Filigree dreams
dance on the fibre of
creationism – idealism

Weaving in and out of
our cambray garments,
love beads will be defined;
quietly germinating seeds
whuch vied to proliferate,
recorded on Polaroid photos
in a cigar box of optimism
and new idealisms
that never quite saw
the full light of day;
each time the box was
slammed shut in defeat

© Brenda-Lee Ranta

Trilogy Love Verses

No more, my wounds
fester, nor do they blister
I shall not run my tongue
along my abscesses;
nor be drawn to its scars
In our velveteen nights,
I close my eyes that I
may fuse to my memory,
the scent of your skin,
the rhythm of your breaths,
heartbeats alive in the rising
and falling of your breastbone

Where I made my bed
I have laid my head
Your voice shook me
from my vulnerability,
Feet touching feet,
eyes mirrored in eyes;
in chaos and uncertainty,
we are assuaged by our
return to tenderness,
made whole in loving
choices; no more shall
we dwell within our shadows

Pasts and futures fused
in presence – present
lines blurred, seeping
into each other psyche,
Ink drying on communal
papers, sky writing on
ceiling-less skies, folding
back the bed sheets
of yesterday’s love,
tomorrows yearning
already sated, as we
we, the reflections of
two souls fused together.

©Brenda-Lee Ranta

A Little Realism

(I will not apologize)

I was in the checkout;
my basket heavy
Everything seemed
surreal suddenly;
shopping I mean.
Surreal that while I’m
impatient to get to my
car with my usual
shopping anxiety;
my neighbouring
country is holding
small brown children
in cages

I have a rescue dog.
He was in a cage
for eight weeks with
his sad brown eyes;
little ribs visible
through his fur, so
we took him home,
loved him, fed him,
worried about his
separation anxiety
if we left our house
without him

He becomes so distraught
that he pees on our floor,
overturns his food dish,
then watches out the
window for us till we return.
He has a name, Jake;
the name he came with.

So, I’m standing in line
and I’m thinking,
Jesus Christ,
in our neighbouring
country, small children,
babies under the age
of two, are being held
in cages for months
at a time; I mean our
our own human children.

The talking heads and
the pundits spend 24
hours discussing a lunatic,
guving his insane behavour
crediblility as a leader,
debating his pathological
tendencies ad nauseam

Jesus Christ….

In the name of God,
when is somebody
actually going to
do something and
rescue the children
who are in cages?

Have we all gone crazy?

Circa f-ing 2019

© Brenda-Lee RantaIMG_20190721_013608_030

The Square Earth by Jeffery Martin — Creative Talents Unleashed

When your time is not your own how much solace can be found in small bits of memory constantly interrupted by the environment not of your choosing Can pictures truly melt the reality of brick steel and barbed wire where the intent is to cast you headlong into a brutish fog separating you […]

via The Square Earth by Jeffery Martin — Creative Talents Unleashed

Into the Beyond by Hugh Dysart — Creative Talents Unleashed

Feels like I’m sinking, in the cold quicksand, of age and doubt The Ides of confusion, passed unnoticed, leaving footprints, in the warm sand, of someone’s memory Feels like I’m floating, down northern streams The scent of new babies, old stories, happy endings Drifting ever faster, approaching the land, of waterfall rainbows Cascading […]

via Into the Beyond by Hugh Dysart — Creative Talents Unleashed



Today the world seemed
forever changed.
The sky had dimmed;
a heavy pall covers the earth.
If you see me walking,
my head bent downward,
my feet trudging ahead
slowly; know that I am in deep
contemplation about how
we have somehow failed
our children; our grandchildren.
Know that it keeps me awake
at night, filled with knowledge
that people will sell their
values to fill their pockets
or gain power.
Know that I never taught
my children to hate or to
judge anyone based on
appearances, yet they have
to live in a world that does.
Know that every history book
written has told the same story
but the masses have again
developed a convenient amnesia.
Know that I did not actually
recognize the moment the
world became askew, but
I woke up today and saw the
sky had dimmed, despite a
searing heat.

© Brenda-Lee Ranta 2019



If I gave you my tongue,
could you speak my thoughts?
Could you utter the words
of consternation that float,
ugly above my head?
Would you speak aloud,
the inner arguments I plead
to my self-magistrate,
with vehemence and contrition
as an apology for my life?
If I give you my voice, as
tiny as a childs; wavering
and frightened, cracking with
each syllable and inference?

