Leaf Doctor

    You said happiness was a bird
    - a hand extended
    could bend its perch.
    span the perfect wings.

    I spoke of swallows.
    lived off flies
    ebbed when flying.
    seldom came to rest.

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

Pelée: May 8, 1902

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Kindling

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Cud

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Between Two Stones

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 Bird In The Room

A robin skimmed into the room,
    And blithe he looked and jolly,
A foe to every sort of gloom,
    And, most, to melancholy.
He cocked his head, he made no sound,
    But gave me stare for stare back,
When, having fluttered round and round,
    He perched upon a chair-back.

I rose; ah, then, it seemed, he knew
    Too late his reckless error:
Away in eager haste he flew,
    And at his tail flew terror.
Now here, now there, from wall to floor,
    For mere escape appealing,
He fled and struck against the door
    Or bumped about the ceiling.

I went and flung each window wide,
    I drew each half-raised blind up;
To coax him out in vain I tried;
    He could not make his mind up.
He flew, he fell, he took a rest,
    And ...

R. C. Lehmann

Magpie Tongues

    Trillium breath, an ounce
    of feathered growth unravels
    in the cloves of the silent forest.
    The rain is heavy with the stamp
    of perfumed trees realizing
    slight restraint on bursting seed.

    Cloaked in fragrance, tufts
    of mossy step kiss the opening earth,
    a basement horizon presumes
    the darling test of flower
    across dale & rustling nook,
    then undresses moist greenery
    with sumptuous eye.

    The last is hardest -
    cat crimson, a fire weed sunset lotion,
    the rain erased away;
    nobody special harangues the leaves
    but birds steal in quietly with
    tenderness clothed of verdure
    to pinch a leafy oasis about
    their forest haunt.

Paul Cameron Brown

Green Angellights

Green angel lights
stream from the willow tree,
in direct symmetrical bearing
three birds are drawn to it.

In gold, soft patches
of light overreach
the earth,
shadows trace ridges
to surround each teak blown colour.

With fakir lowliness,
the throb of water
takes petals from
the sun,
shimmers its passing breath
to a euphony sobbing
in movement.

Paul Cameron Brown

The Bullfrog

He sat with no more compunction
than an eel fish
big-faced, bloated,
the complexion of a beehive
-    a dragnet of emotions
crammed into a tumbler
upended in water.

His eyelids wore the effort
of horseblinders, a
spongy leather
masquerading as torpedoes
and I saw him
lonely at the crossroads
matted grass,
a strip of wire, cold current
chasing flecks about
his person, then lunging green
exploded into rapacity    -
caressed the awaiting fly strewn stick
with emerald mouth &
coffers of appetite.

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

Perhaps

    Perhaps the sky once was shadows,
    the moon lisped 'mongst April's song.
    Now, those warm lips ease
    departing sorrow
    like pressed flowers
    emptied from hallowed ground.

Paul Cameron Brown