Breaking Free -- Sunday Features 17/04/2011

Yes, the walls of Jericho had to come down. And In the face of this new day, new season, it was time to wake up and sing a new song.
This week’s features are about a journey toward freedom. There is a storm that rages in the heart of woman and it never sleeps. It is a reality that numbs as if it is a dream on auto-pilot repeat. It drums and it drums and it drums like the pitter-patter of spring rain while woman takes refuge within whatever shelter she can find or build to drown out the drumming. But she can’t hide here forever lest she lose herself altogether. She must break through these walls and set her soul free.
Enjoy the journey of dimensional awakening.
She opened her eyes in the realm of the dream too soon, or was it too late? The scent of deception burned her subconscious as she pushed past the nightmare into the unknown.

Uncharted by © Fiery Fire


Somewhere between longing and forgetting, she had to remember to find the courage to clear the slate.

Longing and Forgetting by © Mary Ann Reilly
Winter and the few remaining birds
squat on wires stretched
from pole to pole
alongside the coastline:
dark ink blotches
unmoving.
Dusk comes hard
in this borderland
between longing and forgetting
and we speed beyond
the sea-shack shanties,
worn signposts,
leaving behind
the coastline
and an odd remembrance
of what we cannot become.
Here between sky and sea
what we’ve known
is gradually erased.
The familiar becomes
fuzzy, distant
until what is bird
and what is sky
cannot be known.
The only certainty, you say,
is remix: caught as we are
on this awful road to becoming
like some damn mobius strip
destined to travel again and again
and I watch
as you turn your shoulder
into the next curve
so that your body
becomes the car,
becomes my very breath,
catching.

And in a spirit of courage, she must push through the inner storm.

Rain Drops by © Marlies Odehnal


Just as she must push through her inner turmoil.

Redemption by © Sally Omar
with bowed head
redemption is sought
sins of the past torment
that cannot be erased
can so many sins be forgiven
the putrid words
that split the heart of a loved one
the ten thousand falsehoods
that easily flowed from lips
with eye contact and assurance
all the time knowing the truth
the distasteful remarks
that made so many uncomfortable
the hate exhibited
toward anyone of a different ethnicity
different religion
or exhibiting different ideals
the cruelty shown
to the creatures of nature
the icy heart revealed
for those in need
the greed
money became the only god
the gluttony
food and drink
no limitations
while others went hungry
pray a little harder
life is coming to an end
but redemption
may not be yours
redemption

She must reclaim herself, even if it’s one piece at a time…

Seeking Self — Struggling to Come Back by © Cara Schingeck


Lest she’s washed away with the tears of yesterday’s dirty dishwater.

Heartbreak by © chitrali
Tear tracks down my cheek..
Just on one side of my face,
On one cheek.
The left:
Fill..
Slip.
Slide.
Drip.
.
.
Drip.
.
.
Drip.
.
.
Under my chin.
*
The right: clear eyed, dry, raw…
(It’s the one that spots the red traffic light turn green).
*
I give too many tears, too easily, to him…
They’re diamonds – (that much I do know now)
And he thinks they’re just feminine salty water.
*
Tear tracks down my cheek..
Just on one side of my face,
On one cheek,
The left.
Fill.
Slip.
Slide.
Drip…
Why just the one eye, the one cheek, I wonder?
Perhaps it is because that’s where
The bastard lives: my traitorous heart,
Now torn asunder.
(once again).

Reconnecting with the still, small voice of her soul just might prove to be the first step in becoming whole. 

Care of the Soul by © Anthea Slade


Yet, doesn’t she realize she’s not alone, that she doesn’t have to face the giants on her own?

Seeing Is Believing by © AnniG
I breathe your heartache
spill your many unshed tears
I tend the invisible aches
repeatedly bubbling, rising up
erupting from the depths of your
existence
I face the inconceivable fears
persistently gnawing at your senses
I recognize the abysmal sadness
of sorrow living, growing, thriving
in the rich and cultivated soil of your
soul
I read the range of intense emotion
scribed between the unwritten pages
I unravel the intricate fabric of your life
sharing visions through silver strands
of mysterious bonds and joyful
spirits
Yes, I see
I see
you

For she is connected to a sisterhood deeply rooted into ancient soil.

Mother Nature by © Jenelle McKain


She needs only to look through to the other side where her reflection is waiting.

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…

With so many points of reflection and meditations, she has a lot to reconcile for one day.

Daydream by © Tammera


Will she close her eyes on it all as if freedom has no more place than in her dreams? Or will her meditations bring her to that place of freedom she longs for most?

