Monday, August 19, 2013

408 Moons

Time marches on

Never stopping

Never pausing


There is always enough

yet there never was

and there never will be



have learned to lead

be one or two steps ahead



claim it is a race

claim it to be a foe

swiftly catching up

usually when their bodies no longer obey

when their mental fortitude is no longer formidable  


It marches on

being what it was before

being what it will be after


© Christopher F. Brown 2013

Friday, August 16, 2013


We live on the surface of a bubble

inside another

under water and air

under space and time

under being and not


so fleeting is this that we call life

we have forgotten

the moment sound vibrated

speaking it into existence


So limited is our understanding of this we call life

we as a whole fail to comprehend

all life is in transition

nature give example


Form to Light


© Christopher F. Brown 2013

Tuesday, August 13, 2013


I suppose

If I were better with words

a wordsmith maybe

I could describe the sound


Crafted and carved wood against brass would be like

the first rain

falling upon a parched window


keys once made of ivory and mahogany

sound as footsteps on old and cracked city sidewalk pavement

some mostly young ones dance

avoiding the life persevering through said cracks




the same youth in the life carving a path for their own roots

as they are told of their own


The older ones

take a moment to be still

to hold a note

to hold their breath

to feel the vibration

enjoy life

until the note has passed


How could one explain the voice of a bass




It is the rumble of a trolley

the heft of the slow moving train

the uneasy but understood movement of the subway platform as it is arriving

but has not stopped.


the depth of its pitch causes feet to be ears

one’s chest becomes a resonating chamber


The chirps

The caws

The song of the metal birds

nothing quite like it


Words mimic the notes

vocals mime the tone


the horns


they fly


If I were better with words

I could tell you what Jazz sounds like




I don’t think I would


The words and melody are already there

for interpretation

for explanation

all I could really do is give you more




I wouldnt even if I could tell you about Jazz


id say one word



© Christopher F. Brown 2013

Wednesday, August 7, 2013


The scratching sound the pen makes
as it spills its ink upon the paper

The tension
The friction

The slight resistance and minor show of force
the ink and paper perpetrate against the words
against the writer
as if to
push back

The writer channels his muse
summons his mate
performs and act of love
embarks on an endeavor much more family to sex than he will ever admit
everytime as if it were the first
the writer


© Christopher F. Brown 2013
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