A grim, not so fairy tale

Thirsting for change,
any kind of change,
inventing each crisis as they went along,
justification came while
drinking from a fountain of
spewing disaster,
its sour water satiating  some lower
version of themselves,
freeing an archaic, useless, paralyzing
ideological belief from their bowels
passing the cup of acrimony,
urging more to drink from it

till their breath reeked of the flatulence
of political diarrhea
they cheered, they rolled themselves
in the stench of it,
blaming the man with the brown skin
for invented fictions

blaming the man who had brought
sanity and fairness to them
but they thirsted for an orange chaos
choosing to roll in the disease afoul
dyeing for causes
that were not causes
unable to afford the very doctors
they would later need to 

cure them from their
political Dysentery

there lies the irony
when people believe bullshit
for the sake of change.

©Brenda-Lee Ranta

formation

Frosted-pane glass, obscures vision
in opaque design, imaginary images
she traces with her finger tips, as the
cloud formations distort and change

she looks out at nothing, full of things
in her ruminations, her insanity pulls
the rip cords, till she is unbent, spent,
ludicrous musings to empty rooms

This is the land of lunacy, without
a moon, or any celestial forbearer
to render her lucid; the monsters
have sketched for her alone, while

She bends a crooked finger as
one exceedingly long fingernail, traces
the imaginary images, again and again

 

©Brenda-Lee Ranta

 

Oh, one last thing…

I am approaching my 59th birthday.
I am somewhat reflective of late;
meandering through my memories.
I accept that I made some fretful
choices for myself, on this sojourn.
I accept that I have lived the human
experience for most of my life, only
discovering how to live from the soul,
within the last decade.

I was kicking ~ screaming all the way,
in my attempt to  finding some love,
some mercy, inside for myself; finally
succumbing to my humanity, loving my
divinity.  It has been a tumultuous ride
through time, however the lessons have
been learned.  Some were learned several
times, repeatedly, until I finally absorbed
them into my psyche and my soul.

My only sadness, is that there is more in
rear view mirror, that what is ahead, just
when I learned the meaning of unconditional
love, just when I discovered that the only
things that are important, are in the passion
that keeps you up at night, that you ‘have to
do’ with a fervor, a fire, that makes you so
happy that it can bring tears to your eyes.
For me, it has been art, writing, singing,
creating!  But I sold out, to earn a living!
Now I am passionately in love with creating.

So, to the younger generation out there, my
beautiful children and grandchildren, listen
to that little voice you keep pushing down inside;
the one that says, ‘I am in love with this, it
gives me joy and purpose, I am meant for this!’
Don’t wait until you are almost 60 years old to
decide what you want to be when you grow up.
Oh, one last thing.  Find a partner that fits, that
champions all your ideas, gives you courage,
support and vice versa.  If they are a dream-quasher,
then you have sold yourself  short.  I also found that
for myself, in the last decade.  Better late than never!

©Brenda-Lee Ranta

 

 

 

thoughts….

efficient.
always the description, the definition, the work-a-day face
of society

wanton.
always the craving to do more, be more, create more, before
I die.

struggle.
between paying the piper to exist and being free to be who I
really am.

growing older does this to a person, facing mortality square in 
the face, knowing you were meant to be more than you are, 
while a clock ticks, without mercy.  

it isn’t a race, but there is a certain despair for the wasted time, 
the wasted years, when you thought you had all the time in the
world, the drone years, droned…on

promise.

that I will not squander the remains of the day on that which holds no
meaning.

dreams.

of the things that I value, a wedding on a beach with my lover, promises
kept always.

©Brenda-Lee Rantaaviary-image-1487615755018

Burrs

Today was a walk through an abandoned garden; waist high in barbs, thistles and burrs.

They scratched at my legs, picky – piercing, they clung to my clothes in clumps

Of course this is the metaphor, when you had little sleep, went to work irritated and frazzled

The burrs rubbed at me all day, pushing at my resolve, while I fought anxiety and uncertainty

I realize this is my life some days, when beautiful flowers turn into thorns and burrs.

Tomorrow may be lilacs, daffodils, lavender or honeysuckle or I may have to pull at the burrs.

©Brenda-Lee Ranta

travelers……..

