Float and Fly

Float with me
to the open sea
out of the swamp
of these iniquities

Fly with me
to paradise lost
away from fear
hatred has wrought

This is a dream
of illusion

This is dream
of confusion

This is a dream
of delusion

This is a dream
This is a dream

Float with me
to ethereal spires
free your souls
from hate on fire

Fly with me
primordial peace
awakened to truth
is sweet release

This is a dream
of illusion

This is dream
of confusion

This is a dream
of delusion

This is a dream
This is a dream

 

©Brenda-Lee Ranta
photo courtesy of Pixaby.com

Crucible

So if they tell you that they love you
don’t let it swallow you whole
too many are gobbled up by words;
when monsters have claws, words shred
so if they touch your naked body,
consume your flesh, only to leave you
like an empty flask after they suck
the very contents out of you,
their words have served their purpose

So if they show you that they love you
it can swallow you whole, willingly
you will be consumed by the very
measure of it, ragged edges melting in
its crucible of longing, now satisfied,
sated, a soul ravaged by love without
conditions, renewing your belief, your
trust, filling the very contents of you;
loving purely for a higher purpose

the eyes will always see
when ears are deafened to empty words

Brenda-Lee Ranta
photo courtesy of tumblr.com

Too Much

She feels too much; learned to hide it well,
expert at swallowing it down, drinking pure
liquid bleach without so much as a whimper;
praying it would clean out her heart, wash
the pain away, smiling weakly, attempting
to put some kind of sparkle in her eyes,

pretending she was enough

pretending she was functioning

pretending she was brave

pretending she had value

she feels too much, living in a closet full
of peoples judgements, curled up in the
dark with what they think is appropriate;
to be buoyant, staying afloat, bobbing
along in a sea of uncertainty, but in reality
she is paralysed by fear, her only defence
is her pen and murky grins, because…

she feels too much

 

©Brenda-Lee Ranta
photo courtesy of Pixaby.com

My bluzzz

I was born to feel ‘the blues”
You know, down in my chest
where everything bigger than
me begins, like an ivy slowly
wrapping its vines around my
heart; a memory that seems
obscure, leaving nothing but
familiar remnants of itself

I was born to sing the blues,
the catfish caught on a line,
on long hot nights, swaying
hips, half closed eyes, wailing
steel guitars that play mournful
hymns, crooning my throaty
choruses, healing my lusty
soul, from places I can’t recall

My heart remembers
Somehow it knows….

©Brenda-Lee Ranta
photo courtesy of Pixaby.com

Sacrosanct

They gathered at the concave mirror when the circus came to town,
peering into the distorted images before them, it’s novelty enticing
They bought all the tickets to the rides, returning back to the mirror
daily, until the grotesque images became common place, clowns
entertained them with rancid words; they laughed all the louder,
begging for more, caught up in euphoria at the insane side show

The high-wire act held no attraction;
the orange faced, yellow clown hair
lured them to the show under the big
top; they clapped, sneered, cat-called,
nobody looking up anymore, pouring
over the edges of their seats, stuffing
faces with the greasy carnival food,
candy-floss staining obscene mouths

The carnival packed up their tents, stupefied faces craving more,
departing, holding the cheap trinkets, rabbits feet, trolls, little plastic
flags, tacky ball caps; heading home, but not before buying a final
ticket for the ‘really big sheooow,’ final performance of the yellow
haired clown, smug in his victorious performance, turning over to
him, their power, smiling; he had already forgotten about them

They stare at their TV screens hoping
to catch a glimpse of him once more,
but they weren’t feeling his adulation
Duped, left for dead in the fields where
they had gathered, remnants of his refuse
lay at their feet, while solemnly following
the hearse that carried the cold, dead body

of the sacrosanct

first comes denial
then comes mourning
one for the money
two for the show

©Brenda-Lee Ranta

Rough Days

Pull me thin, like twine unravelling

slowly, a little more each hour, till I am

as thin as one thread of a spiders web;

the weight of it tugging me downward,

spiralling, inches from the hard ground

 

A rough day can do that, syphoning out my

heart till I hit the pavement, twine undone

I pick up the tiny threads around my feet,

dragging my weary heart heavily behind me

 

Never blameless

Never blameless

 

©Brenda-Lee Ranta
photo courtesy of Pixaby.com

Author Brenda-Lee Ranta: Day for Dreams

Very pleased to share this excerpt from my book

Creative Talents Unleashed

Pink lace curtains

tinted the room in

rosewood silhouettes

Wispy light made

angular, danced

upon the walls

on a summer breeze

The large grey cat

stretched out on the

worn wood floor,

head resting on

fringes of a rag rug

The dog languished

in the sun slivers

Sundays were made

for dreams, for pauses

emptying coffee cups,

to toast well worn books;

words on wings

replacing schedules,

replacing compulsions

Sundays were made

for poets, for lovers,

bohemians and gypsies,

strumming faded guitars,

humming folk songs,

weaving daisy chains till

sunshine bid them goodnight.

© Brenda-Lee Ranta

myriad-of-perceptions

Excerpt from the book “Myriad of Perceptions”


brenda About the Author

Brenda-Lee Ranta resides in a small mining town, in Timmins, Ontario, Canada.  She has been employed with her local Police Service for 19 years. She shares her journey with her life partner, who is a musician, poet and lyricist; their rescue dog, Jake and…

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