adamant

my silence is not acquiescence;

do not mistake it for weakness or languor

or label me as pacifist

for I have drawn back my bow, back bent and ready

to let loose more arrows than could ever be counted,

their edges sharp, their feathers bloody

we are not pawns to be moved about haphazardly

in this horrific game of chess, its invisible players

hiding behind bastardized philosophies and awful grins

they are not invincible;

they, too, are mortal and afraid, 

yet they are trying to murder my country

with their wicked politics and a multitude of sins

they are trying to kill my husband

with the churn and burn of Big Pharma 

they are trying 

to smother him with neglect

O, but he is wingéd and rare

and we are bright with battle

we shall not allow 

our selves to be swallowed 

by this terrible maw of hopelessness

those who love us well join hands to build a raft,

to keep our heads above an angry tide,

to help us float on the sad debris

our tattered hearts have left behind

bring us now tender hummingbirds, a bounty of butterflies 

to carry our spirits, so heavy with dew

if we could only

brush aside a river finds its blush

Author notes:

"brush aside a river finds its blush" - 

This is a line from the poem "elemental drumming" by Danny Beatty, 

my husband; it is used with his express permission.

For deeper understanding and to clarify, 

I had two emergency surgeries done at the end of October; 

shortly afterwards, my husband was diagnosed with cancer.

“There are people everywhere who form a Fourth World, or a diaspora of their own. They are the lordly ones. They come in all colours. They can be Christians or Hindus or Muslims or Jews or pagans or atheists. They can be young or old, men or women, soldiers or pacifists, rich or poor. They may be patriots, but they are never chauvinists. They share with each other, across all the nations, common values of humour and understanding. When you are among them you know you will not be mocked or resented, because they will not care about your race, your faith, your sex or your nationality, and they suffer fools if not gladly, at least sympathetically. They laugh easily. They are easily grateful. They are never mean. They are not inhibited by fashion, public opinion or political correctness. They are exiles in their own communities, because they are always in a minority, but they form a mighty nation, if they only knew it." - Jan Morris, from "Trieste and The Meaning of Nowhere"

navigator — for darcy (onerios13)

your shining almond eyes

consumed every peach in the orchard

without ever bending a bough 

everything you'd ever need

fell gently into your hands

curled contented at your feet

lingered long within your heart

sunrise caught you wide awake and dreaming 

moonlight streamed through your fingers

creating beauty from an empty page

warm currents surrounded you

summoning your seductive smile

wind and water reaching 

for your inevitable shores

you were your own planet

discovering unknown galaxies

we were your satellites

drifting in apogee

tossing starseeds at us

you'd laugh

a solemn memory still resonant 

within this wilderness

boldly echoing throughout day's eternity

murmuring deep inside this infinity of night

a delightful song in the making

a brilliant story still waiting to be told

The Many Names of Love

He called me mariposa,

as if my chrysalis had disappeared

overnight, its wispy tendrils drooping,

then falling away into shadow.

He called me gentle bird,

as though my song was sugar-sweet

and soft, a moist whisper cast aloft

into remnants of dusk.

He called me beloved,

as if his tender words

would shame any onslaught of tragedy, 

somehow keep me safe from sorrow's clutches.

He called me querida,

as though such fervent declarations

could make a thousand miles evaporate,

bring me to his distant shore.

He calls me his only, his own -

I answer his embrace by gathering 

succulent flowers into a fragrant harvest

to leave scattered upon our doorstep,

perhaps to delay the coming of darkness, 

perhaps to hasten the arrival of dawn.

poem for this moment

"Poetry is a life-cherishing force. For poems are not words, after all, 

but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary 

as bread in the pockets of the hungry." 

                                                                                — Mary Oliver

How I have craved 

the lavender of your laughter,

the wisteria of your weariness 

when you lay your jacket aside,

done as is the day ...

and then you come to me.

How you have saved me

from clinging vines of chaos,

from numb emptiness of stars 

too long dead, their light lingering

as an afterthought, a cold memory.

Your music wrapped each chord around me,

a comfort in darkness, a smile I could not see,

a gleaming jewel waiting only for sunlight

to describe its edges, its facets, its dominions;

we are created from stone and fire, 

composed of water and air ...

and then I come to you.

From Beyond

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Mirrors of solitude held within release a shimmer 

when eyes overflowing by love's purest gaze creates 

in us a painter divine; and so, we swathe our silhouettes with adoration 

what there is to love beneath fiery flesh tossed and tainted by aches. 

Once our hearts become distinct to another's glance, 

we begin to envision more truth than we ever knew, 

more laughter than we ever imagined possible 

upon this isle of sorrow - 

we shed the skin of cynicism, rise up into the sun's warmth, 

embrace wisdom with new songs written within rhythms 

of our now synchronized hearts. 

We finally befriend our own natures 

and weave light away from shadow's grasp.

Retraction on page 39C

Poetry is not dead

It has not been seen in silk-lined coffins

or seen in the ICU gasping for final breaths

not in the ER with a concussion or a severed artery 

or in the alley, left unconscious by a stockbroker's 

well-placed punch or a drunk's misplaced anger

It does not whimper in shadowed corners

or cry for help from distracted strangers

It does not beg for bread or soup or debate or alms

but it might break into song

in an unexpected moment

It does not care for currency 

or validation from upturned noses

or retreat to dusty shelves of libraries

turned into museums instead of concert halls

It appreciates silent thought and quiet philosophies

offered by open hands flowering with kindness

not closed minds full of gray unpenetrable fog

It does not dress for dinner or pay heed to idle gossip 

the latest celebrity's faux pas or felony or who disappeared last week

It won't pay their bail or represent them in a court of irrelevant peers

It is not a smiling anchor reciting untold horrors

bright teeth gleaming madly at disastrous headlines

One may find it at water's edge

eagerly anticipating a child's homemade boat to sail

or the first smooth stone they've ever skipped

laughing as it makes ripples in warm currents

concentric circles to travel around an eventual world

yet it may hum slow jazz rhythms snapping fingers

as the world's pulse begins anew with rising light

Poetry is not dead

It is only waiting 

Divergence (Inspired by Margaret Atwood)

                                Inspired by the poem "Variation on the Word Sleep" by Margaret Atwood

I know the moment sleep takes you, leading you away from me, 

into landscapes sculpted by unspoken thoughts,

molded by forgotten memories.

Your breath slows, a quiet metronome - 

its rhythm soothes me as I lay beside you, 

wondering where you are now, if the air is sweet.

When you move, perhaps a whisper 

shall escape your slightly-parted lips,

a murmur I cannot translate, but can only feel.

When a tempest shakes you, disturbs your peace, 

I put my hand upon your shoulder 

or place my leg gently over yours, calming those tides

that would submerge you far from my reach;

no matter where or how you slip, I will catch you.

Darkness and sorrow would diminish each of us

if we had no arms to hold us as these long hours pass;

loneliness defines our secret thoughts unshared.

When your chest rises and falls, 

I am there, watching. 

I am your lighthouse keeper - 

as seas batter the infinite shoreline,

as the moon recedes behind the mist,

I hold the brightest light steady and aloft, 

a beacon designed to bring you safely home.