TWO POEMS – Michael H. Brownstein

Posted: January 7, 2013 in Fiction, Poetry
Tags: , , , , , ,


To draw a line of words across a glade of green,

The dew, morning, a house blemished by strangler figs,

And yet a shadow reaches into light and light itself glistens emerald’s sheen.

The city man does not know his character. Living is a monologue.

Every leaf olive and lime. He is not a patient man.

The forest beckons. What he knows is not a travelogue.

Each leaf takes on the shape of shadow, a softer shade of heather.

When the city man stumbles, he does not fall. Nor does he dialogue.

Some things matter less than matter more, the prairie sea green,

Jade, a touch of yellow, evergreen, a color to leather.

This goes unseen. A pity not to know green from smog.



The well of depression on my right,

so deep and sordid,

smells beautiful.


Beautiful is a shake of geese chattering toward the north.

Beautiful is the chorus of frogs at sunset, the pond purple-blue, green, then gold.

Beautiful is snow wren and king vulture and the ridiculous four legged snake.

Beautiful is not—

but of course it is—

the most perfect ever

taking every sadness from your eyes,

every sadness from your voice,

every sadness from your fears,

every rendering of flesh, every anguish, every bite,

every terrific madness,

every punch of the heart.

The well of depression on my right

welcomes all of this and more.

Don’t worry.

After a time your feet will be less bunioned, your head less bare,

the scars on your knuckles smooth and gentled,

your voice a charmed bracelet

intricate, that simple.

  1. Michael, you are one of my beloved poets as your poems always seem to touch me in many ways. Thanks for sharing your work here on BoySlut. Sigh.


  2. beautiful: what evergreen blinks of words

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