages to live within this oppressive humanity. These are the memorials of woman’s spiritual journey.
This week’s feature collection highlights just a few (of many) selections that celebrate the endless areas of woman’s journey.

The cherry blossom has symbolic significance in many cultures and stems of mythology. Power, feminine beauty, a celebration of feminine sexuality, and renewal (of life), are all at the forefront of the blossom’s symbolism.

the cherry tree © by Catrin Welz-Stein



The Liberty Bell is another symbolic phenomena. There is celebration of freedom in the mere mention of this bell ringing to life.

The Bell Has Rung © by ClaireJane
To the music of the soul there is only one conductor, as the arrow of truth silences the liar, in love, the broken spirit of indifference is defied, overcome, call the stars divine and hold every living thing closer, pull multi-colored threads through a silver needle from the brightness of every new rainbow, the future, to have and to hold, to buoy again the sunken spirit, soothe the brow of disappointment, caress the long-neglected psyche, fill the aching heart. Leave the torment, the torture of never knowing behind. The spirit can never be emptied of what it has already earned, the full measure of promise, shared until the warmth is felt in every cell, every frozen vein, every aching bone and rigid muscle, the heavy veil of untruths, the cloak of confusion is returned to its rightful owner, the magic of touch, the dance of abandon, the fireside clapping of encouraging flames, laughter reaching the heavens, returns with joyful step, side by side, believing in inner strength and winning the battle. There’ll always be an unfurling morning rose in the mind of the truth garden. Lay down the shield, the sword, there’ll be no war within, without, no symphonies for belittling mind-games or manipulation, no head-shaking or plotting, no lies or sarcasm, no meanness of spirit or cruelty, no judgment or revenge. The bell has rung.

Just as woman navigates many seasons, so too is she a multifaceted, complex creature.


The Many Facets of Me © by Sandra Bauser Digital Art



Emotional chaos is often par for the course. Just who is behind the wheel?

Flock of Emotions © by Vesna VD
One is pulling the left leg and
The other the right arm,
They are playing with the mind,
are they causing any harm?
They are stretching the limits
to the point of shock,
Who is the leader
of this flock?
Emotions,
flying all over the place.
Is it Happiness
that leads the human race?

One area many women frequently find themselves in is a place of cleverly designed hiding. The masquerade is a wonderful example of the beauty an individual will paint herself behind in order to shield the world’s view of what she believes to be ugly or ill-fitting.

Masquerade © by Nikki Ella Whitlock



To settle or not to settle? That is the question on constant repeat.

Settling down © by msdebbie
I still oppose
the words
Settling down.
Aren’t we meant
to fly, to soar,
to leap, to roar,
rather than
settle down?
Why do so
many people
learn it is preferable
to be with anyone,
than be alone?
Why do we allow
so many to be
utterly letdown.
As the scum settles
on the bathroom tiles,
I emit the softest of sighs.
Contentment is hard to find,
and it’s never light and easy,
indeed, my stomach feels queasy,
whenever someone settles
for one who cheats and lies.
So as a male friend fixes his hair,
or she paints her lips in red
the way he has come to expect,
all I can say is this:
Don’t settle for anything
less than what you desire.
Live your own dreams,
always aspire to rise higher.
If anyone belittles you,
makes you crawl smaller and smaller;
if anyone hits you,
makes you feel weaker and weaker;
if anyone yells so loudly,
it makes you cry mercy, mercy;
then is it any wonder why
the terminology is so derogatory.
Let’s not settle down,
but lift up our dreams instead.
Anyone with whom we share a bed,
should always build us up;
never desecrate or destroy,
never belittle or condemn,
otherwise, to the kerb with them!
…Irrespective of whether they are women or men…


Sometimes the simplest area of feminine strength resides in the power to simply take a stand, even if it’s one for self-preservation.

