Reminiscence and Return

And so I thought this one time
I’d walk the wintry evening
through the desolate cold
to find where I had left myself
many winters ago
when I chose not
to accept the springtime.

Ray Brown

Christmas Commotion

 

 

The visit cut short by Christmas commotion.
She rushed into her mother’s house
dropped off the two foot tall,
pre-decorated, live holly tree.
Did not stop to shed her coat.
More Christmas commotion called.

Caroling, caroling, to and fro,
there was the Christmas concert at school
sans real carols,
red pleated skirts,
white shirts to be pressed.
A different attire to attend for the
live Christmas pageant at the church.

They started roasting chestnuts on the open fire
the first weekend of the month.
She shucked each one by hand.

Jack Frost started nipping on the children’s toes
as the first snow fell.
She carted the plastic tubs
of snow clothes and boots from the basement
to decorate her little Eskimos.

At 2 am she would write her Christmas letter
reciting all of the joys,
as well as the trials and tribulations of the year.
She thought about posting E-cards this year,
instead of addressing Currier & Ives
but her oldest daughter had already stamped the envelopes.

The gingerbread house -
the pieces usually baked
to where they were structurally sound,
but barely edible.
Flower over the kitchen floor from baking cookies
powdering the nose, shirt, and toes
of her four year old
on the stool beside the counter.

She kept the birdfeeders filled.
Was irritated when she saw
the sunflowers seeds spilled over the snow
by the foraging deer.

This year, each night,
with the children nestled all snug in their beds,
she would sit at the computer
buy gifts on-line
moving at a dizzying pace
from website to website to compare prices.

Then the tree
finding it, lugging it,
strapping it to the top of the car –
keeping the cat out of the branches
crying when Grandma-ma’s Christmas ornament
is broken by too much loving from a six year old.

So with all this,
is there really a Christmas?
Is there worth beyond measure –
room for love, and family ties –
to cry over O’Henry’s tale
to find the real gift beneath the trappings—
to find peace beneath the commotion?

Ray Brown

 

Two perfect gifts for the readers in your life, or hostess gifts, or stocking stuffers.

Consider purchasing my book, “I Have His Letters Still” – Poetry of Everyday Life (150 pages – $11.95) Order on Amazon, http://tinyurl.com/RayBrownAmazon  or Order an autographed copy at http://poet-ray-brown.com/

An inexpensive ($2) Ray Brown ePoetry Chapbook, Poetry of the Season – “Christmas”, six inspirational and thought provoking poems.  Purchase for Kindle readers on Amazon orrFree Downloadable applications for your PC, iPhone, iPa , BlackBerry, and Android..  http://tinyurl.com/RayBrowneBookChristmas2010

Snowy Night In Winter

 

(click – hear the voice behind the words)

Mesmerized by the night sky
in lands still rural,
cozy,
the snow falling lazily,
the air just warm enough to be comfortable,
cold enough to keep away the rain.

I stand now, leaning against the bark of this tree
enjoy the noise of a quiet nature
the full moon
the Christmas star awaiting the others.

Perhaps I appreciate this scene more
because I know this placid replica of a painting
will not long last.

Somewhere the winds howl like a pack of wolves
standing like avenging legions
just at the edge of the forest -
waiting for a doe to alight into the moonlit field
try to uncover the remnants of hay grass
which lie below the white topping.

Once the pack is loosed
the snow will swirl beneath their churning paws
all peace will leave this place
as does the holiday – on the day after,
when reality seizes the season in its jaws
and many lose hope.

But there are those of faith
who strive to carry a warm flame -
for as long as it will burn -
who lean against the bark of a tree
appreciatively
on a snowy night in winter.

Ray Brown

Two perfect gifts for the readers in your life, or hostess gifts, or stocking stuffers.

Consider purchasing my book, “I Have His Letters Still” – Poetry of Everyday Life (150 pages – $11.95) Order on Amazon, http://tinyurl.com/RayBrownAmazon  or Order an autographed copy at http://poet-ray-brown.com/

An inexpensive ($2) Ray Brown ePoetry Chapbook, Poetry of the Season – “Christmas”, six inspirational and thought provoking poems.  Purchase for Kindle readers on Amazon.  http://tinyurl.com/RayBrowneBookChristmas2010 including Free Downloadable applications for your PC, iPhone, iPad, BlackBerry, and Android.

Sledding on the Hillside near the Train Yard

 

(click - here the voice behind the words) 

Carved into the rock face of the Palisades,
the working men had moved the artwork of nature,
which the Hudson had taken eons to create,
back from the river – to accommodate the rail yards.

From the cliff top
the sixteen sets of parallel rails below
gleamed in the winter sunshine,
enticing young boys.

Across the river,
the streetscape of the vibrant City
spire of the building of the Empire State,
all towered above the ferry boats
chugging, spewing black smoke -
the powerful tugboats guided the freighters -
adrenalin was made for this scene.

A third of the way from the bottom
the immigrant Irish, Italians, Germans, Yugoslavs
who crafted this new monument to progress
left a outcropping plateau, from there a more gentle slope
down the balance of the hill to the yards.

Some would at noon,
black pails in hand,
actually free climb to the landing for their lunch break,
pass around loaves of fresh baked bread,
salami, kielbasa and provolone.

It was here as ten year olds
that we would cart our sleds
on snowy winter days,
waxing the runners with lard
provided by the local butcher’s son.
For hours we would launch
down the lower slope
having packed down the snow with our feet,
slicked it -
Our sleds moved quickly, almost out of control
as the freight trains moved in and out of the yard.

