Chinatown I

    And a little farther
    the Fu Manchu mustache
    curved in mock epic proportions
    of a scimitar un-sheaved for action,
    perhaps the executioner's progress
    his victims entombed to their skulls
    in rolls of quivering earth -
    the parting of the ways
    coming as your coin drops
    to the rasp of his
    tin cup chuckle.

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

The Garden Patch

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Terminal Living

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Tussaud's

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Pelée

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

English

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Chinatown-I

    As they are crawling up to you
    think of Angor Wat
    the sweating walls
    cold in stone
    steam broiling in the jungle;
    or, that most ancient of men,
    the Chinese beggar
    the thin rinds of his skin
    like scented apples or
    kimonos slipped off to dry

Paul Cameron Brown

Unpaginated

    Orchestrating violins thru whisky sky
    clouds slide like billiard balls
    a Jackie Gleason-Fats Domino
    ricochet off greener velvet;
    my pheasant escaping snow.

    Jack Ketch the hangman
    in brilliant plumage,
    a touch of Borgia in
    long, murderous hands.

    The light of Capone in
    steeple-dark eyes
    running like a
    haunted ship
    around the white, facial disc.

    Offset. Bold type.
    I see you through pages
    of my history book
    only you're unpaginated.

    Unclench the fist,
    watch for effervescent islets,
    erotic mounds of Venus or
    protuberances called Marquesas
    off my left hand.

    Omens are the cloth
    of dreams, scissors

Paul Cameron Brown

Offerings (A Movement In Four Parts)

The night is folly without the moon,
trees blank space against a frontal sky
where lattice work from a bled fish reveals
skeletal markings will not administer
the red jack of hearts to a mistress sea.

Most fickle, the ways of a cockroach
(I don't recommend them) to offerings
of white linen, cold squares atop
a stone diamonded floor.

Palaver shacks drone in ghostly light
communicating some message about eel runs
up the black river, the equivalent brush
of tombstones against dark nightsoil.

Tiny bars open as cubicles.
proverbial flashes of the coming evening,
haciendas to count every blessing.

The road to such places
snarls a dusty pleasure
and will heat thin blood
to boil in the daylight hours.

II

Swe...

Paul Cameron Brown

A Glimpse Of China. In A Chair.

(Foo-chow.)


From the bright and blinding sunshine,
    From the whirling locust's song,
Into the dark and narrow fissures
    Of the streets I am borne along.

Here and there dusky-beaming
    A sun-shaft broadens and drops
On the brown bare crowd slow-passing
    The crowd of the open shops.

We move on over the bridges
    With their straight-hewn blocks of stone.
And their quaint grey animal figures,
    And the booths the hucksters own.

Behind a linen awning
    Sits an ancient wight half-dead,
And a little dear of a girl is
    Examining - his head.

On a bended bamboo shouldered,
    Bearing a block of stone,
Two worn-out coolies half-naked
    Utter their grunting groan.

Children, al...

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

White China Plates I

    1
    The moon hummed like a refrigerator,
    light thru shadows
    - the solitude of dusk closing in;
    black scars visible across
    the moon's face shaped like
    mountainous hands, all
    silent, the occasional leaf rustling.

    2
    My fork at plate's edge listening,
    listening to the haunting one eye
    on the staircase wall white
    as the numb light outside palest night.
    Caught off-guard, the musty settee
    and armchair acting as hallucinogen
    to the nostril, the calendar of events
    playing ghostly tag with sheer curtains
    hovering, shroud-like, on the family Bible
    big and brown as the Lord's foot stool.

    3
    The unravelling tale slowly much as
    thick yarn with a kitten

Paul Cameron Brown

Flashpoint

    1
    The moon has a larder
    and a kitchen,
    wears a nightcap
    as Father in the Night Before Christmas.

    2
    The moon hoards pistachios,
    marzipan
    commands the shadows
    is mustachioed
    sleeps in a sloop
    (at least when I look)
    like the boat
    owl and pussycat
    took to sea.

    3
    And on country nights
    in high summer
    fishing nets seem drawn
    about his face,
    reveal ribbons of light,
    eerie panhandlers grubbing quarters;
    a sinister sailor with a sack
    on a pitch black wharf.

    4
    Between clouds,
    leafy barques
    the hinge reflected on the
    thick, ashen door
    the moon will pirate
    your sen...

Paul Cameron Brown