I Won’t Suffer a Fool © by Glitterfest
"I won’t suffer a fool
Be a slave for abuse
I won’t suffer for anything
or let my heart loose.
I won’t brave the chains of “love”
Won’t let their bondage clutch me
I won’t suffer that kind of fool
Even if that fool is me." Glitterfest





Let’s not forget the universal dream of equality for all, no matter how large or small.

If I close my eyes © by wildwomenlove
If I close my eyes
will I dream a world
where I will be safe
no matter what I wear?
Where my daughter
breaks through the glass ceiling
promoted on acceptance
and ability?
Where my mother
will be valued
even beyond
her child bearing years?
Where a woman’s worth
in parliament
isn’t measured by her dress size
and her preference to give birth?
If I close my eyes
can I dream a world
of equality for all?
Closing, closing…

Here’s a reminder that if woman is not careful she runs the risk of being chipped away at and drained until she feels as if she is nothing more than a hollowed shell. 


Hollow © by Sybille Sterk



What happens to the woman as she is chipped away at and slowly drained? The seasons in life play out in tunes of blue.

life in blue © by RC deWinterlife in blue
dancing
prancing
young and vital, I sing for my supper
the sea is blue,
the sea is blue
gliding
sliding
the wife and the mother, I always cook supper
the skies are blue,
the skies are blue
thrashing
rehashing
wild and confused, I go out for supper
the night is blue,
the night is blue
sporting
courting
rap and beguiled, I dream through my supper
the future’s blue
the future’s blue
hidden
unbidden
tired and lonely, I don’t eat my supper
i am the blue
i am the blue


Taking a stand against cruelty and/or abuse happening outside of the woman’s home or physical reach is also important. And in a world where more heads turn the other way and voice is often given only for the sake of political correctness or the status quo, who is going to (be brave enough to) speak out for the oppressed, repressed, battered, abused and/or neglected?


from within my soul © by Helene Ruiz



And when the erosions of this world begin to wear out the very mind that bridges the gaps between hope and existence, will woman have enough energy and incentive to collect her life’s solutions that have washed ashore during her slumber hours?

ma maison par la mer © by Wordthrift
a mind of sand,
my house by the sea,
waves of life’s solution break on shore
to carry me
into the squall
with all the prayers I’ve sent
hoping they’ve meant
anything
at all.

Unleash Your Dreams - Sunday Features 14/8/2011

 Time to unleash your dreams...

“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


We dream…
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
its chambers
Lined the membranes with
a richer shade
of crimson
Who wouldn’t
with a gift so rare,
so beautifully
wrapped
and meticulously
given
?
She’d be philistine
if not
She’s be shallow
if not
She’d be none of those words
professed
if not
if not
Who would guess that revering
could be harmful -
That believing might be
foolhardy
That maybe,
though she still doesn’t believe this
maybe –
perhaps -
just maybe -
pretty words are sometimes
just that…

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
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……

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
the unborn
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
will-o-the-wisp
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.
SARK

Congratulations to all you talented artists and writers featured here.

Left Stranded - Midweek Features - 11/08/2011

To go with our topic of Female Bullying in the Cafe I thought I’d do something about the way we’re often left stranded at the edges of life and then have to try and piece ourselves back together again. No matter what the reasons – be it abuse, bullying or just things going wrong – we seem to be survivors, often not for our own gain but to take care of others and it’s sad how often these magnificent efforts are overlooked, which makes it even harder. I sometimes wonder if the way we deal with life is down to the way we’re perceived – nurturers, care givers, general sources of comfort and support – is what makes us strive so hard or is it the other way round, are we given those labels because of what we’re like deep down? What do you think?
The surreal quality of the first image captured my eye when I looked through the recently submitted art. There’s something about it that makes you feel almost dizzy. There’s pain and struggle and the feeling of drowning and the strength of the eyes looking right at you….

Me, I’m Not by © Heather King

“i created this piece because of an abuse that took place 2 years ago
i am on a different path now, and hopefully this will be the last piece of dark art that i do as i’m trying to get rid of the remnant of the toxins and anxiety within
no longer will i give power to such weak and insignificant predators.”