We did not know the word “testosterone” then
but knew we enjoyed it.
The dare devil antics
where we timed our slides to cross the first few tracks
before the marshalling yard goat engine
lumbered across the rails just below.

We left home early in the morning
returned before dark.
Our parents did not worry or wonder.
If they had,
the local police would not have bothered to come look for us
this was how boys became men
learned how to care for themselves and their families
entertained themselves
calculated, took risks, developed their physiques
fine tuned their minds
tilled the fertile ground of imagination
learned how to make decisions
bandaged their own wounds
made their own collective rules
repaired their own sleds -
found the tools to do it.

If Momma knew where we were
I am not certain what she would have said
but Pop, I’m sure, suspected,
understood deep down inside,
having crossed the ocean alone at age 15,
made his own way.

It was here we honed our dreams as well.

Tom saw the raising panorama across the river
and now owns a few of those buildings.

Phil saw the bright lights at Christmas time.
Now the tunes that he would sing
as we walked along the tracks,
fill the canyons of the theaters
across the way.

John looked to the sky,
envisioned the airways of the future -
died piloting one of the human bombs
which destroyed the two Twin challengers
to the Empire State’s supremacy.

Stan became a railway engineer.

Pete, a harbor pilot.

Mario, an Italian restaurateur, a favorite haunt of Sinatra’s Hoboken.

Borislav, his father’ butcher store,
gave his own children more sophisticated
cans of Butcher’s wax for their sleds
and would for certain –
never let them go near the freight yards.

As to Vinnie, he never grew up.
Masculinity drove him
to pilot his yellow Thunderbird
as he did his sled
to attempt to beat a freight train
at a crossing.
He knew enough
not to take Adele with him that day.
He did not make it.

And we all mourned together – and moved on.

December 1935.

Ray Brown

A Day Aptly Named, Black Friday

(click – hear the voice behind the words) 

She was crushed to death on Black Friday.
First in line at the local Wal-Mart
she arrived at 2 am.
The crowd filled in behind her
got more antsy as the hours passed,
the temperature started to dip,
on a day approaching winter
more than Indian Summer.

Though the store was scheduled to open early at 5:30 am,
packed like sardines
people started to push around 4:30.
At first just irritating -
then disconcerting -
finally the jostling morphed into jousting,
became a real concern.

Disoriented she tried to hold her ground
the back of her thighs ached, tightened
from being pushed to the tips of her toes
like a ballerina, which she wasn’t.
A rope divider in front of her
like the red carpet at the Oscars
cordoning off the line
to leave enough space so the store
could actually open the doors when the hour came.

About 4:55
pushed up a few inches at a time
she tried to yell for people to ease off -
no one could hear -
except for the few in the same predicament directly behind her -
the deafness of impending catastrophe.

The crowd acting as if in Times Square at New Year’s,
started a countdown to the opening hour.
By 5:25 no more than a few inches from the glass
she started to rap, with her purse.
She had no idea that her own death was imminent
it was not in the sales flyer -
although not prone,
fear spread through her veins
as if she lay flat over the pit with the pendulum’s blade
moving closer and closer to her chest.

When the blue coated attendants appeared
on the other side of the plate glass
the crowd surged.
Slapped against the pane
the way she had once slapped a rude patron in a bar,
crushed against the door
as if in a giant human vice,
she attempted one last futile call
just before she lost all breath.
Diaphragm and lungs flatted like a pancake.

Few of her Wal-Mart “shopping colleagues”
ever noticed her predicament,
too busy reading the sales signs
or the coupons they held in their hands like prayer cards.
When they straightened out the hysteria,
- a story in and of itself -
her lifeless body slumped to the sidewalk.

What was bred from us
that this crowd could continue on its way
walk right over the body
as they would walk past a homeless man
curled in a sleeping blanket
on the sidewalk in New York?

Who can comprehend
why this should be -
why it came to pass -
crushed to death by her own people
on a day aptly named – Black Friday.

Ray Brown

Thanksgiving Turkey Trot

click and hear the voice behind the words

He was a typical 20 year old college student.
She was a serious runner, bedecked in Nike.
Although his age, she had already
run in the Boston and New York City Marathons.

Both home from college,
in Union Township NJ for Thanksgiving
they had a custom of running together,
the Thanksgiving Day 5K Turkey Trot in Flemington,
4,000 runners from 30 States.
For him it was just an opportunity
to be with his girl,
for her, a serious affair.

This would be their third year.
The first two years she had insisted
on not spending the night before at his place
- they were athletes in training –

So last year, around 6:30 the evening before
after they said goodbye
he went out drinking with the guys
and came home 5 o’clock in the morning
though she was supposed to pick him up
at 7:30 am.

When she arrived he was still snoring away.
She paced the living room floor
while he tried to clean up
throw on some cloths
and a dirty pair of sneakers.

They rushed down Highway 31
and between the crowds near Flemington
she would later complain:

“We were so late
we had to run to the starting line
and just keep running from there.”

So this year, she told him
he could make his own way there.
She would drive with her girlfriend.

Wanting to redeem himself
he had trained for months
shopped at Efinger’s Sporting Goods
in Bound Brook
bought himself a completely new outfit,
and the best of running shoes.

He was ready in Flemington
an hour before she usually planned
for them to arrive,
sat in The Great Lodge Coffee Shop,
relaxed with an energy drink
taking in the scene on Main Street
through the large plate glass windows.

Then he actually warmed up,
did some stretching exercises
in which he never believed.
When he spied her at the scorer’s table
getting her entry number
he walked up,
his number already snuggly affixed to his cotton shirt,
wondering whether she
would notice the new doo, which she did.

She speculated whether he had done this just for her,
so curious her first words were:
“Have you been here long?”
although she dreaded the answer
since she noticed that he had
worked up a slight sweat.

