Well, since I have been noticed now, maybe it is time for me to
introduce myself.
My name is Debbie, short for Debra Brown and I live in the USA, in
Cleveland, Ohio. Which is punishment enough for any sin I have
ever committed! I am married, third go a round but this one is a
keeper <GG> and we have two cats that are our only babies at the
moment. Otherwise, we both have children from provious mistakes,
four, two of each.
I am a writer, not only of poetry. but also articles, essays, short
stories and so on. I have been published, though not on a national
market. I worked briefly as a newspaper
editor/journalist/photographer for about a year. My current project is
a poetry list that I run where we discuss our written poetry and I post
articles and lessons. In theory it sounded like fun being a list owner.
When I am not writing, or taking care of my family, I read (books
multiply like rabbits at my house), sew, and play the violin and
learning to play the viola.
The following is a poem I wrote a few months ago and it recently
made its New York City debut at a special reading for men with aids.
The Walking Wounded
We are the walking wounded
we walk among you every day
you pass our houses
you shake our hands
you smile at us, and yet you cannot see
the wounds that define us, one to another.
We are teachers, doctors, mothers
we are black, white, yellow, and red
you teach us, love us, often hate us
you feed us, clothe us, and even marry us
the battles that we have fought are as
foreign to you as peace is to Israel.
It matters not the location of the battlefield
its different for every wounded soul
our battles are fought in the night in, secret
they are fought on the streets that racism built
battles have been fought starting in the womb
our battle cries are silent ones only we can hear.
We are young and we are old
we are short and we are tall
you look at us and see perfect hair, perfect teeth
rolls of fat or studs in every orifice
we do whatever we can to hide from you
the wounds that bind us to each other.
Our wounds are such that they no longer need bandaged
the scabs have healed and our skin is baby pink new
we cannot allow you close enough to pin medals
to celebrate another day, another breath
we don't need medals, no badge of honor
another day of survival is reward enough.
We will spend our lifetimes hiding our wounds
there will be no reunions, no homecoming
no parades down main street for the war hero
it will be enough, for that one moment in time
when one wounded soul meets another to know
death takes no prisoners.
Thats it for now, unless you want to see the valentine poem I wrote for
my husband........<GG>
Debbie
Debra L. Brown
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When you have a poet in your pocket,
you are never alone.
Debra L. Brown
List Owner Extraordinaire!
alternate e-mails:
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