Here’s that inner strength that makes us put one foot in front of the other no matter what…

Affirmation of happiness by © April Mansilla
It is not easy
To keep my head
Up everyday
When it wants naturally to go
Down
But here I am
looking at my refection
my eyes clear
looking at the heavens
for another prayer
and always
looking at you…
anything to keep me from
falling
in the wrong way
and I smile
because
I have the strength
And determination
to go through this
day

There’s something immediate about this that arrests your gaze and makes you really look. One moment where all the attention is on you, nothing else, caught. Is it fear we see?

Caught In The Headlights by © Angela Burman

“My inspiration for this work is a poem by Alex D
Caught in the headlights of Love’s last flight,
A life overtaken by a new weird plight,
A fallen love, A symbol of, one last fight,
A beacon of hope cast in bright lights,
Burned and Emblazoned and clouded by spite,
A wishful memory, I wish I may I wish I might
Be struck down by Love on this starry night,
Caught in the headlights, frozen in fright,
Last moments alive, Waiting for death’s harsh bite,
Checked out, Bags in hand, Ready for my Last Rites."

Sometimes we are so blind we even (especially?) with those nearest and dearest to us. We might not see or choose not to… and someone is left out in the cold, left to struggle for themselves.

Did you see me… passing by …. by © SimplyRed
did you see me passing by
window of despair
blood gushing through my veins
reflecting time…
did you ?
did you see me passing by
quiet memories of…
standing still
did you?
did you see me passing by
lapping on shores of yesterday
desire unquenchable
yet saited….
did you?
did you see me passing by
falling on years of no return
with ill wind blowing
to a quiet calm….
did you?
did you see me passing by
spitting rains of yesterday
on scented pillow
of restlessness….
did you?
did you see me passing by
sense of humor washing into oceans
of I dont want
but need….
did you ?
did you see me passing by
with vinegar sweetness of tomorrow
where I lay my head
soft and gentle in it’s resting place….
did you ?
land and dreams of far far away
called me to forget
the return of darkness
weeping on pillow of down…
you did see !!

I love the juxtaposition of the female face mirrored in the window with the dolls. When we’re small we’re often given dolls to look after to teach us our ‘role in life’ of nurturer and care giver and there we are looking in from the outside. Fab image.

HOMELESS VIEW ~ EVEN THE DOLLS ARE WARMER by © Tammera

“THIS WORK WAS INSPIRED BY A VIDEO I WATCHED ON YOU TUBE, AN ONGOING PROJECT ABOUT AND FOR THE HOMELESS….”

And here’s the question to go with the image. What would you do? Good friends are rare…

What Would You Do For Me? by © mermanda
commentary for the 7th image/writing
What would you do for me
if I were homeless on the street
lend me a room
give me something to eat
would you call yourself a friend
and make sure I knew I was an inconvenience
send me away after my night stay
where do I go?
what would you say?
how would you treat me if I were a millionaire
would it make a difference
or would true love be green paper
floating like air
love going no where
so how do I know now
if I’m not in these extremes
to my true friends…
step forward please
I would rather hurt now
than being left later on my skinned and bruised up knees
so here is your chance to walk away
if I’m not enough for you to stay
when times get hard
I’m tired of the games
I dont want to play
What would you do for me?
can you say?

We’re so busy being labelled by the brands we use, hiding behind pretty facebook pictures, avatars and makeup, who can tell who we really are?

Insert brand name here by © strawberries

“iPhone, iPod, Nike, Gucci,
Prada, Pandora, Guess, Supre,
in all the chaos, where do i find me???”

Sometimes we get lost and it’s difficult to find the way back without a little help.

