(30) handpicked: i support #ProjectPortfolio

Jun 11, 201515 min read

Deviation Actions

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Published: Jun 11, 2015

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have you read about Andorada's Project Portfolio?

to join, simply create a journal; include a couple of your deviations;
include 1 to 4 deviants you look up to and 1 to 4 artworks from each of them;
mention 1 to 3 artists you would like to give some encouragement.

for complete details, check out:

Project Portfolio

Hi everybody
You will be notified as soon as Session 2 starts!
Thank you for your patience

And here are the winners for the First Session!

Project Portfolio - Session 1: Overview

We would like to invite you to a project meant to promote your work!
(Yeah, time for some shameless self-promotion! :bademoticon: )

What you need to do
1)
a) Create a <

handpicked updated version by wispy-blue

gyrate for them, gretagyrate for them, greta;
let men spend for liquor.
the stage won't sizzle
unless you provoke
a drunkard's primal urge
that should pay
your rent
and restock
the refrigerator
you defrosted.
© 23.August.2013

canapescanapés
people devour
all-you-can-eat buffets
undeterred by the grease
and excesses and after the binge,
they stick a toothbrush
down their throats.
note to self:
emotions are just as fattening.
at the rate we are going,
i fear you will tire of me.
so please love me in bite sizes,
in portions to sustain us
through birthdays and christmases
and in servings
where you savour me
the way i savour you.
© 01.November.2013

ghost townyou are warming up to me;
i'm just someone passing through.
you read minds and mine is a ghost town
but it wasn't like this before.
long ago it had homes
and white picket fences;
my mind had dreams,
memories
and even an almost-love growing
in a sunflower pot.
something uprooted it,
yanked it off,
left it for dead.
years came and went:
now all you see
are dusty windows,
shards,
and leafless trees.
you are warming up to me;
i'm just someone passing through.
one step more is one step too far.
don't tiptoe near my heart.
© 02.August.2014

deviants i look up to

December With a Grain of SaltDecember; an overnight low of two degrees in a white world
Magic snow; the Christmas I longed for as a child in the south
Sometimes wishes are fulfilled too late; I have no use for it now
No more than I would a pony or new roller skates; too late, too late
I do not decorate for the season; my rooms are forever autumn themed
In honor of my lost Pumpkin Girl, another wish that came true too late
My wandering son who will no longer wander in this world lies
Heavy on my mind; it was in December a year ago that he left
Still, there is a calmness, an order to things that I also wished for
I am not without food, or shelter, or the love of a good woman
As the red sun rises through the branches of snowy leafless trees
I realize that I could be in a much worse place, and I’m grateful TodayToday the sun shone brightly, as though the months of darkness were only a bad joke.
I walked out to see the world again, the cracked pavement, the slush, the green dumpster for dreams (full again).
Still, there was a warmth in the old bricks which had been lost. Cars and trucks made music on the wet asphalt.
My head opened up to let dreams in again. Binge and purge, the day won't last long.
Tomorrow or the next day the darkness will return, blowing snow and foul bitter winds through my clothes.
Tomorrow the ghosts will whisper again in my ears, calling, cajoling, saying "Join us."
Tomorrow maybe I will, but today the sun is bright, and love is still alive.
Today, the beasts are relegated to lurking in the shadows, hungry but helpless.
Today, I am. RecordsRevolver spins on the turntable, throwing scratchy memories of
psychedelic days and electric nights; a Pink Floyd and Zeppelin
sandwich on a trip to younger, dumber days (always summer)
I walk through, my legs as skinny now as they were then
The times they are a changing, constant flux, one dark star to another
Places I’ve been and people I’ve met float by, waving happily
I give all this to you, my first-born, knowing that you’ll never really
understand, or even know how to make the black discs speak
We don’t speak the same language anymore, you and I, but we love
I see you in the distance with your family, my grandchildren
I’d like to see you closer, but I live in the airwaves now of an old radio
station, playing oldies all night and watching stars blink out Soul JuiceSqueeze out the last drops in glorious color
The rind is mashed, rotten, ruined
But the juice is beautiful
When I dream of myself, or others, we're
always in our prime
and beautiful.

