Tapestries of Light

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

This swelling sea I savor; 

the immeasurable depths of your bold blue eyes

became my true-north mirror, allow me to drift far from shore, 

reflect the clarity of who I am, who I long to be — 

not who I once believed was curling beneath frail bones.

Your every breath is a slow, sweet sonnet recited sotto voce;

bassundo winds exhale shadows into chiaroscuro obscurities, 

calm pastels as they gently brush their sculpted sunsets.

You unbraid my hair with songs of tenderness, unravel my protests 

with untamed promises of life unrestrained by terror, only bright love declared; 

we are poems borne of wings into dusk's wide and darkening sky.

Lifting Them Beyond

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

When a butterfly perishes, 

will it become a fully-fledged angel? 

For wingéd things are not meant to lose 

their patterns of flight, only their mortal shapes. 

There have been dreams when they whispered 

such secrets to me in song and when I awoke, 

I couldn't remember their lyrics, 

only the music they wove into light - 

yet, humans cannot seem to understand these frail truths, 

only the strength of wind rising beneath them, 

lifting them beyond... 

Within This Pale Realm

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Inside this darkling night

of slumberless dreams descending,

hyacinth wings fold around me.

Shivers ache, each agony crevassed by lost dreams;

I lack nourishment and guidance

within this pale realm of origamic solitude.

The moon is sheathed, shudders beneath fog

that permeates bitter intentions —

I utter prayers for the fallen,

beg solace from murmured moments of respite —

immersed in this infinite solitude,

aloft, away from the hearth I once knew so well.

Beyond This Pale Distance

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Worn with anguish, 

the portal does not open freely or in silence 

unless bidden by those bent and blanched with grief.

On one side of these solid, dolorous doors, 

life goes on - 

on another, eternity awaits our final step 

across a terrible threshold, a journey not soon sought,

yet inevitably, an unavoidable task we must accept.

One day, our names will be etched in fragmenting stone,

an enduring reminder of our ephemeral natures - 

if one peers through the veil of these constant shadows, 

there is a fleeting glimpse of anodized bronze,

dusky murmurings of another existence beyond this pale distance.

poem for Elisa

                                                      — picture from Google images

your door opens to dawn;

soft light pours like translucent milk 

through lace curtains 

as jasmine murmurs in the foyer,

a gentle invitation to enter

your architecture is solid,

fluidity with angles and curves,

a swirl of both water and air,

a declaration of fire and earth

a reminiscence of ripe plums 

rests upon your bedside table,

still waiting to be savored

fingers spread and palms raised,

as though containing an invisible gift

gathered from the morning's tide

watching through your upstairs window,

the shore below reveals a mandala created within the mist, 

a horizon of pastel memories beyond our grasp

wind catches wings of a thousand paper cranes

as sky unfolds,

a new day shimmers with slender sighs,

whispers of long ago and far away

you bend toward a distant sound remembered,

your hair covering your eyes,

wet almonds glistening as they recall 

the promise of lilies floating lazily, 

their reflections pallid beneath a descending sun

Journal : For Jenna, Amanda and the Rest of the World

Please click the link to read. 

Journal : For Jenna, Amanda and the Rest of the World

perhaps

in the dark beyond

in the dim beneath

forlorn in shadows

of my own footsteps

waiting

for rhythm to wane

for silence to heal

wounds 

not claimed or recognized 

in reflections of quiet water 

moving slowly toward the sea

returning home

after a long journey 

wisdom was finally found

unveiled under silk scarves of night

flickering in the starlit shimmer 

of my pulse

a fragrant wind will bear 

a gentle kiss, 

a soft whisper aloft — 

perhaps

in this way 

I shall be remembered