Embers

If he asks you how to blow the ember
back into flame, whisper: here, and
here. If he points to a broken heart,
breathe these words: this is the way,
only this.

If he dances on your rooftop and
cups his hands to hold the moon,
sing. Sing and pluck the fine
silvered strings of his pleasure.

If he asks you if you dare, become
bold as amber honey, widen your hips,
hand to him the key. Do not
hesitate and do not
look back.

If he asks you if you love,
look deeply into his eyes. Light the
flame with your breath, let your lips
seal the promise, let him find
your secret rose. Open.

Give wine. Give fragrance. Give dew, and
then let the sea come in its force. Let the tide
overtake you, let the moon rock you,
let your seashell hearts
fill with joy.

The Many Voices of St Paul poetry jam

Black Dog Cafe
308 Prince Street in Saint Paul.
Monday Dec 7 at 7pm

Curated by Richard Broderick. Readers include Kathryn Kysar; Aleli Balagtas; Rich Broderick; Mike Finley; and Wendy Brown-Baez. Wendy established “In the Shelter of Words”, a powerfully revealing writing project at Face to Face Academy and SafeZone– a resource center for homeless, run-away, and low-income youth in Saint Paul. Also reading will be Marie Weber, a recent graduate of Face to Face Academy whose work is included on a CD produced by “In the Shelter of Words.” Music by Nathan Hanson, saxophonist from The Fantastic Merlins, and Toni Adedeji, lead singer of Wednesday's Bliss.

to read about In the Shelter of Words:
http://www.tcdailyplanet.net/news/2009/09/24/shelter-words

p prompt

privacy

this is secret, whisper, shadow
this is pure, untainted by human need
the all too human desire to touch and own,
this is protection when all the world has torn

you through with its jagged teeth of greed
this is solitude when prophecy is strong
when prediction means watch, wait, enfold

when promise creeps in closer to the soul
when the purpose of vows are to forgive
what cannot be undone

the way of the hermit, the steps of the
pilgrim, the muse of the sage
gone to bone, perfumed by the light
from the last eternal star

worn for the duration
pressed into memory
owned by no one
devoured with grace

Death brings a gift

Death always brings a gift. You knew that, didn’t you? Sometimes it brings a burst of life, appreciation, connection to people from the past, reconciliation. At least a taste so sweet and so bitter of how precious life is, how vulnerable we are, how human. The gift of someone’s memory engraved on a moment of time, a life brought into focus, savored, passed around, a photograph that says so much and so little, the enigma of a human soul no longer available to give explanation. The gifts that come with grief, despair, and unutterable pain are beyond words. The gift of a deep natural silence while we sit in a circle of honoring and releasing. To know that we are breathing, that we hear a bird sing, the sound of a green apple thunking to the ground, the bell or screen door as Fred goes in and out, in and out. To feel the ice cold salt rimming a margarita on my lips, the slide of liquid down my dusty throat. A moment before we are chattering, our hair streaming behind us in the wind from the truck window, the sun hot on my thighs, my silver bracelets glinting. A moment later I feel your arms strongly around me as we both sob. You didn’t even know him, you didn’t know until two days ago what had happened to me, and yet, your heart has swing wide open to take my pain in—a pain you can only try to imagine and can not begin to heal. This is today’s small gift I unwrap to add to the small basket like a pile of shells swept up on the damp sparkling shore of the black cold unfathomable and invincible sea.

My authentic Voice

When I speak from my authentic voice, I never know

exactly what I am going to say or how I will say it or where it will lead me. It is a magic carpet ride, it is a hero's journey to the center, it is an adventure on the yellow

brick road. Sometimes my authentic voice is strong and speaks the harsh truth and sometimes it is filled with tender compassion. My authentic voice is clearest when I walk the tightrope between worlds, between worlds of light and dark, confusion and purpose, wanting and awareness that all is fine. To dance between the living and the dead, this side of the border where I understand the language and that side where language is foreign, and gestures, smiles, tears, and laughter weave us together, between grief and joy, between this life and the one I am creating.

Dia de los Muertos: La Llorona

Who am I?
I am La Llorona, weeping for my children.
They say I drowned my children.
I say not.
They say I will snatch yours.
I say it is a tale to keep your children home.
I am the wind whistling through your fear.
Think carefully.
Do you want to lose your children?
I once was beautiful.
Think carefully.

