Posts
With a new season upon the horizon, the winds of promise usher in a dissonance of emotional imbalance. The atmosphere shifts while the earth quivers in anticipation of what’s been planted within her womb. Each fragmented seed a part of the whole to be reconciled with the beating of one united heart.
Now what if in her broken numbness and wounded state she’s simply not ready to emerge into this new season?
Sacred Romance [Stay] by © Beautifuldreamer
Sweet Ancient of Days,
Come to me wearing any disguise:
thorny rose
soft-footed snow
mournful wind
or rain tippity-tapping my window pane.
Romance me, though all around me prove false
though mountains shake
and the hills be removed—-romance me then, or not at all.
I will learn to love the snow because of you
learn to pick out the disparate notes of your serenaded love in melancholy music,
in the fresh smell of cotton dresses steam ironed
in the remembrance of my father’s laughter ( though now its merry swirl is lost to me.)
Wear wood smoke as your cologne
and autumn’s vulgarity of colors as bold contrast to my drab little self.
Like a blind woman whose fingertips have grown accustomed to Braille,
to the unique texture of things, I will caress the barks of trees
the familiar landscape of knee scabs;
will tremble with desire
to be the warp and woof of your weaver’s loom,
my self woven (bones, hair and all) into a gorgeous tapestry,
another kind of tapestry than what I dreamed I could be.
Ancient of Days,
my dreams are too big for me;
my child’s hands fumble them clumsily
even as I blink back tears at my ineptness, my lack of grace.
I turn at the slightest rustling sound
my ears keen for your approach.
Oh! I love you so,
I betroth myself to you
to your light in my baby brother’s eyes,
and to the sound of your lullaby meant just for me
in the sighing of falling embers
and in sun drenched streets I dare not explore without you.
Sweet Ancient of Days:
tarry with me one more hour
linger near while mother frowns over the stove
and the step-dad smirks at my stupidity;
stay lest my soul wither away
and I lose myself for want of you.
Stay.
So she balances upon the threshold of the shadows of yesterday’s scars and the hope of what can be found
in the day’s new illumination. Can her feet take her where her heart must travel?
Once spirit and soul realign, the displaced friends will embrace once again.
Witch Switch by © RC deWinter
And when I finally knew that
I would never have another lover
I looked inside and embraced my shadow,
holding it, cherishing the power hidden in
its murky depths.
And when I finally knew that
I could change the landscape of my life
I stood, with steady feet on that stone sill
and looked with witch’s eyes across the plain
and, grasping broom, flew.
She cleaves to life and death as if they are one. Does she know something no one else knows?
Will she emerge from a season’s slumber only to fashion herself into a multi-dimensional mask of hiding?
The Mask by © SimplyRed
she wears a mask
layer upon layer
of porcelain veneer
a crumbling fragility
with magnolia coloured
tear drops….
spread thinly with smiles
for they expect it…
dull flickering flame
flambouyant red hues
blinded but sees…
a half grin
expected…always
she wears a mask
of fool them all
only flesh of heart
remains true to self
painted on smile
of ruby red
quietly weeping
scented jasmine tears
creeping softly into dawn
blown away on a breeze
not visible at daybreak
she wears it well
a perfect fit
of velvet glove
each digit enveloped
a perfect print is she
transparent to none
falling on ears of fragility
listening ,
dancing a merry tune
as birds chirp freely
on branches of freedom
she wishes for wings
elusive….
putty hands
soft and supple
form no solace
grasping eternally
for life’s love
Or out of the miry clay will the shards of last season’s fragments begin to reform her in all of her splendour, and pepper the earth with the flavour of new birth?
Now upon the canvas of this new season, what treasures can be found hidden within the spaces in between?
The space in between by © wildwomenlove
As charcoal dust
gets up my nose
I sneeze
I’m looking out
upon the montage
dressed before me
My left hand jitters
in it’s new role
as capturing scribe
It’s not the objects
that you see
it’s the spaces in between…
Light and shadow
SHAPES and juxtapositions
line and form
Life’s like that isn’t it?
