Sunday, August 30, 2009

Does my honesty offend you?

Does my honesty offend you?

Are my words cutting too deep, past skin, past muscle and bone right into heart and soul.

Does my honesty offend you?

Laughing when you cry, stillness when you run, dancing while you cower.

Does my honesty offend you?

When I speak you cover your ears. You even run away as I draw near to you.

The fact that I’ve never said one word to you heralds resound.

Does my honesty offend you?

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

Creative Commons License
Does my honesty offend you by Christopher F. Brown is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at

Problem Solver

A sweet smell turned stench is what I’ve become.

Moth to flame is how they were before. The mere mention of my name is like water on a cat’s back or a whistle to a dog’s ear.

Every effort is made to stay away; a dramatic change from praying for a moments peace.

You say that I’ve changed.

You compare me to all the rest and say I’m no different from the others.

I see now why they rebuke you.

Have you ever wondered?

Did you even stop to think, as the years turned to decades that maybe, just maybe it could be you?

As the months turned to years did it ever accrue to you that it might not be their fault?

As the days and weeks became one endless, unyielding moment in limbo that you’ve come to call life; did you ever ask of yourself,

“Is this really life or am I just existing?”

Today I ask you,

“If you know that its no one else’s but yours; no fault but your own; no blame or issue but your own then today, again I

ask you; what are you going to do about it?”

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

The Joke Is

I am not a joke.

When you saw me that first time, were you scared?

Did you see the scars on my head and face and want to cross the street?

Did you clutch your clutch just a little tighter?

I know you didn’t think I was cute or sexy. You might have a few years and pounds back.

Maybe you saw me that day and my clothes that were ragged and out of style and thought I was poor, or a crackhead, or something to that effect.

Maybe you wanted to laugh.

I warn you, I am no joke.

That day you came upon me laughing and smiling; being generally happy I could see in your eyes you thought,

“how unmanly, punkish even.”

I tell you how sorry I feel for you. While I continue to do and be me fully and completely what do you see?

When you look in the mirror what stares back at you?

When you put on the latest and buy the greatest I wonder if you ever wonder,


When you spend extra for the super silky human hair, or make sure you’re the tips of your locks are the perfect red, or even spend thirty dollars on the perfect brush to make your waves come out just so. Do you ever wonder,


I am not the joke

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

Wednesday, August 26, 2009


There is no I in We but Us is just U plural.

I know, that’s hella corny, but it’s true.

We have united our separate flames into one that burns hotter than either did alone, shines brighter than either did on its own.

Our foundation is rooted in trust and creativity our walls; while everlasting faith is our roof.

You see what I can not see.

I hear what you can not hear.

Where I am weak you lend me strength.

When I am confused you enlighten.

When I am lost you help me pray.

We are two imperfect creatures coming together to share something so unique, so special that there is only one, and there will only ever be one.

I share with you Me and ask you for the same.

I already know your answer before you speak because we share a single heart, we share a single light. We share the SAME love

I ask U to be plural.

I ask U to be Us

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

Thursday, August 20, 2009


I can’t be defenseless with you.

You and others like you have built my walls brick by brick.

You and others like you never hear me speak. You would only save my words to use them against me latter.

You and others like you would jot down letter by letter every word from my mouth to hand over to my most hated of enemy.

It’s the same reason why I do not answer your questions when you ask them.

Never in my home shall you be. You’d only compare the insignificant things that I don’t have to yours that you prize.

Things that trap most in a world of material, blocking their spirit.

You’d laugh at all my things that you would call meager.

Yes you.

You are the reason why I can not be defenseless. You are the reason why my walls are up so high.

Words of disdain instead of love; looks of contempt and conceited instead of caring and compassion.

When you see me on the street continue to walk on by and do not darken my doorstep with the hint of your shadow.

Your only care is of self and your only concern is material.

I can not be defenseless with you.

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

Monday, August 10, 2009

Words from the Third Eye

I never listened to it except for what I heard when flicking threw random radio stations trying to get to a particular one, or when it was in some movie sequence.

