Tickings Of A Clock

    I began to see old lanterns, books
    opening/folding within your eyes;
    a pale light running as silver
    to the sea.

    Then crestfallen leaves dangling
    as from fishhooks or the autumn moon's
    skeletal lightness tossing a path
    between waves over this sidewalk, that,
    with the back streets passing occasional
    hisses at the main culprit, night.

    The prim measurement of your smile,
    not the wan neglect of cool skin tones
    or fabric always more suggestive
    of summer colours, sideway movement
    of shadow into tickings of a clock.

    Rather mist and clamminess,
    lipstick in a smear as a
    thumbprint before the
    coughing of a motorcar
    as its elliptical wedge
    tears darkness
    away from sight.

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

Woodsy Backwoods Poem

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Collusion

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Ocean Sea

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Up From The Floor

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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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

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
    backyard.

    A Morning Cloak butterfly,
    maroon wet with the paint
    of morning, cat paws
    thin filament leaves
    astride a larder
    of memories.

    Dalliance with the past,
    smoke grey these architects
    of memory
    the privet hedge,
    lone pine tree,
    jet black caterpillar
    poised about a green
    carrot top trigger
    laced in emperor's gold
    like fathoms of the sea
    held ... in quiet repose.

Paul Cameron Brown

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,
    the colour so transcends.
    And then there are the bludgeoned
    stars fallen into the eyes of
    my farmhouse scene.
    The sphin...

Paul Cameron Brown

Knight-Errant

    A well-thumbed book
    like a well-thumbed life,
    "whilst you walk this earth"
    yet nothing is "afoot",
    as so many small boys
    throwing stones through the funeral parlour
    glass door.

    A cake-walk? Being alive and interacting
    across the face of the multitude is terrible
    algebra running into unfathomable sums.
    "Doing your sums", my grade school teacher
    used to say and I still am. Whippersnapper,
    learning lessons in a strange stamina
    sort of way.

    One of the multitude died last night &
    is now "resting" in a large, Victorian parlour.
    Even the walls grimace. I went by, caught a peek
    at the assemblage chasing thru rain to see his
    last hurrah. Look, "parlour" can be deadly s...

Paul Cameron Brown

Flashpoint

    1
    The moon has a larder
    and a kitchen,
    wears a nightcap
    as Father in the Night Before Christmas.

    2
    The moon hoards pistachios,
    marzipan
    commands the shadows
    is mustachioed
    sleeps in a sloop
    (at least when I look)
    like the boat
    owl and pussycat
    took to sea.

    3
    And on country nights
    in high summer
    fishing nets seem drawn
    about his face,
    reveal ribbons of light,
    eerie panhandlers grubbing quarters;
    a sinister sailor with a sack
    on a pitch black wharf.

    4
    Between clouds,
    leafy barques
    the hinge reflected on the
    thick, ashen door
    the moon will pirate
    your sen...

Paul Cameron Brown

Eyeshine

    I remember the world like a picture.
    The habitat of trees and sense impressions,
    the cover of leaves as fall spurred its way
    thru corridors of plasma forest & sarsen stone.

    Most of all, I saw illuminated clearly
    the brash self poke of logic that came
    massively when sunlight stirred, lilted
    its early head erasing the world thru
    sand crusts of colour.

    The cabin floor, a cold dawn infinity,
    was a chilblain on frosty morning shadows -
    the old cupboards staring like flowers
    through a break in the leaves
    watched till the latches & hinges were worlds
    in frozen power, dark rust as thoughts
    meandering like age.

    The stamped down clay, the well worn earthen crust
    that m...

Paul Cameron Brown