As was their custom,
he stood next to her at the starting line
surrounded by runners dressed up as turkeys,
ax men, Pilgrims, and a few Indians
although being an Indian
was no longer politically correct.

The starting gun burst.
Then in the brisk Thanksgiving day air,
as was his practice -
he paced himself a few steps behind her.
In front of the County Courthouse
he usually fell back - 
last year had actually dropped
right out of the race.

They approached the front portico
filled with cheering on lookers
and a few dignitaries.
She glanced back.
He was still just a few paces behind.
She turned it up just a little
only to find that he came up abreast of her.

Stride for stride they met each other’s pace
except that he with longer legs
moved out at one point
as much as 15 yards.
He could have stayed there, but eased up,
let her in the last 3/4ths of a mile
cross the finish line with him
and for a moment in exhaustion
fell into each other’s arms.

When they married the June following graduation
they each wore their running shoes from that day -
he with his tuxedo
and her below her wedding gown.

Ray Brown

A Poignant Thanksgiving

(click – hear the voice behind the words) 

She worried this year about Thanksgiving.
Typically a feast beyond which
any reasonable human being ought to indulge,
dishes both traditional – and contemporary overkill -
by 4:30 PM no one except teenage boys
could look at any more food –

Preparing it after all these years became a chore
so much so that at some point in headier days
she started to purchase a turkey and all the fixing dishes
from a graduate of the New York Culinary Institute
who catered these events -

So when that day with family gathered round,
grandma and grandpa,
the kids were anxious to leave
to see a movie, or some of them
intending to head to a bar in the City –
he made them all pack up, turkey and stuffing included,
and they traveled over strident protest,
and resounding refrains of “I hate you” from all corners
through the tunnel, together into the City
where they trolled the canyons until they saw a food bank line -
then exited with the trimmings
and spent the afternoon and evening – together -
ladling soup.

Ray Brown

I Have Never Been A Soldier

(click: hear the voice behind the words)

  A poem in honor of our Veterans.

 

I have never been a soldier except in my childhood games.
I have never pushed my physical endurance to the edge.
Only theorized about the forces of good and evil,
never confronted them face to face.
Never looked death in the eye
to determine whether I would blink.
Never had to ask myself whether I could pull the trigger,
to take a life.

Never had to test my metal in the face of the enemy.
Decide whether I could lay my body upon a grenade
so others might live,
discover whether I could subordinate myself to the good of all.

Never

- after having endured all this,
- killed for the greater good,
- saw friends expire in my arms,
- watched my duty commingle with evil
and worry whether I could tell the difference….

Never left to wonder,
about the essence of my being,
whether it all made any sense.

These things were never in my childhood imagination.
Battles were always won.

I never came home to a sleepless night.

Never dreamed myself in a cockroach infested
VA Hospital.
Never walked the streets
looking for a quarter for a cup of coffee.
Never envisioned a marriage
that would not survive the nightmares.
Never in my synapses
felt the presence of an arm that was not there.
Never felt ostracized by those
who lived back home in comfort and safety
when all I did was perform my duty
as well as any common man when put to the test.

Humbled now by those who lived these things.
In awe of what they have endured.
I salute their valor –

ashamed that all I have, are the war games of my mind.

Ray Brown

This poem is  included in my book,

“I Have His Letters Still”, Poetry of Everyday Life. 

Purchase on Amazon -http://tinyurl.com/RayBrownAmazon or purchase an autographed copy at http://poet-ray-brown.com.  Thank you

I Learned to Kill for You

A poem in appreciation of those who serve us in difficult times and situations.

Follow this link to hear and see a video reading of this poem on the Internet show – “Poetry Unplugged”, hosted by Philadelphia poet, El Poeta.  The text follows as well as an audio reading performed on another date.  The “Poetry Unplugged” link:  http://ustre.am/_1akIn:QtE  Some people have reported problems with the station’s broadcast site.  If you experience problems, push refresh on your browser or click on the 39.10 button on the bottom left of the screen.

(click: hear the voice behind the words)

 I Learned to Kill for You

Just 19, I was ferried through the desert
in a copter. We worried that the eternal sands
of this enemy’s land would choke the intakes.

I had prepared for this,
sharpened my shooting eye,
learned to clean, assemble and disassemble,
mastered the correct hold
to choke the air intake of the enemy, to bring death.

Honed my physique,
fine tuned my body to pain,
practiced war games on the video screens,
bonded with these comrades
with whom I would shortly alight.

Now as we step onto the battle field
I am taken aback by the immediacy
of the enemy’s onslaught.
I had worried about how it would feel
the first time -

But found there was no time to feel – or think.
Instinct and reflex governed.

I simply killed for you.

Ray Brown

This poem is  included in my book,

“I Have His Letters Still”, Poetry of Everyday Life. 

Purchase on Amazon -http://tinyurl.com/RayBrownAmazon or purchase an autographed copy at http://poet-ray-brown.com.  Thank you

He Died with His Spikes On

For Veterans’ Day – a tribute to the members of the Greatest Generation.

In tribute to Le Roy “Lee” Hammer
Livingston, NJ

1920-2006

The lady from down the street,
when I meet her someplace,
an elementary school friend
asked about him.

“He always had his baseball uniform on,”

“Day and night as we played in the neighborhood
it was a part of him
as much as his hands,”

“I wondered whether he slept in it.”

Baseball.
His was a generation of baseball.
A generation that traded cards
and then their uniforms – for those of their Country -
while their mothers cried at home
whenever they looked in their closets —

They played pickup games while waiting to ship out
nap sacks as bases
then cleaned up for horrors so bleak
that they returned to never talk about it,
used silent hand signals from the bench
known only to each other
not those in the stands.

