Currency

    One of the cows was Belladonna,
    another Nightshade
    still a third, Witch's Butter -
    the farmer in question responded with
    an eel in tow that resembled a hoe
    & a Raggedy-Ann calf
    with an elixir for a tail
    & a spendthrift tongue
    spreading its way
    thru the emptied grass.

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

Ponchontas

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Metaphor

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Sleigh Bells

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

The Assignation (Pons Asinorum)

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.

Cud

    There were a series
    of three animals
    - wise men I propose -
    interchangeably looking
    (throwing off their guises'
    as non-sentient brutes),
    scrounging the grass
    (eyes foddering me)
    chewing on looks,
    cud-like,
    -one a black
    goat shorn of
    his devil look
    and a burro,
    mood entranced, in
    armour of mangey velvet.

    II
    Swinging bells,
    making me believe
    the twilight caper
    that morning lay
    more in reindeer's
    breath than any
    solidarity with
    oat or hoove.

    III
    A strange lot,
    they'd ramrod their
    gaze with blare
    of lightning,
    peering into some
    primordial instinct
...

Paul Cameron Brown

Equinox

    The four Equinox sisters,
    the one, Fox, streaked -
    all color, a blur
    a Bloomingdale's on fire,
    a wedge between Everest
    & her fortune.

    Samantha, the other
    dun-coloured
    earth-tide (in full bloom),
    blossoms vernally & literally
    busting out of her breeches with
    eyes like barely sugar.
    Jubilee. Fête de la vie.
    Lighthouse keeper beckoning twin
    shafts of warmth. Camberwell Beauty.
    Rattan Bar, shooting star.

    Carraciou (and castanet) an evening song,
    the most buxom but with dog days & tiresome moods
    flushed with heat.
    Tidewater in full ripple, a
    murmuring of abstract intelligence
    orchestrating summer's growth.
    Emerald keeper....

Paul Cameron Brown

The Gingham Dream Utterance

    As I watch the clouds assemble, steam-ship fashion, with funnels to
    alert passersby, I realize the Romanovs tore silk & riches from
    every bazaar leaving the bright spot of this evening studded with emerald marks.
    A dot in the ocean is a spark upon which minnows play, their silver
    bellies upturned to imitate the moon's white shawl.

    I am wanting in the delights of the reef narrowly hauled from
    rambunctious depths, the tiniest splashes of green, yellow, blue darting in an upturned fish's tail.
    An octopus rock commands squadrons of fingerlings while the eisel
    fish decorates a steeper, coral garden.

    Jet black sand crowns the lagoon volcanic ages' past the innocence
    of this spurting palm while mounds of pitch dark ants deposit slivers o...

Paul Cameron Brown

Candlelight In Black

    The ghosts are marmalade
    thin as rinds across toast
    or the Weeping Willow, whose
    green beard leans,
    crane-like, into a child's
    backyard.

    A Morning Cloak butterfly,
    maroon wet with the paint
    of morning, cat paws
    thin filament leaves
    astride a larder
    of memories.

    Dalliance with the past,
    smoke grey these architects
    of memory
    the privet hedge,
    lone pine tree,
    jet black caterpillar
    poised about a green
    carrot top trigger
    laced in emperor's gold
    like fathoms of the sea
    held ... in quiet repose.

Paul Cameron Brown

Silver Coins

    Seen the whores in doorsteps,
    slack, crouched as packing crates
    behind their quiet wardrobe lamps,
    inset like a skeleton's crown
    there to bend our will,
    provide passageways to power and suggestion;
    the winding entrance to rouged
    light flickering with powdered flesh
    yellow of gold,
    then black to ivory
    a frightful circus in a palace of turn
    within the grate of execution.

Paul Cameron Brown

Casha

    A child-like fawn
    moistened nudging &
    joyous breath,
    an allowance for leave
    as her gentle hand
    budges my sibling cupping.

    And walking in a field of gardens
    - our Jardin des Plantes -
    a molecule in depth
    flowery pennons
    near Picardy wet.

    Casha tendrils here pinion the eye,
    little Annabel Lee
    with the sunshine wet in her parting hand
    that all the birds in grace sigh
    at Saint Francis breathless.

Paul Cameron Brown