Serenade

    A green flotilla,
    verdant armada
    stone hand encased
    in an arm of ocean
    off blue-grotto bay.

    Something avuncular where land
    meets sea
    - underdog, whipped cur,
    adult "son" posturing to the elder,
    pontificating man.

    Melaque after dark
    or was it Aguascalientes'?
    Monterrey at sunset
    prior to "the" pop festival
    or Morelia, on eve
    of feasts to that native patriot'?

    Vera Cruz, 1915, at the height of
    American occupation
    with Pershing tailing the hirsute Pancho
    Villa in Sinaloa
    outdated rock & gunboat diplomacy
    - no longer exotic fare
    plate of frivoles,
    fried banana
    Mahi-Mahi.

    On the palette,
    dreams are fickle,
    subject to "drunk
    and disorderly resisting
    arrest," outmoded and
    fuzzy with age.

    Policeman of the Olmec intellect,
    you dance late on feather boas
    this Mariachis of the soul
    with glittering purse and yellow,
    travelling nectar Tequila.

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

Approaching Thirty (Lauds And Matins)

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

This Way To The Sixties: John Lennon's Death Five Years After

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

The Hire

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Kipper, Tea And Oranges

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

English

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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
just walls above this cot
squeeze the soul like a padre's blessing
between rosary beads
and the day is hot.

Extend a cigarette,
fumble another Spanish syllable
pretend houngans are hombres
Hidalgo just another green wine.

T...

Paul Cameron Brown

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,
    cunningly amuck on coral
    adoration and wine,
    (red as scarlet leaves)
    chenille, frangipanni and the Marquis house colours
    of the flame-bitten tropics.

    3
    Let me scandalize why.
    Watch the sea churn
    to white bubbles then coat
    your nostril with brine
...

Paul Cameron Brown

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
tiny waves green
into the shallows.

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,
a candle in the window-stoop,
a creeking gate opened as an afterthought.

Come the picaroon.
Spanish adventurer
lesser known rogue, thief
a smile like piano keys
huevos sent back.

I've seen the parfumerie
the snake pit,...

Paul Cameron Brown

The Bay Of Cortes

    The sea is a requisitioned article in my possession.
    Above, in fat circles of conformity, glide
    turkey vultures, their combs
    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

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

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