Jesus
Buddha
travelers of the enlightened path
never imagined a cult following
of doctrine
of dogma
of man-made rules
designed to keep
us guilty
born in guilt
even in our innocence
born to be guilty

But they did not conceive this
they did not come from it
they did not return to it
the message skewed,
twisted, by those seeking
to have power
to know control

Jesus
Buddha
travelers of the enlightened path
tried to remind us of the divine
which is not mired in this density
this murky, heavy, energy of guilt
they desired
that we recall our
perfection
to strive for it
to love ourselves
as the extension of Source, of God
of divinity
of the Universe
of eternity

©Brenda-Lee Ranta

Torn Poems~Hugh Dysart

Poems torn and pieced together from memories and yesterday’s, from loves slow dances and tomorrow’s second chances. This is a remarkable collection of poems that explores social injustice, somber blues, and love – lost and found. Despite life’s ups and downs, this book is uplifting, upbeat and positive. Dysart has an impressive range and can spin words into stories that truly pull you in and inspire. This lyrical and melodic prose is from an extraordinarily gifted and diverse mind and will not fail to captivate you. If this poetry collection were a CD, it would be loud with eclectic beats, filled with live and uncut records. An album too special for the radio. Something you will play and devour in its entirety, never skipping a track – stuck on a repeat loop. It will speak to you on a deeply personal level and take you on a tumultuous tour of emotions. Torn Poems – torn from the soundtrack of life. – L. J. Diaz author of Catching Snowflakes51tzvQNT7vL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_

Won’t – Author Brenda-Lee Ranta — Creative Talents Unleashed

I was walking down a hallway yesterday caught an image of myself there in the glass I was surprised, I didn’t even recognize the image of the woman looking back I strolled through life, thought I had the answers Thinking every year, I grew wiser all the time Would make myself believe I […]

via Won’t – Author Brenda-Lee Ranta — Creative Talents Unleashed

Lair

In the writer’s lair of coffee cups and midnight

‘So where has it been hidden long?
this hunger of rampant passion
that wakes me often in my sleep
buried there, my secrets deep

heavy lidded eyes shall trace
the silhouette of naked form
to burn forever, etch your mind
and mine, forever kept alive

 Seek me fervent in your dreams
of tender longings, tangled sheets
on summer nights, our autumn life,
though limbs still crave lusts solace
through love’s sweet sighs, whence
we succumb to that which hearts
have pled for, bled for, held forever,
as surely as the Nightingale sings’

Cigarette burning, wafting up to meet my words

 

©Brenda-Lee Ranta

Photo Pixabay.com

 

 

 

 

 

Introducing Hugh Dysart “Torn Poems”

I am extremely proud and thrilled about the release of my Sweetys first book.

Creative Talents Unleashed

Torn Poems

Preface  . . .

I am a musician and a poet.

I am a drummer with a penchant for writing lyrics.  Somewhere along the way, my lyrics became prose.

A verse here, a bridge there; where a collection of words, fall out of my head.

I surprise myself at times, not having any idea where they come from or where they go. Not viewing things in a one-dimensional way, I always see the flip side.

This is my eclectic collection of prose and poems. Some are simply waiting for the hook, the melody line. Others are simply what they are; my views on politics, religion, social injustice, children, and love.

Words have no limitations.

It’s been a long ride, having lived

the dream of a musician on the road

I have a few things left to say.

Welcome to my world of “Torn Poems

Torn Poems–Now Available

View original post 12 more words

About the Author: Meet Hugh Dysart

Very proud of my fella. He has a wonderful book coming out!! ❤

Creative Talents Unleashed

302579_242748782435233_4426381_n

About the Author

Hugh Dysart

Creative Talents Unleashed is both thrilled and honored to announce the upcoming release of Torn Poems by Author Hugh Dysart.

Hugh Dysart is a long-time musician, songwriter, poet and lyricist. Hugh has been playing blues and rock for almost fifty years and writing for fifteen. His greatest influences have always been music based, appreciating the genius of both the music and lyrics written by The Beatles, Led Zeppelin and Rolling Stones. It had has greatly influenced his writing of lyrics.

It is seen in his works, that he holds strong beliefs in social justice, very liberal views regarding human rights in a quest for equanimity.