Lost Highway by © MoonlightLover
Headlights on high beam
On ghosts unseen
Through the valley of death
We hold our immortal breath
Where shadows of strangers
Rise like vapours from a forest of hidden dangers
A drive through the dead of night
We lie awake in fright
Our eyes filled with emptiness
Our coffins open in readiness
With bodies torn apart
Our souls did depart
A plume of smoke billows in the distance
Our hearts pound with the beat of resistance
With every step and every mortal breath we take
It’s that twisted wreck for heaven’s sake
On Every night, we take flight
Ghosts in eternal fright
Lovers in a perpetual embrace
T’was the night that sealed our fate

“A momentary lapse in love…..”

What does it take to make us feel complete?

Completely Incomplete by © Laurie Search


We’re most of us looking for a place to call home, where we can just ‘be’ and so often this place is elusive or exists just in a memory.

yearning by © fillette
It all comes back to one thing
it is where we are warm
where curved and straight edges fit into the puzzle with ease
there is protection from all storms
although sometimes the rain may splash upon our faces
smiles arrive spontaneaously
and when there are tears, there are always tissues
biscuits baking with no guilt
flowers on the wind with no weeds
fresh cut grass but no lawn to mow
a cherished perfume lingers
a winter sun’s caress
a cool summer breeze
a splash of spring rain and the crinkle of autumn leaves
these all come together
like ingredients in a bowl
wherever it is that you and I call home

With all the branding and labelling going on it’s difficult to say no, and be the outsider, the odd one out, the one who doesn’t play the game…

Don’t Label Me by © Jessica Hooper
 

“i am proud to be unique, i will never follow the crowd or be normal.”
It’s so hard to find yourself amongst all those telling us who we should be.

Lil’ Glass Ball by © Jenifer DeBellis
Time is what it is: a gauge
that reminds us we are mortal.
Please tell me what it is
that I’m doing wrong. I don’t
seem to be able to even get that right.
What a sight I must be in my naiveté.
It’s nice to know I can count on
my reflection from another set of eyes,
especially on those occasions
my sense of perception is warped.
Those moments when the walls
spin in on me and I can’t tell
which way is up and which is down.
When I lose my footing, faulting
the line between what’s important
to me versus what fits your ideals
of what should be important to me
versus what’s thrown at me
from the overhead shelves of chaos
while everything spins out of control.
Please tell me though, may I
return the favour of pointing you
into the corner of condemnation
in the breath it takes me to realign
your focus on where it should be?

I hope you enjoyed today’s journey. Please leave a comment below and/or with your favourites. We artists can always do with some TLC. :-)

A Kaleidoscope of Reflection -- Sunday Features 7/08/2011

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

As If I Were Invisible - Sunday Features 31/072011

The features this week follow the theme of ‘invisibilty’, a topic that we are currently discussing in The Café. There are times in our lives when we feel invisible, unseen and unheard. Times when we do not know who we are or where we belong. Times when we give out all of ourselves, reaching out to meet the needs of those around us, but feel that our own needs are not being met. At these times we feel invisible.

We feel invisible when we sense a loss of self…

Can You See Me Now by © JeniferDeBellis
Today I will tolerate more ____________.
It’s the expected norm, just another thing
I’ll do in the name of keeping harmony
in the atmosphere. If only I could ^reduce
myself a little more; or cut out another
something that is important only to me;
or try harder to understand (with patience)
that those double standards are not intended
to hurt me or ^reduce what is important to me…
Today I will go along with what everyone
else wants to do simply because through
the hazy fog of complete exhaustion
and confusion, I can’t remember what it was
that I wanted. Or maybe it’s simply because
I don’t have a moment in between the pressure
of demands and expectations placed on me
to actually think about what it is that I want.
Today I will ignore you ignoring me
while I tell you how this makes me feel.
I’ll pretend that my opinion or contribution
isn’t that important in the larger picture.
I’ll be sure to overlook what your demands
do to me – those demands that include me
having to validate how you feel while tolerating
such rude, inconsiderate behavior from me for even
thinking you would accept being treated as such.
And I’ll do all of this in a silence so maddening,
it’s shocking no one around me can hear
the internal chaos as it bubbles and churns fragile,
volatile debris. Today I will become invisible.

