The night before on the plain wooden sill
I leave him a few seeds.
In the morning I watch – he bends to pick them up
head swivels effortlessly
as if on twisted spring.
Always alert,
watching for the dangers in his world.

He arrived almost casually one day.
Though now I wonder whether his sojourn was deliberate.
He had no reason to alight here
on my gray sill in the countryside.

This morning when I walked into the room
my shadow startled him  and he was gone.

For days now,
I’ve wondered whether I could entice him to return –
his life and mine
intertwined for brief, but tender moments.
As with many friendships
there was an ebb and flow.
Will we find ourselves longing for these moments?
Will we call this history - ”better times”?
Will he return to this spot again
looking for me
as I do for him each morning?

Ray Brown

 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

(click – listen to the voice behind the words – recited to instrumental accompaniment – “Sometime When It Rains” by Secret Garden)

On 11^th Street
outside the Senior Citizens’ complex,
the blue lights blink again tonight.

A quarter moon smiles in the dark winter sky above
but not upon this one apartment.
The volunteers remove the stretcher
its extended legs
replace those that can not walk.

It has been a difficult day.
The pain in the morning no different than most.
By noontime it did not subside
and then at nightfall,
the tray of colorful pills having been expended,
there was no choice but to push the insta-alert.

Now as the flashings lights reflect upon the window panes,
barely no one stirred or moved
from within the 15 remaining units.
For most, the night air was too cold,
there was not much they could do,
and this event would remind them of their own frailty
never mind tax emotions meddled by friendship.

Only Joe from Apartment 3C
was spry enough to leave his shelter,
shuffle the 200′ to where the ambulance awaited.
There upon the stretcher he saw her
awake, but in agony.
He grasped her hand -
with the other touched her cheek -
soon had to let go.
He could not keep pace with the young attendants.
As they lifted her into the back
they asked if he was family
and while his 18 month love
would at any other time make him so
he hesitated, until the patrolman,
who knew both he and her
offered him a lift to the hospital
and they went off into the night.

She, touched by the 20 seconds of his presence,
momentarily forgot her circumstance
then when told that Joe was in the car behind
she heard all she needed to be at peace,
silently closed her eyes.

When the straight line beep signaled an emergency
they did not panic, nor did they grab the paddles
to bring her back to her world of suffering -
much as she was shocked, as a babe,
when first brought into the world –
There was no useful purpose.

They had made this trip before, knew her wishes.
They would ride in this procession
planning only to attend to Joe
when they told him the news,
in the hospital waiting room.

Ray Brown

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

She looks now from the hillside.
The view is calming, the early morning sunrise
warms the green grass.
Shakes the dew from its slumber
asks it to move along.
Deer visit in the evening.
The flowers her children plant draw their attention.

She still looks forward to Mother’s Day.
They visit then again
pull the weeds the deer ignore,
having weeded their own souls -
visiting Mom does that.

She will enjoy seeing them and the grandchildren
all dressed up for church
heartwarming memories of past Mother’s Days,
when all the hard work looked so pretty.

In heaven they have not resolved
whether to let mothers
have a continuing view of their children’s lives.
They’ve tested it, much too emotional -
emotion the one great gift that they don’t take
when you pass.

So this day Mom gets to see only the best -
savours pride which lingers on the hillside
like the sweet smell of the lilacs, growing along the woods edge,
wafts through the warming air.

Her youngest comes alone in the evening twilight
to sit and watch the deer eat his mother’s fresh flowers.
He was the only one who knew she found the deer beautiful -
and did not mind when they ate the shrubs in the backyard.

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

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

Market Street Mission

Mike died overnight at the Market Street Mission.

To be more precise,

they stuck a shiv somewhere into the seven true ribs,

costae verae,

probably between rib 3 and 4.

Quietly his warm red blood

spilled across the cold floor –

through the thin mattress

which he had returned to each night

for the last week.

A gray wool blanket matted frozen to his chest

when Sam tried to awake him that morning.

No one looked too hard for a murderer –

70 men had come and gone that evening and morning

and each was capable of this act when the spirits moved them.

The police were casual for the same reason.

Perfunctory.

70 suspects and 70 witnesses each with the same address:

This place – the Market Street Mission – yet no place.

None of them were in,         

literally and figuratively.

Even the innocent ones weren’t so innocent.

Few would be able to identify their first-name-only fellow travelers

despite the fact they shared the same haunts, day and night,

never really seeing each other.

As the medical examiner’s team lifted Mike onto the gurney

and loaded him into the black bag

something dropped from his clinched fist

which the officers should have discovered – if they cared to look.

Last night, as with every evening,

Mike slept clutching his Marworth medallion

just as he clutched his crucifix each evening as a young boy.

“Lord, Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change –

The courage to change the things I can-

And the wisdom to know the difference.”, read the inscription. 

You see, no one freely chooses death when life and hope are an option.

Mike was a 5 timer –

Carrier, Alina Lodge, Caron and Marworth twice. –

The last time he got kicked out for wrapping himself in bandages

as would a sophomore in a college joke.