Yet, though I am grown, I am
still yearning for the acceptance
that never came; feeling silly,
I plead once again my sad case
to my inner magistrate. I am
bound by the verdict of the jury.
I am bound by a jury of one.
If I instead give you my tongue,
could you speak my judgement?
Could you speak it with truth?

© Brenda-Lee Ranta 2019

“I accept myself.
I am flawed.
It is my imperfection
that sets me apart from
your imperfection.
I embrace all of myself
and the temple I am
clothed by,
with gratitude.h
Perfection can only be
found in the place we
first came from and
I spend every day trying
to recall the glorious realm
that is home; living a life in
In a manner that will make worthy to return there”

© Brenda-Lee Ranta 2019d335d11ac00ba6bc4ea3657cb3e7f24d



On knee fall
we send supplications
Just one pause from
drinking of the sour grape
in a vinyard that once
flooded with sweet nectar
We that pruned
our own branches
lest the land rest for
a time and again
Repose in our silences
giving due cogitation
to seeds we have sown
in great haste
in great waste
till our knees bruise as purple
as the souls of the reviled

© Brenda-Lee Ranta 2019

Murmuring 1 by Brenda-Lee Ranta — Creative Talents Unleashed

two voices are speaking to you. One is the mind the other is the heart only one is worth having a conversation with © Brenda-Lee Ranta Excerpt from the book Heart Sounds $13.95 Plus Shipping ~ Available at CTU Publishing Group and About the Author Canadian born, Brenda-Lee Ranta resides in her […]

via Murmuring 1 by Brenda-Lee Ranta — Creative Talents Unleashed

Featured Author: Brenda-Lee Ranta — Creative Talents Unleashed

Brenda-Lee Ranta composed her first poem at the age of seven. Throughout her life, she used prose as a means of logging her experiences in a life which has been under ‘constant construction.’ Amazing to her, is that at the age of 58, CTU Publishing Group published her first book, “Myriad of Perceptions,” to be […]

via Featured Author: Brenda-Lee Ranta — Creative Talents Unleashed

Eulogy for a Life


Walking by the familiar
places, I am a stranger.
Mystical to live in the same body, now detached from a life I once lived
Another woman wore my skin but I do not know that young petulant imposter.
She is just some stranger who once shared my identity; lived in a Victorian
house, lined with ancient oak trees where large black squirrels would chatter. She had not a clue what she was doing or who she even was.
I don’t think I knew her at all. We are nothing but strangers now.

© Brenda-Lee Ranta 2019

Distant Drum

“Rhythms hanging
in the night sky
skipping upon stars,
as percussive
I see him there
on this moon lit night;
his changing images
lighting a pathway
He and I beneath
the same black skies
connecting the stars
a thousand miles apart
connecting hearts in
rhythms that are
calling me back home”

© Brenda-Lee Ranta 2019wallpaper-978000_1280

My Inspiration

My maternal grandmother, aka Memere, has been on my mind often, of late.
When she passed on, she was just five months shy of turning one hundred years old. Because of her longevity, my own children had the great fortune of knowing her, if only briefly.

I often see posts asking, “what person had the biggest influence on your life?” Memere is always the first to come to my mind. She retained the naivete of a Quebec farm girl with a particular wisdom I have carried in my heart. I adored her! ❤

One of the most memorable anecdotes took place when she was ninety-two years old, riding up the elevator at the Seniors Home she was residing in. My mother and my aunt were with her and a few other residents who were there with their walkers and canes. In complete innocence, she whispered in French to my mother and aunt that “everyone is so old in this place!” My mother giggled out loud…Memere was ninety-two years old. There is deep meaning in that story. Memere didn’t measure her life by numbers, it was measured primarily by a ‘joie de vivre!’

I believe her secret to a long life was to never have a visage that declared to everyone that, “I have given up!”

Memere never answered the door without her lipstick on, slept faithfully with her kerchief tied around her coiffed hair and cold cream on her face. She said her prayers kneeling beside her bed at night and was always exceedingly generous to people with her time. She cared for my grandfather lovingly, by cooking all his favorites, meticulously ironing all his clothes and working beside him in their huge vegetable garden.