He took stenographic notes
of the trials of those who ran the wrong way,
then faced firing squads for the sake of the team -
cried at night –
although baseball players are not supposed to cry.

He returned to become a Livingston NJ diamond,
coached Legion Ball and taught boys of summer
how to become men, face life,
and use the correct parts of speech.

After the field, the Legion Hall was his third base -
an unspoken fraternity where they sat,
wondered without saying,
what they had been through,
still balked about talking about it,
even to each other,
watched the Yankees and listened to Mel Allen

- he waited for when the Pirates were in town.

I wish I could have been there
instead of a safety patrol for the school bus
in Baptistown, New Jersey when
in the 60′s series
Virdon’s ball hit a little stone
popped the Adam’s Apple in Kubek’s tree,
then Mazeroski smashed one over the fence.
I cried – though I am sure he had that wry little smile
of satisfaction, one of the few times the Pirates
lived up to their name and stole something.

“So, did you ever hear about the golfer
who needed two pair of pants
in case he got a ‘hole in one’?”,
he asked the first time he met me.

Those that he touched
filed past
knowing that like the cowboys of old,
he, for certain,
died with his spikes on.

Ray Brown

Pins

 

(click: hear the voice behind the words)

 As Veterans Day approaches, a poem in tribute to those who serve. 

 

 On his lapel, stood pins of distinction.   

Signaling fame, however ephemeral

cast in the communality of the iron of endurance

bred by those who walked before him.

 

He did not know them.

In fact, many have long since been forgotten.

As will he, when his pins are left discarded

in a tiny felt lined box

in the attics of memory

where the nuisances of unimportance

are moved with a shambling gate

from one corner to another.

 

Then one day, the curiosity of youth stumbled upon the box –

Blew the dust into the air, opened the lid

and aired the memories of forgotten ideals

cast aside by the arrogant certainty of purpose,

so much a part of the youth’s father.

 

The grandson’s eyes lit up with undoubting gleam –

the brilliance of hope – of endurance beyond adversity.

He grasped the pins and wore them to school the next day –

and into the school yard.

From thence, he set his course as if for mankind

to achieve some deed beyond his means.

As he grew, he treasured those ideals and pins.

Walked steadfast in his grandfather’s footsteps with pride.

 

For humanity he eventually touched this terrestrial sphere ever so

perceptibly.

When he breathed his last sigh, they placed the pins on his lapel

and put a folded flag at his fingertips.

Before they closed the lid, his son removed the pins –

and they gave him the flag.

 

And – as was the custom – with complacent smugness and disdain -

the pins were thereafter sold at the next garage sale.

Ray Brown

This poem is  included in my book,

“I Have His Letters Still”, Poetry of Everyday Life. 

Purchase on Amazon -http://tinyurl.com/RayBrownAmazon or purchase an autographed copy at http://poet-ray-brown.com.  Thank you

 

The Mask of Many Faces

 Some thoughts about the costumes we wear year round. 

     

    

AUDIO:     (click: hear the voice behind the words)    

 

 

This poem is  included in my book, “I Have His Letters Still”, Poetry of Everyday Life.  Purchase on Amazon -http://tinyurl.com/RayBrownAmazon or at http://poet-ray-brown.com.  Thank you.

      

There once was an ordinary man     

who masqueraded as a clown.     

Upon his sleeve, he wore but false emotion.     

      

His countenance bespoke everything – and nothing.     

Perpetual sadness ensconced within,     

his face slipped on the mask of the occasion,      

the personage for whom designed,     

or of the time, perhaps –     

or of the moment, so inclined.     

      

So often having changed expression     

he stood now perpetually expressionless.     

The face his own, or a mask?     

No one, not even he, could tell.     

      

      

An endless fluidity of persona, ebb and flow.     

Harmonized not with appearance.     

Deceived as much by appearance -     

as appearance deceived.     

      

White the cosmetic through which he sought unveiling.     

Unburden for once and for all     

the role he played     

for which the world accepted him.     

White cream produced white heat instead     

though no amount of flame could shear the crust which overlay –     

Rawhide replace where once stood beauty,     

Tenderness of touch,     

Warmth of smile.     

      

Invention upon invention!     

Fiction now ruled     

and sophistry imprisoned him.     

A sorcerer’s fate for a simple man.     

      

Now no more a child’s idol –     

employed at Mardi Gras.     

Grotesque false face of carnival     

Perjured soul     

Splendid thing – now lost.     

      

Can fable save some touch of mediocrity     

to mark the bounds of true complexion?     

Perchance the tears of time     

will wash away     

what otherwise cannot be moved.     

      

Ray Brown

Sagebrush

Sagebrush

 

Thoughts ramble through my mind

like the sagebrush of time.

 

Yet with all this thinking

wisdom is still elusive.

Thoughts become tangled in barbed wire fences

never intended for an open range.

 

This sagebrush…

 

Its grayish, green leaves

cast an aromatic fragrance through the still night air.

A cooking herb, once the home of the sage grouse -

The grouse having left no wiser for the nesting…

learned but no longer sage.

Now the small white flowers having fallen

– as all must.

 

My mind…

 

Gray matter too is food for thought.

Sustenance of life,

essence of death.

 

Wrestling thoughts

is like embracing saguaro.

A prickly dilemma

is what mankind was designed for…

 

Or is it destined for?

 

Ray Brown

Unemployed

Unemployed

 

I knew this would be a tough morning for him
just having lost his job at age 52

his wife, three young children,
a mortgage like an albatross around their necks,
a car loan, ballet lessons, soccer camp,
and the looming $100,000 bill for college.

