Ray Brown

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

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.

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

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

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

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

  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

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.

 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

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