Impersonating La Llorona at the Dead Poet's Halloween party sponsored by The Loft
Oct 31, 2009

Our Green Card Anniversary: to find the book

Our Green Card Anniversary

You come home dressed in black.
I can’t decide between silk or
velvet. I remember I wore a lace
blouse. It was a warm October day.
In the photographs I am standing
in shadow, you in the light.

You ask, “Where do you want to go?”
I don’t have any appetite, only a desire
to wear stockings and heels and
retrieve the gaze, the way you looked
at me the first time.

I remember how I clutched the flowers,
couldn’t call it a bouquet without wanting
to toss it away. In my room there
are tulips and a note. “I want to make
up,” you write. The storm was still

ringing in my ears. I remember how we
laughed trying on Halloween costumes
at the party store. One costume was
husband, another wife. I ended up wearing
strands of red coral and a gold

mask. It was our first public
appearance as a married couple.
I hadn’t changed my name yet.
The tulips are blooded and I don’t know
if I want to rebel or give in because now

I see though your subterfuge. You stood in
the light where the love reflected
off your face for all the memories
to come. I stood in shadow
promising that the tears I accumulate

would belong to us both. We took it on
despite the clock of abandonment
ticking its warning note.
“I want to make up,” you wrote.

“The way I love you is beyond words,”
I write back. At the table you open the card
and I can’t read the expression on your face.

For Dia de los Muertos your ancestors danced
on the altar with mine. Does that make us family?
Your mother’s spirit came by and blessed me in the
shadowy aftermath of the party when we
drank too much tequila. She said you would

never let me go. You hold on by offering
tulips, dinner out, the red wine I like best.
You never said you believed the
vows we took. You took my tears
and braided them into the rug at the entrance

of our home, where I live with
your name that is now mine and my
disappointments. Dia de los Muertos is
coming and I am afraid the grief will sweep me
away. Once again you

reach out to catch me. I remember
we drank champagne and I went home alone
and happy. Tonight we drink champagne
and you take me into your life
as neatly as folding shut an envelope.

When I told you I need you, you
did not try to negate me. I said
I think it is natural. You said, “Are you
ready for tiramisu?”


from Ceremonies of the Spirit
(c) Wendy Brown-Baez
2009

waiting after midnight

Waiting After Midnight

I wanted white roses. I wanted rain to
come in the window. The sky was gray
and the moon had disappeared,
the cherries were sweet and chilled.

The roses wept, the rain dripped
down the pane and the
phone never rang,
the bowl filled with cherry pits

and my fingers were crimson.
The moon blew away the clouds
and silvered my solitude,

my pearly body opaque and bold.
I remember the tears
you spilled into the cup of my breasts
to drink when I am thirsty,

the scent of damp earth,
the way the white curtains
rose and fell.


(c) Wendy Brown-Baez Ceremonies of the Spirit

In praise of beauty

In praise of beauty

The beauty of tears.
The beauty of a broken heart because I loved fiercely and didn’t want to let go.

In praise of letting go because life is a river and we the fallen leaf swirling to the ocean. Because life is an open sea and when our life raft capsizes, we float until a dolphin rescues us, until we accept salt water as our fate, until we are scorched by sun and condensed to bone, food for fish.

In praise of the life behind me, the trail of farewells that became the time of welcome. In praise of learning that farewell means til we meet again. That life is full of second chances, no true ending to the story because each ending is only a threshold, another point of view, another miracle.

In praise of miracles and the energy to move on.

In praise of rivers and oceans. The tide in my blood. The fog. The darkness, the rain. In praise of the small candle I hold in my hand. The box of matches given to me the day I was born.

In praise of cycles and spirals and gifts and the moment of truth and the moment of surrender.

