Lithuanian Dolls /Consulate Front

    These eyes of dolls seem leaden stones
    not canisters of the Faith
    but cannon-balls engraved
    in tome-like stares so much
    waxen shapes, these dust cloths
    & spidery webs.

    Dolls with eyes stare
    lidless & forlorn
    such eyes are cracks
    minden shapes or basement eves
    hogans of the human form.
    I'm interested in the priapic
    silence of such dolls - their
    indolent aura in time
    one long amber twilight
    & the results are in
    the shadows have produced twins
    ...hazy silhouettes rough-housing
    in the dark, come passing headlights
    although the stampede of noises
    affects nought.

    Ticker-tape & collage
    in quick thick barrage
    these lonesome dolls
    slouching half-pinned
    in their stalls -
    a cat transcends crouching his spine
    then pelvic thrusts and tableaux change.

    People are divisive, dolls less so.
    the dolls know nothing of that.

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 Potato Eaters

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Primavera

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

At The Red Throat

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Smokestack

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

English

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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
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    with light basking in....
    a tad playful,
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    In the dark
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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
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    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

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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
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    A Morning Cloak butterfly,
    maroon wet with the paint
    of morning, cat paws
    thin filament leaves
    astride a larder
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    Dalliance with the past,
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    the privet hedge,
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    poised about a green
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    laced in emperor's gold
    like fathoms of the sea
    held ... in quiet repose.

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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,
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    And then there are the bludgeoned
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Airbrush

    Iced coffee,
    wedge of toast -
    the sun poking thru
    cranberry glass
    delights exquisite Duchess of Berry,
    her decanters & an hourglass.

    Halo-hello in your fingertips
    I said,
    to a cadaver of light
    boldly striking a tuning fork
    to ring an engagement
    of gold flecks
    by your bed.

    Limoges vase
    for lace and pretty underthings
    for outside the stream
    steals my interest,
    wearing tumbledown silk pyjamas
    and a peek-a-boo smile that points
    thru reed curtains.

    A rustle from her chemise
    and sun parasol parts green boudoir
    draping shiny, black rock.

    The muddle of this earth-time puzzle,
    brief flutter to the eyelid...

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The Dolls

A Doll in the doll-makers house
Looks at the cradle and balls:
That is an insult to us.
But the oldest of all the dolls
Who had seen, being kept for show,
Generations of his sort,
Out-screams the whole shelf: Although
Theres not a man can report
Evil of this place,
The man and the woman bring
Hither to our disgrace,
A noisy and filthy thing.
Hearing him groan and stretch
The doll-makers wife is aware
Her husband has heard the wretch,
And crouched by the arm of his chair,
She murmurs into his ear,
Head upon shoulder leant:
My dear, my dear, oh dear,
It was an accident.

William Butler Yeats