Poetry

Commute

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Riding the latebound night train
alone in my car but for a shade
slouched down in a far corner

Silence ‘cept murmurs in cadence
from rails and wheels discussing
bits of Sartre’s dangerous dreams

Each lonely stop welcomed in turn
by doors flung suddenly wide as if
to startle the trash on dark platforms

In this quick sharp hiss a deep sigh
the train speaks from boredom with
hustle and bustle and hurry to wait

Tension mounts thin rising echoes
of ticks for tock on the stopwatch
culling wisdom’s last second down

Abrupt angry doors click closed
hissing disdain at worlds outside
so uncaring of schedules and time

Lurch off in darkness again
for more swift rattletrap chatter
‘tween wheels and rails and ties

Squabbling on like hens peck choice
in shadows cast by tomorrow while
time measures Siddhartha’s resolve

Be spendthrift of minutes and miles
in pressing on toward faraway stops
for I am unready to step into night.

© 2006, 2014 Aaron Brown

I remember

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the day we first met
the color of your eyes
the smell of your hair
the shine of your smile
the joy of your laughter
the day i fell in love with you
the thrill of holding your hand
the shiver of your whisper in my ear
the texture of your skin
the warmth of your embrace
the press of your lips on mine
the taste of your kisses
the tenderness of your touch
the pleasure of your body moving with mine
the rhythm of your breathing while you slept
the smile you had for me when you awoke
the pain when you walked away
the silence of the words you didn't say
the emptiness where you used to be
the ache where my heart used to beat
the sound when i fell apart
the length of forever, broken 

darkness.

the music that brought me back
the friends who carried me
the strength to stand up again
the sting of the needle
the tug of the thread
the hurt of closing my heartless chest

living.
breathing.
forgiving.
a lifetime.

the shock of finding you again
the years rushing back upon me
the time i spent rediscovering you
the moment i realized i love you still, more

i was afraid

of seeing my heart, still held by you
of the pain of remembering you
of the joy of remembering you
of being hurt again by you
of opening myself again to you
of wishing for what i may not have with you

i asked, will you please

hold my heart for me a little longer?
help me find the strength i need?
help me up if i fall down?
help me open up myself again?
help me put my heart back,
dear friend?

©2014, Aaron Brown

The Air We Breathe

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Should the swan feel sorrow
for the wind in her feathers
when confronted with envy
from a fish in the water below?

No.

The fish would die in the air above,
the swan would die in the water below,
were either to trade the wings
they use to fly in their own versions of the sky.

O,

Air they both need, to live to breathe,
but the way they each receive
is different, unequal, special
each neither right nor wrong, just

So.
©2014, Aaron Brown

What Happens Between

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Two pens
Drawing lines
Making letters
Into words
Forming messages
Voicing thoughts
Revealing emotions
Risking much
To read meanings
Between the lines
Of the letters
Covering pages
Behind the pens
Of onetime lovers
Learning to be friends

©2014, Aaron Brown

ashes and snow

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ashes and snow
drifting soft and low,
falling ever so end over end
drawn over the foreground,
clouded, my vision ascends

sheltered young background
o comfort and warmth we pretend,
cold memory and i, we descend
whirled in wind, o swept on down in
silence, deep abides it and i
am mute, gazing from below
thru vanes glazed and ground
glass, frosted and smeared o you see
beneath this clear ice, like unto me.

whither thee, o sleep my friend?
whither thee?

©2010 Aaron Brown, all rights reserved

Stealthy Comes the Night

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Hearts heavy with shadows
cast aside by dreams of light,
mourners retreat in stippled dark
and the news shades the grey between.

Tongues steeped in silence
sharp with remembered pain,
conquered kneel before the sword
and the news sweeps the blame away.

Hands clasped in sorrow
bought by innocence lost,
children weep for broken lives
and the news paints the gilded lies.

Eyes drowned in oceans
poured from cups of despair,
young soldiers die for old cliches
and the news draws the focus aside.

Ears closed by falsehoods
spoken by glib stolen power,
nations trade away free for fear
and the news reads the prompted line.

Wary, whispered below the trumpets

Stealthy comes the night
behind the subtle mask of day,
nimbly trampling muffled liberty
and the news snuffs the telltale light.

© 2005, Aaron Brown