Posted on by Debra Rose

Where Do You Go?

Where do you go when it feels like the whole world is conspiring to drive you mad?
When all that you honor and hold to be true is shredded and trampled by evil forces disguised as saviors?
Where do you go when rage and grief are intertwined like long abandoned chains
And your effort to tease them apart only adds frustration to the tangled mix?

You pack your heart in a suitcase and go as far away as you can.
You leave those who have taken arms with the devil against you
But also those who have loved you and love you still
In your desperate need to run as fast as you can.

There are choices to make on this journey.
Do you allow yourself to fall prey to the evil lurking within you
and chart your own path of revenge and destruction?
Do you add to the suffering of our suffering world
By magnifying your rage and grief
And projecting them onto others?

Or do you search along the way
To find your better angels wherever they have flown?
Do you place the tangled chains in God’s hands
With no request but to accept them?
Do you muster the courage to find your way home
And unpack your heart
Bruised
Fragile
But beating still.

You must choose
But perhaps it does not have to be today.

Debra Rose Brillati
March 2019

Posted on by Debra Rose

I Got Nothing

I got nothing.

Perhaps it’s just the usual
Blank page panic
That terrorizes every writer.

And yet
This nothing feels different

Really.
I got nothing.
I am empty
Drained
Depleted.

Outrage has coursed through my veins
For so long
That I am eroded from the inside
A vast Grand Canyon of emptiness
That somehow feels oddly heavy.

This emptiness is filled
With stories that will go untold
Poetry that will never sing
Music that will never resonate in our hearts.

Somewhere deep down
At the bottom of the canyon
A small voice cries out
The tone is plaintive
But too soft to carry it out of the depths
To my ears
which long to hear
Something.

But I got nothing.

For so long now
I have watched
as truth as been hollowed out
as decency has been discarded
as cruelty has seeped in to fill the void.

Perhaps “nothing”
Is better than the images
That haunt my waking and my sleeping:
School children cowering in closets
Babies ripped from their mothers’ arms
Refugees huddled in squalid camps
Dead black boys
And Palestinians
And Puerto Ricans
Swastikas and burning crosses.

I got nothing.

Tomorrow
I will face the blank page again
I will listen very hard
To hear the voice from the depths of the canyon
Maybe the cries will reach me
And I will hear something
And it will give me hope.

But for today
I got nothing.

Debra Rose Brillati
June 2018

Posted on by Debra Rose

The Antichrist

To some he says

I dare you
I double dare you

Come on
You can do it

You can be as selfish as me
You can be as rich as me
Or as rich as I say I am

Tempting
Ever tempting
Tweeting bitter nothings in their ears
It’s OK to be cruel
If it is for love of your own
It is good to exclude
If it makes you feel better
It is OK to kill
All those I tell you are the bad guys

Exalting himself
Taking his seat in the temple
He declares himself God

Looking down from his self-made throne
Upon those trudging in Jesus’ footsteps
He smiles that ridiculous Joker smile and says,
“Go ahead and hate me. You know you want to.”

I dare you
I double dare you

Come on
You can do it

You can wish me dead
Because I deserve it
You can cut yourself off from friends and family
Because they are with me
You can lose faith in human nature
Because I have perverted it

Tempting
Ever tempting
Flaunting Satan’s work with a smirk

Surely this is the antichrist
Thriving on evil in all its forms
Devouring our hatred of one another
Gorging on our hatred of him
To fuel his wretchedness

I would not presume to tell you what to do
But as for me
I will not feed the beast

Debra Rose Brillati
April 2018

 

Posted on by Debra Rose

Prayer for Racial Justice

Prayer for Racial Justice

Written for and prayed at the All Auburn Churches Harriet Tubman Day Prayer Service in Auburn, New York, March 10, 2018

Gracious God, lover of souls, we feel your Spirit in our midst today,
We know that you dwell in every heart,
That you inspire every mind,
That you uplift every soul.

We know, precious Lord, that it is you who gives us eyes to see and ears to hear and hands to do the work you would have us do.

You have given us all we need to bring about your kingdom on earth, a kingdom where justice reigns and compassion rules.

Give us, we humbly ask, eyes that see all our brothers and sisters as ourselves, eyes that see Christ in all people, eyes that are not blind to the racism that permeates our world and that allow us to look inward to see our own part in it.

Give us, we pray, ears that hear the truth in the testimony of our neighbors, that listen for the pain behind their words, that recognize the lies that are told to separate us from our brothers and sisters.

