Legacy

                                                The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Dry dust will not claim this marrow

until I am ready to forsake the eternal greening of my heart;

restless moments of rustling leaves will not tame me,

nor will feast or famine sway me from this path.

The sea will surge,

coming ashore with its remnants

of another life to quell quiet moments.

I shall not weep any longer.

The world has depleted too much strength as it is.

Let flowers rise under another's tears,

if they must. Let them curl their blooms

beneath a mournful moon. I shall not care.

I am preoccupied with swirling

under a pale sun. I am ferocious

and wild beneath layers of solicitous laughter.

I am a nascent seed,

discovering the depths of soil as I take root.

I will not return this legacy of harvest. 

The Forest of Your Smile

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

They shimmer bronze, like a summer breeze.

Your hands describe curves of the moon.

Orchids rise upon your breath, stems curl as lips in laughter.

I whisper, “How green are my eyes tonight?”

You tell me leaves turn over when rain comes near and birds are silent.

Love Answers Pablo's Grief: Inspired by Neruda

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Your sad eyes weep, sweet salt flowing upon my flesh 

as rain is softened by the fall; as dusk descends, 

it covers the mountains with remnants of fire.

Your melancholy takes root, lifting my boughs in its wind.

We could never lose this moment, as it is enshrined 

deeply within our hearts, my Love - how can you not know the truth 

of this gift, these everlasting memories which shall not tarnish or fade?

Our reminiscences of this day, this night, become currency we shall not spend 

frivolously, even in our diminishing years. I am never far away from you, 

never disappearing into the mist that surrounds you as you moan.

I shall gather your hands to my breast so you might feel its thrum, 

the constant rhythms of one who pulses near you, who remains within your sight 

if you will only raise your head, turn your eyes outward, draw me closer 

than your sorrow.Your blue sweater is wrapped around my shoulders 

as I pull you into a warm, liquid embrace - a river, surrendering itself to the sea. 

The shore may be hidden by the fog, but it is there, Beloved. 

We are standing on its fluent, moving currents, our feet planted 

in sodden sand, shimmering sculptures of quiet rhapsodies unveiled;

we shall not sink below the surface - our unfurled wings shall keep us afloat 

as we murmur within these slow waves of song.

A Moment With Emily

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton


My columns on a variety of subjects

In Amherst,

there is a quiet house

enormous with history.

She watched the world expand

through her narrow window there,

perhaps never realizing how generous

she would become.

Her gifts remained largely unnoticed 

in the business and busyness of people living their lives

as best they knew how, not understanding

she held the key to secret, unseen doors

where perception might grow as large 

as the wisteria she tended with merciful hands.

First in black, then white,

she strolled softly between burgeoning branches,

sifting fruit and petals alike with pale fingers

holding her lace shawl on her shoulders bent with accumulation.

Often, she would soothe her hounds 

as darkness descended, lost in mysterious reveries

none could explain.

Under candle’s glow, she would read the classics,

and writing far beyond her breadth,

outmaster them all with a redolent stroke of her pen.

She could not have known

the ancients would shudder and thrill the starlight,

thoughtfully gazing through her portal

as time was severed from its leash

and night grew dim.

Creativity (Updated 11/26/12)

my newest poem

song of crisp leaves

song of crisp leaves

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poems by Wanda Lea Brayton

My poetry site author's page

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Update: four new columns posted now

one on the photographer Imogen Cunningham, one on Pulitzer Prize winner and Poet Laureate Ted Kooser, Naomi Shihab Nye and the latest column is on Jane Hirshfield.

My columns on a variety of subjects

(arch - graphic artist unknown)

Autumn's Glisten

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Winter performed a mighty glissade,

keeping its balance with vulnerability and valor

hedged against the tender pall.

Hibernation became my wise reckoning.

Spring taunted me with burgeoning buds

and whispered with incessant insouciance.

I felt the greening within, 

long before its warmth settled upon the nape of my neck 

as the horizon moaned its awful ache.

This inviolable landscape shuddered swiftly

and arched into Summer’s rage of fiery breath,

stealing my splendor of song, its slow echoes lost.

I waited patiently for the onslaught, the oncoming vortex - 

soft wind loose, then tightened into smaller circles

that cautioned a confluence of chill chaos.

Autumn arrives now, its welcome hearth

resplendent with the solemn solace of flame.

The ardor of leaves as they scurry within the lane

brings humility and comfort to bones ever weary for rest.

Redolent with harvest, 

sinuous storms will follow.

I gather a gradual, cautious bouquet of silence

from branches bared with knowing what lies ahead

while September begins to compose 

its crisp and brilliant symphonies.

A More Solemn Letting Go

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Veiled Woman 1910 Imogen Cunningham

Melodies unweave crisped notes above loosely wrapped, confused flesh

to help soothe and subdue them into their darkly-writhing graves - 

even the newly dead require a rite of passage, 

a more solemn letting go 

than a mere scattering of petals would imply.

They feel the weight of a clouded sky pressing down,

the force of gravity constraining their brittle bones beneath the soil

as they still remember the warmth of sunlight 

upon their now paled, gray faces.

Do not speak unkindly or step over them without pause,

for they will know the depths of your presence soon enough -

you will not be able to plead or barter your way out 

of these evolutionary circles, 

away from this binding, terrible truth.