What we are truly looking for
are the spaces in between
Those diamond moments
connecting us with the who
of what we are and what we do
Making meaning
of the little things
in our everyday existence
So I draw with gusto
without a care in the world
and it’s difficult to recognize what it is
It’s not the destination
that counts
but the journey
as I courageously attempt
to scale the mountain of inanimate objects
pyramided within my view
I look to find life in those spaces
the diamonds of moments
of life and living
that morph in
and out
of my sensual frame
When I shut my eyes
I draw from my heart, which beats
in the spaces in between
The charcoal dust
gets up my nose
and I see…
And when the laurels bud, Daphne’s prayers can bloom, whose sweet nectar will float into the heavens.
Perhaps it was all just a manifestation of those vanilla scented dreams that illuminated the way to the waters of absolution.
in dreams by © autumnwind
reflections of deep greens and blues
danced like Northern Lights
floating suspended in the air
in ritualistic manifestation
…I dreamt about tealights last night
I tasted the scent of vanilla
and thought of white spirit roses
as I undressed and tested the waters
of absolution
immersed in baptismal velvet
my breath held as I saw your face
you radiated new life through me
in billowing raptures
your soul went through me
eons slipped by as stories were told
red moons and black suns
flickered before my eyes
millions of years went by as time ceased to exist
fading slowly, falling gently
through swirling layers of vortex
I awoke
…finding my breath
trying to hold on to enlightenment
I retain very little
but enough to know
…I dreamt about tealights last night
…and you…
Regardless, in technicolor full bloom, she’s freed from yesterday’s captivity.
And now that she has been set free, what rhythm will infuse her passions to flow as freely?
thread by © Cynthia Lund Torroll
Like a drum beat
it begins -
a slow
and steady drilling.
One sentence
pulled from thousands
starts
to pound away…
You left without saying goodbye.
You left without saying goodbye.
Some would say
it’s just bad manners.
I might scold,
I hurt myself,
I don’t know,
but I don’t like it,
it’s hard enough
to Be Here Now.
But there is
always
another story
that soon will surface
if I’m still
While what is seen
as impoliteness
might simply be
an empty well.
Now what if in her broken numbness and wounded state she’s simply not ready to emerge into this new season?
She knows one thing, though: the sweet scent of ancient days still lingers in the air.
Sacred Romance [Stay] by © Beautifuldreamer
Sweet Ancient of Days,
Come to me wearing any disguise:
thorny rose
soft-footed snow
mournful wind
or rain tippity-tapping my window pane.
Romance me, though all around me prove false
though mountains shake
and the hills be removed—-romance me then, or not at all.
I will learn to love the snow because of you
learn to pick out the disparate notes of your serenaded love in melancholy music,
in the fresh smell of cotton dresses steam ironed
in the remembrance of my father’s laughter ( though now its merry swirl is lost to me.)
Wear wood smoke as your cologne
and autumn’s vulgarity of colors as bold contrast to my drab little self.
Like a blind woman whose fingertips have grown accustomed to Braille,
to the unique texture of things, I will caress the barks of trees
the familiar landscape of knee scabs;
will tremble with desire
to be the warp and woof of your weaver’s loom,
my self woven (bones, hair and all) into a gorgeous tapestry,
another kind of tapestry than what I dreamed I could be.
Ancient of Days,
my dreams are too big for me;
my child’s hands fumble them clumsily
even as I blink back tears at my ineptness, my lack of grace.
I turn at the slightest rustling sound
my ears keen for your approach.
Oh! I love you so,
I betroth myself to you
to your light in my baby brother’s eyes,
and to the sound of your lullaby meant just for me
in the sighing of falling embers
and in sun drenched streets I dare not explore without you.
Sweet Ancient of Days:
tarry with me one more hour
linger near while mother frowns over the stove
and the step-dad smirks at my stupidity;
stay lest my soul wither away
and I lose myself for want of you.
Stay.
So she balances upon the threshold of the shadows of yesterday’s scars and the hope of what can be found
in the day’s new illumination. Can her feet take her where her heart must travel?