It was old people’s music and it put me to sleep as child so why bother.

It was not till I got a night job, downtown San Francisco, did the subtle tones of a muted trumpet or saxophone, or even the voice that was more like a dulcet whisper start to infect me.

Some how, all of it, the tunes, they got in my blood. I began to felt them where as before I only heard A, C, or E I now heard my soul speak.

When I got into deep passionate fights with my ex only to make up with even more passionate sex I understood why Billie Holiday moaned her notes instead of belting them out.

At night, when it began to drizzle and then lightly come down I started hearing Charlie’s piano as the rain drops captured the glow from the many headlights of the many cars and for the briefest of moments come to life, become visible. For the briefest of moments on was truly surrounded by falling stars.

Walking around the city on a cold winter night watching the steam rise from the sewer caps; listening to the people on the corner and even down in the BART station play what ever instrument they had in the way of the siren called jazz;

I was swayed and I was rocked till my being crashed into the shores.

My soul opened and the notes that Miles’ and John’s horns played turned to words. These words that I now could hear, but could not see like other words poured out of me and into me at the same time. These words only made sense to my third eye. These words only made sense to the depths of my heart.

One must experience love to know how it sounds.

One had to experience loss, death, even birth to know what key they are in.

This feeling that is jazz is a soundtrack to a life lived in touch with emotion, in tune with pain; a life that had joy, high and low.

This thing called Jazz carries spirits of lives lived and yet to be lived.

This thing called Jazz must be the sound of life in its entirety.

Jazz must be the sound of love.

Jazz must be the sound of time.

Jazz must be the sound of life in the process of living it.

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

Saturday, August 8, 2009

Capitalist’s Nightmare

An Empire of Painters and Poets.

A Region of Philosophers and Photographers.

A land of Monks and Holy men and women where war is never studied, rumors of deceit are derelict.

A Kingdom with no need of arms.

A Government ruled by compassion, laws born of vision and spirit.

Moral conduct based on acceptance not exclusion, thought not action.

A place where one is not greater than the whole and the whole is not more important than the one.

There is no place to be taught, given a skill, or even told a format, but many homes where one is helped to discover their own and then dared to locate, if any, and explore the limits of such.

Farmer Philosophers, Educator and Confectioner in one.

Poet fisherman, Holy men and women overseeing the keeping of the history.

I woke up wishing I could go back to sleep.

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Truth and Seduction

She gave birth to twins.

As they grew one spoke very little but when she did her voice boomed. When she did speak her voice resonated in every corner and all that could hear heard; all that could feel felt their chest vibrate and their souls stood at attention from its harshness. Their souls stood from being convicted and chastised.

Her sister spoke quite often. Her voice was so soft and just as gentile as a whisper in the mid autumn breeze. Sweet was her tone; like baby laughter or lemonade in the hot summer sun. Not all heed her call but those that do rarely escape. You must choose to listen to her. You must decide if her pianississimo is worthy of your attention; deserving of your time.

At any given occasion they are around the other; in the others presence. You may never see them in the same place at the same time. There are other instances when it is most difficult for anyone to tell them apart; instances when ones voice is repeated over and over that it sounds like the others. Very quite often when one can not be heard it is because ears and hearts have been made deaf.

Most of the time when ears have not heard either; the fact of their twinship leads some directly to confusion and chaos; their mother and father.

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Damascan Eyes

Confused by clarity Damascan eyes see.

I could say I didn’t know already even though I did. I chose to ignore the times before; disregard displays made plain as day.

Acceptance was total and whole; that is what you are supposed to do.

Confused by clarity Damascan eyes see.

While I gave a damn about you, so was it only.

It became clear; long as the benefit ultimately remained yours at days end things were fine, but if and when the light could not, would not, center you any longer that is when you are known to shatter.

Liken to a small branch you are; given a little pressure you break, or leaves blown left and right by the wind parallels your sway.

In the end it is care of self and nothing else.

I think it is your time to be pruned.

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

Blog Widget by LinkWithin

Pen to Paper & Finger to Key © 2008. Design by: Pocket