An airline pilot, he found the thread

that would weave his death in the Air Force in Afghanistan,

where, while burning off a field of mature Poppies

the aroma triggered a hidden gene he could not control –

later fed by the morphine administered to get him past the shrapnel.

Tonight his mother would cry again – but not over today’s death.

No one knew Mike’s last name

and with his last known address only: “Market Street Mission”,

they could not call her.

She had cried over his death a thousand times already,

the living passing away that took him.

She cried until the tears ran dry – and then she cried again.

A month later the Sergeant would find the fingerprint card

tossed aside in a stack of papers.

When submitted, it marked a hit

in the Department of Defense data base.

Someone notified his mother and dispatched a proper escort

with his Purple Heart,

which he had neglected to pick up, or tell anyone about.

The examiner’s attendant placed the Medallion back in his hand

and folded the fingers tightly.

With a little luck the coin would be overlooked and

he would be buried with it in the potter’s field.

When they exhumed the body at his mother’s request

her purple heart would shatter yet again

when the undertaker handed her

the medallion of hope Mike carried,

on the evening when all hope was finally snuffed out.

At 1 pm that afternoon Mr. KT awoke in the park 4 blocks away.

He casually ignored the blood on his hands.

He had seen it before, probably from scrounging around the

dumpster in back of a restaurant.

He stumbled to the water fountain, took a drink and began to scrub -

blood off his hands

and from his Marworth Medallion

which he had slept holding last night.

You see, no one freely chooses murder when life and hope

are an option.

When finished, he wondered what was for dinner that evening

at the Market Street Mission.

 Ray Brown

I want to sit in a window with the sunshine.

When I grow old, that’s all I want -

A restaurant window in the sunshine.

My friend, the cherished actor

had his choice of any seat his fame desired.

The maître d’ prepared a quiet table in the corner.

Privacy from peering eyes and boisterous strangers.

But for all his years in the limelight,

He sought only one thing –

A window in the sunshine.

More than fresh air -

the generous rays of warmth

envelope a personality, etch calm in body and soul.

Solace in elder years.

I harkened back to my younger days.

A quiet table in a dark corner, dim lights,

comforted and provided security for me

and the one I loved.

And then in middle years, a table twice removed, assuaged my ego.

Assured me of my importance.

Sheltered me from the very fame I sought.

And now….and now….

As the tide of life recedes,

I want to sit in a window with the sunshine.

Ray Brown

It was just hard to understand.

Emotions torn, divided between reality
and that eerie world enveloped by a fog
that cannot be navigated even by feeling.

A serial abuser -
the evenings when he nurtured his own sadness in alcohol -
marinated into mindless rage.

He beat, then ravaged his children.
The next morning
with tears flowing down his cheeks
got them, motherless,
dressed, and off to school.

At age 9,
he could hear behind the closed door,
his older sister’s pleas of: “No daddy, please no..”
Shortly thereafter, the threshold to horror opened,
his father loomed with belt in hand -
the young boy snapped – took the shotgun
which his Dad left loaded,
pulled the trigger -
hit the target – not the skeet
which his Pop and he would gun down
on a Saturday morning.

She was old enough to remember
times of pleasantry -
when her mother was still alive
those agreeable days
before her brother’s birth accompanied their mother’s death,
before her father lost himself -

and now – seven years later -
when she returns from a Sunday visit
to the institution where her brother now resides
it remains still all so confusing -

Who to love and why?
When everything just hurts.

Ray Brown

(click – hear the voice behind the words)

One of a series of poems written with the language of love, commitment, loss, hope and endearment.  RB

Not so hard a man
he found his touch against her cheek
enough of a message of tenderness
to warm him. 

They would walk
along the tow path of the canal
by the placid Delaware River
near Stockton NJ. 

They talked of life
of why, and here, and now,
and understanding. 

In a walk once through Tinicum Park,
on the Pennsylvania side, while holding hands
they stopped and turned towards one another
and as the near silent breeze
rustled the leaves of fall, they kissed -
an imprint of emotion.
There was within both, this urge of passion
but somehow it was tenderness
that drew them together. 

They enjoyed the shad fest at Lambertville
feed each other by hand
little portions of warm sustenance
and then again, the Chamber concert
at the Lutheran Church in Erwinna. 

One day – as fall turned to winter – she was gone… 

She left alone,
her fingerprints upon his heart.

Ray Brown

A Still Small Voice

The artist’s melody infused the room.
Embraced the audience.
A violin, a cello, a flute,
a fine tuned piano.

I held her hand
spoke to her in a still, small voice.
Like a bow to the strings of a violin,
it resonated.

Quiet words fashioned — whiffed softly through the night air
tenderly touch the soul
warm the heart.

As we left the chamber hall
I kept this instrument -
a subtle timbre now stirs finer words
no assertive boisterous clamor,
grandiose gesture or performance.
No cymbals or drums.
A subtle melody of human understanding.

I am glad I found this still, small voice.

Ray Brown