You, the Beautiful Dreamer

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

You, the beautiful dreamer, were a mountain -

your majestic presence was skillfully etched

upon the landscape of my heart.

You rose from the valley of sorrow

to touch the sky with tender mercy

as the clouds wove a garland of music around us

with the exquisite fragrances

of unspoken languages

echoing salvation's subtle desire.

There were stars far above the horizon

glistening with rapture

as you quietly moaned

through this ruptured soil.

I dreamed I was a field of wildflowers -

painted rainbows sighing across your face,

a blanket of gentle whispers

unveiled by bountiful blossoms

that traced your features

with compassion and understanding.

I rose from determined seeds once forgotten by wild winds,

sinking my slender roots into an aegis of dust and dew,

reaching for the grace of sunlight.

As I slumbered,

I dreamed we danced with purpose into fragile, infinite moments,

surrounded by silent laughter falling softly from Heaven's gate,

a lingering legacy of love's lessons learned.

Wild Wings

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

If you come back as a tree, I shall return as a bird

so I may serenade you with my song.

If you come back as a stone, I shall return as a curious child,

to tuck you into my pocket

and marvel at your many colors.

Wild wings have we, whirring over this stretched canvas

of life. Woeful whispers cause us to pause, mid-air.

Deep crevasses have we, gathering sediments of sorrow,

erupting from within to spill gestated seeds.

Chaotic currents surge beneath these casual bones, 

a wisdom that is not entirely our own to claim or clamor.

Without Mercy

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

The moon aches without mercy,

her vast emptiness

shuddering beneath unforgiving night.

She has seen

far too many stars slip 

from the sky's tentative embrace,

only to fall in glorious, fiery demise.

She senses more are forming,

becoming born, but oh, it takes so long

and she grows weary of waiting

for seeds to bloom in utter darkness.

Winter is well on its way -

a tendered harvest is nigh.

Desolate tides command her attention

as so many lost and battered souls

weep under her pale, knowing light.

Even a sudden eclipse

shall give her no reprieve.

Walking On

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Most days,
I tread softly on the porcelain shards
of shattered expectations,

cringing at the crunch
of shell against concrete.

The yolk has long since dried
into an unsightly stain,
yellow against gray;

tepid, no longer lucid -

no meringue to savor
against the sorrow.

Only pallid parchment
will save me from the bitterness
that comes from infinite yearning;

I pour my passion
from an unending well of deep, dark ink,

smearing the pages with an occasional tear
that betrays what I believe in,

what I would willingly barter
for a single act of silence that soothes.

Vintage

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Even within the shadows of a vast and jaded heart,

there is a spot of soil where light turns inward,

waiting for the wind to deliver a nascent seed.

We may become vintage, devolve into sepia reminiscences,

yet Love remembers we were once bright and bold, 

when we knew we still had wings.

These Tender Mythologies

Those whose words are brutal, 

carved thorns hidden within contrived gardens,

will one day reap the wounds they've caused, 

weep our sorrows upon their own sleeves.

Those whose words are vulnerable, 

primed by wisped slants of light pouring through an open portal,

will some day know the softened silk they have inspired,

the moist whispers engendered by their constant murmurs.

Leaves curl beneath the onslaught of a sudden storm, 

swift ascents of laughter emboldened by the coming rain.

We are nascent within this womb, arching 

toward the sky. We seek 

these tender mythologies 

pastel with courageous song.

this woman I know

               — for Melissa

she is lovely, kind, funny and wise, 

pays attention to details that matter 

and gives credit where it is due 

she recognizes brushstrokes and patterns

hidden within the weavings 

of intricate tapestries of silence

she pauses for just one more moment, 

as her jagged, deep inhalations memorize

each aspect of this undiluted world, 

this crazy, unzipped life

where wings are frail and transparent,

too easily bent or broken, 

but if you are careful, 

they will carry you far enough

before you fall

she comes and goes, 

waving farewell without a sound - 

she changes her name until it fits, 

she weeps, she dances, she hums

then revolves,  

goes back to an awful beginning

she cannot seem to forget, 

where words once seduced her 

into the latticed lateness 

of an empty morning

without coffee or bread to bind her wounds

small sentences held her hands, clasped together

as they shook through thicker shades of night

she never quite believed were possible

beneath bridges she once burned,

she sifts through soft gray ash, 

seeking bones to bury. to ask forgiveness, 

a wretched ritual of penance none of them require - 

there was no offense remembered 

but oh, 

she is warmed by a single notion 

that one day they might sing her sinew slowly 

into a different place, 

one without boundaries

and unjust rules

beyond horizons of barbed wire,

she sees unsaddled horses grazing 

and smiles

there is a boxcar sitting,

still on the track, 

quiet, open and waiting

for her to run, jump, 

settle inside the early dusk

and fly far away 

to where dreams are shaped

and reborn,

loosened from the long list of madnesses 

decreed by a mundane existence

where words don't seem to matter much

or mean so much, she cannot speak - 

her eyes turn black, 

shining wet with ink

apologies kick off their shoes

as bare toes squish and stretch, reveling 

in the last days of summer's lush green

leaves turn, crisp and drift,

briefly ablaze with fiery, vivid colors,

her cheeks reddened by an unexpected breeze

they become new reminiscences for her to tuck safely 

between those sacred folds 

of her stitched and mended heart

anticipating another journey

to somewhere else,

where she can simply breathe