R. Eugene Brown
Portfolio
let's return to the growth of grass
between the water and the mountains
our time showed smiles and
laughter with clover
we sat translating our cultures
an innocent exposure between my world and yours
there was a soft moment, maybe, you know
when our arms met, folded onto
the pages, which you wrote
remember the recording of your voice
when we started over, so as to let a
mother with child past through our time
remember that we fed each other, and
the visitors on the ground
a very slow breeze moved us around the park in circles
and some had their required leash
we vowed to bring back more pages
and translate the difference in our eyes
Spring 2003
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back alleys are like Gump chocolates
every turn an archaic postcard
sort of graffiti style rust
where scrawny bearded cats survive
sorting my trash
your trash
a meal ticket to enjoy under a bridge
back alleys are a towns out of sight history
not front yard recycled goodies
but discarded slop
where every city's postcard
has an all too familiar odor
weeds are the ruling class
and garages have been long since empty
except for the brown recluse
alley roots tear through
thin cement
thin dirt
even thin air
the scrawny bearded cat returns
for breakfast, lunch, or supper,
or maybe a sock with a hole
to wear as a mask
because neighborhoods are laughing
with their zoom lens
posting postcards that go viral
creating a back alley cult
artists install galleries in alleys
while patrons are invited to step on the exhibit
thus escalating the value.
irony is in the air
alleys becoming front yards
the green bin reduced to trash
its time to open another box of chocolates
but beware a gang of obese cats
are ready to pose
for this weeks postcard
3-31-12
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Samples of Eugene's most recent work with an archive of past texts.
When the news rumored true
That this shelter, which has given this resident
A private room,
Was going to face the wrecking ball,
Well, on balance,
My poetry was going places,
While I waited and waited and waited.
The August 1st clock ticks faster than its supposed to,
Leaving me zig-zag through each day,
Like an AWOL pinball.
You and you, think earlier of titles and descriptions,
For funding this poetic gift,
And I felt stiff with uncertainty,
Yet, I make my case.
But at what address will future gifts come forward?
Will the wrecking ball clean my slate,
Forcing me to sit again on a virgin desk?
My poetry mimics my uncertainty,
As I cannot explain this gift,
Or my next picket fence.
5-16-12
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Link to sample writing
Uncertainty
Park Time
Postcards