Untended Garden (Inspired by Neruda)

Inspired by the last stanza of the poem "If You Forget Me" by Pablo Neruda

Wildflowers have no expectations beyond the soil,

make no churlish demands for more - 

light comes to caress them and they slowly rise, 

these small, significant things 

completely content to whisper fragrance 

beneath the breadth of sky with tales of mountains 

they once knew and never forgot.

The clarity of love understands the gift 

of a single flower in an otherwise barren field.

Elaborate packaging is not required 

to declare it as precious, to claim it as pure.

Once, love arrived on a silver stallion,

but only in dreams. Upon awakening,

we smelled dew upon the grass and knew

what was most important. We did not need 

fables and fairy tales to tell us what mattered most,

what we should seek when the sun ascended. 

A single seed is the beginning of infinity;

it is planted where roots will form unseen.

Emerald grass parts slightly to make room

for beauty coming from far below,

a glistening companion at dawn. 

A moment is a memory is a lifetime.

Once the soul is touched, the imprint remains, 

a still-warm ember that does not burn.

Many Rivers (for Sylvia Plath)

Many rivers gather within my eyes,

their tidal songs flow too far from shore,

their silt and shells too distant from the sea.

Waves echo, pounding through blood's own reckoning, 

immense heartbeats not quite forgotten,

infinite moments immeasurable and fathomless.

Each grain of sand, an undiscovered nation,

its inhabitants unknowing and unknown.

The warp and weft of untold weeping

becomes a keening too wild to contain

within a single frame of flesh, 

first shaken, then shattered, 

crystal prisms pearled, bereft of kaleidoscopes

from which we might view the fog-shrouded horizon

we strive so hard to reach before dusk descends,

leaving us torn, adrift without a sextant in shadowed waters, 

without a star-struck sky to guide us into port.

Autumn's Dusky Rose

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Across the silvery distance, 

you whispered my secret name 

and leaned beyond these fallow fields 

to gently capture my lips with your own. 

I sighed upon waking, 

not knowing why until I read your wild words 

by the unveiling luminescence of dawn. 

A blush echoed across my cheeks, 

my hands trembling in delight 

for the depths of dream - 

how sweetly you sang to my neglected heart - 

how softly you caressed my troubled mind.

There are always moments we cannot foresee, 

nor explain as they pass by our hearth - 

last night, you touched my soul 

with a subtle murmur of beauty and this morning, 

there are flowers blooming among the fallen leaves. 

Any Sailor Ever Born

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

As brave as any sailor ever born, he casts off to unknown shores 

and remembers her final kiss, tender upon his breath - 

they haul swirled ropes and stow away necessities for this voyage; 

he carries her heart wherever he goes 

and knows to protect it from any savagery the rugged rocks might render, 

the monsters he might meet amid the fogbound seas

his frigate dances gaily upon the water, finally freed from its moorings - 

the wind whistles at his back, surrendering to this desire to go forth, 

to discover mysteries as they unfold beneath his weathered gaze 

his sharp eyes take in everything the horizon has to offer 

as he recalls her contented sighs against his thick chest, 

how her tears seeped through the cloth into his flesh, 

sinking far deeper than any unmeasured fathoms 

he has an ancient compass, a sturdy wheel to guide him 

and knows which stars will bring him back 

into the intrigue of her smile. 

The Long Road Home

Buds burst, a delicate fragrance -

remembrances drift slowly 

upon a soft Spring breeze.

Her bold, silent eyes drew him into her circle 

where he lingered, stroking her golden hair.

His quiet gestures of kindness and strength 

made her feel weak, yet full of love's power 

as she held his solemn face in her hands.

Her tempests grew gentle, 

sculpted by warm, laughing currents 

swirling within her belovéd's touch.

Surreal seasons subdued raging tides 

of a once-bright bride, now a weary widow 

whose shadow falls and fades with retreating light.

Parched by drought, humbled by doubt, 

a shell made hollow by savage storms of April

endured in an unknown country. 

It is a secret place she cannot know, 

an unspoken curse in the sleepless night, 

a weight she must somehow bear.

She bends and sighs, 

not yet defeated. 