Emotional Vortex by dab
(I fight labels like the demon itself
If I don’t name you
you don’t exist
and I can’t be locked
in your eight
cornered box)
But I’m left
with this
Mess
Jumbled negativity
magnetic vortex
spilling
seething
sucking
I know
the only one able
to grant me freedom
is me-
and I don’t.
know why,
I wait.
how long can one
tolerate
this twisting thirsty
how does one effectively
assess
that which has its genesis
in one’s imagination
how does one locate
land marks
when vertigo is
the most frequent sensation…?
~
sometimes it’s
hard to carry around
this 200 pound heart
chained in concert
with my brain,
it entrains the capacity
for ten to the power of n
weightless joys
apex of ecstasy
and I lose my balance
tip …..
Fall
flood gates open,
gentle…
the pain of the world
invited, enters
my heart goes bowling ball
chained, I sink
it pulls me to the deep
and I sit, on the ocean floor
a while
while I dream
of atrocity
…and wait
for my mind
To be:
set free

Our Inner selves - Sunday Features 10/04/11

Today we take a journey through the innermost thoughts of women at different ages and stages through their lives. It is moving, powerful and sometimes disturbing. I hope you will enjoy the poems and images.

We’re too cheap for China by bjeliMis is a triumph. bjelimis recently performed this poem at a slam Oakland University, located in Rochester Hills, Michigan. There have been a few big names who’ve got their start at this annual event, so it’s a pretty big production. She was a huge success. You can see her performing live here
The poem speaks to us of the feelings of a young woman, representing young women everywhere, who are fighting to be accepted for who and what they are in a world of political and personal falsehoods and lies.

We’re too cheap for China by © bjeliMis
I didn’t know the invitation to life’s party was privately supposed
The wisdom of life’s lessons never closed
And I but a young girl, with too much breathe to take in
Part refugee part bullshit nonpartisan
Part of a generation that’s scribbled in so deep you can barely see the page
I’d like to read the truth but it more likely false-ated
I live in world full of liars and I hate it
And I’m not saying I never told a fib
But most conversations now are a dinner set
An even number of dishes but not an even number of guests
And we are all just
Rat-tat-tat-tatting at the windows
Of our would be lives
Paying off our school debts and diminishing our smiles
Let’s work, work, work
Create calloused minds and bruised hearts
For days lived too short and too far apart
We are a youth of unquestionable disrupt
And we break dishes and we make art
Come alive that is
To be washed down the streets
That are not paved in gold but in political beliefs
Whose lobbyist are paid to move lips but not hearts
Saying they know the song but singing just one part
Young people today are tough as paper and folded like origami
We write our stories in 7 different pens and permanent sharpie
And sometimes our hands are black from the ink but that’s okay
Because they leave better fingerprints to lead the way
Because ,yes, we’d like to be remembered
by something other than our addictions and rebel fashion
But rather with the intense lives we lived
that gave us, the dirty hands of passion
But you’re suppose to wash your hands before supper
And maybe just empty your pockets and perhaps your chest
Suspended in time at the dinner party
The uninvited guest
Why trust so much with such young beating hearts
We are more complex than the insides of a pocket watch
And we rust not with oxidation but with touch
We are the generation of party crashers
Playing music with ipod adapters
because sometimes cassettes don’t cut it
We are hiding in our cars off an empty parking lot
Nibbling off life’s plastic utensils more often then not
When do our great goals begin to come alive?
I have a feeling that dreams run too fast and burn out too quick to survive
We were taught to listen but things reach way past our cochlea’s swirl
We are all just young boys and young girls
Who’s to say we’re grown up when the night’s about to end
After the dishes have been put away the candles gone dim
Ask yourself you young beating souls
Those who create, lie, listen, are bold
And even to those who think, they don’t live life too short sighted
Will you make it to dinner?
Are you even invited?
By contrast, the image below by Agnes Trachet, is a wry comment on getting older. Here we see the rueful face of a woman of a certain age, looking at the candles on her cake. Her expression says it all, and the yellow/green hues express her feelings of dismay so well.

The Cake by © Agnes Trachet


The writing of jenifer De Bellis seems to go from strength to strength. “Wasted Breath” is writing that makes you want to read it again and again. it is imbued with meaning that is not instantly recognisable.
The deer and the woman merge and then separate, hints of child unkindness to each other, whispers of beauty, solitude and need, abound, and finally, Faith leaves. At what age does faith leave us, and why?

Wasted Breath by © Jenifer De Bellis
She was always standing at that picture window, nothing more than a frozen statue staring into empty space. No matter the time of day, she was sure to be there. We called her the “deer in headlights.”
We weren’t always the nicest kids. Sometimes we threw things at the window. There was a game we’d invented to make things more interesting. Ten points for every piece of popcorn that hit the exact place the reflection of her partially parted lips shone on the window.
One day, Faith thought it would be funny to match her own reflection up with our deer in headlights. We giggled as popcorn hit the reflection of both of their mouths at the same time.
The next morning, we discovered Faith had left for school without us. The three of us girls exchanged a worried look and proceeded to school without our friend.
Rounding the corner of our favorite house, we noticed a fawn eating the popcorn from the lawn that we’d left there the previous day. She looked up, staring through us in search of answers to questions she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
The woman in the window remained frozen in time. The lies she’d been told pleaded from the depths of eyes too far gone. I’d never noticed that before.
Faith never made it to school that day. She just vanished into thin air as if she’d never existed. And no one dared to question anything out of fear of the obvious. We wore our silence as an oath of honor.
That fawn followed us places. There were many mornings I woke up to her suckling the nectar from the hummingbird feeders outside my bedroom window. Soon she began sneaking into my bedroom at night, snuggling up to me until I held her really tight. She loved the petting the best.
We named her Sweetie.
That woman remained in that picture window, looking on in silence. What did she know?
I chose “Excile” by Glitterfest to accompany Jenifer’s poem. It seemed to depict so well the images I had in my mind of the woman at the window. Here we see a moving image, whose title explains the meaning. Naked, adorned by trinkets, and alone. Although we all dress up, adorn ourselves and preen, it is our inner need to feel connected to others that is most important.

