In the belly
there is a refuge
that rocks you
a bassinette swaying
in safe mother hands
and you float there
letting waves of pleasure
lap your body
drinking in each one
like nectar

I want to take this hurting world
and hold it in my belly
take long, soothing breaths
and rock my hips
to an eternal lullaby

Like that moment when you
stop fighting and
fall into sleep or
float on the surface of the sea or
let go into someone’s arms

© orlabeaton
5/10/23

(Written for National Poetry Day 2023 and the theme of #refuge)

May the symbols of peace
Throughout history
Rise up and decorate the land

A vast and beautiful rainbow
Appear in the winter sky
A flight of white doves to delight
And awaken tired eyes
Olive branches and paper cranes
To adorn broken buildings
Hands held high with V signs
White poppies and broken rifles
To carpet the ground

May the symbols of peace
Through history
Rise up and decorate the land

© orlabeaton
28/2/22

(Written in February 2022 when the war against Ukraine began resulting in the largest refugee migration in Europe since World War II, estimated by at 6.3 million people.)

An afternoon to catch up 
Shopping, clearing bins
Roast that squash
Make a soup
Transform those old apples
Into something sweet
Listen to music, poetry
All the while trying to calm the
Restlessness
All the while you watch me
From the green armchair
With the best view
And I somehow wish you didn't
It weighs on me as a burden does
So I continue doing indoors 
Adding logs to the grudging flames
Until dusk meets with duty
And I take you outside 
And then I see the sky
And I know without you
It would have been absent 
Your caramel eyes,
Your elegant frame,
Your kind paws

©orlabeaton
25/10/23

It shocks me to watch the walls go up.
To see someone, I so deeply admire,
write words of division and hurt,
words typed by her own two hands. 
And I see how swiftly the rocks fall,
and the walls of mine and other go up,
breezeblock by breezeblock,
post by post.
I see in myself, the rage:
Why does it have to be this way?
When are we going to wake up? 
How can we do this to each other?
So many hurting questions.
In my jaw, my chest, my hands.

My hands, my pen, my voice.
Hands so innocent.
Born to sense and touch.
So beautifully mottled and freckled.
Tendrils of wandering intelligence
on a vast ocean of sensation.
The curl of hand holds my life,
reveals a heart at rest and
a heart in pain. 

Tenderness begins in the hands:
the way I reach out for yours
when I let my guard down and
immediately the warmth is everything,
the way I stroke your hair after school,
and the touch connects us beyond
what words could ever do,
the way my hands rest open in meditation.
Open hands, open heart, open mind.

What would the world be like if we let
our hands touch and that touch be
the wisdom for our words?
If touch could be the precursor to writing?
If touch could inform the form?
If touch could be the place where we start?

© orlabeaton
2/11/23

(With thanks to Kate Oldfield at The Writing Well)