I was the fortunate one, being the first born of her grand-children. She would cut out paper dolls for me, set me up with my own rolling pin at the end of the counter when making pies. She sewed dresses for my dolls on her old Singer sewing machine and made teddy bears from left over fabric. She actually took me to see “The Planet of the Apes,” when it arrived the movie theatre, dressed in her linen dress and nylon stockings. I don’t recall if she liked the movie but I loved it because she went with me.

In my early childhood years, she was a foster mother and kept many children, some I recall fondly, long before foster parenting was even a thing. She won “mother of the year,” three years running. I realize now, that having been a foster parent myself for many years is directly attributed to Memere’s great example and profound love of children.

When Memere was in her eighties, in her little French accent, she enquired of my cousin and me, “Tell me my girls, I been wondering – me, what do the lez-beans do?” We were suddenly agog at the innocence and profundity with which she asked, but we bursted out in giggles at the impossibility of explaining the sexual mechanics of things to her, let alone her ability to comprehend the science behind sexual preference and orientation. “I told her simply, “they love each other Memere. If you went 85 years without knowing how, I’m not the person to ask, go ask my Mom!” Her naivete was astounding and I still wonder if I should have explained the sexuality of it, to this day. She was one of the most inclusive people I ever knew. When my own son came out to me, had she been alive, she would have loved him unconditionally.

When the call came that Memere was failing and that if I wanted to see her I should come now, I boarded a plane and went immediately. It had been two years since she recognized my mom and my aunt as her daughters, often asking them, “have you seen my daughters, do you know my daughters?” It was painful for them to repeatedly tell her that they were her daughters! I held trepidation about the fact that she likely didnt know me anymore.

I nervously entered her room, shocked by her snow white hair, lips without the stain of lipstick, as tiny as a baby bird. Her cornflower blues eyes met mine as I bent down and looked into her face. There was instant recognition! “Ma Belle!” she said over and over, pushing my hair from around my face, stroking my cheek. My mother and aunt cried openly. “She waited for you!”

I spent her last week on this earth, pushing her in a wheelchair, stroking her face, her unblemished legs, studying her hands, listening to her respond to her last rites. She asked me in French if I remembered making cookies with her, if I remembered the doll she made dresses for?” It was an honour and a priveledge to be with a woman in her final days, who had given her life to us. It was also fitting that her daughters were alone with her when she finally went home.

I looked into my mirror this morning..I am forty years to being one hundred. It is just a number, isn’t it Memere?

© Brenda-Lee Ranta 201920190430_114317

A Prayer for the Prey by Paul Brucker — Creative Talents Unleashed

The sky is a mouth wide open, waiting for whoever wanders down the lane (you’ll do in a pinch). That’s what became of Ruth, tidy, quiet, cheerful little Ruth. Even though a bag of seven wood lice was buried to appease the famished arms of the old ash tree. You see, you’ve only […]

via A Prayer for the Prey by Paul Brucker — Creative Talents Unleashed

I often wonder, as an observation,
if there is not a flaw, or an innate itching
in the human psyche that prevents us
from moving forward. Is it malaise, boredom or complacency that causes the world to become ugly, when things are going well? Why do we undo ourselves, every time; almost as though it is a global decision to annahilate everything that is good about us, merely for the sake of change, while blaming the other guy? We are the other guy.

If there is one message I could leave for my own children and grandchildren, it would be to be truly grateful when life is going well and never grind their own wheels when that itching comes. At all costs, look for the love and be grateful. I pray their world never looks like this again.



Filigree dreams
dance on the edge of
creationism – idealism
Weaving in and out
of cambray garments,
that love beads defined
It quietly lives as a seed
waiting to proliferate
from the Polaroid photos
in a cigar box of optimism
and new ideologies
that never quite saw
the light of a new day
each time the box
slammed shut in defeat


Copyright: Brenda-Lee Ranta 2019


Triad Verses
of Dedications


No more, my wounds
fester nor blister
I shall not let my tongue
return to abscesses;
be drawn to the scabs
In your red velvet nights,
I close my eyes
I want only to know the
scent of your skin,
the rhythm of your breaths,
the heartbeats living
beneath your breastbone


Where I made my bed
I have laid my head
Your voice shook me
from vulnerability,
Feet touching feet,
images mirrored in eyes;
even in disillusionment
we are assuaged by a
return to tenderness,
in knowledge
that there be no solitude
in our choices
we, the shadows


Pasts and futures fused
in presence – present
Lines blurred, seeping
into each other heads
Ink dries on our communal
papers, this sky writing
on ceiling-less skies
that fold back the bed sheets
of yesterday’s love,
tomorrows yearning
forever sated
we, the shadows
of each other.