Exile by © Glitterfest
 

I love this poem from Autumwind as it so beautifully and poignantly expresses emotions that many of us have felt about motherhood. It also links in to a discussion we are having at the moment in the Cafe 


Forgotten by © Autumnwind
disappearing…
into wife
work
and all consuming motherhood
putting all before herself
than ever before
losing her identity
fading slowly…swallowed
bit by bit
into the gray inbetween
yet, in the shadows of her soul
she still remains true
bursting with the color
of memory
and longing
still, she shoves it back
further
every time it threatens
to consume
her present purpose
she will emerge again
in time
but days of sacrifice
reign and dim her spirit
she is even more beautiful
for it
but she does not yet see
though she feels
lost in the haze
of a freedom gone
a new seed is planted
a growth
deep within
is taking root
the tiny embers
which remain
are fuel to reignite
her fire
she is woman
and will bloom forth
with unimaginable impact
her power
a vibrant energy of color
will surely shatter
and eventually disperse
this present burden
of… fade

The image by Madworld added to the feelings that Shar expressed in the poem. Here we see a beautiful woman, who is fading in front of our eyes. Who is she? She presents different faces to the world, but we have a profound sense that …
“she is woman and will bloom forth with unimaginable impact”

But Will you ever know me by © Madworld



This next poem again depicts the startling difference we feel inside ourselves, compared with the picture we present to the world. It depicts inner storms and outer calm. It is haunting.

Internal Combustion, prompt by © lilynoelle
Sitting, standing, kneeling, praying
The body poses, the mind is swaying
Between lunacy and sanity
Between bittersweet profanity;
and conscious immorality.
A dancer poses on her toes,
The picture of a perfect rose
And in her: sinner – no one knows
The places where that dark mind goes.
A watcher in the wax museum, that
Sticky, pale mausoleum
Of bodies made to look so real, but
No brain inside, no thoughts concealed.
No thoughts at all:
Paradise, she calls,
No thoughts at all.
The combustion inside,
The burning within
The tempest untied,
The people we’ve been
But in that silence,
No one can know
The places where our dark minds go.
“She walks alone” is not only a stunningly beautiful image, it is made all the more powerful by the commentary from Deez. “In celebration of all those women who are single Moms out there…I was one for over 17 years…its the toughest job of all and the most rewarding one when you’ve successfully achieved what no one that you could do on your own and alone.”

She walks alone by © DeeZ (DL Honeycutt)


In the next poem, deelishes express thoughts that everyone of us will have experienced at some stage in our lives. If only we had been able to see our own inner beauty at that point in our lives when self-esteem was beginning to form. It is a strong and moving poem.

Prettier Than Me by © DeeLishess
She’s prettier than me
Prettier, they all agree
So many everyday beauty queens
Everybody! Everybody but me
Catching his gaze easily
A vision to be seen
Her shining hair and perfect body
Wide eyes of blue, brown, or green
She walks a steady, graceful gait
Her smile is broad and straight
So lovely, people stop and stare
Her kind is everywhere
Where does that leave a girl like me—
With the other “noteworthy” qualities?
“She’s so funny; she’s so smart”
“Such a nice girl, with such a big heart”
Will that make him look my way?
Or fantasize that I’m his perfect date?
No, she has his attention for keeps
And my “big heart” weeps
I war against the mirror
My reflection staring back in fear…
They’re all so pretty,
Prettier than me

By contrast, Sybilles image below, expresses the inner beauty of a woman. Here, her soul shines through the image, which is rich in symbolism and meaning.

Forests of the heart by © Sybille Sterk


nothing and everything by April Mansilla": is a poem which expresses alienation and yearning. It moved me almost to tears.

nothing and everything by © April Mansilla
My dreams have been soft
languid
Like honey on fingers
And white nightgowns in
Moonlight
When it comes to …
Nothing and everything
Makes sense
Even the brightly colour
leaf
That dresses the ground
When death is still in the
trees
My life lines are so
Deep
Eroded before I knew how to play the game
And when I see strangers talk
I shut off what
They are saying
I watch mouths
saying hushed delicate
words
and I always imagine them to say
things to one another like
“I adore you”
or
Instead if they look up
They would say that cloud
Yes that one that is moving fast
reminds me of you…
but it is all just within the skin
that keeps me awake thinking
of nothing and everything
And I pray in ink
And I so appallingly want to feel that rush
But I know that gate would
Hit me on the way back
To…
I chose the image ’fetch me that flower" by Helena Wilsen, because is symbolised so much of what we forget and reminds us of the absolute beauty within ourselves. Helena explains…
“This image is not a literal illustration but rather a celebration of the magic of sensuality and femininity. The opening of the flower, the fruits and seeds bursting with ripeness, seed ‘spermazoa’ all racing for a place to implant and grow. This image groans with feminine fecundity”