When we feel neglected and taken for grated we feel bruised

Bruise by © Glitterfest

I am bruised. By your neglect. By all those small slights. By being taken for granted. By your complete refusal to acknowledge the abuse.
And it’s only beginning to surface. Glitterfest


When we grow old….

Painted Away by © Sybille Sterk
I see
              this face
              in the mirror
              the wrinkles
              around the eyes
I remember
              the smile
              curving my lips
              the twinkle
              in my eye
I see
              double
              twins years apart
              one who was
              one who is
              a little powder
              eye liner
              lipstick and
              blusher_
              dye away the grey
              hide the wrinkles
              moisturise
              glamorise
I see
              two faces
              merging
              into
              invisibility
I remember
              who I am
              is not who I see
              is not the face
              in the mirror
I know
              I am here
              looking in
              You are there
              looking out.

Invisible by © Sybille Sterk


When we are not heard…

Invisible by © Cynthia Lund Torroll
She peeks through the reeds -
camouflaged,
coded for a moment
of pure disclosure.
Yet despite her full promenade
and her siren call to alert,
she remains unseen,
unheard,
invisible…
The manual says on every fortnight
she slips in deep slumber and
dreams presence.
She has voice – she has form,
it is there, on the other side,
to a seasoned observer,
that a side of her
appears…

Invisible by © Cynthia Lund Torroll


When we feel insignificant…

insignificant by © Sally Omar
walking solemnly
shoulders slightly drooped
her corn colored hair
hung loosely around her face
her torn jeans
her wrinkled shirt
the emptiness she carried
within her very being
never raised her eyes
when she spoke
never felt equal to anyone
her mother’s constant insults
her father’s constant slaps
the ache in her heart
was way too much to bear
she walked among people
but walked all alone
unnoticed, unloved, fearful
never realizing that she possessed
beauty, talent and intelligence
she walked among the living
but her soul had died
after all, they called her
“insignificant”

When we cannot have children or our children leave home…

Empty Nest by © Tamarra Ba Vincio


When we feel trapped…

Untitled by © MaryMac
cracks
appearing on river rocks
graceful
like blood flowing
through veins
do you see me
as you poke your head-up
peering from behind
window panes
can you see the real me
traveled the holy lands
looking for answers
lay my body
in the dead sea
floated on top of the surface
can you now visualize me
i’m i’am
not of shallow water
one cannot view
my rocks and pebbles
can you visualize
the real me
stranger
preacher
doctor
lover
friend
can you see me
i’m a winner
no chance to lose
leaves
start falling
The Holies
are calling
i blend
into the
crowd
people dying
from the cold
left alone
because they’re old
love comes from grace
The Holies
unseen
from distant
face
kneel
bend your head over
you’re in the presence
of the Lord
bite back on your anger
making a conscious choice
all my pain and woe
can i ever show
The Holies
oh yes darlin’
they know
purchased a fender
without a case
forward scrumming
birthday punching
thank you
Lord Jesus
his spirit at rest
a man claims he’s tryin’
really are you cryin’
i’am realizing
something
am i seen
people looking straight through
perhaps an invisable hue
love reign over me
love reign over me
love sweet love
reign over me
come on baby
i need to rest my eyes
my body’s weak
it’s becoming to much for me to tweak
does anybody see me
i’m wet
not cold
thank God
i ain’t old
can you see the real me
cos it runs
in my family
do you see me
i’m one
i’am one
can you see
this is me
i’am like
the cheshire cat
not the rabbit
06/12/2011
marymac

When we do not know who we are…

Looking for Me by © gnarlyart


When we face indifference

Facing Invisible by © Rhenastarr
To all my sisters, who have had to face the Invisible. The invisibility of your own thoughts and dreams, the days of being taken for granted, of blending into the background. The days of having your inner light smothered by indifference and lackluster emotional input. Always strive to let your light shine, standing tall, standing proud and being that shield that will never let “The Invisible” consume your being. Rhenastarr

