Perception

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

I.

The jealous moon sighs with resignation,

replete with chagrin as her tears fall from a silvered sky,

reminding her of life's beautiful brevity

and survival's elusive cost.

She is not bitter - only saddened 

by the inevitable ebb and flow 

of love's elusive tides.

She recalls the early days of creation -

her eyes grow dim and soft with memory.

She reaches out with her slow embrace,

yet, she is no closer than the night 

she began her restless wandering

through an infinite canvas of stars.

At times, she weakens with weariness,

considers releasing dreams into vast, waning shadows - 

after she rests for but a brief moment,

she resumes her journey, ever aching for discovery.

II.

Belovéd, I must caution you within your depths, your breadths,

for there is a sliver of moon casually gazing through our window;

its pale glow is hardly noticeable, yet hardly complacent.

You are weaving words from starlight and the dark sky sings 

your song as though it has become its epiphany - 

how lustrous these sounds that ascend into fathoms of darkness,

paving a path for the arrival of dawn.

Belovéd, I must beseech you to touch my wings 

as I quickly soar beneath your eyes, lest my flight 

become overzealous and fragile within the lace of your fingers, 

for it is from the opening of your sweet lips that I hear 

this destiny, this harvesting of wind, 

this longing to fly.

Ode to Sylvia Plath

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Once, I thought I knew her well - as I held her cautiously,

she quietly wept under shivering boughs, 

those brutal beasts only she could see stood sentinel, 

vast and ripe with knowing; 

neither of us could comprehend the slow tearing of our hearts, 

broad fingers unable to remember the gravity of unsolicited yearnings.

Shuttered by rapture,  we tripped over petrified stones; 

she rattled her beautiful bones even then, 

in morbid anticipation, I suppose.

Gravity curled beneath a moment’s hesitation

as we shuddered inside such delicate depths,

our eyes frail with chaotic dusk.

Tomorrow would survive our bitterly clasped hands,

although we doubted it all with our impervious smiles;

shivering echoes hovered, still between each pause of uncertainty. 

Mythology had no answers for our insolent inquiries;

the pale moon moaned weakly, held aloft in a dark sky 

bereft with songs of muted stars.

It was a miracle to survive this onslaught of time,
to have ridden these discerning waves into shore.
I was not immune to an inevitable bartering for breath

she surrendered so fiercely, so casually.

The shadows invariably gave way to sunlight,

if only for a brief moment.

Who of us can truly possess undimmed clarity?

We merely dance.

The grave will finally separate

even the best and brightest among us 

from this inadequate sheath of flesh.

Obsession

             — Inspired by the poem "The Addict" by Anne Sexton

We wrap ourselves in pale shrouds 

long before our eventual demise;

it is our way of accepting the inevitable leaving 

before our journey begins.

It is not an amicable divorce, 

this severing of burnished bone from feverish flesh,

this decapitation of substance from fury.

We would toss these gold circles of chaos, 

these finger chains we were never offered 

or given into the nearest pond,

would it not pollute the pure water's surge of clarity.

We wage battles against ourselves, turning our furious bent backs 

on real or imagined enemies we would rather slaughter in haste,

yet it is our own blood we spill, hypnotized by the thick flow.

Interruptions

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Drenched by thoughts descending from purest springs filtered by rocks
we cannot discern and refuse to contemplate, we wonder at this sediment
which muddies our ink, captivated by that which does not allude
to what our arching hearts would have us say, instead.

Inherited Wisdom

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

                 — Inspired by the poem "Hunger for Something" by Chase Twichell

Our wishes are alchemy, such delicate portions, 

incomplete portraits of rising, fragrant skins,  

origami elegantly draped and intricately woven, 

charred creations of who we thought we were —

smoldering embers of who we would be again 

if we weren't so fully stitched by remnants, 

snared in silken webs of time.

Our memories are slow reflections undone 

by subtle shadows, pooled and shimmering, 

they shall surge beneath reminiscences of laughter,

a suddent scent of what instinct tried so hard to forget —

our voices are broken and our hands tremble

as they attempt to wipe away useless tears, 

unburden our unfounded fears.

We consistently rub these jagged edges 

until they are polished and smooth, 

so we may walk upon these brittle stones,

disregarding wounds we once knew as truth.

Somewhere between those moments, 

let us breathe, become precious,

aware of what might have been, but never was.

Let us ease our aches without remorse —

allow ourselves to reach beyond the severing 

and finally learn to live, instead of only surviving.

If evolution could come full, fair and swift, 

our wings would simply unfurl from these knotted fists;  

a new day's light will glisten, wildflowers damp with dew. 

The wind shall ruffle through tufted feathers 

as we soar —

beneath this silent breadth of sky, 

far above the woeful world.

Incognito

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Sepia strains at restraints delivered by dusk, 

writhing beneath a slow heft of tides

as light fades into a distant dream, 

remembered hues of contentment unsheathed

under a paled moon's fragrant whisper.

Familiarity stirs a contemptuous soup,

its bitter ingredients simmer

only a frail reminiscence of solace 

once known as feast. 

Stained glass wings shattered 

by casual strokes of sunlight

leave shards of color behind in their sad wake, 

decadent, decaying russet shades 

become a mere cleft within burnished soil.

Bored hands drift in somber waves, 

their melancholy, grainy gestures of nonchalance 

unweaving a tapestry of aching jazz as notes waft, forlorn, 

beneath a fierce canopy of night.

Houses of the Holy

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

If we walked out of the door tonight,

our hands woven together in a single thought,

we would not look back or be tempted to return.

There is nothing we would miss,

no regrets or remorse to haunt our nights.

Strolling boldly into the light of day,

we would have it all, a solemn and joyful peace

kept within that small space between us.

Everything is suddenly new,

our laughter fresh and tears forgotten.

Birds follow our journey,

filling the air with songs of innocence.

Flowers rise on the path before us, 

guiding our direction with fragrance.

Take my hand, Belovéd,

and watch the world fall away

into the nothingness it has always been.

The betrayal of our eyes is gone now, into gray distance;

our vision evolved into clarity and substance.