Give us, we beseech thee, hands that reach out to expose injustice wherever we find it. Give us lips that speak truth to power. Give us feet that carry us to every dark corner where oppression dwells so that we may shine your light on it for all to see.

Fill our hearts with an abundance of love but also righteous anger for the long dark history of racism in our country.
Fill our minds with wisdom and creativity so we may collaborate with one another to work for justice.
Fill our souls with the Holy Spirit, the sacred energy of the universe that makes all things possible.

We pray all of this in the name of our Creator, Sustainer and Redeemer. AMEN.

Debra Rose Brillati
March 2018

Posted on by Debra Rose

Julienne

A cane in each hand
she carried herself
With remarkable grace and dignity
As she entered the large circle
of worn and mismatched chairs
In the dark church basement,
Nodding and smiling
at each of the handful of people dotting the circle.

She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall
Petite and fine-boned
Her long blonde-gray hair
Soft around her face
And drawn up loosely
In a messy bun
That didn’t look like it would last the day.

Her dress was a deep blue floral cotton
Almost reaching the floor.
Over it she wore a very fine pale yellow pullover
That draped softly from her thin shoulders
The wide neck stretched just enough
To offer a narrow glimpse of freckled skin
Peeking out at the top of her left arm.

She nodded and smiled as she passed in front of me
Then with great care and a flourish of the two canes
Took the seat beside me.

Someone quickly drew up an extra chair in front of her
And gently helped her lift one leg onto it.
On her small arthritic feet
She wore what looked like orthopedic sandals
Thick and black
Too heavy for her delicate frame.
Her left leg stretched out in front of her
was swollen from knee to ankle,
The paper-thin skin so shiny and taut
It looked like a bruise-colored balloon about to burst.

“I’m Julienne,” she said,
In a most refined British accent
With a lovely lilt on the last syllable
That combined with the twinkle in her gray-blue eyes
To give the impression of a sprite
Ready for a little mischief.

I just had time to smile and say my name
when the training started.

We were here,
Some of us,
To learn what it would be like
To get arrested
To stand up for what we believed in
To stand in the safety of our privilege
And fight for the rights of others.

Others were here to teach us.
Gray and bearded men in rumbled khakis and plaid shirts
A woman with a headscarf battling cancer and injustice
A trans person with a funky designer oxygen mask
Who from their field experience as a medic
Counseled us about the health issues
Of being arrested.

All had been arrested
Most several times
Many overnight
Some for a few weeks

But Julienne
Julienne
Was the hero of heroes
Veteran of three months in prison
A tortuous stint she earned
By standing up against torture.

“Oh, but you should do it,”
She said during a break
With a glimmer in her eye.
“You need to really see
How people of color
Are treated differently.
You need to experience it yourself.”

I know next week
She will be locking arms
With some of the people in this room
Counting on them to be her canes
As they are counting on her to be their courage.

Will I stand and be counted
Like Julienne?

Debra Rose Brillati
May 2018

Posted on by Debra Rose

Long Flowing Hair

She had long flowing hair and longings
to be seen
to be beautiful
to be desired.

“What are the words,”
she wondered,
“that are painted on my forehead?
Do they say stay away?”
She would scrub her skin raw if it would erase them.

She had long flowing hair and longings
to be a poet
from another more romantic time,
or the mysterious muse
of a roguish artist
whose depths only she could mine.

Beneath the arched stone window
in a small nook of the musty library
She sat cross-legged on the worn red cushion
and inhaled centuries of novels,
inhabited worlds
so far from the small coal mining town
she longed to escape.

The college on the river
was her chance.
The row of old stone buildings
Looking down on the rural campus
From the top of the grass-covered hill,
The gilded age mansions converted to dorms,
The octagon chapel and columned library.
This was the village
Where she imagined her dreams would come true.

But the roguish artists had other muses
And her crime of rhyming
Banished her from the creative writing program.
So her dreams dried up
And disappeared like coal dust
In the breezes from the river.

She had long flowing hair and longings
And did not know
That one day, when her hair no longer flowed,
she would be her own muse
And create from coal dust
And memories and love
A life of beauty where,
at last,
she was seen and desired.

Debra Rose Brillati
April 2018

Posted on by Debra Rose

April Snow

April snow
Ever so gently
Alights upon the tender greens
Struggling to emerge from a slumbering earth.

Like a lover
Who cannot bear to leave his beloved’s bed
Winter returns for a final kiss
Maybe two
Or three.

I cannot begrudge him this.

