Later Poetry

Home at Sea on La Gitana

Night Crossing, Sea of Cortez

The sea appears so simple

With a dark, indulgent face,

The stars there twice reflected

Like a world spun out of space.
Our sloop shoots through the cosmos,

Through a mute and moonless night,

Our wake a fiery comet

Streaming effervescent light.
With all the universe inert

We slip from star to star,

Then reach across the Milky Way

Toward galaxies afar.

Eons swirl, light-years unfurl

And none can still our flight,
Leaping toward the infinite to
Apprehend the light.

This poem was set to music by composer Troy Armstrong.  The choral arrangement is hauntingly beautiful.  He calls it "Swimming Among the Stars". You can listen HERE

Read the blog post where Troy found the poem:

Swimming Among the Stars

On a Bus to Papeete

Wind through the window
Streaming through my hair
I in my stillness
Hurtling through the air
Trees and grasses and roads bending

Faces with flowers and houses blending

Objects like petals on a dark stream, streaming

through me, leave me, clean
and empty as a hollow reed, still
faintly ringing with the rhapsody of being

Read about what inspired this poem:

Into the Flow, Mountain Top and Market Place Experiences

Garden in Moorea  

Walking among flowers,
drowning in scent,

petals assault me,
cool and bent.

Pistils are pounding,
stamens stab,

colors colliding
stun and grab.

Walking among flowers,
I die a sweet death.

Bloodied and trampled,
borne by my last breath,

I lay like a light
on the garden wall,

then swooping, swallow
flowers and all.

Read more about this poem, what inspired me here:

Walking Among Flowers

Isle of Pines 

There is a path
green and thin
that wends away
and wheels me in,
rising, falling, tree
by tree, lanced by
light through sward
and leaf, breathing
pines that breathe
in me like heady wine
flowing free, green
above and green
below, no in no out,
no high no low, wind
like water everywhere
I walk on water, float
on air, drifting mindless
round the bend, bursting
out bursting in.

Read more about what inspired this poem here:


"Religion and art spring from the same root and are close kin." Willa Cather

“The object which is at the back of every work of art, is the attainment of a state of being, a state of functioning, a more than ordinary moment of existence.”  Robert Henri, American painter, from The Art Spirit 

Poetry is a raid on the inarticulate. – T.S. Elliot

Below are selections of my poetry, which I have not sought to publish, so I freely share them here. Two poems have been set to music, I am happy to report: Night Crossing, Sea Of Cortez; and To My Son, Age Six, Storm Rider.  Composers found them on my blog and asked permission to use them in their work. 

Feel free to share your thoughts at

Deborah J. Brasket

Early Poetry

Home on the Central Coast of California

Summer Heat

I watch them every summer, the hot hills

Crouched like a lion beside the road.

I see the strength—tawny skin pulled taut

Across long, lean ribs.

I would take my hand and trace

Round ripples of male muscle, feel

The hot rise and cool dip of his body.

I see the arrogance—rocky head held

High against infinity, the patient power

Unmindful of the heat that holds me.

Someday he will rise, stretch his sensuous

Body against the sky with one, low moan.

On silent paws he will pursue me . . .

And I will wait.

Read more about this poem on my blog:

Hot Hills in Summer Heat

To My Son, Age Six – Storm Rider

You’re such a lovely boy, so structured like
a flower: skin so white and bones so light–
one breath and you might be forever blown.
Yet in this face of innocence you hide,
lashes unfurled like canopies to shade
your eyes—strange pools where secrets swim and dive.
For you are patterned dark and light. Storms brew
in you and lie along your shadowed face
where I can’t see. I wonder where they rise?
And where, in what far sea, they’ll rage and die.

Sometimes I gather you to lap to find
That I can never hold the length of you:
Your fullness spills with ambiguity
And races toward dimensions past my grasp.
I must confine content to legacies
In lap. How is it I still hold what you
Outgrow? So well I know that spiraled shell.
I turn it feeling fine and subtle threads
of you, while at its core, all that’s true.
I lift that hallowed lip and wait to hear
Intuitions of you, forever near.

The Accident of Touching


Once, in some wild gesture,

Some random fancy

I found my hand stretched out,

Open and unprotected.

There, your hand paused,

Palm moist and heavy

Yet warm and lively.

Before I thought to clasp it

The moment passed and

You were gone.


Now, I watch hands

As they quickly dart and

Never cease to move.

The accident of touching

Is so rare! Sometimes

I pause my hand on purpose

And hope to find yours there.

Read more about this poem here:

Blogging and "The Accident of Touching"