He has discovered a love of writing poetry and prose; a natural progression as a lyricist. He resides in Timmins, Ontario Canada, with his soul mate and is a father of two and a grandfather.


Torn Poems

Preface …

I am a…

View original post 155 more words

After 20 years of working in a law related field, I always wanted to say this out loud!!

Things Your Mother Never Thought She Would Have to Tell You

 

  • If you get arrested with a crap load of narcotics or controlled drugs or substances, never say, “I was holding it for a friend!” The police really want to meet the smooth talker who convinced you and another 30 guys sitting in jail for holding his drugs for him.
  • If you are held for bail, do not use your phone call to ask your mother to be your “surety.” This is especially applicable if you are forty years old, never had a job a day in your life and still live with her.
  • Nor should you apply for your very first job at 4:45 p.m., the evening before your court appearance, trying to convince the court that you have a great job prospect.
  • On court appearance day, do not roll out of bed, slip your feet in your slippers and head out the door.
  • Do not attend court in a stained t-shirt and P.J. pants. Ladies, do not come to court with Cheerios still stuck in your hair and please find your bra. 
  • Do not make a breathless appearance through the court doors in beach attire, it is not an audition for ‘Bay Watch.’
  • Do not attend court with a super-sized Slurpee and sunglasses in your hair as a headband.
  • Do not attend court with earphones with the intent to listen to your favorite tunes during court proceedings.
  • Do not entertain other court attendees in the waiting area by boasting about your long list of B&E’s. You could be sitting beside a witness for the prosecution.  It impresses no one but you.
  • When standing before the judge, do not act as though your attendance is a favor to him. You were ordered under the law attend.
  • Eye rolling and deep sighs are not helpful in convincing the court to go easy on you.
  • Do not drink a bottle of vodka before court.
  • Do not bring your children to your court appearance. Desensitizing small children to criminal activity is just a bad idea.
  • Do not chew bubble gum or blow bubbles in court. Snapping your gum is also rude.
  • Do not apply lipstick and eyeliner during court proceedings.
  • Do not attempt to clean your ears with a paperclip you spotted on the floor.
  • Do not text on your phone to your significant other while in the court room.
  • Finally, do not wear a t-shirt to court that reads, “Experienced Drug Dealer or Enjoy Cocaine!”

©Brenda-Lee Ranta

 

The Secret Gardener

Calling him ‘cantankerous,’ was being kind
Waggling a crooked, nicotine stained finger,
in the faces of children using the walkway
bordering his Snap Dragons and Marigolds

Promptly at six thirty every evening, he stood
guard, armed with a black rubber hose, water
soaking the black soil until the foul smell of
goat manure could be detected in the air

Children assumed he, with stained dirty
finger nails, was the one emitting a stench
of funky dung; holding their noses, visibly
mocking him, as they strode past his yard.

He was the tale children spoke of around a
campfire at night, holding flashlights beneath
their chins, contorting their faces till lips curled
in just the right grimaces, mimicking his scowl

Watching his house from across the street at
night, when all the windows were blackened,
they imagined him eating dog food out of a can,
scooping it with clawed fingers, licking each one

Routines, fodder for their imagination, when he,
stooped over, would make his way up the street,
his hooded eyes darting back and forth, warily;
disappearing through the doors of the market

Re-entering daylight, his two packages wrapped
in butcher paper, tied with string with a paper bag
tucked under his other arm,  he shuffled down the
street, muttering to someone who wasn’t there

Children followed at a safe distance, elbowing
one another, daring one of them to throw pebbles
at him, no one dared; they imitated his walk,
shuffling behind him, till he reached his yard again

It was six thirty on Friday night when they watched;
dragging his black rubber hose behind him, the water
trickled from the spout onto his pants, standing near
the walk, mouth hanging agape, looking downwards

Snap Dragons and Marigolds had all been uprooted,
strewn upon his lawn, dead, wilted, roots clinging
Sinking slowly to his knees, dropping the hose beside
him; tears slipped down his cheeks, onto the black soil

He stayed there a long time,
just like that
They watched him a long time,
but never went back

©Brenda-Lee Ranta
Photo Pixabay.com

We are open for submissions! This is your opportunity to share your poems and prose on this very important subject.

