San Cristobal

A gypsy sits in a taverna
joking with a sailor
who has left
bridges and maidens
along islets connecting
many a storied sea.

Ducats tumble from a
cloth bag the way
the gypsy remembers
caravans and the
remembrance of gold
steeled against
warm flesh in
moonlight of his native
Umbria.

Lavender is the coat of dreams
along navy blue hemmings
the colour of the gypsy's
eyes, the blood's
colour progeny whose
men of wealth
both are related to.

The gypsy stares at the taverna
wall and the ducats gleaming
to outside rain.

Men joke at rail depots
where in a like fashion water
splashes mud into little
arches up a riverbank.

Neither has the shallows of
minnows at his command.
Bunched up stubble in the wind
cannot fathom lies
or gender hope    -
it is lhe province
of the mind,
the coinage of perhaps
a Spaniard on discovering
San Cristobal, one's own
sieglo oro in fortune
squandered in sunlight
with only the sweating
Appolosa still straining
on this, the last
taverna ride.

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

Toronto

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Turncoat

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Bedroom Glass

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Electra

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

English

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Picaroon

Scouting the sun
thin clouds threadbare vests
barely to cover the horizon.
the heat or the day, canine,
a hot tongue's intensily
splashing yr face.

The docks are quiet,
prawn trawlers unloading gear
gar fish at the surface of the water
echoing little fins like
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Bubbles anchor the lagoon    -
changing rivulets into sand
stone walls numbered in shards of glass
trade universal currency
but, beware, the proprietor
cobblestones up to his door,
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Come the picaroon.
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lesser known rogue, thief
a smile like piano keys
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Belize

Giving myself permission to write    -
points from Ciudad Juarez
as well as the compass where
taboos complete bayonet-sized memories
a tadpole of doubt gleaned from
shallow Canadian upbringing
sojourning in the South.

A stranger came    -
his beard the Columbian hillcountry
mustachioed, the voice trailed off
whisper-thin, steeper than riverine jungles,
the Black Mamba or boomslang before
brief rictus of pain.

I am writing this
with an eye on fortune,
it's not the cantina is dry
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squeeze the soul like a padre's blessing
between rosary beads
and the day is hot.

Extend a cigarette,
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pretend houngans are hombres
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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...

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Turncoat

    Sitting in the spendthrift dark
    lilting pennies away,
    deciphering fate ... .
    The bed, a warm reach past
    the pillow
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    Warm stuff of dreams -
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    Hallow's Eve in movements of the curtains -
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Cuando-Cubango

    1

    Moths, if they dream dusk,
    sport esurient hip-flasks on their wings -
    gangster rum-runners better to sully dark,
    traverse caravans of colour
    amid silk-routes
    to dazzle Prester John,
    cork unscrew the unicorn horn askew.

    2
    Compte de la Mothe
    escadrilles/flotillas
    D'Entrecasteaux
    with Bougainville discovering
    well, Bougainvillaea and I,
    latter day la Perouse,
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    adoration and wine,
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    chenille, frangipanni and the Marquis house colours
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    3
    Let me scandalize why.
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The Bay Of Cortes

    The sea is a requisitioned article in my possession.
    Above, in fat circles of conformity, glide
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    a rich obscenely red.

    The guano rocks are isles and stepping stones
    of bird waste.
    They lie thick and bedeviled with fish fur,
    a dull lavender cached hard to the sun
    seems to shine a metallic harvest white
    as desert rocklets scattered to the breeze.

    A speck of a fisherman dots the horizon.
    His craft a barque in loneliness across the sea.
    Dolphins inveigh the richness of the depths,
    persuade latitudes to drift about their wake.
    Pelicans sour the parabola distances between light and sound,
    become chancy over this distant breath of song.

    Above the cliffs a...

Paul Cameron Brown