Fetch Me that flower by © Helena Wilsen - Saunders

The Spirit of Woman Emerges - Sunday Features 03/04/2011

The atmosphere is thick with emotional chaos. As one season clings to the air long after its expiration date, even this chemical imbalance can’t deny one truth: the woman within simply can’t be held back. She has a story, she has a voice, and this is her season to emerge. She must find a way to piece together the fragments of her unique experiences in order to illustrate the beauty within.
This week’s features are a representation of the chaos swimming within my own emotional imbalance. Each day that passes where the seasons simply won’t allow each other their respectful exchange increases my internal turmoil. There is a chant that echos off the dormant walls of my mind that is exclaiming, “Set me free. Set me free. Now’s the time. Let me out.”
So, without further ado, here are the Sunday features. I hope they minister to your spirits the way they have mine.
Spring may not have taken over what is rightfully hers, but tell that to the blossom that radiates from woman’s eager spirit.

You Can Never Hold Back Spring © by Kasia Ikasia



Imagine if she simply shed that cloak of shame and regret and stepped into the new dawn.

What If © by Rhenastarr
Imprisoned in her own mind
Afraid to step out of her
Solitude
She had worn the quiet
And the loneliness like
A cloak
Timid and insecure
Always taunted by the
What ifs
What if she took a chance
Maybe fall a time or two
What if she lifted herself
Up
Took a step back and
Looked at where she
Had been and explore
How she felt now
What if she shook off
The cloak
Walked naked into
The light
Would she find the
Woman she knew
Was hiding deep
Inside of her
Would she be able
To distance herself
From the safe haven
Of her cocoon of
Self doubt
Denials
Remembered hurts
Face the truths that
She had shelved
Forgive herself
For the entity she had
Allowed herself to become
What if
Tomorrow offered her a renewal
A chance to be better than
The yesterdays she had left
Behind
What if
She let the anger disperse
Like air escaping from a wilting
Balloon
She wanted to feel free
She wanted to be able to look
At her reflection in the mirror
And forgive herself and face
Forward, not looking back
Walking into a new dawn
A new beginning
A new woman
What if she gave her heart
A chance to love again
What if
Can she wrestle out of the turmoil that binds her inner self to yesterday’s bondage?

Inner Turmoil © by virgosun



Perhaps she could just bask in the prophesy held with her dream of approaching happiness.

Prelude to Happiness  © by April Mansilla
And I hear it rolling it
But I am not going
To look back
I have never run
So fast
With my eyes up
To the heavens
And my broken spirit
Traveling through
Beautiful moments
To freedom
And I have never been here
Before and it
Feels unfamiliar
This prelude
Of happiness
Beginning in me
I held my hands
out and prayed
With my five senses
That this may never
Leave me

She may need to do some spring cleaning to unearth the mysteries within waiting to be discovered.

Enigma © by Janelle McKain



Or perhaps she’s ready to scream from the mountaintops: “Nothing will ever crush my spirit. Nothing!”

King of the Mountain  © by Beautifuldreamer
You climb me
as if I were a ladder,
each rung as sturdy as a child’s bone
angled to unnatural position,
accommodating the weight and brunt of you.
You climb me laboriously,
red-faced and salt-sweaty
panting with fevered eyes.
At night in my dreams
my bare feet perch sure-footed on Jacob’s ladder,
a ladder of a different sort
reaching past your foul gropings
and verbal sewage;
in my dreams I am not afraid of heights
nor of the arrows that fly by day,
nor of the pestilence that walks in darkness.
At night, in my dream-sodden sleep,
I am a pure child of God
whose heart beats ever stronger
with each cloud I pass through, with each brush of angels’ wings
tickling my cheekbone
on my way to my trysting place of old.
It is only when I am earthbound once more
that my heart cries out in anguish:
Oh sweet Ancient of Days,
break the rungs of my entrapment
make of me a better something
than a receptacle for clumsy work-boots,
and feet which had no business
trampling my mattress
in the first place.
So she’ll realign her spirit to be one with mother earth.

Ku  © by hsien-ku

Even if she has to till the neglected ground with her own hands.

Somewhere in Oakland County © by lovelyrita
it is a wasteland
trees line themselves up along the surface
but behind them lies
behind them lies grass and dirt and land
devoid of roots
i dig a hole in the sand
big enough for my head, dreaming
that things will get better,
while I bury myself alive
gradually
turning to dust.

And in doing so, she will be loosed from the chains that bind her to yesterday.