In the Shelter of Words: read more by clicking on this link

photo courtsey of Dan Marshall

Jerusalem from Ceremonies of the Spirit

She is the place of all my dreams
why can I not be there?
I entered her in sackcloth and ashes,
I departed in mourning,
weeping, kissing, taking with me
the heart of one of her true sons.
Good enough for him, why can’t I
be good enough for her?
Is my heart too pure for her blood-stained streets
or too fragile for the blood lust that she evokes?
Devoted to her vision,
I was humiliated, threatened and scorned
and yet no one succeeded in hurting me.
I laughed with joy
at the miracle of her very being,
her revenge on her destroyers,
from ashes she arose a celestial carrousel
now poems, now daggers,
now screams, now prayers.
I dream of her but she denies me.
I reach out for her
but she turns me away.
In the thin light of morning
I beseech her name and her pity.
When will I sit beside her moon-washed gates
and be enchanted by her midnight splendor?
When will I be able to touch her heart
and be touched by the secret
she guards so severely?
Must I wait until she is worthy
of a man of peace,
must I wait until I until I am
strong enough to stand against her,
to become equal to her danger
and demand that she be holy?

(c) Ceremonies of the Spirit 2009

A Writer's Life

The world, at least our world, seems to be breaking up into small colonies of the saved, as if we were entering a new Dark Age. If so, then perhaps the most important task we can set ourselves from here on out is to sustain, articulate, and preserve through literature the essential human values that early in the evolutionary history of our species distinguished us from our higher primate cousins—loving kindness, protection of the young, the weak, and the elderly, and consciousness of mortality.

Russell Banks;
from Burn This Book

Dancing with Destiny

Please note that time is 7:00 pm

Eulogy to Mi Sol

I was Alejandro’s Luna and he was mi Sol.

When we created the gallery, the original banner read:
Sol y Luna: arte sin fronteras: contemporary art ----- poetry & writing workshops

I first became friends with Alejandro when I invited him by email to be part of a bilingual poetry event. To this day, I don’t know why he agreed, but it obviously was destiny. Later he confessed that when I emailed him, he couldn’t remember exactly who I was but once we reconnected in person, it felt like as though we had known each other forever. We had so much fun kidding around during rehearsals, I wondered how the show would turn out, but it was wonderful. That night was Alejandro’s birthday and what a gift he was to me! He created an altar with Mexican textiles and a large Guadelupe painting. After each poem was read, we lit velas and dedicated the altar to Las Desaparacidas, the missing women from Juarez.

I had never imagined trying to start up a business. Alejandro was a visionary. The first gallery was a tattoo parlor, dirty, smelly and dark. We tore out the walls, replaced the white tiled floors with saltillo tiles, and the front gate by shining glass. It was beautiful and I was proud to represent Sol y Luna to the public of Puerto Vallarta. It breaks my heart that we will enjoy his legacy that he left behind without his dynamic, captivating presence.

Alejandro was the light in my darkness after my son died. In 2006, when I arrived in Puerto Vallarta, I was still devastated by the cruelty of my son's unexpected and tragic death. Alejandro took me by the hand and led me out of the shadows. We held hands as we climbed the mountain of dreams and we held hands when we leaped off the cliff, learning faith in ourselves. He chose art and I chose poetry. We laughed with delight as our wings unfurled and we watched each other soar.

Alejandro taught me to make every moment count, whether it was a meal or an art deal, a lazy day on the beach or a trip to meet an artist. I do know that after every ending, another door opens. I want you to listen carefully. Alejandro is saying thank you for all the love and the good times you shared. He was a blessing in my life and I bless him as he soars onward to the stars.

for more stories on Sol y Luna: http://www.solylunapv.blogspot.com/

You know this

The bus jerks across every pothole. Next to you sits
a young mother, acrylic nails
tipped in daisies and golden café
eyes. Her baby jostles on her lap
while she scolds into the cell phone:
“No, I didn’t…
You got no business…
It none of your business….”

and across the aisle, down the length of the bus,
ears are glued to a whispering beat,
enclosed in iPod rhythm, children with
hands over their eyes thinking they are
invisible.