I wonder when I became invisible
I wonder when your eyes stopped
Seeing me
I wonder when your heart locked
Me out
Casting me in the shadows of
What was
Your inattentiveness has grown
Like a vine of corruption
Covering your heart, restricting
And smothering it’s love
Where there was light and laugher
Darkness has now permeated your soul
Damaging mine in the process
You have become the thorn that
Inflicts pain against my weakened
Vessel
I bleed from the sharpness of their cut
Bleeding my strength of purpose
To pool at my feet
How did I become lost in the darkness
Of your mind
The me that is housed there is the
Young girl you fell in love with
I’m still here, older but no wiser
I have wasted my tears on a man
Who can no longer see or feel them
I speak but my words can not
Penetrate the wall you have erected
I have become just a faded part of
The domestic landscape
That feeds your hunger
Satiates your desires
Leaving my valley dry and barren
And me like a husk blown about in a
Parched cornfield trapped under
The torturous blaze of a summer sun
Withered by your inability to release
Your heart from it’s tomb of complacency
I am drowning in your sea of thoughtlessness
Shrinking in the cold rain of your apathy
My soul numbed
I breathe and the ache that fills me is
A knife slicing through the heart of me
I wonder when I became invisible to me
I need to face the mirror of my own rejection
Open the door to a life that doesn’t contain
You
You left me sometime ago and now I must
Find the me that remains inside of the me
That casts a reflection of strength and
Determination to renew and survive and
be the me that will never again be invisible
Marie Harris © June 22, 2010

But we can become visible again….

Defy the Boundaries by © shadowlea
Believe you can
It will
Set you
Free shadowlea


“Always strive to let your light shine, standing tall, standing proud and being that shield that will never let “The Invisible” consume your being.” Rhenastarr

Free to Be Me -- Sunday Features - 24/07/2011

I just finished a personal essay on dead weight and the quest toward freedom from such lifeless baggage. One of the universal truths I uncovered while developing this piece was the importance of saving oneself from the rubbish pile. So beyond the trial and error growth is this additional dimension of seeking personal freedoms. Whether seeking freedom from the world’s restraints or freedom from personal restraints: It’s time to cut through the things holding each one of us back. It’s time to enjoy a moment of personal freedom.
This week’s feature collection represents this personal quest for moments of freedom. Let’s celebrate these moments together. To freedom!

Free to shed a few tears.
July, the month of tears by © madworld


Free to be alone.

Free by © April Mansilla
I woke up this morning and closed my eyes in the direction of the sun, shivers formed on my skin and I put my arms around myself .I didn’t need anyone to comfort me or rock me to sleep, I didn’t need anyone to tell me it will be alright because the beat is getting stronger in my chest and I already know
It is safe to fall….
I want you to know this Love
You don’t own me anymore
You don’t make me jump
From the sills of my eyes
And I looked out to the sun in humility, as one does after night has fallen much too quickly and over stayed his welcome, covering everything
I never thought you wouldn’t leave
I believe I needed you
But here I am standing alone
Starting from the point to always remember
Rather than forget
What has
and always
Will be a part of me
Want to know a secret I never loved you to be loved back


Free to take a running leap of faith.

Take me with you by © Rookwood Studios



Free to reclaim her dominion.

dominion by © Cynthia Lund Torroll
I align my crest
with a moon that will stay
hidden by sun
but present all day
I raise my arms
extending beyond
tickling my tips and
filling my palms
Closing them in
I gather the dust
and carefully lather
its glow down my bust
I bathe in its essence
allowing it deep
into my marrow
into this being

Free to ignite the way with her soul.

The light within my soul by © gnarlyart



If only to be as free as a bird flying on her own.