Turbulent Portal  © by ArtPearl



If only she remembers to hold tight to her soul while she’s shaking free from last season’s repression.

the loss of a soul  © by Sally Omar
it didn’t happen in one day
nor one year
not at a certain time
rather randomly
slowly throughout a lifetime
perhaps it was the disappointments
the tragedy of everyday life
perhaps perpetual pain
often self-inflicted
the bad dreams
the terror of ghosts past
loss of love
loss of faith
pictures engraved in the mind
that could not be erased
but somewhere in time
between the anger
and sadness
it happened
a heart drained
a soul lost
never to be found again
eyes closed
to the world
huddled alone in darkness
the loss of a soul
Lest she emerge into this new season more broken and anxious.

A Great Unease © by Anthea Slade



Where she will either forever fly with these oppressive burdens upon her weary shoulders or decide that today is the day she will fly free.

My Albatross  © by autumnwind
yesterday…
twisting,
winding through
corners of cold stone
edges of sharp dark
finding
lost
alone
again
I am the black
behind the mirror
in the cave
of secret walls
when everything else
is gone
and I know
nothing
do not live
where loss dims sky
and obliterates light
sensing shadows
i seek its source
embellished prisms
reflecting
mere fragments
of forgotten dreams
I mistakenly step on
shards of hope
stick
to my bleeding feet
i tire
of the pain
as i drown in blame
open your eyes
the voice
which teaches
is silent
butterfly
the one
that dances
for what you have
… what you had
… what you have discovered
you are
i grasp the key
to your enlightened heart
and wonder
how I can imagine
all is lost
and not believe
when you are here

Tapestry - Midweek Features - 06/04/2011

Spring is coming into its own now – at least here in the UK – with lilacs on the verge of bursting into bloom, cherryblossom all over place, and magnolia candles shining brightly, but there are still some of Winter’s last remainders to be seen when you look around…
This weeks features are looking deeper into all the things that make us ‘woman’ – all the struggles, all the pain and all the hope.
We’re starting with Winter – it reminds me of Snow White in her coffin.

The Winter My Heart Froze by © Heather King



This heart breaking poem seemed to tell the back story for the image.

the loss of a soul by © Sally Omar
it didn’t happen in one day
nor one year
not at a certain time
rather randomly
slowly throughout a lifetime
perhaps it was the disappointments
the tragedy of everyday life
perhaps perpetual pain
often self-inflicted
the bad dreams
the terror of ghosts past
loss of love
loss of faith
pictures engraved in the mind
that could not be erased
but somewhere in time
between the anger
and sadness
it happened
a heart drained
a soul lost
never to be found again
eyes closed
to the world
huddled alone in darkness
the loss of a soul
On to more hopeful things and this beautiful image of a woman who seems to have found herself.

Mundoo 50 by © Alenka Co



And here is one still looking to find herself or watching others looking.

de profundis by © hsien-ku
by the fiberglass statue of aphrodite
at the swimming-pool’s edge
she watches the invisible children
appear
and disappear
like wraiths, their shapes echoed
in the silhouetted palms in hotel windows
and in chinese restaurants
their voices curl through the vases
of cut flowers: tiger dahlias and orchids
through the steam that coils on a teacup’s lip
all night the rain sweeps sideways, branches
whispering at the glass:
what are you doing here, on this strange highway?
through the neon of late night supermarkets
she is looking for the comet
The strength in this image and the details are fabulous.

Power by © CassandraOfTroy



However it is a strength and power hard come by and sometimes we find it deep in ourselves and manage to swim to the surface.

EVE by © electriclstorm
We are never fully taught.
No Mama, we are not taught
To fight,
To fight back.
A woman now,
Curves, legs and all.
Mama, a woman I’ve become
Not plain and certainly not tall.
But Mama, Mama why?
Why is there still madness in this world?
Why is there a recurrence of abuse?
Why are these challenges the norm nowadays?
When I looked into your eyes
A world bright and full came to life,
With experiences rich and plentiful.
But then the darkness came and swallowed me whole.
I drowned in the waves of confusion and denial.
Swollen with vulnerability,
Gradually encasing my soul and self preserving.
Mama I was soo scared.
But I did the best I could
With the resources that were accessible.
And now I’m here Mama,
Blossoming anew and waiting for the winds to take me.
But today I was reminded,
Forever being reminded,
Of my gender,
Of my body,
Of my precious body,
Of my precious vessel.
I have had ENOUGH, ENOUGH,
Mama my voice was heard!!!
I will not be silent,
For I want to see the world and its wonders.
I am taking my world back,
And I want to help others take theirs back too.
I want them to see the world they envisioned,
A world encompassed by love, laughter, strength and well-being…this is my dream.
The winds are coming Mama.
I must take flight.
Landing
on
my
feet.
S P R E A D I N G
R O O T S
Sometimes it’s hard to find your way out though.

03-31-11: It’s So Hard When You Have No Leverage by © Margaret Bryant



Especially when our role models are struggling themselves.