Her pale, trembling fingers  

try to smooth thin tufts of displaced grass 

upon his narrow bed, 

her forever now buried 

beneath Winter's cold, cruel ground. 

In Brautigan's Forgotten Fields

                                                "Rose on Cracked Linen" by Cheri Blum

you - 

there, in the corner,

your eyes cast down and aside

trying to appear unobstrusive,

trying to become invisible and obscure,

trying to fade into parched woodwork -

your grain does not match the burled rings 

and even if it did, 

I'd still recognize your eyes 

in another life, some other time 

so far from here, I loved you fiercely, 

with such tenderness, we both wept, unashamed

as if it was always the first time we touched -

and here, now, even in the contours and confusion of this life,

remnants of tears remain, staining my fingers with salt

you - 

there, out in the open, 'neath the surly moon, 

your heart as broad as unfenced fields bursting with spring blooms 

dancing with darkness, agleam with light - 

tall, slender, lithe, aflame with grace, 

pale with passion you cannot name,

your voice shaking 

how you invoke rhythms and hymnals of wind,

how you stir currents of this aching river so deeply

with your whispered breath unbound, 

reaching through untold centuries for me; 

take my hand

I am here

I am

here

I

am

here

Compilation: for Danny

                                            The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Augury

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.

destination

your words glistened

with songs of the river,

unveiled warmth of sun 

in the depths of night

you made me laugh

when I could only weep

you brought purple tulips 

when winter had shaded my eyes 

with grey

trembling, I arose

from my dying bed

into your healing arms

The Chaos of Nudity

Inspired by the poem "Ode to a Naked Beauty" by Pablo Neruda

translated by A.S. Kline

your eyes catapult dreams 

through vast, aching corridors of my heart, 

secret-chambered whispers of sweet lingerings to be

you are a river drifting through me slowly, 

rushing towards an open sea

oaken roots stretch from soil to sky,

dancing in unshorn meadows

long before the rains come;

your hands sway me into sun-dappled forests, deep

and mighty boughs dipped with budding laughter

as leaves curl in anticipation

the moon breathes, cascading light

The Glowing

Echoes of ancient civilizations

pearl deep within your song 

as I drift serenely upon your tides - 

I find what was once lost

inside the sanctuary of your touch 

in these moments between sleep and dream.

You brought bouquets of laughter to me, 

their silk scents lingering,

when I could only remember bittered parchments of sorrow.

Your hands became a bridge

I was unafraid to cross on moonless nights.

Time has no borders here -

we need no compass to guide us 

upon this sojourn of answered ache.

Emptiness has no memories here -

we hold ripe fruit to each other’s lips to quench

this unending search far beyond the glories of blood and bone.

The Moon

Beloved,

I must caution you

within your wildest bloom,

for there is a partial 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 epiphany - 

how lustrous these sounds 

that ascend into night’s fathoms,

paving a path for the arrival of dawn.

Beloved,

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.

The Offering

Give me the stones

from your shoes, Beloved.

Let not this path become weary

from your emboldened stride.

Open your palms to these auspicious mornings

and allow colors to tremble

from your fingers

as divine mergings awaken.

Be soft upon my mouth

as you linger near this place of sanctuary -

we will call the evening mild

throughout the storm.

Trust what we know to be truth undeferred

beneath your subtle glance -

terrors of the night will not tear you from my side

nor will the ecstasies of the day deter us

from evolutions we will claim

beyond these walls of silence.

Give me the stones

from your shoes, Beloved.

Let me grind them into ancient dust.

Reply to Yeats

Inspired by "A Poet to his beloved" by W.B. Yeats

Your fingers gently turn the pages of my existence

with silken intentions of navigating each chapter,

tenderly memorizing each line,

each nuance and gesture of ink spilled across this parchment;

I am your liquid library, your private source of knowledge and fire,

rising upon waves of wisdom, lowering myself to your mouth,

exhaling slow wildernesses to explore. 

The blue seas of your eyes lifts my wings from beneath my ribs 

as we soar beyond vastness of jagged russet shores. 