Submitting to independent publishers like Creative Talents Unleashed guarantees your work will remain yours, and we give each writer a fair share of publicity. All the proceeds for our anthologies go into a “starving artist” fund, in order to give new authors a chance at publishing their very own book at little to no cost. […]

via Now Accepting Anthology Submissions: I Have A Name — Creative Talents Unleashed

without etiquette

Love is never polite
it never knocks
nor does it ask permission
It barges its way in
tears a path to the heart
taking no prisoners
It holds enormous power   
bringing you to your knees
It has the ability to
make you fly, to soar
never tepid in its approach
it is brazen, bold and fierce

Love is never polite,
has no time for pleasantries
Love does not fence sit,
either it is alive or dead
There is no median for love
immeasurable is its strength

It never asks permission.
Ever.

©Brenda-Lee Ranta
photo pixabay.com

A life in a face

He never turned sour; never allowed himself to become angry or jaded.
He walked away from the fight; just kept walking till he ran out of sidewalk;
spent thirty years living at the end of the yellow brick road, where grass began.
Made his life in the thickets, periodically changing his cardboard roof top when
the rains soaked through, good cardboard was hard to come by these days.

He would wander up the sidewalk, when his scraps of food dwindled, or after
he had been robbed by his fellow forest sleepers, his job was to hunt out food
the restaurants had discarded at the end of the day, hoarding it all in a cart
he pushed for miles.  He stopped to rest on the same bank steps, to watch the
earth people scurrying past him, in their fine suits and brief cases in tow.

He liked to watch as the pretty girls walked away, their heels click, clicking
with each step, like a mariachi band playing, their hips swaying back and forth.
He held his leather worn face in his hands, watching them, entranced; as he tried
to recall the scent a woman left on his skin, when he had loved them, long ago.
But that was then, in another time; he stood and followed the yellow brick road
to his cardboard home.
 

©Brenda-Lee Ranta
photo pixabay.com

Pockets

I have large pockets for storage;
deep emotional pockets stuffed
with tender, loving moments
painful gaffes, slights and blunder

When you first put on a spring coat,
have you ever found a ten-dollar bill
hiding in an inside pocket, forgotten?
My emotional pockets are akin to that

Sudden melodies on the radio, have me
digging deep in a pocket, retrieving
the moment in time or the garment at
the back of the closet, worn that night

A photo slipped out of the crease of my
wallet, I’m back in my pocket, recalling
the scent of my baby’s hair, or the flush
of her sweet cheeks in the morning

I dig in my pockets when I am ill at ease,
recalling a memory when I felt just as I
do right now, remembering the bitter
taste of it, putting it back in my pocket

I love and detest my emotional pockets,
yet I covet them, for they belong to me
Lately they are stuffed by love notes from
a man who has forced me to add pockets

I just keep sewing more
each day.

 

©Brenda-Lee Ranta
Photo Pixabay.com

 

 

day drifters

The day drifters sit on their laurels
Hot air balloons drift by carrying
away baskets of their intentions
Floating upon a breeze till they
are no longer visible to the eye

The day drifters think time is endless
Tomorrow they will begin, what never
begins at all; stacking the baskets with
each passing day; tearing at the seams,
bogged down, barely rising an inch

The day drifters let’s time pass by,
until the hot air balloons can’t rise;
groaning from the strain of refuse
The day drifters stopped dreaming,
procrastinator turned acrimonious

Old and bitter, the day drifters stare
dispassionately, up at the empty sky

©Brenda-Lee Ranta
Photo Pixabay.com

Clearly See

do not look upon my face
I will not meet your gaze
my pain belongs to me

not for assumptions
not for consumption
nor your vapid sympathy
dissected by this imagery

 do not look upon my plight
to what shall you compare
my story belongs to me

not open to scrutiny
not open to crudity
your sense of high morality,
with vague eyes, I clearly see

©Brenda-Lee Ranta

Photo Pixabay.com
this piece is in response to an
inspiration call by Creative
Talents Unleashed…

Desire

Fragrant is the lusty night
clinging heavy on flesh
scent of desire pervading
Touch me, I am woman
Hold me, I am child
Kiss me, I am lover

Lay your head upon me
my womb is conception
for love, for you, for life
My limbs are strong
My skin is soft
My mind is quick
A wick to your flame