Unboxed Paradox of The Burning Giraffe by © Jenifer DeBellis
It all comes down to Freud
and his psychoanalytical ways.
Ways that creep into
unsuspecting hearts and minds
during the inception of twilight hours.
What’s in a dream? That which we call
the unconscious by any other name
would smell as sweet as a longing heart’s
repressed desires and fantasies,
or as sour as a tormented soul’s
greatest fears and darkest thoughts.
Show me the inner workings
of a (wo)man and I’ll tell you
what’s hidden at the back
of that chest of drawers.
Malnourishment moved in
like an unwelcome house guest,
cleaning out the cupboards
and dressing the masses as mannequins
on display in a showcase window.
Most irresistible is this extended bait:
a seductive enticement for
the battle-bound hearts of raging beasts.
The inevitable premonition and prophecy
of war is Dalí’s burning giraffe:
“the masculine cosmic apocalyptic monster.”
Yet when dawn illuminates
the nightmare of reality,
what can be said of the psychosis of
(wo)man’s skeletal foundation?

We wait with our key in hand to find the right treasure box to open that will give us all we need and want…

Waiting With A Key by © Lenora Brown



…but our becoming is rarely easy and unfortunately we are not always helped by those entrusted with our childhood

The Blossoming by © Beautifuldreamer
Our wills clashed
over the wooden ring I coveted
and bought with my own money
on a family vacation.
What harm? I wondered
while you voiced your vehement disapproval,
leaving me with the typical worn to a nub guilt trip,
“Do what you want if you won’t follow the church’s teachings…”
What we fought
what we fought about, mother,
was more than the circumference of a smooth carved ring
perched cool on my bare finger:
You interpreted my budding breasts
as a kind of treachery,
and all my unadorned fingers
(with their unpainted nails)
couldn’t hide the fact of my blossoming femaleness.
I wore knee socks
with jumpers
longer than anyone else,
pretending not to see my classmates’ shiny nylons
on keen flashing legs,
even while my restless fingers ached to stroke their cashmere sweaters
worn with such brazen ease.
Girls who mattered,
(the ones boys whipped around to check out
when their names rang out
during roll call)
held their manicured hands
in dangled fashion
like bunches of keys
attached to their wispy waists,
by which they gained admittance
to the cool clique with its
ratted hair
kohl rimmed eyes
and tentative petting
(over the clothes only) in cold back seats.
Having nothing to prove
( for they had no need to earn their worth)
they could afford to set rules,
could dare to boldly cut their eyes
at panting boyfriends
and patiently slap away square hands
fumbling with nylon encased flesh.
You often accused me of stealth—
but I was not the sneak, mother,
not the pilferer
or thief.
I wanted
only what was mine:
to blossom naturally
without the topic of my puberty
being the theme of jesting dinner time conversation.
For oh! There are so many means
of hobbling daughters.
One has only to convince them
of their ugly pinched selves
while shoving begrudged flesh
into drab dresses and childish, outgrown jumpers
meant to hide a burgeoning beauty.
One has only to deny
the blossom on the rose
and, come twilight,
wilting has set in,
and with it
a kind of root rot
for which there is no cure.
Drooping, the head lolls
and caves in on itself,
Becomes another sort of obscenity:
the obscenity of beauty deliberately destroyed.
Thus decapitated
thus hobbled,
I knelt beside my bed,
knobby knees stabbing the hardwood floor like knives,
my body swaying slightly with the wanting of it
knowing it was hopeless to ask
(but— in for a pound in for a penny:)
Dear God,
may I please
please may I wear my ring,
and not go to hell for it.
Amen.
So we wait and hope and look for the way.

She is still looking for the way to home by © FilleDeLEau



Wherever we go though, we take ourselves with us.

Bright Head by © wordthrift
There is nowhere I won’t be
such a poor,
pitiful me.
Sitting sadly
at the window
in some secret daydream,
showered in the light.
Just a head full of darkness
in a world too bright.

I hope you enjoy these features which started off so brightly with blossom and birdsong and then went deeper and darker, however, the bright sunlight looks all the better for it.
xoxo

Freedom and control, exploration and self-discovery - Sunday Features 27/03/2011

Freedom and control, exploration and self-discovery are the themes of this weeks featured art.

“Let the oppressed have a voice, – Let them speak out”, by our talented photographer Berns, is a powerful portrait that makes you take notice. Throughout Berns’ photographs we see a whole spectrum of strong women, and her commentaries always add an extra dimension to her work. This is fabulous.

Let the oppressed have a voice! Let them speak out! by © Berns


“Scars” by Isa Rodriguez is another powerful and dramatic work, with words that talk about weakness, set against a portrait of strength. The haunting look in the eyes make us wonder about what has happened to cause these emotional and physical scars.

Scars by © Isa Rodriguez


Electrocute" by Moonlight Lover, again caught my eye for its drama and passion. However, when I read the dialogue, I laughed out loud.

“And God said, ‘Let there be light’ and there was light, but the Electricity company said to me I would have to wait until next Thursday to be connected.”

What a joy this is.

