Poetry

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Midnight flies on dark wings of legend —
Leathery whisperings of mystery and myth
Reach the casual ear with
An ease surely focused and meant
For a deliberately planned end.

Dawn battles in the golden armor of glory —
Raging lion-like; inordinately proud
Of his sequential triumphs taken daily
Upon cold Midnight's body and shroud,
Yet so easily muzzled by a humble cloud.

Twilight bathes in beatific serenity —
Secure and content to allow others
The honoring of the glory that is hers —
Inexorably gentle, the beauteous matron is she
Who silently strangles the day so Night may be.

© 1996, Aaron E. Brown

12 Months in New England

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January's frozen breath
chilled February's dreams.
March's steady thaw
soothed April's little fears.
May's fresh bouquet
spurred June's own sultry days.

July's blazing furnace
warmed August's cheerful play.
September's midlife crisis
spawned October's bright displays.
November's mournful tears
streak December's frosted panes.

The old year dies drawing
a new year's first breath.

© 2005, Aaron Brown

…Cycle…

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Down by the sea -
You and me.
Listening to gulls cry -
Watching waves birth and die.
There is no Meaning here,
But Reality is near.

Back in Reality -
You and me.
Listening to bums cry -
Watching cities birth and die.
There is no Peace here -
And Oblivion is near.

Out in Oblivion -
Me and no one.
Listening to ghosts cry -
Watching worlds birth and die.
There is no Life here -
But Rebirth is near.

Back by the Sea -
You and me.
Listening to gulls cry -
Watching waves birth and die.
There is Reality near -
And the Cycle is here.

© 1986, Aaron Brown