You know your heart is breaking
crack by crack along the fault line,
aching fiery explosion beneath the surface,
the delicate film you wrapped it in to keep
away the fingers of
the dirty wicked world
melting

and you wouldn’t be on the bus,
eyes glazed with grief, shawled with
a darkness beneath which you are calm and adrift,
not yet bailing out the bottom of the boat,
not yet realizing the damn thing is sinking,
all caulking and plugging
useless

except that you don’t drive and there are appointments
and promises. They don’t stop, not for heartbreak,
not even for wanting that shawl over
your head like a tallit, private
and sacred and a declaration of faith,
but all day, all night in your room you are
going crazy with a restless ticking of the
hours

dead yet? still breathing? still the
virus climbing the veins, still the lungs in their
labor, their instinct without hope or purpose,
the body shrinking to bone, the muscle
slack and drooled, the lips chapped and sore?
mi amor? the name you never called
him

the way he held back and you walked away,
the last time you cradled him and he cried,
the kiss good-bye that made you weep
all the way to the airport.
You know this—like one could prevent it,
like there is still a way for a safe arrival
home

Give yourself the gift of this jewel of Rumi

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5QYDrd1a0M0

“Think of something you said. Now think of what you wish you had said.”

I wish I had said no. I wish I hadn’t answered the email. I wish I had said I’m too busy, too stupid, too illiterate, I have no language, I have no thoughts, I am empty headed.

I wish I had said yes. I wish I had taken her home and given her hot chicken soup made by my own hands. I wish I had insisted. I wish I had told her not to leave. Give me a chance, I could have cried.

Why is it so hard to see the future, the damage that is to come? Why is it so hard to see the solution is to give more, not back away? How many times have I let others make mistakes before I realize I could save a lot of heart-aches? Most of all, my own.

poppies in Israel

In Response to the Flood in Northern Minnesota

I am blest to step under a shower, the gush of hot water / to have indoor plumping / sleep in a warm bed. I am blest to be able to buy groceries / buy even flowers / buy even candles / paper towels / to have light / a tv / to play DVDs / have a pile of books teetering on the edge of a table.

I am blest to have a pc / a politically correct bus ride / green energy and brown skin and my hood I wasn’t born in and can leave anytime. I am blest to be handed a transfer I didn’t pay for / given an apology / a smile / a seat / to be asked if I am coming over soon / to be wanted / to be called.

I am blest hundreds of times a day when my mind clicks on and hundreds of times when my body stands up and when it walks and does those exercises to get back in shape and the green growing in the yard and a view out the window and suddenly a robin.

I am blest to be home alone and blest to be in a crowd of children and blest to be watching the world walking by with a cup of coffee or a glass of wine in my hand and a slice of pizza or a salad with cranberries and walnuts and fresh baked bread.

I am blest to be doing the dance of peace and hey baby it’s me in the mirror liking the silver that frames my face and never mind the winter of my discontent or the summer of my first heart-break. I do not have water gushing over my floors and mass destruction and housedamaged. I already declared bankruptcy and walked the sliver of despair, I already fell in the desert of defeat and arose with my mouth full of dust.

I spread the ashes of my lover and thought of how two can make a soul or break a promise and I tasted the ashes when my husband confided his HIV status was acute again and I sank up to my neck in ash when I watched my son’s mortal remains swirl away in the river. So blest blest blest am I to work in silence and not go screaming through the streets and what I can do to light a match to the small lantern one more time and what can I do but follow its luminescence that leads me on?

Join us for an evening of extraordinary performance art!

An evening of multi-cultural, dynamic, cutting edge performaces

by 6 talented women:

Dance and story-telling Xpression-Inspiration by Maia Maiden

Performance poet Wendy Brown-Baez in La Noche del Amor

Dance Textured memories by Renee Copeland

Spoken Word by Deja Stowers in Black Girl, one world

Stand up comic Farheen Hakeem

Dance by Aneka Mcmullen

Patrick's Cabaret

3010 Minnehaha Ave S Mpls

Friday April 3, Saturday April 4

http://www.patrickscabaret.org/

New Mexico poetry reading

with Nadia Giordana, editor of Mississippi Review,

which has one of my poems in issue 8 at my publication party

publication performance party

Ceremonies of the Spirit
love poems sensual and celestial
from Plain View Press

Publication Performance Party
Friday February 27th at 7:00

followed by wine reception & book signing
at Homewood Studios

2400 Plymouth Ave, Minneapolis, 55411

http://www.homewoodstudios.com/galleries.html

or

to order signed copies http://www.wendybrownbaez.com/
to order by credit card: Plain View Press
sbpvp@sbcglobal.net

$15 plus $3 S&H

"… That’s what Wendy does, she connects us with words and wraps us in the safety of a shawl so we can fall in love with poetry once again."
- Gary Glazner, Founder of the Alzheimer’s Poetry Project