[on spirituality and religion...and butterflies]

[on spirituality and religion...and butterflies]

"...labels and categories have nothing to do with defining who I am and what I stand for - and what I resist, too. No single word or term will ever begin to describe me - I am enigmatic and familiar, all at once. The fact remains that I have my own beliefs about life, about its beginning, middle and end...I saw what I saw and knew what I knew and felt what I felt at the precise moment I needed to the most. I simply cannot look at the shore as the tide retreats and returns again and again, see a horse running freely without reins to tether them, experience the unique singularity of a beautiful sunset that will never be quite the same again or feel the whisper of a butterfly's wing as it rests upon my hand and then say I do not believe there is more to this life than we could ever imagine...Just because you can't see - or feel - something doesn't mean it doesn't exist. For instance, we know there is wind, because we feel it caress the nape of our necks...Others may choose to believe that our presence upon this physical plane is either an accident or a coincidence - I do not. I believe there are reasons for everything, as well as a time and place for each to occur. Physics. Cause and effect. Stars collide and butterflies are born. That is all. That, for me, is enough." 

— Wanda Lea Brayton, excerpts from "Spirituality and Religion"

Soundlessly (Inspired by Marc Creamore)

Inspired by "Shadows Limping Toward Some Blinding Light" by Marc Creamore


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Life's precious mandala spins soundlessly —

unseen by unseeing eyes, unheard by unlistening ears, 

untouched by unfeeling hands —

there is only a small space between, 

a veil waiting patiently to be parted;

its shadowed secrets beg for revelation.

Drawn by delicate fingers,

rainbows are revealed within the storm —

there is no time, no winding clock — 

there is only this moment, this Now.

Souls once torn apart by unmerciful tempests 

may choose to rise again or remain inert;

eventual shadows may slowly drape  

across an empty canvas of a quiet wall — 

dim light fights unending darkness 

with knowing strength,

the vivid polarity of a final breath.

Truth leans hard against pulsing hearts of dragons,

survivors of ten thousand wars, ten thousand revolutions,

defenders against inhumanity, against dire dread —

their wings are folded smoothly, 

slant and still beneath infinite warmth, 

ready to emerge once more, 

prepared to exhale their pertinent flames.

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.

Substance and Clarity (Inspired by Emily Dickinson)

Birds know my secret name, but do not tell —

butterflies follow me at a distance, circling

as I stroll in silent reverie, instinct guiding me 

as crickets keep cadence with my steps.

Beneath quietly fading stars, echoes resonate — 

it was here, somewhere inside this dream, 

Hope found me kneeling in depths of night. 

Gentle hands touched my face,

brushed hair tenderly from downcast eyes

then unveiled the purity of Faith.

Together, we discovered strength in Solitude,

whispered of Truth and its Beauty, 

Beauty and its Truth. 

Wings need not be woven with glistening feathers 

so we might rise, immersed in Grace, to be adrift 

within unmeasured moments, to reveal the breadth 

of a breathless landscape — to understand, to acknowledge — 

the sanctity, the serenity of Home.

Author note: 

Inspired by Emily Dickinson's poem (#314) beginning with the line,

"Hope" is the thing with feathers"

In the North Country

                                                          graphic artist unknown

In the North country, there is a man broad with intentions,

the Aurora Borealis peering over his shoulders

as he hoists stars upon his back.

He looks toward the Great Beyond

with something slightly less than awe,

having been there before, having felt the heft 

of its wind as it slowly arcs across a setting sun, 

pulling tendrils of clouds in its wake.

He eases himself beneath sharp edges of quietude,

strains of forgotten music pulsing oddly in his heart,

piercing his fingers until he drips with ink,

then paints trails of trials, tribulations, 

even unexpected joys.

The river moves, its currents

trembling over stones, aiming for the sea 

where nets are cast, a silent stroke tossed into the water 

where fish are leery of sudden movements, 

their wisdom hard-won by generations.

Shorelines change with each surge of tide,

carving maps with moments.

Each dirge digs a deeper hole,

fearful shards pricking every step

with all that still remains unknown.

The pain of hunger, the hunger of pain

etches verses into our eyes, our ears,

as revolutions take us to task for our bones, 

so still with swollen gestures

left undone. 

We burn, smoke hissing 

as embers become memories,

dusk descending upon the pond 

where fish swim even as they sleep, 

their dreams navigating wild mysteries.

Untended Garden (Inspired by Neruda)

Inspired by the last stanza of the poem "If You Forget Me" by Pablo Neruda

Wildflowers have no expectations beyond the soil,

make no churlish demands for more - 

light comes to caress them and they slowly rise, 

these small, significant things 

completely content to whisper fragrance 

beneath the breadth of sky with tales of mountains 

they once knew and never forgot.

The clarity of love understands the gift 

of a single flower in an otherwise barren field.

Elaborate packaging is not required 

to declare it as precious, to claim it as pure.

Once, love arrived on a silver stallion,

but only in dreams. Upon awakening,

we smelled dew upon the grass and knew

what was most important. We did not need 

fables and fairy tales to tell us what mattered most,

what we should seek when the sun ascended. 

A single seed is the beginning of infinity;

it is planted where roots will form unseen.

Emerald grass parts slightly to make room

for beauty coming from far below,

a glistening companion at dawn. 

A moment is a memory is a lifetime.

Once the soul is touched, the imprint remains, 

a still-warm ember that does not burn.

Many Rivers (for Sylvia Plath)

Many rivers gather within my eyes,

their tidal songs flow too far from shore,

their silt and shells too distant from the sea.

Waves echo, pounding through blood's own reckoning, 

immense heartbeats not quite forgotten,

infinite moments immeasurable and fathomless.

Each grain of sand, an undiscovered nation,

its inhabitants unknowing and unknown.

The warp and weft of untold weeping

becomes a keening too wild to contain

within a single frame of flesh, 

first shaken, then shattered, 

crystal prisms pearled, bereft of kaleidoscopes

from which we might view the fog-shrouded horizon

we strive so hard to reach before dusk descends,

leaving us torn, adrift without a sextant in shadowed waters, 

without a star-struck sky to guide us into port.