Monday, December 24, 2012


                                                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. 

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

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

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.