Saturday, March 29, 2014

Autumn's Dusky Rose

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Across the silvery distance, 
you whispered my secret name 
and leaned beyond these fallow fields 
to gently capture my lips with your own. 

I sighed upon waking, 
not knowing why until I read your wild words 
by the unveiling luminescence of dawn. 

A blush echoed across my cheeks, 
my hands trembling in delight 
for the depths of dream - 

how sweetly you sang to my neglected heart - 
how softly you caressed my troubled mind.

There are always moments we cannot foresee, 
nor explain as they pass by our hearth - 

last night, you touched my soul 
with a subtle murmur of beauty and this morning, 
there are flowers blooming among the fallen leaves. 

Any Sailor Ever Born

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

As brave as any sailor ever born, he casts off to unknown shores 
and remembers her final kiss, tender upon his breath - 
they haul swirled ropes and stow away necessities for this voyage; 

he carries her heart wherever he goes 
and knows to protect it from any savagery the rugged rocks might render, 
the monsters he might meet amid the fogbound seas

his frigate dances gaily upon the water, finally freed from its moorings - 
the wind whistles at his back, surrendering to this desire to go forth, 
to discover mysteries as they unfold beneath his weathered gaze 

his sharp eyes take in everything the horizon has to offer 
as he recalls her contented sighs against his thick chest, 
how her tears seeped through the cloth into his flesh, 
sinking far deeper than any unmeasured fathoms 

he has an ancient compass, a sturdy wheel to guide him 
and knows which stars will bring him back 
into the intrigue of her smile. 

Sunday, March 16, 2014

The Long Road Home

Buds burst, a delicate fragrance -
remembrances drift slowly 
upon a soft Spring breeze.

Her bold, silent eyes drew him into her circle 
where he lingered, stroking her golden hair.

His quiet gestures of kindness and strength 
made her feel weak, yet full of love's power 
as she held his solemn face in her hands.

Her tempests grew gentle, 
sculpted by warm, laughing currents 
swirling within her belovéd's touch.

Surreal seasons subdued raging tides 
of a once-bright bride, now a weary widow 
whose shadow falls and fades with retreating light.

Parched by drought, humbled by doubt, 
a shell made hollow by savage storms of April
endured in an unknown country. 

It is a secret place she cannot know, 
an unspoken curse in the sleepless night, 
a weight she must somehow bear.

She bends and sighs, 
not yet defeated. 

Her pale, trembling fingers  
try to smooth thin tufts of displaced grass 
upon his narrow bed, 

her forever now buried 
beneath Winter's cold, cruel ground. 

Friday, March 7, 2014

In Brautigan's Forgotten Fields

                                                "Rose on Cracked Linen" by Cheri Blum

there, in the corner,
your eyes cast down and aside

trying to appear unobstrusive,
trying to become invisible and obscure,
trying to fade into parched woodwork -

your grain does not match the burled rings 
and even if it did, 
I'd still recognize your eyes 

in another life, some other time 
so far from here, I loved you fiercely, 
with such tenderness, we both wept, unashamed

as if it was always the first time we touched -
and here, now, even in the contours and confusion of this life,
remnants of tears remain, staining my fingers with salt

there, out in the open, 'neath the surly moon, 
your heart as broad as unfenced fields bursting with spring blooms 
dancing with darkness, agleam with light - 

tall, slender, lithe, aflame with grace, 
pale with passion you cannot name,
your voice shaking 

how you invoke rhythms and hymnals of wind,
how you stir currents of this aching river so deeply
with your whispered breath unbound, 

reaching through untold centuries for me; 
take my hand

I am here

I am