While Staying in a Converted Coffee Mill in Kona and Learning the Ways of the Warrior Woman Who Lives There  

(for Kelly)

I squat on the cold porcelain

and relieve myself.

My city self.

My heated toilet seats at home self.

Far from the world that swaddles the baby

I presently share black night with the

sound of wild pigs, fornicating or ripping

each other to meaty shreds, hard to tell which.

Just below the outside deck on which sits

the lone bowl and me.

Not far.  In fact, much too close.

I clutch my nightshirt from it

dragging to the floor and pray to be spared a couple’s supper.

I want to revile this minute.  Every cell in me does.

I shiver from spider webs and

shadows that limp and drape around

me in this pitch blue January mist,

tickling my arms like a lover trying to catch my gaze.

I reach my hand down into the abyss

of the canyon below as I piss an anxious piss.

Reaching down to God, who lives among the

wild pigs and other hauntings, don’t you know?

Praying for a wrenching.

If I scream wild enough perhaps

I’ll never feel the teeth gutting my innards.

Yet as I pull my hand back, untouched,

the terrored screeches fall to a chorus

of panting huffs, rhythmic, nearly song,

a ritual stomp reminiscent

of the Black fraternity gearing for

a hazing.

I scurry back to the cold sheets

of my borrowed bed and stare at

the moon, who glares back with a warning,

like an Irish koan:

“Beware the lure of the wild, cushy girl.

‘Tis pungent with lust.

‘Twill fondle you in all the places and

snatch you from your illusions of safety

by the kinks of your nappy crown.”

And it does.  It pulls out a good patch, in fact.

Since then, I’ve shaved every remaining hair,

and now chase the wild scent with the

same relish I’ve clung to fears. 

My friend the warrior woman had been

a city girl like me. 

We rose up together, our young ripening days,

in the poshness of Beverly Hills. 

A trial in her life changed her.

Here it demonstrates like a perfect étude.

And so I ask, always now, as lives the warrior woman,

for another chance to try my hand at leaping,

to try my hand at living.

Just Fly

holocene
 

Take into account

neither physics,

nor logic,

nor science.

Nor common sense,

Nor empiricism.

Nor dull matter.

But give ALL to the

imagination, the intuition,

the realm beyond the senses,

and the boundlessness

of a child.

And fly.

 

 

 

 

 

Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, is a recipient of the Heritage/Soulword Magazine Award in poetry, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD.   Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog.

Yes, Said She

Yes, said she

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, is a recipient of the Heritage/Soulword Magazine Award in poetry, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD.   Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog.  Follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram & YouTube.

The Daughter’s Sonnet (A Father’s Day Tribute)

 Old-Man-12

 

if by thy brow a simple sweat doth bleed

a countenance of noble toil hence laboured

then bounty borne god wouldst baptize the seed

to harvest rich the terra to be savoured

 

much have i pondered on the whole of thine

existence, footmen of the earth thou art

thou’st tilled the ground to ripeness, intertwining

labour and love for thy children’s start

 

the waxing of an oak from seed to tit’n

accords the span of seasons thou hast trod

through wars of men. thy battle doth enlight’n

a stalwart vigor ‘neath thy shield and rod

 

wisdom environs thine autumnal year

a gift i quest to conquer in my youth

but make myself a showy sonneteer

whilst thou with simpler words discourse in truth

 

yielding must be my grant, that i might learn

to recognize that wisdom is a page

from thy books i ought read, instead of spurn

the heart of thou who art the truest sage

 

o weary dotards, weak only in frame

thy wizened visage resting on the world

a yore of life abundant thy sole claim

whilst greater words ne’er from a mouth unfurled

 

growth and a shaping yet have i to mold

to learn from thee thy lessons, men of old

 

 

 

 

 
Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, is a recipient of the Heritage/Soulword Magazine Award in poetry, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD.   Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog.

Morning-glory: A Reluctant Aubade

That day one summer long ago,

my first here on this plane,

when snatched a glimpse did I the break of Morning

and watched him from my window,

a dazzling hue arrested my eyes. I saw him.

He crept upon the slumbering earth,

roving in quiet majesty.

That day in summer did I catch his dusty blush

and hold his secrets in my silence. He moved

before me in a grassland clearance

and smiled. And whereupon that smile stole

my heart, he paraded his progeny,

the vineyards and wheat beds,

the fields of heather.

Quite in his glory, onward did Morning creep like a

feline thief as I watched him that day in summer.

Conducted he the meeting of rays to rain on

rooftops. Morning knelt when he caught sight of the

ground below on which rested a wet leaf and a

chilly worm. Victim to an unusual cold was the tiny

creature, changing tempos of its journey, slowing

to decipher a warmer place.

And in his paternal clemency, Morning scooped

it up in his cradled palms and blew

a warming breath; the tiniest of treasures for a

journeyed worm.

And I wept for Morning’s uncommon gentleness

and called him God.