Electrocute by © MoonlightLover



I love “Riders across the ocean” for its beauty, but also for the wonderful sense of freedom and sisterhood that it portrays. It is an image that is so full of life, friendship and hope.

riders -across the ocean by © maria paterson



“Mother with chid – devastated” by Marlies Odenhal is a moving tribute to the victims of the disasters in Japan. It made me want to cry, and, like much of her work, the power of the image lies in its understated composition.


Mother with child – devastated by © Marlies Odehnal

Another understated image, – “Isolated” by Karen Clark, forcefully makes us think about the issues, causes and effects of isolation in our lives. We see a slightly blurred pair of eyes looking outwards through a small hole in the door, and the haunting look of despair in the woman’s eyes, stops us in our tracks and makes us think. This is an image which will stay with me for ever.

Isolated by © Karen Clark

 

By contrast, “freedom Cry” by becca2425, is a high key portrait which simply seems to celebrate strength and freedom. It is full of life and love.

 

Freedom Cry by © becca2425

On a similar theme, “All I can do is to be me – whoever that is” by Constaza Caiceo is an image which speaks of freedom. We see a young woman with a defiant look in her face, trying out new attitudes and poses. It reminds us of youth, uncertainties and hope for the future.

All I can do is to be me, Whoever that is by © Constanza Caiceo


 

I am a huge fan of the painting of eoconnor (Liz) and this one is no exception. I love the quirky ‘primitive’ feel that runs throughout all her paintings, – each one of which makes a an important point. This one is strongly feminist and Liz explains it far better that I can…“WE CAN BE WHAT EVER,WHO EVER WE WANT. THATS WHYBEING A WOMAN INTHE 21ST CENTURY I AM FREE TO BE ME!!”

21st Century Western Woman by © eoconnor

 

“Portrait of a Woman in Upper Dharamshala India”by Tatum Wulff shows, once again, what a talented photographer she is. This image jumped out when I saw it for the fathomless expression in the woman’s face. What is she thinking – and why? Fabulous photography Tatum.

 

Portrait of a Woman in Upper Dharamshala India by © Tatum Wulff (image no longer available on Redbubble)

“Control” by CassandraOfTroy is an intricate and detailed image which so well illustrates the binding and restricting nature of control. A strong and powerful image.

Control by © CassandraOfTroy



Agnès Trachet’s "Portrait Of My Daughter’ caught my eye immediately, not only for the explosion of colours and textures that are so typical of Agnès’ work, but for the beautiful and enigmatic mood captured in the face. There is a hint of her eyes peeping through the glasses and a smile that melts the heart. The love of the mother for her daughter shines through the work. The daughter looks strong, free and brimful of love.

portrait of my daughter by © agnès trachet

 

Congratulations to you all, and thanks for submitting your art to the group.xx

Welcoming Spring and Looking Back at Winter – Midweek Features – 23/03/2011

I chose a theme of green for this week’s art and a theme of renewal and contemplation for the writing. Monday saw the Spring Equinox and I felt with everything suddenly bursting into bloom whilst some of Winter’s remnants are still hanging around this would be a good idea. LOL See for yourself…

This image seemed to encapsulate everything I wanted to say with this week’s features. There’s something romantic and melancholy about it, something contemplative and celebratory, just a very special atmospheric image.

Rose by © miruna uzdris

 

This wonderful poem just stayed with me ever since I read it, and although it’s maybe looking back in contemplation, there is a seed for a new Spring in still chasing…

Chasing ghosts in the night by © Sukhwinder Flora

I say goodbye at the station

Knowing he is heavy with time

Time that’s has passed us by

Unnoticed

And I can see his struggles

In his hands and the lines of his face

And I see that he’s not looking at me

But at the might have beens

The future yet to be written

And doors unopened

This restlessness in his heart

Seems like it will never leave

He’s chasing ghosts in the night

Sometimes wisdom lies

In all those things you cannot say

I see myself in the mirror

Older,

still trying to find, my own way

Cant you see

That I’ve been searching

And it’s the only way i know how

All my temples are ruins

And reduced to rubble

From chasing ghosts in the night

The four winds have surrendered

And now there’s no way back home

There’s no shelter back there

I put on a song to save me

Hoping it will make me feel what i cannot say

Some kneel and press palms

Some play a track

Walking into some oblivion

Never looking back

Chasing ghosts in the night

He is silent in the car

Knowing that something ain’t right

That freedom is hard to find

That the change can be worth the fight

But I know she is also leaving

I saw it as she walked through the door

And I hear it in her silences

A tear falls in the streets

Another step into the dark

Chasing ghosts in the night

More looking back and looking into the mirror, but in a good way… Love this image – the striking contrast of the red and green and the title.

Time engraves our faces with all the tears we have not shed by © strawberries

 

Here’s the perfect match for it. Or it least that’s how it feels to me. ;-)

how does it feel by © Alenka Co

they say to be popular you have to lie

but how does that feel

knowing their praise, adulation, support, sympathy

is for someone that isn’t really you

for something that didn’t happen to you

for a hurt you pretend to suffer

for emotions you pretend to feel

how far are you willing to go?

was it worth it

taking your pillow

and casting your feathers of jealousy and hate to the wind

can you gather them back now

repair the damage you’ve done

tell me, is your popularity worth the price

does it really feel that good

when you know in your heart

it is based on lies

and in hurting another

A little bit of whimsy, that’s what Spring is all about.

