Friday, December 27, 2013

This Side of Infinity

A dark chasm created itself
between your hand and mine.

How I longed to follow you,
to stay beside you on your journey -
inevitable denial left a jagged ache,
unanswered, so I thought,
those desperate prayers I uttered so faithfully.
I cursed shadows that took you
until I felt your ascension into light.

Then, I understood that I had to remain
on the far side of the sun (where it is cold, and lonely),
until a bridge could be built, allowing me to safely cross,
until my prepared path was spread upon the gleaming horizon
where you waited, within sustained silence.

Mine was in not knowing the moments to come,
the reckonings I would, perhaps, discover.
Mine was in not evolving in a forward motion,
but backwards, into faded past.

Tides swell and crash onto distant shores, unheard.
Shells are cast onto sand, bereft of all but song.

I crawled on ancient lands,
searching for revolutions to restrain those covenants I'd kept.
Future tithings were impossible to barter or beg.

I'd once sought comfort in a universal madness,
unremitted by starlight.
Ah, but how could I believe
in a love that would yet save me from dissent?

Here I am now, salvaged by invariable truth,
infinite and broadened by beauty's fine grace.

Upon Receiving the News

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

I wear these fragile fragrances,
remember the sultry scents of flowers you gave me
burrowed deep within my bones,
beauty shuddering mid-stride with haunting tenderness,
slow sighs drifting in a moonless night.

They reveal roots searching underneath
this vulnerable parchment,
salving wounds I had forgotten
or did not know were there.

You scattered soulful seeds behind the garden gate,
extending its horizon beyond the edge of vision;
you yearned for patient blooms to open
within my shadowed eyes. 

Quietly, we recall your presence among us,
a subtle whisper of your voice drifting
through the shuttered window -
how deep is this silence that haunts us now,
in your absence. 

We wait for words that cannot be spoken,
plead for music we shall never hear again.

The lamp slowly dims,
anticipating sunlight we will not feel.

wren (vignettes)

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton


a trembling quiver 
cupped within my hands,
a quiet treble, its dazed feathers bold and vibrant 
with tender innocence - 

fear not, 
beautiful bird - 

you will soon know flight again.


children huddled in the park
gathering moss and mud in gleeful abandon
not feeling or fleeing the shadows of adulthood
just rebelling and reveling in the ache of sunlight


bent wings shall straighten and unfurl
under caring hands that understand the push and pull of wind,
the arch of a mountainous grasp

tomorrow is a promise
as yet unkept


weep only for beauty's sake, 
not for sorrow. It deepens its furrowed glare
with each drop that falls, uncaught.


hearts brighten as sun rises -
anticipation of an instant  
when hands touch and clasp, 
something new and somehow sacred.

all the world shall fall away
when eyes meet and grasp
the significance of such a moment

soothing and glorious,
bereft of nothing, 
a waterfall of everything,
all at once.

Wisdom of the Snail

Mark Knopfler and Emmylou Harris - "Why Worry"

Like an artist,
you carry the tools of your trade,
a slow observer
of nature both savage and wild.

Like a sage,
you understand subtle ravages of time,
knowing you are a temporary resident of this shell,
so why worry?

Just breathe.

Photographs and Memories

I wish I had a photograph of those moments missing in time,
lovers absent that we cannot find upon the meaner streets of memories,
carrying their rhythms simmering somewhere else where they cannot be seen
or felt no matter how hard we might try to forget how their scent lingers,
like the faded spot on a finger without a band to pawn, to sell,
to throw into a wishing well and remain there. They're just gone, no trace,
no face, no hiding place, just an echo without reverberation,
this damned lost generation, their promises broken,
all their beautiful words spoken without meaning, without gleaning
what means the most to us all before we fall into reverie
without severing the truth from fiction,
every depiction of a shattering heart
just before it came apart in our trembling hands, 
but here I stand. I wish I had a photograph of it all, but instead,
it's only etched its sources and its sorcery on my soul.