You, the Beautiful Dreamer

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

You, the beautiful dreamer, were a mountain -

your majestic presence was skillfully etched

upon the landscape of my heart.

You rose from the valley of sorrow

to touch the sky with tender mercy

as the clouds wove a garland of music around us

with the exquisite fragrances

of unspoken languages

echoing salvation's subtle desire.

There were stars far above the horizon

glistening with rapture

as you quietly moaned

through this ruptured soil.

I dreamed I was a field of wildflowers -

painted rainbows sighing across your face,

a blanket of gentle whispers

unveiled by bountiful blossoms

that traced your features

with compassion and understanding.

I rose from determined seeds once forgotten by wild winds,

sinking my slender roots into an aegis of dust and dew,

reaching for the grace of sunlight.

As I slumbered,

I dreamed we danced with purpose into fragile, infinite moments,

surrounded by silent laughter falling softly from Heaven's gate,

a lingering legacy of love's lessons learned.

Wild Wings

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

If you come back as a tree, I shall return as a bird

so I may serenade you with my song.

If you come back as a stone, I shall return as a curious child,

to tuck you into my pocket

and marvel at your many colors.

Wild wings have we, whirring over this stretched canvas

of life. Woeful whispers cause us to pause, mid-air.

Deep crevasses have we, gathering sediments of sorrow,

erupting from within to spill gestated seeds.

Chaotic currents surge beneath these casual bones, 

a wisdom that is not entirely our own to claim or clamor.

Without Mercy

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

The moon aches without mercy,

her vast emptiness

shuddering beneath unforgiving night.

She has seen

far too many stars slip 

from the sky's tentative embrace,

only to fall in glorious, fiery demise.

She senses more are forming,

becoming born, but oh, it takes so long

and she grows weary of waiting

for seeds to bloom in utter darkness.

Winter is well on its way -

a tendered harvest is nigh.

Desolate tides command her attention

as so many lost and battered souls

weep under her pale, knowing light.

Even a sudden eclipse

shall give her no reprieve.

Walking On

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Most days,
I tread softly on the porcelain shards
of shattered expectations,

cringing at the crunch
of shell against concrete.

The yolk has long since dried
into an unsightly stain,
yellow against gray;

tepid, no longer lucid -

no meringue to savor
against the sorrow.

Only pallid parchment
will save me from the bitterness
that comes from infinite yearning;

I pour my passion
from an unending well of deep, dark ink,

smearing the pages with an occasional tear
that betrays what I believe in,

what I would willingly barter
for a single act of silence that soothes.