A Potent Brew: Inspired by Jack Kerouac

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Turn over the waste basket of any fierce, struggling writer

whose haggard flesh hangs loosely from knotted bones,

one who moons at waning night with frustrated eyes,

dig deep into curled and fisted papers lying there, forlorn

beneath discarded, burnished apple cores

and cigarette butts - there, you shall find poetry simmering

its many-hued fragrances, a potent brew of rejections, 

inspirations torridly attended, then tossed as unworthy,

conjectures of disarrayed mathematics gone astray 

among sullen smears of ink. You will not find it 

in organized classrooms, sworn and shouted 

from pompous pulpits of lecture halls, 

or even in a small, dusty library 

whose shelves have retained the ghosts 

of more musty tomes lost, rather than saved, for posterity's sake, 

being limited by inadequate budgets and cautioned purchases 

barely approved by a status quo board -

you will find poetry waiting patiently, trying to hitch a ride 

from non-existent cars along a cracked, unused road 

where once travelers swept by, on their way 

to something better, something brighter, something bolder

than they ever saw before or could possibly imagine - 

snared inside their pallid existences,

unable to mutter or moan, or even beat their breasts, howling.

Multiplicity

     — Inspired by the poetry of Denise Levertov

Unspoken superlatives hang, mid-air,

as if unplucked pears dangling from spent stems,

waiting to fall to thin, browned soil,

fruit never to be tasted, nor praised in song.

O fearless star, your light glides from ancient promises

now kept in silence, unknown to the scattered dust

to which they were fervently vowed, how still and bright

is this requiem you offer to their progeny.

You hover near the curious, waning moon, furious to reach out

and caress what once was and is no longer flesh.

Bare branches stir from wind's sudden gestures,

then cease to move; unchanged (they think), yet quietly sculpted

without knowledge as though rocks glaring brilliantly

beneath a stream's desire for alterations, patient.

Fragrances of ages swirl around us, unbidden,

yet we are scented

as they storm toward a different horizon

than their ancestors ever imagined.

How bold we are, to stand with furrowed brows,

declaring our inepitude as grace,

our obsolesence as fame,

our temporary presence as permanent indentations -

only simple scars left upon an unforgiving earth

replete with memories of her own

to squander on faithless nights.

Reading in Bed

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

            — Inspired by the poem "A Clear Midnight" by Walt Whitman

The pages slip softly from my now languid hands -

permeated am I by their thoughtful fragrance and flavor,

carried into a slow descent of caverns 

where slumber might allow me to dwell

and thus, quietly sing.

Surge

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

I shall gather your words as alms

for the bereft, use them as beacons to rise 

from heavy fog where sea swerves wildly, 

drifting with echoes of shells it once knew intimately

and remembers now with alacrity and affection.

Sand will set course, leaning toward soil,

planting its seeds, its flags of many nations,

its hearts of various hues - such splendor will lift

new buds toward warmth and delight the sky with song.

There are wings aloft,

if only we uncover our eyes

to see their innocence shimmering,

wise beneath these quiet folds of dusk.

everafter — for Rob Ganson

"The supermoon will find you tonight, bathe you in new tides of hope and beauty. She may hide, pull your spirits up from behind the clouds, but spirits will rise and fog recede, deeds of goodness push back against the darkness and epiphanies germinate like eager seeds. This, I have seen in a dream. Today, I will fold sacred words into a paper swan, float her down a threatened stream to a river where grandfather fish follow a biological imperative, and finally, should fate send her there, to the inland sea. In my dream, she made it all the way." 

— Rob Ganson 

mourning carves us, 

silent as water,

fluent as shadows pursued by dusk

where do we go from here?

is there still an everafter?

boundaries are altered as storms rearrange horizons,

a mighty protest to protect earth's frail, broken skin

from our terrible, troubled, trembling hands

our mouths agape, 

we attempt to form words without sound,

fragments without meaning

we plant orchards knowing we will not see 

those bright blooms burst into song

or savor their burgeoning fruits

we wait for unexpected moments 

when our own wild gardens will suddenly seize us, 

then return us to parched and hungry soil

brimming just beneath banks meant to hold us back,

we boil, roiling over edges of what once mattered most

yet, time does not exist or allow tears to descend, 

for dew shall rise again into strange and swirling mist, 

creating clouds that break and fall into unseen, untamed rivers

perhaps a turbulent aftermath is what we fear most,

tender gestures lost which we would quietly dread,

since we understand evolution, 

must acquiesce rhythms of hymnals 

as we won't be there to stem the tide

to shape and nurture its nascent strand 

or kiss its ancient ache away

Martina's Sonata: for Blueblack

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Your skin is braided thin with parchment -

delicate with lace, bearing threads of ink

woven in intricate patterns, its effervescent hues defiant,

stained with rebellion aimed at mere chiaroscuro shades of existence,

kaleidoscopic bursts against the night sky.

Where we came from, where we are going now,

deftness of color means more than sound,

is far more significant than taste or feeling abstractions 

along these blunted edges of canvas.

The artistry of a glassblower 

will singe his thorough fingers,

leave their lustrous wounds

upon carved ridges of his soul.

You know this

as well as you suspect

the weeping curvature beneath your bones;

still, 

you won't surrender.

The Gift of Love

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

I sighed with knowledge of my surrender
under the sweetest sensations of discovery;

I understand the desire to unveil time's intentions,

smile when I hear the secret, sacred words falling,

flowing from his lips, dripping like honey,
swirling me under its touch.

I ache with the glance of your words upon my skin,
feather-light and floating softly;
I arch toward your music, swaying out of silent shadows

into the adoration of song.

These moments away from you move too slowly -

I yearn beyond borders that separate our shivering hearts,
knowing distance means nothing to those that love truly,

without hesitation.

There are infinite chords longing for your voice,
colors that need your soft mouth to release them into dream -

this fire upon the hearth waits for your arrival to share its warmth.

I place a candle in each room of my heart,
waiting patiently for the music of your footsteps upon the path.

Languid with love,
I am rhythmed by the sorcery of your hands.

I become something sacred in your eyes
as the wind moves the curtain's lace slowly,
revealing the distant horizon where you once stood,
alone.

The wax melts unnoticed:
these rooms are filled
with light.