Once spirit and soul realign, the displaced friends will embrace once again.
Witch Switch by © RC deWinter
And when I finally knew that
I would never have another lover
I looked inside and embraced my shadow,
holding it, cherishing the power hidden in
its murky depths.
And when I finally knew that
I could change the landscape of my life
I stood, with steady feet on that stone sill
and looked with witch’s eyes across the plain
and, grasping broom, flew.
She cleaves to life and death as if they are one. Does she know something no one else knows?
Will she emerge from a season’s slumber only to fashion herself into a multi-dimensional mask of hiding?
The Mask by © SimplyRed
she wears a mask
layer upon layer
of porcelain veneer
a crumbling fragility
with magnolia coloured
tear drops….
spread thinly with smiles
for they expect it…
dull flickering flame
flambouyant red hues
blinded but sees…
a half grin
expected…always
she wears a mask
of fool them all
only flesh of heart
remains true to self
painted on smile
of ruby red
quietly weeping
scented jasmine tears
creeping softly into dawn
blown away on a breeze
not visible at daybreak
she wears it well
a perfect fit
of velvet glove
each digit enveloped
a perfect print is she
transparent to none
falling on ears of fragility
listening ,
dancing a merry tune
as birds chirp freely
on branches of freedom
she wishes for wings
elusive….
putty hands
soft and supple
form no solace
grasping eternally
for life’s love
Or out of the miry clay will the shards of last season’s fragments begin to reform her in all of her splendour, and pepper the earth with the flavour of new birth?
Now upon the canvas of this new season, what treasures can be found hidden within the spaces in between?
The space in between by © wildwomenlove
As charcoal dust
gets up my nose
I sneeze
I’m looking out
upon the montage
dressed before me
My left hand jitters
in it’s new role
as capturing scribe
It’s not the objects
that you see
it’s the spaces in between…
Light and shadow
SHAPES and juxtapositions
line and form
Life’s like that isn’t it?
What we are truly looking for
are the spaces in between
Those diamond moments
connecting us with the who
of what we are and what we do
Making meaning
of the little things
in our everyday existence
So I draw with gusto
without a care in the world
and it’s difficult to recognize what it is
It’s not the destination
that counts
but the journey
as I courageously attempt
to scale the mountain of inanimate objects
pyramided within my view
I look to find life in those spaces
the diamonds of moments
of life and living
that morph in
and out
of my sensual frame
When I shut my eyes
I draw from my heart, which beats
in the spaces in between
The charcoal dust
gets up my nose
and I see…
And when the laurels bud, Daphne’s prayers can bloom, whose sweet nectar will float into the heavens.
Daphne by © Janelle McKain
Perhaps it was all just a manifestation of those vanilla scented dreams that illuminated the way to the waters of absolution.
in dreams by © autumnwind
reflections of deep greens and blues
danced like Northern Lights
floating suspended in the air
in ritualistic manifestation
…I dreamt about tealights last night
I tasted the scent of vanilla
and thought of white spirit roses
as I undressed and tested the waters
of absolution
immersed in baptismal velvet
my breath held as I saw your face
you radiated new life through me
in billowing raptures
your soul went through me
eons slipped by as stories were told
red moons and black suns
flickered before my eyes
millions of years went by as time ceased to exist
fading slowly, falling gently
through swirling layers of vortex
I awoke
…finding my breath
trying to hold on to enlightenment
I retain very little
but enough to know
…I dreamt about tealights last night
…and you…
Regardless, in technicolor full bloom, she’s freed from yesterday’s captivity.
Set Me Free by © salena
thread by © Cynthia Lund Torroll
Like a drum beat
it begins -
a slow
and steady drilling.
One sentence
pulled from thousands
starts
to pound away…
You left without saying goodbye.
You left without saying goodbye.
Some would say
it’s just bad manners.
I might scold,
I hurt myself,
I don’t know,
but I don’t like it,
it’s hard enough
to Be Here Now.
But there is
always
another story
that soon will surface
if I’m still
While what is seen
as impoliteness
might simply be
an empty well.
