Monday, January 28, 2013

Wild Morning

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

I pull back lace curtains,
shielding my eyes,
coffee in unsteady hand.

This brown world seems stagnant,

A bush beneath the window 
exhales wings 
and rises, unfettered,
into symphonic light.

Sunday, January 13, 2013

Slow Dance With Neruda

This poem was displayed at the Vancouver Neruda Celebration in 2006 
and was featured at the end of the dvd of the event 

I feel your song moving softly, 
rippling underneath my skin - 
crashing on the shoreline of thought, 
raising mountains where oceans once lay. 
I taste moonlight on your lips, 
falling from ethereal skies of yearning. 

As a child, 
I watched our cherry trees bloom,
not understanding the fiery blush
that colored my cheeks, soft pink petals of silk. 
When Autumn came, the fruit was sweet,
tender juices pouring from my mouth. 

Hungered and quiescent under your darkened eyes, 
I am a budding branch stretching for sunlight's warmth, 
rooted in your earth; 
this restless flesh flutters as your fingers
trace edges of wind upon my heart,
every breath we share in shivered silence.

We were born to love this way,
lost in the depths 
and found by the tethers of our searching hands
swelling tides in each other's oceans. 
Compasses forgotten, we explore the trembling horizon. 
I will not be moved, save for the gentle currents
of your water upon my Being. 

You reach for me across space and time,
drifting on currents of breath between us. 
We lay naked to each other's eyes, 
sweetly surrendering to the sea -
unfathomable tempests roar within my blood. 

How is grief fathomed, when light cannot be found? 
I follow this maddening moon, 
laying myself upon you as I offer succor in morning's embrace.

Your hands unveil an artist's touch, sculpting and molding curves, 
stroking angles with deftness for colors and lines; 
knowing the canvas glides with movements of your brush. 
You sketch my love with bold strokes, 
redefining the expanse of my borders, of sorrows not quite earned. 
We light these sacred candles, wondering why we still feel cold - 
flames flicker on the periphery of silence 
that will not hold stars as they fall from the sky.

There's a sigh drifting from your lips 
that I'd love to kiss into silence, yet, I do not move - 
I dare not speak, ending this quiet moment
that stretches between us as an eternity. 
I want to feel those gentle hands tangled in my hair, always. 

The bud opens shyly, 
softly scenting the air with allure
as petals fall gently to the ground.

Leaves stir in a woman
who knows the grandeur of Autumn
and the harshness of Winter, whispering as she waits for harvest...

The Chaos of Nudity

Inspired by the poem "Ode to a Naked Beauty" by Pablo Neruda
translated by A.S. Kline

your eyes catapult dreams 
through vast, aching corridors of my heart, 
secret-chambered whispers of sweet lingerings to be

you are a river drifting through me slowly, 
rushing towards an open sea

oaken roots stretch from soil to sky,
dancing in unshorn meadows
long before the rains come;

your hands sway me into sun-dappled forests, deep
and mighty boughs dipped with budding laughter
as leaves curl in anticipation

the moon breathes, cascading light

Your Hands

Your hands steal the sun from the sky,
planting it beneath my breast,
where it pulses in languid light. 

The wind cannot dislodge your subtle touch
from the nape of my neck,
where it lingers in truth. 

Songs of birds are but murmurs now,
distracted by your warmth.

Wildflowers rise, then fall in surrender,
their meadows subdued
by your whispering hands.

Moments escape with a fragile tithing,
memory's slow glance upon the wilderness.

Thursday, January 10, 2013

Other places I can be found...

                                                                             Vintage — photographer unknown

Other places I can be found...

More poetry

Columns on a variety of subjects (quotations, humor, music, art, poetry, miscellaneous)

My blog interview with Morgen Bailey

Featured Poet on The HyperTexts website

My book

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton 
(556 pages, available in print and pdf formats)