Who could take this all?

I knocked on his door around 10 AM,
a time he would not usually be at home.
I actually rang the doorbell.
I had a box of those round doughnut holes
and a little carrier of Morning Joe.
He had on a bathrobe, partially opened
that looked like it hadn’t been worn since he was in college
a one day old scraggly beard.
If he were Marlon Brando or Broderick Crawford
I’d expect him to have a cigarette dangling from his lips.

The house was immaculate, his wife kept it that way
got the kids off to school, and then left each morning
for her job at the County library in the research department
answering lately e-mails from people
who wanted to know
the latest economic and employment forecasts
but most of whom asked whether there was an on-line source
they hadn’t already checked to find a job.

What could you say
to this once proud man -
not a man of extraordinary ego
just a man who worked hard to make a living
loved his family, took only a little piece of the American dream,
the one that hard work bought.

To be without a job
ready, willing and able to contribute
to receive that severance notice
is like a pin prick to an inflated helium balloon
the air exhausts quickly
the balloon shrivels to a small crumpled remnant of its former self,
falls to the earth.
You can’t put the air back into something
that is not whole any longer.

Gradually I eased him into talking.

At first it didn’t work
but within a half an hour
he was dropping those little doughnut holes
into his coffee mug and jamming them with a spoon
breaking them apart, gobbling the mess between words.

I eased out of him his severance package of a couple of months
how for at least that time his financial life could be the same.
I asked him if his wife had changed in but these 24 hours.
Or if his children had even noticed -
I suggested he not give them something to notice.

I told him about the unemployment office,

where it was located and how not to let disgrace
be his companion when he walked there,

about the group of us who now had a table
in the local library where we checked the Internet
swapped stories about job visits
read each other’s resumes.
At about 10 AM we’d visit the local Dunkin’ Donuts
a cup of coffee still in our respective budgets.
I’d left them there this morning to visit this friend
whom I now invited to become a part
of our newly established fraternity.

It had been four months. I was finally off of Zoloft.
Only took Lunesta on rare occasion.
He recognized me now, no longer a vacant stare.
Remembered his visit to me six months earlier.
Then he came at 7:30 AM — he had a job.

I appreciated the visit

but he never quite understood,
hadn’t discovered yet, how much it takes out of you
leaves you vacant,
dispirited,
feeling worthless in a world that measures
value by dollars and cents.

I know not what the future brings
but know there is a future
will walk this path because I see it well-worn by others.
We will make it, we will all make it.
And then I am not sure what Dunkin’ Donuts will do.
When we had jobs, we used to visit Starbucks.

Ray Brown

 

When the End is Near

When the End is Near

When you know the end is near.
When the combat has ended.
And time shows how unimportant
- important things were.
When old enemies prove to be human.
When prospective
- paints hues to old truths.

When you meet an enemy, aged,
-coming out of the hospital elevator.
When you yourself have lost your hair
- to chemotherapy.
When eyes blur the reasons for battle
- along with the battlefield.

When time forgets what the argument was all about.

Then you reminisce for a moment about head strong youth.
Laugh, then hug as you depart –
- a small tear in the corner of your eye.

Knowing this will be the last gesture
-  the battles now concluded
Already forgotten, remembered only
- in the annals of respect.

Ray Brown

Black Cat

(click: hear the voice behind the words)

This poem is  included in my book,

 “I Have His Letters Still”, Poetry of Everyday Life. 

Purchase on Amazon -http://tinyurl.com/RayBrownAmazon or purchase an autographed copy at http://poet-ray-brown.com.  Thank you

 

A black cat crosses no path by coincidence.
It searches for its prey, as meticulously
as the lion tracks the wildebeest, circles
then runs it down.

The gatto nero understands its role.
Select one each day – for whom
normal misfortune is insufficient.
Then predict, for no predictable cause,
a tragedy indelibly etched on the mind
by the vision of the cat,
in the pathway of life.

Why stalk its victims? “Why not”, it answers.
This widely held secret –
it succeeds less that 25% of the time.
Batting average .249.

The coincidence of circumstances – not whom the cat chooses,
but whether it is lucky to have chosen someone
whom fate elects to notice that day.

As for the cat, its reputation precedes it.
Little does the world note its failings.
People consider themselves lucky
to have avoided the divination -
to talk about it further would be bad karma.

Ray Brown

I only eat on Friday

  Follow this link to hear and see a video reading of this poem on the Internet show – “Poetry Unplugged”, hosted by Philadelphia poet, El Poeta.  The text follows.  http://ustre.am/_1akIn:QpI

I only eat on Fridays

50,000 people die of hunger each day.
A child, every 5 seconds.

Every 5 seconds,
as the world devours a McDonald’s french fry -
starvation consumes a child.

The path to this destination of death – contorted.

At first, pains of hunger turn to numbness
then tissue thin skin
clings to the skeleton, like a balloon out of air
falls amongst the netting on the circus floor
below the high wire of life….

In Costa Rica, 53 years old,
he trudges for the 40th consecutive year,
the 14,600th consecutive day to the refuge dump
where he fights with the other human scavengers – and the rats
for rotten, left over morsels to sustain him and his family.

When the garbage truck arrives they rush like lemmings
or vermin avoiding the exterminator
to be the first ones – or to push to the front
when the dump body releases rotting, days old food.

Sheltered in a tin covered lean-to
an anxious family awaits
having returned from a difficult walk
to the stream below
- where people
bathe, drink, urinate, defecate
and catch amoebic dysentery.

Upon his return, his pickings,
food scraps parceled out among family members
each – with their own day of the week to eat.