Debra Rose Brillati
April 2018

 

Posted on by Debra Rose

Just Love Her

You said
Just love her

Love is enough
You said

She was so frail
Legs that could not support
Even her small body
Dangling against mine.
She could no more hug
Than a rag doll.
How many times
Did I pull her knees up
And press them to my side
Before she learned
Tentatively
To hold on?

In the orphanage
There were no embraces

In the orphanage
There was no time
Outside the crib
For her legs to gain strength

You said
Just love her

Love is enough
You said

She was so hurt
Wanting so much
To fit in
To be popular
Always putting on a show
“Like me! Like me!”
It worked for a while
Until the other girls
Developed deeper friendships
Shared heart to heart
And left her on the stage
Of her own making
Alone

You said
Just love her

Love is enough
You said

So vulnerable
Playing the role
Of the grown up
She so wants to be
Seeking the embraces
The orphanage never gave her
(Even though we gave her all we could)
Seeking the freedom
Of life
Beyond the bars we have erected
To keep her safe

And so she leaves us
Still frail
Still hurt by all she cannot understand
So vulnerable to all those
Whose love
She thinks will be enough

Because
No matter what you said
Our love is not enough
Even though we do
Just love her

Debra Rose Brillati
April 2018

Posted on by Debra Rose

The Lottery

I remember reading a story about an entire town
That gathered every year
to stone one of their own to death.
An annual ritual,
A sacrifice,
Even if a child won the lottery.

But it was just a story, right?
This could never really happen.
Right?

1942.
My father was 20 years old
When the army called him up.
A dark and slender Italian-American
Muscles taut from early mornings in his father’s garden
And from pushing the heavy wooden beam of the wine press
Round and round, harder and harder,
Until the skin and seeds turned to concrete.
Too good a training sergeant to send overseas,
He marched thousands of miles
In the hot Alabama sun
And sent hundreds of young soldiers off to fight.
He begged to go with them, volunteering for every mission.
Three times he was allowed to flip a coin.
Three times he lost.
Three buddies never came home.
Only with his final breath
Did my father release the heavy weight
Of the survivor guilt he had carried his whole life.
Who won this lottery?

1969.
I remember a family party,
Standing with all the moms,
Not really listening,
When suddenly one of my aunts
Leaned down, shook her finger in my face,
And said, “Debbie, never have male children.”
Three years separated each of their sons.
My brother Tom was 14.
My cousin Gary was 17.
And Dale was 20,
Old enough to be eligible for the lottery,
With the others close behind.
Dale had carrot-colored hair and freckles.
He was our cool cousin.
Just married to Joey,
A Goldie Hawn look-alike
Who was even cooler,
Dale spent three years in Vietnam,
Missed the birth of his carrot-topped son,
And came home changed.
Many of his friends never came home.
Had he won or lost this lottery?

2018.
Images of school children
Huddled in classroom closets,
Listening to the piercing sounds
Of rapid fire
Shattering glass and
Ricocheting off hallway lockers,
Haunt my mind.
Younger than the youngest soldiers,
They endure the unearthly cries
Of their fallen friends.
Those elected to preserve and protect
Choose to preserve and protect
The guns
Rather than the children.
Without any conscience or morality
They enter our babies
In this deadly lottery.
No one wins.

These are just stories, right?
This could never really happen.

RIGHT?

Debra Rose Brillati
March 2018

Posted on by Debra Rose

AR 15

An AR-15 fires.

The tiny bullet
Traveling 3000 feet per second
Enters the body
Explodes into a million pieces
Blasts shrapnel everywhere
Before ripping an exit wound
The size of a fist
Through flesh and bone.

This is what the NRA wishes for our children.
This is what the NRA buys for our children.

Every day
Insanity after insanity
I begin to doubt the obvious
Perhaps the insanity is mine.

Every day
The news breaks
And breaks
And breaks again
Like waves crashing the shore
Leveling the sand to concrete
Until the pounding surf
No longer leaves a mark.

Every day
Insanity after insanity
Will I let myself be hardened
Unmarked by shock and grief?

Every day
The news assaults my consciousness
Explodes inside my brain
Rains shrapnel down inside my chest
Piercing my heart.

What for me is metaphor
Is for 17 in Parkland
And 58 in Las Vegas
And 13 in Columbine
And 26 in Sandy Hook
Simply
death.

And with each death
A tiny bullet
explodes on contact
Shredding the world of a life cut short
Leaving raw wounds everywhere

On the horizon
An army of men in dark suits
Moving forward in lock step
Flags on their lapels
Money in their pockets
Carrying bags of salt.

Debra Rose Brillati
February 2018