Clinging heavy on flesh
Fragrant is the lusty night
With you

©Brenda-Lee Ranta
photo Pixabay.com

An excerpt from “Allegories a Thirst for Connection”

Fused

We are the reverberation of voices from the past,
fused with them, going on where their lives left off,
continuing their stories, not with their pens; fresh
authors writing new chapters, still they are beating
hearts within us through each generation, they go on

fused to the tilled soil
fused to the battle fields
fused to their poverty
fused to their wealth

 they go on

fused to an infants first cry
fused to the gas chambers
fused to the cotton fields
fused to Belgium castles

 they go on

fused to the impressionist painting
fused to the scores of Schumann
fused to the smoky blues clubs
fused to the ancient scripts of Egypt

 We carry the whispers of the ones long departed,
bound to them ethereally, eternally, taking their forms,
repeating with every sunrise, dyeing in their sunsets,
lamenting their concerns, weeping their sorrows,
joyful in revelries, peace in contemplation, pacification

 they go on

fused to our ceaseless longings
fused to our search for meaning
fused to our need for redemption
fused to our desire for sanctification

they go on
when we go on

©Brenda-Lee Ranta
“Allegories –  a Thirst for Connection” 

http://www.ctupublishinggroup.com/brenda-lee-ranta-.html

 

 

 

Parable

The Jackals have circled;
birds with broken wings
shall always draw them

Snarling, bare toothed,
to fight over the spoils,
foaming mouth prevails

Lame bird awaits it’s fate
a victory to hungry prey,
survival of the fittest

Last life lesson to the bird
winged flight is freedom,
never to be taken for granted

©Brenda-Lee Ranta
photo courtesy of Pixabay.com

Petals

Picking the petals off a daisy
‘she loves me
she loves me not
she loves me’

anxiety has rebounded
fighting within herself
doubting her abilities
questioning her value
demands pushing her
cornered, a trapped dog

picking the petals off a daisy
‘give me more
I have no more
give me more’

fear sucks out her breath
suffocated in her pain
questions her imaginings
closed doors, phone calls,
hidden meanings dance
swimming in her mind

picking the petals off a daisy
‘he loves you
he loves you not
he loves you’

only way out is herself
she sleeps without rest
has felt this all before
fear revisited, a reminder
she isn’t invincible at all
strength, a fragile thing

picking the petals off a daisy
‘I am worthy
I am not
I am worthy’

©Brenda-Lee Ranta

 

Primordial

She heard the whirring sound of her fan,
rain pelting her window above her head,
soft chimes tinkling in a neighbor’s yard

Enveloped by darkness, head deep in her pillow;
familiar feelings, the sweet security of childhood,
ensconced in soothing sounds, in downy hugs

Sensory pleasures ignite primordial emotions,
the visceral is awakened, sub consciousness
returning us softly to the womb; its darkness

swaddled in its warmth
lulled by its sound

 

©Brenda-Lee Ranta

Silent be the words

Wrapped legs encircled him
a lovers embrace; flesh on flesh
heat flushed faces, droplets on brows

Hips, thighs, undulating dances
ferocity of the Tango, stiletto beats
staccato movement, torrents of exaltation

Sacred is the dance floor of linen and lace
ravished by candlelight, trembling limbs;
redundant are words when bodies are speaking

 

©Brenda-Lee Ranta
Photo Pixabay.com

Morning Thoughts, Blessing to You <3

One of the most renown, women in the past century, Mother Theresa of Calcutta, was once asked a question.  Her response was brilliant:
“I was once asked why I don’t participate in anti-war demonstrations. I said that I will never do that, but as soon as you have a pro-peace rally,
I’ll be there.”

A visionary, albeit highly enlightened, Mother Theresa touched on a poignant fact; it is impossible to fight negativity with negativity.  Can we really stop war by waging war?  Can we really have equanimity, when we profile people based on skin color, clothing, sexual preference, sexual gender or social status?  In fact, more would be amassed as a human race, if we lauded the diversity, see the beauty in our differences rather than focus on what is not familiar.