In the intervening days,
when the growls pull on the heartstrings of a mother -
when the cries can no longer be tolerated
she mixes clay with salt and water -
a paste more suitable for a child’s nursery school project,
and bakes dirt pies -
so their stomachs feel full.

On the beach at the resort -
with the white colored sand, the crystal blue waters,
under the green trimmed cabana
the ocean waves lullaby my afternoon’s end.
I invite an emaciated urchin to share
half a local unfinished sandwich, one
the restaurant’s garbage purveyor can do without.

I offer it up
encourage this thin replica of a human child
to pick it from the plate -
tears from the child’s eyes -
at first – I thought appreciation
but when he still resisted,
my inquiry answered:

“This is Thursday, and I only get to eat on Friday…

Friday is my day to eat…..”

Ray Brown

I am sure there are many worthy organizations which devote themselves to helping.  This poem was inspired by a presentation made by a representative of  Food for the Poor, Inc..  Read more about this problem and their efforts at http://www.foodforthepoor.org/help/hero/ then donate to this organization or another.  A relatively small donation goes far.  Donate on-line, click here.

I Have His Letters Still

(click: hear the voice behind the words)

This is the title poem from my book, “I Have His Letters Still” – Poetry of Everyday Life.  To read more excerpt poems, click on the cover below and you will be taken to a digital book. Purchase on Amazon -http://tinyurl.com/RayBrownAmazon or purchase an autographed copy at http://poet-ray-brown.com.  Thank you

cover design by Teresa Alessandria De Sapio of TADS-Art & Illustration

When I was young
they were kept in a shoebox.
Then, in late middle age,
in an old leather correspondence case,
found at a flea market,
kept in the bottom desk drawer.

Handwritten in flowing cursive script
by original Lewis Waterman pen
point dipped in a well
the fountain of personal essence
the blue flowed with emotion
like the waters of life.

Soul captured not by Lucifer
but by the fiber of the paper
crafted in Egypt along the Nile
history nested so deeply between the reeds
weaved invisibly
between the threads of papyrus.

The envelope, self-sealed in a meticulous way
with wax, monogrammed
engraved so beautifully on the back.
The Steamboat Savannah stamp
hand canceled – May 24, 1944
a distinctive ink which marked its journey
as would a traveler his journal
from South Carolina to Baptistown, NJ.

I treasure this letter, and its envelope.
When I pick it up and read
I feel him rising
through the warmth of the words,
grasping my hand…
this post saved in the attic of my memories.

While I have other poets today
their presence I see just fleetingly
on the computer screen,
my palm touch against the monitor
only makes work for me
with Windex.

Though a friend taught me about the “Save” button
I feel as if I have saved nothing, and lost much
each time I push/click -
their correspondence lost -
in impersonal set aside.

Why time took this treasured means of human discourse
there is no answer.
Does it have no sense of history -
permanency?
Upon my death, for what
will they use my leather satchel?

Thankfully — I have his letters still.

Ray Brown

An Old Forgotten Book

 This poem is posted in anticipation of my appearance at the Newtown Library Poetry Series tomorrow. An Open Mic follows my reading. The event is free.

When: Friday, August 19, 2011, 7:30 PM

Where: Newtown Library Company, 114 East Center Avenue, Newtown, PA

The Newtown Library Company is one of the oldest libraries in the United States.

An Old Forgotten Book

In a stack, in a room
where dust knows no bounds,
in the library,
where their idea is to rent DVD’s
of Mork and Mindy reruns -
lies an old forgotten book.

It called out to me one day
as I walked past -
the raglan blue cover
gold embossed words on the spine.
I needed to stop and bend over,
and peer closely to read.

The binding worn at the top,
actually torn from the numerous times -
opened and closed -
when it had a value so coveted
the time one could keep it as a companion
was strictly limited -
one paid a fine for depriving another
of its words.
Now I could probably walk off with it – and never return.
The library might even feel I was doing it a favor
freeing up space for its new wing
of video game rentals.

Inside its cover was still a cardboard pocket,
a slot where its journeys could be traced -
like the GPS now records
where my car and I have been -
voluntary or not.

I lift the card and find a name — Elijah Pringle
and the date: September 14, 1954.
Could it be 50 years have passed
since hands last touched this paper,
folded open the pages,
saw the words take life in the imagination of the mind?
What does the author think now?
Does he look down
and wonder whether anyone will open its pages again?

Elijah — Elijah Pringle,
where did these words once consumed carry you?
Did they impart wisdom
or relaxation
or stimulate a mind to one great deed,
or prompt one small kindness?

I think I will borrow this book
if it is not now too old and fragile
for the journey to my home -
and like the elder one
I volunteer to take outside
on Saturdays from the nursing home
I’ll treat this long forgotten book
with care,
and hope the attention that I pay to it
will not be its demise.

I fear that when they find these stray old ones
they will not re-shelve them
but sell them instead at the next book fair
to raise money for their borrow a book on-line program
where somehow the pages self-destruct
after two weeks on the computer screen,
no fines are levied
no more shelves, no more dark blue raglan covers
just memories of the words in my mind.

Ray Brown

Retiring the Colors

This is the first in a set of poems that honor our Veterans.

In silence and dignity
at 17:00 hours
in the glow of the setting sun,
they lower the flag
marking the entrance
to the Veterans Cemetery
in Virginia.

Again in Missouri
then Nebraska
throughout the broad expanse
of these States
whose stars mark the
meaning of the moment.

Below the earth for
which they gave their lives
they lie
from whose blood
springs forth
our steps
to American Freedom.

