Casting Rocks

    Merely on edge,
    the wharf in bad light
    clinging to water's ledge -
    a loon from afar
    the Woods
    closing with each sound.

    Casting rocks toward moon's glare
    lapidations laughing back,
    the treacle of warm night
    coaxing fire's glowing might.

    Sudden, oceanic wilderness
    breathless in barked silence -
    and camphor to keep the flies at distance,
    the anchored boat like a prison ship
    dallying on the waves,
    brambles & underbrush
    sunken wet sand,
    abundant berries rasp in thickets -
    the cottage like a jar
    closing for the night.

Paul Cameron Brown

Paul Cameron Brown is a Canadian poet known for his extensive work in both poetry and art criticism. Born in western Canada, Brown has had a prolific career in writing, often intertwining themes of human experience and nature. His works have been showcased in various literary magazines and anthologies. With a style that is both reflective and evocative, he has gained recognition not only in Canada but also internationally.

Paul Cameron Brown

Flood

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Yellow Hair

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Every Man's Hand

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Skootematta

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

When I Was A Much Younger Man

    When I was a much younger man,
    my spiritual homeland was a scrub-mile of bush with thicket
    leaves the size of your palms.

    Saucer-size holes of white air enveloped the edge of trees
    and the sky was large, an upturned pitcher
    placed upon its ears...
    edge-wise cicadas & June Beetles let out long throbs
    and the people rounded out lives between the farmhouse & the barn.
    This ennobled them and they were famously resilient and, in turn,
    redolent with firmness & the gladness of life.

    There was a Drive House, a pig pen, sheds & a chicken coop and, by
    night, stars became the earlier evening swallows gulping the space Left in
    the train of the moon. There was no one Empress of the Night anymore
    than a Pr...

Paul Cameron Brown

Stillness

    Invitingly, the sea shines her stars,
    captive flames within an impatient heart
    as darkness loads the pleasent isles with coarseness,
    slow sparks rise over a roaring fire.

    And strolling beaches near dawn
    when the sand fleas & crabs are seen to flee,
    one catches upon the imperfect stillness
    a song of one - wind with sea
    drawning near
    inward, such stars turn
    as bonds at last
    worked free.

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Passageways

    Greet the days -
        greet the moon,
            gather the stars.. .
    Man is not at one with himself -
    collars the infidel ways of his
    race under pressure domes of widening silence.

    I scan the horizon barely cognizant
    of the metallic bits that pierce
    the night's crown - no
    jewelled orb stabs this queen's spectre.
    I am running and lost. . . ever slow
    to breech this reasoning.

    Honeysuckle mist with armfuls
    of orange lilies with scent stronger
    than the carriage needed in their gathering.

    Place the constellations upon their heads,
    the colour so transcends.
    And then there are the bludgeoned
    stars fallen into the eyes of
    my farmhouse scene.
    The sphin...

Paul Cameron Brown

The Woodsman

    Barely annoying the woods,
    his cabin like our woodpile
    home now for chipmunks and birds,
    isolated by the lily pads -
    he eschewed all comfort.

    The view barely cognizant,
    the prospect of the Massasauga rattler
    and an occasional broken tin
    sharp at the edges
    was like water's drift
    audible, not yet seen.

    Toying with the cove,
    past island jetties
    & blueberry groves
    inside little giant's tomb;
    this man became ingratiated with lake treasure,
    his clearing a triumphant blast.
    He affixed his mark -
    blazoning human habitation
    on a lonely spot.

Paul Cameron Brown

Metaphor

    There is a star near
    the hinge of planets,
    a barn under
    a cow's lick of moon -
    plausible people
    moving thru an
    airless universe.

    Pay attention to the frond of lilac
    . . . limestone troughs upon which
    thickets of Indian scalp &
    devil's paintbrush soar
    to the horizon
    and, afterwards,
    little creeks run
    with the sparrows of evening time
    in step to tiny boatmen
    that echo enamelled snails
    from the very consonants of earth.

    Rustle of leaves,
    some might argue
    breathless gasps
    to intone the savagery
    of little seasonal voices
    cut off
    mid-stream.

    A spate of bees,
    early colonizers
    deflo...

Paul Cameron Brown

Wanderlust

    Who administers to my needs?

    Is it the dandelion, so ant-encrusted, that
    yellow pollen dangles from a shiny abdomen
    suggestive of some actor's
    smeared and garish make-up?

    Or the cicada's song,
    difficult to describe,
    laundering thick summer heat?

    Perhaps, then, the Red Admiral butterfly
    especially active at the close of day and drawn
    to wooden lawn-furniture or the exposed human limb?

    If none of these
    breathes vigour or tonic
    through my nostrils,
    what of tubs of fresh water?

    Take pea-pods for crude, rudimentary boats
    and children as make-shift sailors,
    then they both shall spy the secrets of seas.
    Bold harbours will be their cues,
    astrola...

Paul Cameron Brown