Should we sit idly by and just let geo politics subjugate people?  Should we be silent when physically challenged persons are ridiculed?  Should be looking at persons who wear clothing that is different, as a potential terrorist?  Fear is a part of our lower nature and has no place in human interaction; for there will be positive and negative attributes in every human being.

In conclusion, I am with Mother Theresa on this one.  After some deep rumination on the subject, I agree, the word “Anti” anything only invites
more Anti something.  So let us be:

Pro peace
Pro inclusion
Pro-active approaches
Pro transparency
Pro inclusion
Pro equanimity
Pro human rights
Pro universal health care
Pro diversity
Pro green environment
Pro love
Pro freedom
Pro dignity for all
Pro fairness
Pro education
Pro women’s rights
Pro all lives matter
Pro honest government

Let us raise our voices in Pro Love…

c.w. Brenda-Lee Ranta

 

Woven Tightly

She had a proclivity for being a mother;
an inevitability, as sure as breathing
It was the innocence she longed for
in each baby’s face, the purity of soul
that touches our earth in bursts
with each new life
with each new heartbeat
with each first smile
with each sacred gift

Knowing childhood to be a brief miracle,
the inevitability that each child grows
It was the responsibility that awed her
through passing years, hoping she’s been
enough, done enough; instilling in them
human values
empathetic hearts
selflessness
kindness for all
self-love

She had a proclivity for loving deeply;
grateful for everyday she was “Mom”
Looking back at fatigue, unkempt rooms,
teen-aged angst, serious decisions,
her children’s victories, their defeats
She would never
have missed one
moment of it
memories of them

woven tightly,
forever in her soul.

©Brenda-Lee Ranta

woman-585955_1280

 

After all…

I believe the world is flat.
After all, some believe
coal to be a viable product
fracking is a great thing
there is no global warming

After all, some believe
in exploitation
degradation
segregation
alienation
marginalization

subjugation
deportation

desecration
desensitization

After all, some believe
woman means pussy
no means yes
white supremacy
might is right
education is dangerous
health care is for the rich

After all, some believe
the orange men
in Baroni suits
can turn back time
erase history
dumb down society
go back 50 years

I believe the world is flat
After all, anything is possible
In my flat world,
orange men
in Baroni suits,
slip of the edge
off the world
and float away

©Brenda-Lee Ranta

we can never know the secret pain that another carries within their hearts..

an excerpt from my book, ‘Allegories – a Thirst for Connection’
My book is a collection of prose that is an introspective view of the unknown struggles of everyday people, whereby we are woefully disconnected from them.  The second half of the book is prose about simple, everyday things that can connect us..  Blessings to all!

To get your copy:  CTU Publishing.com, under my author name and Amazon.com

PicMonkey Collage

Wish

 

I wished my love
peace
that it may dwell
forever
within his heart

For what is love
if it not be shared
in a spirit of peace

I wished my love
wholeness
that he may feel it
forever
when he is with me

For what is love
if it not be shared
in wholeness

I wished my love
forever
that for eternity it
lives
within his soul

For what is love
if it not be shared
eternally

©Brenda-Lee Ranta

Sunny Side – Author Glenda Higgins

terrific author..

Creative Talents Unleashed

Everyone’s on the sunny side

Of the street but me

I looked but couldn’t see

I couldn’t remember the way

Can you? Do you want to go

To the place of innocence lost

Where someone loved you

Because you were there

All the way

Do you know the route?

What side do you walk on

I looked but couldn’t see

The sunny side of the street

Where the road leads

Only a fool can see

All the way

Do you think that’s silly

Or funny? Let’s laugh

And bounce balls found

In deserted drains

And listen to echoes

Of children’s laughter

From forgotten days

Held lovingly to ears

Do you hear it?

Get with it

Listen to poets

They know the way

To the stars in fields

Of white butterflies

Where some roads lead

And turtles soak up the sun

Everyone’s on the sunny side

Of the street but me

View original post 104 more words

Featured Writer: Kesau’c N. Hill — Creative Talents Unleashed

People Are Cold I’ve been through the cold and the pouring rains, through so much shit I don’t know who to blame; my life has been crazy. Mama, look what they’ve done to your baby… I come from that part of the Valley where the people are snow and the streets are cold. […]

via Featured Writer: Kesau’c N. Hill — Creative Talents Unleashed