Landing Schemes

    Omens are the cloth of dreams
    scissors used to open sky -
    the future riding birds
    en route to ariel docking piles.

    Leonardo was of the opinion creativity might be
    enhanced a notch should aspiring artists nota bene
    principalities, bile, their rhumes as tiles
    then perceive them piecemeal as stratagem, not snuff or
    random blotch, the heads of diseased pigs
    but conjuror-sextants toward the stars.

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

A Face

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Penny Wise, Pound Poor

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Mirage

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Asgard

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.

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

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

Alcatraz

White ibis/blue crane,
the arch of wings
in full sail over leafy barques
a wise stork scanning water
like the Disney character,
conductor on his train
with eye-glasses
& stop watch.

Sift of wind,
unseen hand exploring the pond
the stork ungainly on a single leg
the bird-man Jolly Roger
a pirate burrowing in the muck
add skull and cross bones
upending frightened fingerlings
the snout of the bandit
a rifle shot away
creasing the shallows.

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

Hidden Agenda

    Mariachis, almost a Spanish temperament within those stars,
    - a screen peppered to black,
    pebbles as pinholes bright in the night air.

    Winged bats, moist velvet foot-pads
    that spring from ink spots onto an El Greco canvas
    where Garcia Lorca's green, Andalusian hills
    find the wind a gypsy bandit
    sage, red flower of the cacti,
    ballad to rakish cloud.

    A ship shamelessly at sea -
    the scorpion cloth of open wounds,
    dark implants, sturdy oak
    constellations, English yew
    spouts tremulous shafts
    across weather-burnt sky.

    A dock in a prison of rose-petal harbour.
    Piers along deep, inner space.
    Our planet, rockface. Sheer plummet.
    Accordion of white light.

 ...

Paul Cameron Brown

Swords And Roses

    Some lives have themes.
    Goldfish that stubbornly die;
    compatability only with distant lovers
    - flowers (but no sweet-breads)
    that wilt to the touch.

    Waiting. Charcoal-grey cat
    agreeably on a green linoleum table
    with light basking in....
    a tad playful,
    paws up,
    (classic boxer stance)
    but no one notices.
    Others oblique in their transparency,
    are unmindful of even the empty closet
    and greeting cards that smile hello.

    In the dark
    this room shimmers below
    life-raft status;
    chairs are buoys
    bobbing under waves
    of congealed fright.
    In the morning
    the first pigeons
    rifle over rooftops,
    mad flutterings like your eyes

Paul Cameron Brown