The Many Names of Love

He called me mariposa,

as if my chrysalis had disappeared

overnight, its wispy tendrils drooping,

then falling away into shadow.

He called me gentle bird,

as though my song was sugar-sweet

and soft, a moist whisper cast aloft

into remnants of dusk.

He called me beloved,

as if his tender words

would shame any onslaught of tragedy, 

somehow keep me safe from sorrow's clutches.

He called me querida,

as though such fervent declarations

could make a thousand miles evaporate,

bring me to his distant shore.

He calls me his only, his own -

I answer his embrace by gathering 

succulent flowers into a fragrant harvest

to leave scattered upon our doorstep,

perhaps to delay the coming of darkness, 

perhaps to hasten the arrival of dawn.

poem for this moment

"Poetry is a life-cherishing force. For poems are not words, after all, 

but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary 

as bread in the pockets of the hungry." 

                                                                                — Mary Oliver

How I have craved 

the lavender of your laughter,

the wisteria of your weariness 

when you lay your jacket aside,

done as is the day ...

and then you come to me.

How you have saved me

from clinging vines of chaos,

from numb emptiness of stars 

too long dead, their light lingering

as an afterthought, a cold memory.

Your music wrapped each chord around me,

a comfort in darkness, a smile I could not see,

a gleaming jewel waiting only for sunlight

to describe its edges, its facets, its dominions;

we are created from stone and fire, 

composed of water and air ...

and then I come to you.

From Beyond

The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton

Mirrors of solitude held within release a shimmer 

when eyes overflowing by love's purest gaze creates 

in us a painter divine; and so, we swathe our silhouettes with adoration 

what there is to love beneath fiery flesh tossed and tainted by aches. 

Once our hearts become distinct to another's glance, 

we begin to envision more truth than we ever knew, 

more laughter than we ever imagined possible 

upon this isle of sorrow - 

we shed the skin of cynicism, rise up into the sun's warmth, 

embrace wisdom with new songs written within rhythms 

of our now synchronized hearts. 

We finally befriend our own natures 

and weave light away from shadow's grasp.

Retraction on page 39C

Poetry is not dead

It has not been seen in silk-lined coffins

or seen in the ICU gasping for final breaths

not in the ER with a concussion or a severed artery 

or in the alley, left unconscious by a stockbroker's 

well-placed punch or a drunk's misplaced anger

It does not whimper in shadowed corners

or cry for help from distracted strangers

It does not beg for bread or soup or debate or alms

but it might break into song

in an unexpected moment

It does not care for currency 

or validation from upturned noses

or retreat to dusty shelves of libraries

turned into museums instead of concert halls

It appreciates silent thought and quiet philosophies

offered by open hands flowering with kindness

not closed minds full of gray unpenetrable fog

It does not dress for dinner or pay heed to idle gossip 

the latest celebrity's faux pas or felony or who disappeared last week

It won't pay their bail or represent them in a court of irrelevant peers

It is not a smiling anchor reciting untold horrors

bright teeth gleaming madly at disastrous headlines

One may find it at water's edge

eagerly anticipating a child's homemade boat to sail

or the first smooth stone they've ever skipped

laughing as it makes ripples in warm currents

concentric circles to travel around an eventual world

yet it may hum slow jazz rhythms snapping fingers

as the world's pulse begins anew with rising light

Poetry is not dead

It is only waiting 

Divergence (Inspired by Margaret Atwood)

                                Inspired by the poem "Variation on the Word Sleep" by Margaret Atwood

I know the moment sleep takes you, leading you away from me, 

into landscapes sculpted by unspoken thoughts,

molded by forgotten memories.

Your breath slows, a quiet metronome - 

its rhythm soothes me as I lay beside you, 

wondering where you are now, if the air is sweet.

When you move, perhaps a whisper 

shall escape your slightly-parted lips,

a murmur I cannot translate, but can only feel.

When a tempest shakes you, disturbs your peace, 

I put my hand upon your shoulder 

or place my leg gently over yours, calming those tides

that would submerge you far from my reach;

no matter where or how you slip, I will catch you.

Darkness and sorrow would diminish each of us

if we had no arms to hold us as these long hours pass;

loneliness defines our secret thoughts unshared.

When your chest rises and falls, 

I am there, watching. 

I am your lighthouse keeper - 

as seas batter the infinite shoreline,

as the moon recedes behind the mist,

I hold the brightest light steady and aloft, 

a beacon designed to bring you safely home. 

Discovery (Inspired by Pablo Neruda)

                                                   Inspired by "Sonnet XVII" by Pablo Neruda

I cannot love as though the world was grey,

as if colors did not exist in fact or dream.

I can only love as if born anew each day; 

fragments of memory tug swiftly at my heart 

when I search the landscape of your eyes, 

as wide, as deep, as blue as the sea, as wild as tides 

during tempest-tossed days and clear nights so calm, 

full of stars so near, our fingers gather clusters; 

our lips meet as we are covered in fine, glistening dust.

I cannot love as though love was silent or unnoticeable 

as light streams through lace curtains, sways in gentle wind 

and not be moved to dance within the circle of your arms, 

however distant you might be when this tender music begins - 

you are here with me, inside my heart, long before you arrive

and I run to greet you as a child, hands full of gifts for you alone.

I can only love as wildflowers aflame in vibrant fields, 

as the weary sun lowers itself into mountains' embrace, 

so tall and still; shadows sculpted to immense slopes 

and narrow valleys as dusk retreats, 

as evening slides beneath a sigh, 

each quarter moon beaming approval.

I cannot love without precious fragrance drifting  

through each strand of my hair as I whisper your name,

as I await the soft touch of your winding fingers,

a slow seduction of every moment, every movement, 

every nuance, draped in quiet song before we sleep. 

Anne's Furies

                                        


                                       Inspired by the poem "From the Garden" by Anne Sexton

Your furies planted thorns,

ground petals into madder,

dyeing the earth, murdering the soil, 

casting aspersions until it was no longer fallow, 

only barren and dull.

The staccato sounds of seeds dropped

from your tenuous, tremulous height

fell into the ground with numb exuberance,  

tiny bombs exploding into nothingness

before they could ever begin to bloom.

Your eyes saw two separate worlds — 

one light and one dark —

and still, you could not combine them

into a substitute for Life, an acceptable compromise, 

if only in a peripheral sense.

Why did you allow them to put blinders over your lowered head, 

balanced slightly upon your ears, fastened so neatly into place, 

gray placards designed to block the view of everything 

except for muddy tracks you galloped on, breathless, 

their considerable bets stacked up against you?

Far away from those too-shallow graves,

I shall plant flowers for you, instead - 

not lilies, not orchids, not roses, no ...

I will scatter strange seeds in a vicious circle, 

vibrant wildflowers for one who could never be tamed.