We vibrate, vibrant and bold, cautious and mild 

beneath boughs whose leaves curl inward,  away from storms we seek, 

every golden-etched moan an unfurling of gently whispered words -

a lithe dance sighing between wind, wheat and bud

as our songs are laced with tide and sand,

bearing memories from shells, ripened fruit 

to sustain our pale, moonless touch.

Tread Softly

written November 11, 2009

Entangled by the feast, we forget we are spirits 

meant for better things than separation.

I imagine your dark eyes 

as they crease in silent, restrained laughter -

we become warriors against a clear blue sky, 

standing undivided by circumstance; we seek each other 

with ferocity, a subtle edge of guilt frayed by doubt.

The weary sun has settled into the landscape’s embrace;

it has been parched for centuries, it seems.

The moon weeps effervescent tears in streams of pale light -

shrouded by fog - her ache is palpable.

We are ferocious in the pursuit of this folly,

purchasing mere moments by the handful,

spilling our dreams upon the page.

I stutter with surprise when the sun rises

without my bed accepting the weight of weary bones 

as I bend over this daunting desk

to listen intently for truth's most tender tremblings.

Hollowed by lonely wrath, 

your brow arches as it furrows in thought, 

your voice as smooth as the finest sapphire silk,

as rough as raw gray granite

when you are moved to passions 

no tide can fully savor or discern.

Yet, here we meet and melt,

melding stained glass that swirls in shadows;

distant shores surge between our songs - 

still, the wind carries wild whispers aloft.

I am haunted by the absence of your touch,

bereft of beauty.

I am worn to bare bones, 

traveling on the casual dust of dismay.

I whisper your name into borrowed slumber;

as a new leaf turns, 

a chrysalis glistens beneath morning dew.

Your voice is the color of dusky sky

anticipating a canvas of sultry stars ascending,

the smoky glow caresses our eyes with possibility.

I shudder only once, casting off hungry shadows,

folding sorrow into a forgotten drawer

as your hands flow through my hair like subtle currents of the sea.

Tumultuous

We coil together beneath arched, spread ribs

against this albino moon, slick with torrid gestures and gasping -

we wax and wane in each other’s glistened eyes, a collage of blue 

struck silent by luminous spinnings just past the end of our lashes. 

Ecstasy bends us, an unshattered mosaic of music.

Under a midnight sky, we dance slowly, softly grasping each moment 

so our hands will remember this touch

in later years, unfaded by Time’s delusions. We are adrift

in these reckonings between earth and sea.

There are secrets moving swiftly underneath our feet

as soil responds to this fiery evolution of stars.

We are rooted, and blooming beyond.

When Winter Arrives

Inspired by Taha Muhammad Ali

When winter arrives, I hate his cold face,

so deep and white with mourning,

for I love autumn's delicate unravelings far more.

I was born among fallen leaves,

an eloquent song as yet unsung by any voice,

until you came to my threshold with your fiery eyes,

words aflame with wild furies.  

You brought the scent of cherry blossoms upon your trembling hands, 

a perfume you could never seem to wash from your skin. 

I begged you to stop, to keep the nascence of spring between us

as we wept, then kissed.

When sparrows claim their rightful place within this waning light,

I shall remember how we both seemed, so lost and found,

curled inside the same moment. 

We married in April,

weaving our fingers and hearts together;

our path became a pure and profound journey, 

awash with clarity

and a sudden ascent of grace.

Wisdom

Wisdom dictates 

that I will no longer cavort naked 

in front of large, cruel mirrors.

Instead, I steal a glimpse 

at the reflection in my beloved's eyes. 

I like myself far better there,

where shadows curl softly, 

cleaving to my curves with slow murmurs.

Within the Keep

Inspired by the poem "Dialogue" by Nizar Qabbani

Emboldened by the coming of dusk, 

you entered this crumbling lair with outstretched hands, 

showing your intentions were weary and non-combative.

There was no fear within your eyes, only a glint of unheard laughter

as you saw the pointed stick I gripped in defense of all I had left to protect.

You gestured toward the flames, an unasked question;

I nodded, still wary as you sat; pulling a flask from your worn coat,

you held it out to me, seeing my thirst for such warmth

to peel the chill from bones that longed to sing instead of fight.