Augury

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Inspired by Pablo Neruda's Sonnet XLII ("I Hunt For A Sign Of You")

I sought your glance behind the indolent eyes of others

whose voices were raw and harsh, unlike the honeyed rivers

I found waiting beneath the sweeter swells of your curled mouth. 

For so many long years (or were they but moments?),

I drifted alone upon tumultuous waves of desire -

I sought only the silk of your hands, 

weaving through the threads of my own, 

to create new cloth to hide our fierce longing - 

for ripe murmurs to rise from each other's throats,

such delicate fruits to savor long past dusk.

Your knowing smile crept beneath the fallow soil of my heart,

seeding it with divine laughter, hallowed tears.

Bending your boughs to my timid touch,

the forest surges and lifts these whispers 

in vast mythologies of song,

a sea of ancient butterflies discovering new shores.

Bereavement

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

An estranged sense of desolation comes at odd moments, 

unbidden and unexpected. Turning to speak, she remembers 

there is no one there to hear her now as her voice catches

on a single sound, its nuance fading, suddenly dimmed 

by the realization of being utterly alone.

Night seems thicker, like syrup, and more empty somehow

as her moments pause, then cease to matter. She is weary

of fighting the day's demands, worn by her surrender 

to shadows' solemn glare, glancing back into her hollowed eyes

as if in accusation, berating her skin's slowness to fade

into a wan gray spectre, blaming her for the air 

she still struggles to breathe beyond a mere gasping.

She slips into a tepid bath before bed, sinking low

in the cold porcelain tub until her face is submerged -

her eyes close, 

unwilling to look beneath these fragile depths.

She imagines succumbing 

to the pull of the tide must feel this way,

this curling flesh harvested beneath brittle nails,

hands sloshing, drifting, both plumped and pruned

by a dearth of dryness and light.

Old Books

                                                                         The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Moonlight moans across tragic flesh

as I hold this still-warm cup, 

drained of memory.

I do not dare discern the meanings 

within these tattered leaves that remain.

Bent fingers hold ancient pages loosely

as I read of shadowed dreams 

unshuttered by fierce wind.

There are no words for this wild woe

unsheltering me from your gaze.

Farewell

Many years have passed, 

yet it seems like only yesterday

when you turned slightly toward a moment — 

the sun wove its casual seduction 

through tangled strands of your hair,

catching my heart in my throat.

Angles of your face, your cheek, 

the curve of your mouth and tilt of your eyes...

even now, I hear your whisper from afar.

Your hands moved in elegant arcs as you signed "I love you",  

words wrapped within the warm glow of a single candle,

a gentle dance between shadows and light.

Time cannot alter such memories. 

They live quietly, pulsing slowly 

between the spaces of every breath.

poem for kate

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Godspeed your journey as this ache abounds, 

for the sun rises and falls so swiftly these days.

The severity of the landscape is daunting, 

I know, and shadows lengthen as we watch.

When the harbor shifted, 

boats were lost to such terrible tides - 

bridges were burned as tender for a coming storm.

Still, birds soar beneath fierce clouds, unafraid, 

preparing for the worst of it. 

They know where shelter might be found,

remember how leaves curl 

just before wind and rain strike.

No one ever said life is fair, or dull.

Monotony is sometimes a good place to hide

from typhoons that would sink a smaller raft.

Survival traces our skin with wounds,

craving a deeper remembrance 

than we would offer, given a choice.

Walking the tightrope is a hazardous vocation -

it is up to us to weave those nets 

that would save us 

from succumbing 

to gravity's ferocious demands.

There are many reasons for what we do not do.

There are many excuses that would let us falter,

as human as we are and must become -

we tremble with chaotic courage, 

immersed in glorious fractures of flame.

We are not helpless

as long as we have a single breath left 

surging from beneath our curvéd bones

and there is a hand held out to us,

somewhere in the distance,

marking the edge of a brand-new shore.

Fledglings Have Fallen

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Fledglings have fallen from their nest,

a song in their ancient, rubied throats

lost to the descending darkness of an unmitigated demise.

Too soon they perished before they felt the rise

of primordial wind beneath their nascent wings.

They instinctively trusted the strength of the bough they breathed upon,

not understanding the power of an oncoming storm - 

their parents trapped under turned leaves until it passed

and they could pursue home again.

When they arrived in the emptiness you left behind,

their music was muted by savage fear.

They dared not look for you, 

knowing your tiny hearts had become 

a long, strange melody they could not hear,

an odd mapping of blood on stones below their eyes.

Emptied of Spice: Inspired by Lorca

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Bones burnished by dense heat,

dusted by dry, aching winds,

flesh furrowed by ferocious fate,

I come to your den, diminished.

Moonlight howls slowly within these vanquished veins.

My heart swells, tendered too much 

from darkened depths of sorrow’s arching fist.

Dragging my lagging spirit behind me,

drenched by tumbleweeds’ webs,

I arrive in your domain, depleted and worn,

seeking new breath to hold me

above this grasping soil that would have me too soon.

I bring no gifts; only grief have I to offer

this eternal blankness inside your eyes.

Tear my limbs apart with wild wrath -

rebuild me as you choose.

I shall listen with every newly-woven fiber

of my unknowing self.

I am here to learn this life over again.