At the Tomb of One
Unknown – except for his sacrifice -
Sentinels move in steady rhythmic pace
and every thirty minutes
in the darkness of the night
salute these fallen nameless comrades
a silent unseen tribute
to those who today,
we honor as having
come home.

Ray Brown

A Priest for Halloween

(click: hear the voice behind the words)   

One year, my roommate at Notre Dame,
dressed as a priest for Halloween.
The next, he embellished on this.
Wore his black and white clerical collar
on the North Quad each Saturday night around midnight.
There he would grab by their collars,
drunken students returning from Corby’s tavern
after celebrating the team’s Saturday afternoon victory.

A flashlight in their eyes,
he made them kneel on the green lawn
and confess their sins!
Later at the dorm he would regal us with tales
of those things of which good Catholic boys were capable,
when the spirits moved them.
This all seemed quite scandalous, but was extremely funny.

Thirty-five years later
he is the pastor at Our Lady of the Lake
in South Jersey.
His personality has held him in good stead.
Young people flock to his CYO meetings
since he can shoot the hoops, speaks their language well,
and understands what they are doing on a Saturday night.

Each Halloween I drive the hour and one half
from Frenchtown. We travel to a local tavern
at least forty minutes from the parish center.
He, in his collar, neatly pressed black suit jacket,
impish smile.
I – in a ND helmet and blue and gold jersey.

We each tie one on, like the old days,
are obnoxiously loud without fear.
Other patrons sure – his – is a witty Halloween costume.
No one believes a real priest would be there
in a bar – carrying on – on the Eve of All Saints.

Ironically, Halloween is the only day
of the year when he is now free
to take his costume off.

Ray Brown

Consider purchasing my book, “I Have Your Letters Still” – Poetry of Everyday Life (140 pages – $11.95) Order on Amazon, http://tinyurl.com/RayBrownAmazon or Order an autographed copy at http://poet-ray-brown.com

Uncle Sam, Sam

My son’s beagle is an old-timer,
like a few of us around town.
There are things we appreciate.
Like when we used to walk together
in the Frenchtown American Legion
Memorial Day parade.
My five-year old waving one of those
small American flags on a wooden dowel.
I, with a Ladies Auxiliary poppy
tucked in the button hole of my coat.
Sam the beagle, our walking companion.

We are both quite older now,
having seen a lot.
The tri-color, tan, black and white,
now walks slowly with arthritic pain
as do I.
My son is now the agile one.
Sam grows hoarse
standing on the top of his dog house,
barking at rabbits he can no longer chase.
They cross his ever narrowing field of vision atop the lawn,
the grandchildren of those he used to run down
come back just to haunt him.

This Halloween
in memory of older, jaunty days
my son got Sam, an “Uncle Sam” custom.
A high collar red, white and blue pull over
with the American stars cape
and one of those striped stove top hats.

When I saw the picture
I asked how Sam – enjoyed being Uncle Sam.
“He must have liked it,”
reported my son. “He did not tear it up.”
He chews on Jack-B-Little pumpkins instead.

Ray Brown

Consider purchasing my book, “I Have Your Letters Still” – Poetry of Everyday Life (140 pages – $11.95) Order on Amazon, http://tinyurl.com/RayBrownAmazon or Order an autographed copy at http://poet-ray-brown.com

Next reading and book signing – October 25th, 7 pm – Philadelphia, Pa.

Philadelphia Poet KIRAAT and I will be the featured readers.

Robin’s Books and Moonstone Arts Center

Tuesday, October  25th, 7 to 9 pm

110A S. 13th Street

Philadelphia, PA 19107

The historic Robin’s Books and Moonstone Arts Center in Philadelphia. Maya Angelou, Jerry Adams, Sonia Sanchez, Eleanor Wilner, Rita Dove, and Lamont Steptoe are a few of the poets who have graced its stage. With 100 featured readers, writers, and speakers who appear a year, it is a cultural icon in Philadelphia. Read its fascinating history at this link.

http://www.moonstoneartscenter.org/about/robins-bookstore/

A gift for the readers in your life – or a perfect gift for yourself

 

Think about my book of poetry - “I Have His Letters Still” – Poetry of Everyday Life – as a gift for the readers in your life. Reasonable priced at $ 11.95.  (150 pages)

64 poems of the world you know - people’s hopes and disappointments – written in language that will capture your imagination.

Consider the following review by M. Ryan on Amazon:

“So much of today’s “poetry” eschews true human feelings as sentimentality and speaks only to an elite group. We can be thankful that there are poets like Ray Brown, who speaks to all readers. From a handwritten letter, a flower, a father’s hands, a sun filled window, Ray Brown, in simple direct language, touches the feelings that make us human—makes us connect with others. Read his poems slowly. Catch the pace he sets. Find the music in the pauses and phrasing that are just right for each poem. Enjoy”

By clicking on the cover of the book to the left, you can read excerpts of the poetry in a special  digital preview copy.    

“I Have His Letters Still” – Poetry of Everyday Life – ships immediately upon order.  You can Order on Amazon, http://tinyurl.com/RayBrownAmazon or purchase an autographed copy on http://poet-ray-brown.com/  and pay securely with PayPal, or Visa, MasterCard, Discover or Amex.  Order from my website and shipping is free. A printable mail order form is also available on the website or simply send payment and delivery information to PO Box 40, Frenchtown, NJ  08825.  

Best to all,

Thank you.

Ray Brown

Hello everyone

I have been away from my Internet persona for about eight weeks, taking care of some routine life events, and fighting with nature and the local wildlife over my vegetable garden.  I plan to start posting some new poetry tomorrow.  Trust your summer has gone well.

Sincerely,

Ray Brown

Candlelight

Candlelight

Once you’ve shared the candlelight,
the glimmer in the evening,
the flame that tempts the moth -
the night is parted in silence.