I clung to kind Morning that day in summer.

Swallowed him I tried, poured him over me

to lose myself within him, a baptism, a fornication.

He passed across my heart,

perched me on a high ridge

that I might watch him move through the trees

and provoke them to dance.

Morning sprinkled his sun

over the sea and me. And out of his

sun-drenched gourd

drank I, and became like a drunkard.

Till distorted Morning became and began to retreat.

Did my clinging turn him from me? I feared my part in this.

And all on earth stilled.

A whippoorwill sang, calling out to

the dusky mystery.

I gripped fast the hem of Morning’s garment,

pleading to be rescued from these coming terrors.

And Morning spoke, bidding me fear not

the illusory monsters of the dark.

“They are but reflections of your fears,”

he spoke. And Morning called himself not God.

“Merely a tilling limb,” he sang. “Night being the humble other.

Welcome her.”

And his sun was no more.

My heart ruptured an ulcer of grief.

I felt Morning’s treason,

and stood scorned and afraid.

 

 

So Night advanced, the temptress.

I recoiled and cursed Morning, seeking refuge

where I might amid blooming dogwoods

and blushing primrose.

Thus from beyond the clouds,

a curtain drawn for a diva,

sauntered her infamous moon,

the blood moon,

great and glorious, rendering ghost stories.

And my fear alighted in anticipation

of phantoms that walk the earth. Of fallen angels

and wraiths who haunt the body and gust the rivers.

Of skies so black as would harrow up the soul of

Proserpine herself, and make her a

crying worshipper of the light.

Treasonous Morning was wrong.

Night was nothing humble.

Strut was Night’s word.

And she snagged me. Setting ablaze the sky with

trinkets of opal and ice, Night worked

in her artful splendor,

sucking up the fugue of day, to spit forth a grand

suite for twilight.

Before me nocturnal creatures frolicked and showed me

her masterwork of intuition, vivid dreams,

and womanly magic,

all while rending each other to the bone,

a reptilian dance of survival that only Night’s drape occasioned.

The Dead of dark.

The Nameless apprehension of shadows.

Fireflies, which gave me the tiniest tease of light,

ornamented evergreens like a Christmas tree.

Night wrapped me in her lithe black stole,

— glamour queen! —

and caused me to fall in violet love.

There I indulged in the dark enigma of her,

drowned myself in her inky nectar

to wear her on me,

and thought no more on His Majesty the Morning.

Till, while in my reverie, a spell of time I could not name,

but seemed the blink of an eye,

Night’s tide began to abate, her moon to blanch,

and before my witness, faded

from her gaudy grandeur to a limp gray.

My spirit caved as I prophesied a second betrayal.

Night closed her eyes,

without goodbye, without balm,

and fell to her cycled quietus.

 

 

Serenely did sigh a swallow’s

sweet twitters and song.

Softly did burst into bloom the magnificent

morning-glory flower.

And whereupon the inconstant Night yielded to

Morning’s inconstant mien, leaving me

to endure the insufferable inconstancy,

once more did I weep,

for loved them both did I that day

in summer long ago,

and for the days to come,

of every season.

And sorrowed yet surrendered

that seize them each my prisoner

in selfish grip I could not,

and call them

my very

own.

Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD.   Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog.   Follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram & YouTube.

I Discover Treasures

CrosswalkBox

 

Newborn pups suckling from their mother
who is wary of the stranger stopping to take it all in.
As well she should be for her protection of her young is a wonderful thing to behold.

A lone bloom in a garden full of yet-grown flowers.

A couple on a street corner holding hands and kissing.
Perhaps a little too intimate for public view.
So deliciously meretricious.

A crosswalk box so layered in endless encounters with midnight taggers and their spray paint cans
that it has transcended its civic role and become art.

A fledgling on the pavement before me
whose little life has been lost from falling out of the nest too soon.
The scurrying ants upon it.

The windshield glass in the street shattered into snow and the splats of red upon it.
The ubiquitous yellow tape.
Remnants of a city tragedy that are merely an inevitable part in the tapestry.

A sky that radiates a marbled canvas of unspeakable magnificence.
Or the rolling dark angry eyes of a tempest creeping.

The tiniest thing is mine.

All mine.

To love.

To cherish.

To covet.

To reflect upon.

To mourn.

Perhaps a moment of silence and a bowed head.

Just another day on my morning walk.   A meditation.

Until it is someone else’s turn for a captivating discovery.

And then to be able to let it go.

To appreciate its impermanence.

To move on to the next wonder.

The next brush.

The next audacious interception with life in all of its astonishment.

I once opened a fortune cookie to a fortune that was meant for me:
You discover treasures where others see nothing unusual.

 

I DO discover treasures where others see nothing unusual.

It is my proudest trick.

I also brazenly plagiarize fortune cookies.

 

 

 

 

 

Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD.   Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog.   Follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram & YouTube.