Within a Woman by © MaryMac
Eyes ample
open with love
arms out stretched
breathe
in and out
a dialect
deep within a woman
gentle
kind
sincere
crying out to be released
expression
unique
sensual
exquisite
exceptional
uninhibited, so very free
a bird flying on her own
two strong wings, bound up
blue skies for miles
inspiration from within
shining light
leading the way
showing others to another day
so strong and true
the future lies in front of all of us
the woman within
you open my eyes and make me see

Free to pause for reflection.

Decisions by © Samantha Aplin


Free to embrace all of self, in every dimension within every form.

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.

Free to take the time to stop and play.

Come and Play by © Sybille Sterk



Free to be one volatile mess.

Cryptic by © Mermanda
I’ve been called;
cryptic
gifted
" stoic " maybe
" aloof " no not really
diverse…for damn sure
misunderstood and hidden
subtle quietness with captured desire
a yearning to grow
a lovely girl
expressively proud
incredibly bold
“your not fragile like an egg
your dangerous like a grenade”
“a pain in the ass, like broken glass”
“stubborn”
“don’t over think things Amanda
we all go through shit”
“stop worrying all the time”
put on some perfume
and cover over it
a pink volcano
ready to erupt
a little lioness
ready to jump
a profound Goddess
a white Witch of Words
even Frodo Baggins
the Hobbit with the world in a ring on his neck
repressed and angry
hiding it so well
venting through the words
eager as hell
the sapphire sea of my eyes
the mystery
intriguing
Know this about me
I won’t go down
without a fight
and the battles I’m in
I usually win
I mask myself with anger
defense mechanism
and what I fight for
is more than just skin
its the deeper things
hidden within
what life is about
what will you fight for?
who can really get down to our cores?
who to let in
when the rain sets in
who to trust when we feel about to bust
cause through all the wars
humans need much more
than to sit idle inside
brain-washed and ashamed
break free from the game
With my grenade
and my pink champagne
or the volcano erupting from rage
I could conquer and defeat
take down those who stand up
for all the wrong reasons
hit them in the gut
with a few rhymed words
cause this is all I have
have to prefect
my curse
rewrite my history
and take back what was stolen
give the ones around me
fighting next to me
a chance to see the beautiful side
a chance to be happy
I would die for any of them
so the reason I fight
I won’t give in
So tell me again
what’s wrong with my head
a girl in a cage
of my own welding
fabricated dreams
metal corroding
rust setting in
cancer exploding
where is the grenade
to blow up what I’m holding

Free to retreat to that secret place.

The Secret Place by © Tamarra BaVincio


And the piece de resistance: Here’s a reminder that if there isn’t the offer of an extended hand feel free to use your own. (chuckle)

Joking Apart by © Margaret Sanderson
My husband, was never the romantic sort,
so on Valentine’s Day, I went out and bought
quite an alluring, see-through dress,
which, I was sure couldn’t fail to impress.
I’d fixed up a candle-lit dinner for two,
hoping to kindle romance anew,
but he sat there, eating his sirloin steak,
telling silly jokes, for heaven’s sake!
“If you cross a sheep with a kangaroo,
…what do you get?” (well I hadn’t a clue)
“A THICK WOOLLY JUMPER!” he laughed with glee,
and I replied smiling, “Of course….silly me.”
“And what if…” he said, beginning to gloat
“….you cross an old cow with a sheep and a goat?”
I’d heard it before, but heaven forbid,
I couldn’t have told him, “A Milky Baah Kid!”
So I let him finish the joke, and I laughed
(although I considered it was a bit daft).
His laughter was getting hysterical by then,
and he dabbed at his eyes, again and again.
The candles, the food and the dress were a waste
on a man who was simply lacking in taste,
and watching this adult behave like a child,
with his middle-aged spread, I got a bit riled.
“Sex, is like playing bridge” I said.
He looked at me puzzled, scratching his head
“And why is that so?” (he did not understand)
“If your partner’s no good….better have a good hand!”