We pause.
Absorb the small, calm energy.
A warmth which does not ebb and flow with the flicker,
but like rich embers – glows within.

My soul rests,
respite from the trying sun,

I no longer curse the darkness.

The Undercurrent

The Undercurrent

Swimming in the shallows after 62 years
he reminisced of that first time,
when against his mother’s wishes,
he waded with childhood friends
into the river’s cool waters,
on a hot summer day.

No thoughts of time,
even the hour their mothers had appointed
for their return home.
Oblivious to its passage -
a blessing of youth.

Now on this day – drawn here -
time was his only companion -
and his preoccupation.
Those childhood friends unavailable.
One a hip replacement,
another Parkinson’s,
the third a heart condition,
the fourth having already lost the race.

The flowing waters lullaby his mind.
He could see the landscapes, the portraits,
painted by his life’s strokes -
dulled with the effects of age
occasionally touched up.

He could still sense that first time together,
unconcerned about the rushing waters,
the future no anxiety.
Now having come full cycle,
there was no reason to look forward
the current’s undertow
was enough for him to handle.

Ray Brown

Consider purchasing my book of poems,“I Have His Letters Still” – Poetry of Everyday Life ($11.95). Available on Amazon at http://tinyurl.com/RayBrownAmazon or purchase an autographed copy at http://poet-ray-brown.com

Next Reading: This Friday August 19 – 7:30 pm Newtown Pa.

MY NEXT POETRY READING

I will be the featured reader in the Newtown Library Poetry Series. An Open Mic follows my reading. The event is free.

When: Friday, August 19, 2011, 7:30 PM

Where: Newtown Library Company, 114 East Center Avenue, Newtown, PA

The Newtown Library Company is one of the oldest libraries in the United States.  The Newtown Library Company was founded on August 9, 1760.   Incorporation was granted by a Special Act of the Pennsylvania Legislature, approved March 27,1789. 

The Library has a collection of over 21,135 books including:

Books published in the 1700′s = 542
Books published 1800- 1849 = 692
Books published 1850-1899 = 1377
The Barnesley Collection = 106
Old Books for Children = 174
Bucks County Collection = 509
Reference Books = 562

for more information check http://newtownlibrary.com/

Ray Brown

And now the bridge is gone

And now the bridge is gone

As the piers arose from the waters,
foundations erected within pontoons
that kept the flowing waters at bay -
did they think -
it would last forever?

Did the masons erect the stone,
quarried from the nearby hills,
thinking they could conquer the river,
that the rushing currents would work no mischief,
the horses could trod the covered bridge
without fear,
safe from the winds, the rains, the elements?

Occasionally the river would test their mettle.
The waters would swell, muddied,
overflowed its banks, spilled into the low-lying plains.

When finished they met in the center length,
erected the American, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey flags,
the ribbon cut.
Celebrated man’s conquest of nature.

Thereafter the river would taunt them
rise up within a few inches of the main beam.
With the aid of the winds
slap against the wooden span
taunting, biding its time
waiting for the gods to give the word.
Then in ’54, as most of the workmen lie close to their deathbeds
the waters rose up
churned
grabbed debris cast aside
by the lands which sought to be cleansed,
and while curious onlookers

watched what had not been seen for one hundred years,
the waters took a tree trunk
smashed it against the interloper -

and then the bridge was gone

except for the abutments and piers
which the masons knew when erected -
would last virtually forever.

Ray Brown

Consider purchasing my book of poems,“I Have His Letters Still” – Poetry of Everyday Life ($11.95). Available on Amazon at http://tinyurl.com/RayBrownAmazon or purchase an autographed copy at http://poet-ray-brown.com

If it wasn’t for the Seals

If it wasn’t for the Seals

If it wasn’t for the seals laying on the gray sand
the sound of the ocean would be like white noise
piped by architects
to mask a private conversation.

200 yards away
shoals within the rock outcroppings,
thunder holes.
Trident’s domain.
Nature at war with itself.
The waves and the wind seek to claim the landscape
patiently collect their tithe, wear it away
an eight of inch per year.

Earless – and on land,
the seals barely hear the thunderclaps -
faint cannons in the distance.
Here – at a distance,
they fight their own silent battles,
bask in the sun.

With their five-digit webbed fins
flick sand upon their backs
to cool themselves,
lounging around flirting.

Quietly the young brown pelicans,
bide their time.
With the exuberance of youth
watch for the opportunity to dive to capture a meal
willing to test the limits of the sea
determine if the grass is really greener
on the underside of the glass ceiling.

I enjoy this visit on a June day.
Wonder if nature performs just for me,
whether the seals are as curious
about my unique visit
as I am appreciative of this setting
against which the sun nestles
in a near perfect cloudless blue sky.

Ray Brown

Consider purchasing my book of poems,“I Have His Letters Still” – Poetry of Everyday Life ($11.95). Available on Amazon at http://tinyurl.com/RayBrownAmazon or purchase an autographed copy at http://poet-ray-brown.com

Watch my reading tonight in Philadelphia live – on-line.

Watch my reading tonight in Philadelphia live – on-line.

If you can not make my poetry reading in Philadelphia tonight in person, I am told it will be live streamed by Moonstone Arts Center. Go to their website (link below) and click on WATCH LIVE at 7 pm tonight.  http://www.moonstoneartscenter.org/

If you are in the Philadelphia area, please join me at 7 p.m. at:

Robin’s Books and Moonstone Arts Center
110A S. 13th Street
Philadelphia, PA 19107

http://www.moonstoneartscenter.org/about/robins-bookstore/

Thank you,

Ray Brown