Smokestack

    A small fish,
    its colors
    embers
    amid the swirling water;
    reminiscent of a
    café in darkness -
    the smokestack tablecloth fluttering
    in the matchbox breeze.

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

Eyeshine

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Bloodcount

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Pogrom

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Leaves Of The Cecropia Tree

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

English

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Chopsticks

    Only marginal chances
    of finding a Great White
    in my coffee
    although the cigaret's tubular belly
    is flotsam against my hand -
    a dirty kerosene color, sleek & grey.

    2
    And stirring the embers of my cup,
    suppose the grinds become primitive shark lore
    of forgotten peoples or death sticks,
    dry rot teeth, fathoms
    squinting light.

Paul Cameron Brown

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...

Paul Cameron Brown

Stillness

    Invitingly, the sea shines her stars,
    captive flames within an impatient heart
    as darkness loads the pleasent isles with coarseness,
    slow sparks rise over a roaring fire.

    And strolling beaches near dawn
    when the sand fleas & crabs are seen to flee,
    one catches upon the imperfect stillness
    a song of one - wind with sea
    drawning near
    inward, such stars turn
    as bonds at last
    worked free.

Paul Cameron Brown

The Jolly Tupper

    Sun on the eiderdown
    breaks tiny corners off the bedspread, declares green plants its bidding
    before summoning Fragonard's maiden
    off her swing - so richly dressed
    in picture from the sunlit wall.

    Expensive tabac from an imported humidor
    etches tiny leaves
    their stems as faces against the glass,
    rich aroma, trèsor, like the Jolly Tupper print
    preparing his bowl,
    drawing on the clay stem
    as if from a height watching ships come in.

    Smoke cold as blue fungus over outside buildings
    follows horses with hooves to split cobblestones
    stuck in the city's eye,
    more than mountains around
    the stone filled ravines
    of the rich man's heart.

Paul Cameron Brown

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

Blackamoor

    Breaking up -
    as in the cloissoné jar you dropped. . .
    little regard,
    a few brittle pieces scattered about the floor.
    Let's call it "shedding feelings". Expensive?
    There's always another humidor tucked away in
    the cranny of another antique shop; after all,
    a woman is only a woman
    although a fine, Cuban import
    is a worthy smoke.

    "What this country needs is a good 5¢ cigar".
    Panatellas?
    He might have added tight-fitting, long lasting.

    Nooks & crannies.
    Little things, your ways. Fruit fly (perhaps damsel wing)
    as symbol of perishability. My emblematic coat of arms.
    No season of regrets, rather
    snatch of minutes, the oasis span of a single candle.

    Who knows?...

Paul Cameron Brown