Paleface

    Old Sawbones, pale as a sheet,
    white sand, whispering edge of the sea.

    II
    The mind tarries not one place long,
    (longitudinal wanderings off a map).
    Is shiftless, both a shirker (and army deserter)
    devours like larvae,
    a bullet ledge for leaves.

    III
    I saw in a rusty tankard
    a gallon drum
    (ghostly galleon at that),
    a tin can floating for
    all the world shores
    of its alkaline prison,
    pirating salinity with anchoring sounds,
    brackish bench-pressed sound of waves
    wedged between far-off distant gulls
    and mezzanine,
    dimly-lit funeral parlour
    of the sun.

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

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Sabbat

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Men Of Shade

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

What Colour Is Love?

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.

Turncoat

    Sitting in the spendthrift dark
    lilting pennies away,
    deciphering fate ... .
    The bed, a warm reach past
    the pillow
    like personal mortality in the
    incest breath of life.

    Warm stuff of dreams -
    the calender with its days mesh &
    march like soldiers
    dearly departed
    (cindered and bludgeoned)
    or the old sea-faring chest
    where all men are sailors
    past light's corner.

    Sturdy trudgeons,
    clock bursts thru the room
    mindful of time and aching,
    decaying things.

    Hallow's Eve in movements of the curtains -
    a remembered Rembrandt,
    self-portrait of the old man
    standing alone in a clammy room,
    idling the seconds, with drab

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

Ahoy

    Image throttled in the subconscious,
    romantic throwback -
    the mind on a voyage round land's end
    to eclipse pyramidal fires
    set as beacons along rock strewn shores -
    her skeletal inhabitants on ice flows
    wrapped in bearskins
    with dirks between their teeth
    slapping one another to keep warm.

    Then, alpine ranges carrying
    the plight of the Andes in their mouth;
    a dull, white sail propped against ship's bow
    with a noise like an anvil
    coming loose in the brain.

    More frightening, sailors mutiny on a diet
    of bread as sallow maggots
    march in a quarter horse sized trot
    across the floorboards.
    Such men in the bellows of one's mind
    break out rubber dinghies
    i...

Paul Cameron Brown

Wanderlust

    Who administers to my needs?

    Is it the dandelion, so ant-encrusted, that
    yellow pollen dangles from a shiny abdomen
    suggestive of some actor's
    smeared and garish make-up?

    Or the cicada's song,
    difficult to describe,
    laundering thick summer heat?

    Perhaps, then, the Red Admiral butterfly
    especially active at the close of day and drawn
    to wooden lawn-furniture or the exposed human limb?

    If none of these
    breathes vigour or tonic
    through my nostrils,
    what of tubs of fresh water?

    Take pea-pods for crude, rudimentary boats
    and children as make-shift sailors,
    then they both shall spy the secrets of seas.
    Bold harbours will be their cues,
    astrola...

Paul Cameron Brown

Fence Line

That Captain Kidd scribbling of rock in the fields
yellowed bristle of pages
back of a farm where
piratical breaking of land knocks
clean holes in the soil,
gypsy dancers vernal growth before
a spy-glass hour moon.

And black print smudged
on a thumb, a child's glossary of tales
thick with terror
before the faceless wretch
crawls for grog,
his peg-leg
in step with
one part of my brain
Old Phew hardly
any Smee from Peter Pan
but the holocaust    -
the raven in the tree
eyeing the baby Treasure Island,
that fledgling reason
butchering both nostrils
at the skunk cabbage whose nectar
is the prize of cemeteries
& wild reunion of the bees.

Paul Cameron Brown

Lost Patrol

    Blue walls were grottoes,
    subterranean panels
    for covert messages, the
    occasional mot juste
    squirrelled up thru paint & memory.

    Something like guitar strings dangling
    only you employed
    tear sheets from Rolling Stone
    (counter-culture fly paper
    to catch the runny masses).

    The blue walls existed as
    firing ranges, gunpowder
    plots for ideas scribbled
    on pencil waves
    like the movement
    of snakes (or commandoes
    on their bellies) thru
    desert sand.

    Blue walls. Blue grottoes.
    Blue moods to temper finger oases
    (tap-tap of skeletal tree on your window pane)
    crawling thick with pregnant fruition
    with the bayonet lull of words.
...

Paul Cameron Brown