Monday, February 11, 2013

Chaotic Pecking

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

The ink calls to me from these sharpened edges of quiet nights, 
suffering such gloomy despair until I rise once more 
and cradle it softly, curled within the solace of my hands,
spilling its sustenance upon the page. It weeps from sheer neglect, 
no matter how often I hold it near my wildly-pounding heart, 
begging release from visions which writhe until nurtured 
by sudden release, an utter freedom from keyboard's slavish demands 
to compose by striking keys, rather than to sculpt within the calming fire 
of the pen's soothing swirls. Nay, I prefer the inky swells, 
the cautious calligraphy arising silently from my blood 
over the chaotic pecking order of Poe's raven knocking incessantly 
at my darkened door.