Lady Cage by © FilleDeLEau

Another great poem – as whimsical as the image at a first glance, but again like the image with far more meaning hidden in plain sight.

Magic Trick by © lovelyrita

I have a sunny disposition

but I am a dynamo of volition

on a major, life-long expedition.

I put the eccentric in tradition – -

while working toward my ambitions

and I don’t need to ask your permission

to turn the key and start the ignition.

You know, I’m a limited edition – -

The cat’s meow.

I finished my search

and rescue mission now

and I got my gun cocked, emitting frisson

Pow!

with every spark of ammunition,

you wonder how I do it.

I am a fucking magician.

Frida Kahlo was a fabulous artist and woman and therefore very deserving of this beautiful homage. The imagery used – the flowers, the ornaments, the green all speak of renewal and connection to the world around us (at least to me).

My homage to Frida Khalo by © Madalena Lobao-Tello

 

Spring is the time when we make plans for the rest of the year… it might also be a good time to decide our fate?

choice by © dab -

I see giant power-lines blowing in the wind

and a bus barreling down on me

am I being saved

is this the end of me

should I jump out of the way

or is this Destiny

I could always hop on the bus

it desires to pick me up

but that would glue fate to the driver’s hands

I think I’ll jump

and polydream my own plans

The next image reminded me of a Renoir – the light, the feeling of almost floating and the gentleness and dance like pose. There’s is a lightness and acceptance and renewal about this image which felt like Spring to me.

I left my hat on… by © Lucky LaRue

But here’s Winter again… sometimes no matter what you do, it’s just not enough.

When Sorry’s Just Not Enough by © mnkreations

When Sorry’s Just Not Enough

What do I do when the road comes to the end? What do I do but follow the bend? You walk the line never looking for things you can’t find. I search for dreams, I reach for the sky. It’s my time to fly, it’s your time to cry, it’s my time tell you goodbye. What do I do when your going’s too tough. What do I do when you say it’s too much? How do I say I’m sorry when sorry’s just not enough?

We stood side by side. We watched as the future marched on; never a plan, never a word. Time passed in a blur. You thought I’d never leave. But here we are, we drifted apart—I toward the sunrise and you toward the night; searching for lost love, searching for light. What do I do when I say I’m sorry and you say it’s too tough? What do I do when you say it’s too much? How do I say I’m sorry when sorry’s just not enough?

I watch as you bleed, heart torn open wide, wanting to run, wanting to hide. You say sorry’s only a word, empty, without feeling, never wanting to be heard. What do I do when you hurt to the core? What do I do when you say life’s not worth livin’ anymore? What do I do when your going’s too tough? What do I do when you say it’s too much? How do I say I’m sorry when sorry’s just not enough?

How do I say I’m sorry when sorry’s just not enough? How do I say I’m sorry when sorry’s just not enough? How do I say I’m sorry…

A perfect finale – a Spring symphony in greens. You can almost hear the music…

Symphony by © Cabisha

This I just had to include. What a perfect poem to elaborate on the thoughts I started off with on this journey although it might leave you with more mysteries to solve… :-)

The romance of living the most subtle of absolute deaths by © Kristin Reynolds

In the end there is only fantastic vision—

an end to diversion, and the division

of most likely scenarios.

Where have all the Baudelaire’s gone?

Fuck the cowboys, leave them to their beans.

What we need here is some goddamn fantastic

sock smokin’ madness—

offset by some, Je vous aime follement

and

Te amo.

When you close your eyes, what do you see?

Who do you see when the lights

in your room

are dark—

as dark as the streets behind corners on a moonless night,

alone, with nowhere to go?

Can you see the new world you’ve created,

simply by flicking the switch

in your skull marked: DREAM

to OFF?

Do you see the object of your desire?

or just a bed

and absence of corners;

or a dark horse riding out your window

screaming as the light

in it’s eyes

goes out.

Or are you the one

who sees heaven in hands?

holding your face like a whisper,

the way a tulip’s outer petals hold

its inner,

as delicate hours

inside it’s fragile

unfolding heart.

Or is it the old warehouse you see,

down by the docks—

a ghost-town

full of dead ghost riders, floating

face-up in a stagnant,

still water pool?

Go ahead. Be brave. Look.

Open your eyes, and see your world

looking back,

and then tell me you’re not a poet:

together

and impossibly gone.

Have a lovely week everyone and enjoy the first signs of Spring (if Spring is starting where you are or the first signs of Autumn and Winter if you’re on the other side of the globe).

Sunday Features – Winds of Emotional Imbalance – 20/03/2011

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?

Solace by © Unbeknown

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?

I by © rubyjo

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?

Life and Death Entwined by © Alenka Co

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?

Elementar Particles by © Marlies Odehnal

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

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.