Posts Tagged ‘love’

Trials of Light


Sometimes I sleep at night
empty of myself, inebriated
by dreams that deceive me.
Bathing beauty that speaks
only of my weakness,
besetting sin only I can find
in the paradox of self-contradiction.

I pave the way inside myself
for all that’s good of me,
of all I save from discernment.
My daylight vision, I traveled not
to touch solely for the very nearness
of comprehending.

I have journeyed beyond the
peripheral to see your vision,
yet my thoughts will conceal
quite delightfully, fleetingly,
of your unbreakable beauty;
for I have one weakness.

I sing of light that speaks to me
of all my sin, calmly unfolding,
becoming of all my graces,
for pain is only a memory,
and I have gathered arm-fulls
of tenacity only to fully grip
heart of all myself, of all that
you have made me.

And tonight my heart sings
of deathless joy, for beyond
death, my love will flutter
evermore. Ever and anon
for all my good precedes,
blazing the trail with love,
of all that you have given me.

Love And Other Rhythms


I have loved thee centuries
before thy birth, ages waned
from melodies of love-sick songs.
I loved thee not because I loved
thee solely for the purpose of loving,
but for such pleasantness that strung
love songs in me.
For thine own self, the song plays true,
a rhythm for the tangent of thy smile,
I know not love so purest of thy song,
but stronger still, the rhythm shines.
Love folly no more, all sweetness ’til
the end, no heartbeat thuds unless
so musically, much steadily, in time;
for thine own love prepares not with
the moment, but moments love
with rhythm of thy prime.

(C) Copyright 2011 Brianna Rose Burton



I can’t find you anymore
and there’s a landslide in there.
Our feet don’t touch the runway and
I never thought I’d say this but I miss
the three-hour plane rides between you
and home. I was a coffee drinker back
then, addicted to caffeine and your
fingertips. An amateur artist on flights
drawing compasses with hearts and
poems. I was the first blind mouse of
three, and I knew your culture loved
threes, three graces, three gorgons,
three furies. Signs of unity and trinity
but we lost these. You’ve been
consuming my metaphors lately and
I’m not sure when it happened but I
can see the Greek alphabet hand-drawn
on my bones. You are a skeleton
without a resting place and
I can’t find you anymore.



When death took you, you refused
to go quietly. Sirens echoed in the pit
of your stomach and poetry written
about you crumbled like your history
and architecture. We don’t see much of
your sunshine anymore;
we dig your grave and attend
your funeral but those around you
rarely mourn you. We have swallowed
everything you once were, the paradise
of our Grandfathers and now we
like no man who ever stood before you,
find solace in your decay.

There’s no peace here anymore, only
shopping trolleys in creeks, but to you
I give a bouquet of everything you
once were, the rainforest will
nip at your corners and shells
and bones will no longer hold you.
You will be filled with nature and
all it’s splendour. I will colour your skin
like your founders and with
flora and fauna I will no longer
grieve but rather
celebrate your life.

Unanderra = My hometown



I have written about loss like
my body is tomb for cupid arrows
plucked from my ancestors.
Small-scripted obituaries of
every lover onto my skin

erased and

My body is a mausoleum,
designed by a musician and
redesigned by an artist,

and if you asked one to describe
me he’d say I was the scent
of aging metal on his ring finger
and the numerals on his bones.

And I often wonder how he felt
when he made the music I write to,

when did he begin his grieving?
why were his instrumentals about me?
I know a lot of women would find that
romantic, but he, he used his titles
as a branding,

Why did I barter hips for love?
When did he know the “time had
passed for us”?

When did I start asking so many

Probably when my poetry began to
reflect his dishonesty. He knew I
would find absence in his

The last time I saw you, you
fed me at the airport, and I told you it
was the last time you would see me.

That was
two and a half years ago.



The moon’s deathly grip
challenges the hue,
its dew embellishes languor,
the heart, a labyrinthine lilt.

Yet I, ineffable, incipient at my
longing to live, live not long.

You and I are a moiety,
like picnics and ants;
one never truly lives
without the other.

As you or I.

The sky is redolent,
a sempiternal tunnel that all but
twists and winds,
the wind, a susurrus melody,
yet, too, shall be eternal.

As you and I.

But as death grasps and pulls
into itself the spirits source,
it, too, shall live forever,
its body woebegone beneath the dirt.

As you and I.

The Lifesong Maze


Let me tell you
where the life song goes,
to a valley where its beauty grows,
to a mountain where its soft wind blows,
the journeyer who sweet path always take,
along the hills by music do awake.

And let me show you
where the life song plays,
everywhere that’s anywhere away,
where sing it softly of Earth’s rendering face,
or grip the arms of Death’s unaged embrace,
as never it shall die amidst the air,
where always you can find its shelter there.

Now let me sing for you
the life song in itself,
a melody that heart in beauty oft awake,
and often out of spite a lover make,
to fill the paths of arrogance with grace,
and all around the earth of vile erase,
to sing a tune none other can replace;
“the lifesong maze.”



I wandered these uncharted lands
where people live with broken hands
and reaching out instead of
giving in.

I walked the plank with tender miles,
sold my soul for simple smiles,
hoping that the day would  bring me
to my knees.

I rowed away to shameless shores
where victims conquered deathless wars,
and someone lived a prisoner
to the world.

There have been times I battered death,
excluded myself for Satan’s sake,
and mourned the loss of virgin lips
upon the sands.

But now to think that I forget
the simple thanks of endless breath,
that they would know my story
soul to soul.

And now I walk on tired feet
going to where their lives meet
the unforsaken tragedy of death.

Its lips are woven out of sticks,
of ageless memories and aches,
that Death has taken claim
for himself.

And wandering the streets I hear
the sufferings that burn my ears,
until one day they give us
second chance.

A chance to live on freeing earth,
a smile that starts on day of birth,
and lives to find its freedom
in the rain.

For rains will come and wash us clean,
and help us stand or help us lean,
to know that life is all it brings
to damaged souls.

And they will know the healing power,
their pain extinguished by the hour,
as light will shine its way through
broken hearts.

And once and all they’ll love again,
and live to know they suffered then
to have the faith to live as they
do now.

And I will sit in thrones of peace,
bringing life to the redeemed,
so that all may know the image
of the Maker.

They’ll know the Maker
that makes them weep,
and all will fall down to their knees,
and say “I am forgiven,” once again.

I am forgiven once again by my one Maker.