RussianTim

PrayerPlace your poems
on the lips of angels
so you can teach their wings
how it feels to fly
always upward.
Mark the summer evenings
soon to come
with the grace
that carried you
among us,
warm and cherished softly
and know we will always place
your words
among the stars. MondayDid you wake up
one morning and decide
your name was Monday?
Did you lay out slip and stockings
and decide that pretty
was really underneath,
and that your face alone
would buy you nothing?
Did you think
of the men staring
on the bus
and in the elevators
as the car moved up the girders
so high your skirt
was a balloon?
And did the brush of
his sleeve
against your breast
as the crowd moved forward
stop your boots
from crossing the street
and send you into traffic
wanting to feel his name? ElenaElena followed me home
from work one night
and stayed for tea and eggs,
and all that minimum wage
and wars between the sheets
could bring.
She said she was a goddess,
daughter of a carpenter
with her long red, red hair
and eyes as warm as hazel nuts
on Christmas morning.
Her hands spoke braille
across my back
and made the silence
of Sunday into a prophecy.
She left one October
just like she said she would
when the fireflies
had turned their wings to ash.
And I found revelation
in red, red wine
and cheap red, red fabric
that came off in my hands
like summer. SeptemberThe summer was so hot
the dogs stuck to the sidewalks
with the newspapers
and the black metal cans
everyone left waiting on the curb.
You could smell it
in the glass pitchers
on table tops,
and the sheets that never
dried on the clothes lines;
the canvas beach bags
mothers dragged wearily
across the sand
and the ice cream trucks
melting across the highways.
Children felt it open
up the windows at night
and find a corner
of the bed to smother,
while fathers baited it on hooks
or mowed it down
in flat, dry stripes
as if begging each other
to escape.
And the crickets just hummed
beneath the corn silk
and the dry mouth
of August,
daring the cats to play
hide and seek -
searching for September.

Carmalain7

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deviants i encourage

FridgePoetProject

The Daily Magnet #55 by FridgePoetProject

The Daily Magnet #59 by FridgePoetProject

The Daily Magnet #67 by FridgePoetProject

Candless

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AlwaysRainCheck

An Old AugustI watch you
cutting strawberries
in the amber afternoon,
sun on its midway
to autumn;
you won't let me help
because secretly
only half of them
make it to the bowl.

I smile back
at your playful eyes
because
you know.

It feels like
an old August,
in my stomach
some sort of sadness
some sort of joy.
Last night's thunderstorm
has left the ocean agitated,
wildly
beautiful.
Life is nothing
but a vacant place, today
and we shall
let it be,
let the world
wait for us, today.
Cross legged
on my piano bench,
I play for the cat
a winter Debussy
she's happy,
I could tell
she smiles. HereIt is the simplest of things,
light, water, silence
an inexplicable beauty
tangled in your hair.
And it passes,
a dawn in our sleep;
under the sun,
morning dew.
We were universes,
stars, uncountable hours
a galaxy lost,
found in our souls.
Your presence a perfect illusion
for my mind in need.
It will come
a day when I'll stop
asking myself again
and again, why
we never said thank you, we
never said goodbye. WasteInside my head
I call regret
this distance between us-
as I bite my tongue
once again,
and let go
a tear of sad rage.
You'd be surprised
if I told you
how pain is always loud
in my ears;
but I'm sorry for you,
my dear,
because the sound
you are hearing
is time-
and time is only loud
when it's too late.

Poetry by Bark

Japanese Garden by Poetrymann

for fun, exposure or points , you might want to make your own #ProjectPortfolio.
in my case, you know i try to feature my favorite deviations weekly.
and the list of deviants i admire keeps expanding.
Inspiration (Week 2, Day 1)
01.10.14, an entry forSouljournalists

previous feature:

(29) handpicked: Twilight Poetess

for your most pieces of art, write me a note or link me to your own creations.
i might have been missing out on them and i would appreciate that you share them with me.

encourage favorite feature literature poetry handpicked cristinewakesuphappy projectportfolio

© 2015 - 2024 wispy-blue

Comments19

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Thanks so much for the great feature.