So I am wandering looking for new deities,

sweeping dirt to and fro, seeking a softer place to kneel

than memory will offer this gasped grinding of grief,

this swift severing of halves from wholes,

this etching of echoes carving caves into heaving, heavy hearts

that know of no better place to release their barbed-wire laughter,

their cautious aspects of mourning, each stuttered step acknowledging 

such fiery, distant drums.

Repetitions

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

I.

The shore defined the reach of the current's ebb and flow.

We stood on the edge of yesterday and tomorrow, lost in the moment 

as our eyes discovered two souls searching for each other.

Fragile in our knowing,

we leaned into an embrace that remains, even now.

Suddenly, we fell upon the sand,

laughing at time, stunned by our mutual surrender of balance.

You sighed gently, your hands tangling in my hair

as you showed me paths built of starlight.

The waves echoed the rhythm of our hearts

as we gentled the night with a kiss.

II.

I linger softly between each line,

torn between anguish and ecstasy.

I spill my soul's ink upon this lucid parchment

with a passion that will not be silenced or denied.

Within my tempestuous thoughts, moonlight tarries,

whispering star-songs into my dreaming eyes.

Why must survival be so harried and cruel,

when the beauty of life is so sublime?

I pause for a bitter moment to drink my fill of sweetness

as though perilously parched 

before I scatter myself across a multitude of horizons,

longing for nightfall in sanctuary's keep.

III.

Among the elders, I search for the perfect tree,

a solid branch to hang my hopes upon

without concern for storms' splintering wrath.

I seek bountiful boughs to shade me,

plentiful leaves to sing their autumnal songs.

Along the landscape I have slowly wandered,

spending long years lost within this quest.

Breezes sigh softly through bared branches,

subtle movements against the night sky

between gently dancing leaves.

Shadows murmur across the horizon, hiding intentions of light,

burrowing beauty beneath chiaroscuro echoes,

unveiling dualities.

We are silent within this radiant realm

as passion's purity unfolds inside our hallowed hearts,

origami birds suddenly come undone.

IV.

Time carves its solemn memories

into stone softened by sorrow.

Joy etches its presence upon these rough-edged pillars,

insisting on its rightful place within the sacred cycles

of weeping water and borrowed sun.

The Anasazi came and left without leaving any clues

beyond their abstract disappearance;

only the silent cliffs remain as witness

to mark their existence among us.

We are all only fragments of dust, 

gathered into wild bouquets,

until the wind returns.

2 a.m.

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Edward Weston and Margrethe Mather 1922 by Imogen Cunningham

The night is fluent and deep.

Your breath, 

a pastiche of rising tides, 

awaits my immersion.

You gather me like fragrant leaves 

even as you sleep, pull me into your dream 

until we are wrapped together within these boughs 

and dream of fall, ablaze.

Once

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Once,

I might have believed 

in a destiny that swelled between us,

a wave so wild, it beckoned,

although I longed for shore.

You etched wingless eagles into my eyes,

wove bitter butterflies into my belly,

stitched sorrow deeply into my soul.

You were far too beautiful

for the ache you accepted too willingly,

the agony you feasted upon with such hunger,

calling it harvest. 

You offered me a taste 

of this harsh liquid,

calling it mead.

By candlelight,

you signed the words "I love you"

because the words were caught in your throat -

you shivered when I kissed you;

I tasted the salt of your sweat and tears,

confused by the savoring

of an exquisite moment made painful

by the tenderness of your touch -

you silently withdrew

and left me moaning your name.

You wounded the heart of me

when you swore to vows

you would never, could never keep.

I shook at your deception,

curling into the small warmth of shadows -

your false light was anguish defined.

I sought the healing sculpture of language,

unwilling to perish from loneliness,

unwilling to die for your sake

when you would not live for mine.

Norma Jean

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Inspired by Marilyn Monroe's poetry

Norma Jean, 

your sinuous vines were meant for more

than bearing fruit, for gathering wind in your leaves,

curled against the storms.

The soil shuddered beneath your feet,

swaying within the onslaught of unrepentant tides.

You were golden, 

a kinetic glow surrounding your skin

too many longed to touch, and tear.

When the wind grew too fierce,

you burrowed beneath your slow blankets of flame,

surging, trembling. 

Still, 

we are sustained by your tragic warmth,

restlessly drink from your wild vintage.

For Anne, Who Knew, But Sang Anyway

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

                                                                                      Inspired by Anne Sexton

You aligned your inked soldiers 

gray with cavernous yawns gleaming bright,

black anthems marking their despondent trail.

With shreds of evidence, scrawled ransom notes,

just how much proof of life did we require beyond

the gripped grinding of your bones, the harsh tremolo

of your caustic voice before we finally realized

how far you'd fallen, how deep you'd descended

into those aching crevasses carved by chaos?

How much brutality must one mortal frame 

be subjected to, endure, before the structure gives way,

crumbling into severe shards of glass, 

misted clumps of dust?

You screeched and scrawled 

until ears turned deaf, eyes blind,

neglecting the density of your sorrow 

until you could bear no more beatings of your breast - 

you stilled yourself so gently, the slight rippling of torn wings 

could not be heard.

We wept for this grave loss, unkempt 

and fevered with contagion such madness leaves behind,

a wake we could not consciously attend without shattering

our own brittle reflections in antiqued mirrors 

we'd so long ignored, snared as we were 

by a placid existence.