©Brenda-Lee RantaFB_IMG_1546484811020

An excerpt: Perceived by Brenda-Lee Ranta — Creative Talents Unleashed

Projection upon her, incongruous It wasn’t pessimism, it wasn’t illusory; very few comprehend the reality of it things slipped through fingers things dropped from lips smiling faces and long sighs contradictions predictions predilections Feelings spoke to her in the night, wakeful nights, where she cursed words out loud, to empty ceilings, to empty hearts Nights […]

via Perceived by Brenda-Lee Ranta — Creative Talents Unleashed

Featured Author: Brenda-Lee Ranta — Creative Talents Unleashed

Brenda-Lee Ranta composed her first poem at the age of seven. Throughout her life, she used prose as a means of logging her experiences in a life which has been under ‘constant construction.’ Amazing to her, is that at the age of 58, CTU Publishing Group published her first book, “Myriad of Perceptions,” to be […]

via Featured Author: Brenda-Lee Ranta — Creative Talents Unleashed

The Letter by Hugh Dysart — Creative Talents Unleashed

Someone sent me, naked words, in a dead-end letter Six pages of blank white, the scent of secrets kept, yearning to be told Tales of Cinderella damsels, captive in abandoned towers Exiled queens wandering, the halls of haunted castles Words appearing, vanishing, falling from a dead-end letter, someone sent me Behind closed eyes, […]

via The Letter by Hugh Dysart — Creative Talents Unleashed

Jargon by Brenda-Lee Ranta — Creative Talents Unleashed

They said he had ‘multiple exceptionalities with auditory processing and word finding issues, some right hemiplegia, mild Cerebral Palsy’ he was described by a series of apt medical adjectives and frightening terms that publicly defined him throughout his life High school years were spent hiding in the bathroom stalls to eat his lunch, avoiding […]

via Jargon by Brenda-Lee Ranta — Creative Talents Unleashed

Fishing on a Crescent Moon

His focus is the minutae,
the ovary of a daisy,
lady bug on a leaf;
I see a garden.
He sees the rain drops,
the way they bead on
the picture window;
I see a gloomy, wet day.
He holds his face up
towards the wind, his eyes
closed, his hair flutters;
I pull my collar closed.
He holds his favorite book,
he cites the author,
illustrated by . …….
I see a story book.
He spreads out his blocks,
rewinds the video again,
perfectly recreates a robot;
I saw a mess on the carpet.
His attention is always the
beginning, never the end;
a boy on a crescent moon,
he is holding a fishing rod.
He will watch this part a
thousand times more,
he will carefully sketch it,
erase it and do it again;
I saw a movie
by DreamWorks.
He saw himself
up in the sky.
He was fishing from
a crescent Moon.
He is a hairsbreath
away from heaven.
© Brenda-Lee Ranta

An excerpt from “Allegories – a Thirst for Connection” This piece was written for my father. Always a heartbeat away…………


The package arrived,
a photo of you inside;
creased, wrinkled,
but new to my eyes,
I examined every
feature of your perfect,
handsome face, looking
for traces of myself

How I wish I could
recall the sound of
your voice, your
laugh; I wish I could
recall the way you
walked or gestured
with your hands, I
bless what I do recall

Far too handsome to
be common, I look at
your image in awe,
longing to have had
you but a little longer.
I have spent my life
speaking to you in my
head, looking up at the
bedroom ceiling at night

Would you like me, the
tenor of my voice, the
poetry I write, the way
I raised my children?
Would you be proud
of how hard I worked;
forgive my poor choices,
loved me in spite of them?

Would you have agreed
with my opinions on
politics, God, spirituality?
I hope I made you proud,
even when I floundered,
even when I failed,
even when I hated myself,
even when I loved myself?

So many questions, when
I gaze into your eyes, your
paper eyes; that once really
saw me, touched me, held
my hand when I took my
first steps, playing peek a
boo on Saturday mornings,
the same eyes that loved

my mother,

and I miss you
all the pieces I can’t
remember, I miss those

all the more.

©Brenda-Lee Ranta