Prussian Blue

By

Paul Cameron Brown

Contents

7 Not So Much
8 Serpentine
9 Lithuanian Dolls/Consulate Front
10 Begin And Beguile
11 Fire Bush
12 Skootematta
13 Animals And The Stars
14 And Then Some
15 Woodsy Backwoods Poem
16 Corner Store Fifties Reveille
17 Trout Lake Hotel
18 Northwoods Poem
19 Orange Lichens
20 Six Owlets
21 Twillingate
22 Bravura
23 Whisky Girl
24 High Frequency Draw (High Alert)
25 Red Fox (Red Horse Lake)
26 When I was a Much Younger Man

Not So Much

I evaded capture today
with only a handful of dust
to escape that Old Sandman Death.

Certainly, those maroon berries,
so large & luscious,
crowded on their fat stems
had something to do with it
as did the ground fog
leaving its burrow as so many boll-weevils
their crowded nests.

And there might be something to the fact
the moonlight sat
fat & confidant in the night sky
as surely
as my head rests on this pillow
and the poem invites itself
into my lair of thoughts,
much as nestlings charge the
entrance to the runway
of a tree.

I walked flat out
in an instance
as standing urine
held its own stench
and the grim splash within the pond
dead center in the wilderness
underscores the tone of this warning.

One thought encapsulates wonder
though suggestive evil hides
leaden leaves buried in lake mud
down the corner eaves of someone's
fire hydrant mind.
When you pray for someone
an Angel sits on their shoulder,
when that same someone hates you
does that Angel die of grief?

Serendipity is a flower
and those clouds
re-arranging the breeze
harbingers of forbidden things
not so much like these boulders
use hand-held scissors to open twilight
and watch this fading light ebb forth
tip-I-toe like a bird
squeezed thru an opening
in its cage.

[7]

Serpentine

More fragment of tree
than serpent
clothed in wet
he mirrors me
bedraggled in stone
cloak or so it seems
this cavernous ledge coven.

Is he witch's totem
swimming at yard's length
I can web reach him
startling darts of rain
cutting lagoon's edge
this sedge & eel grass dragon.

[8]

Lithuanian Dolls/Consulate Front

These eyes of dolls seem leaden stones
not canisters of the Faith
but cannon-balls engraved
in tome-like stares so much
waxen shapes, these dust cloths
& spidery webs.

Dolls with eyes stare
lidless & forlorn
such eyes are cracks
minden shapes or basement eves
hogans of the human form.
I'm interested in the priapic
silence of such dolls—their
indolent aura in time
one long amber twilight
& the results are in
the shadows have produced twins
...hazy silhouettes rough-housing
in the dark, come passing headlights
although the stampede of noises
affects nought.

Ticker-tape & collage
in quick thick barrage
these lonesome dolls
slouching half-pinned
in their stalls—
a cat transcends crouching his spine
then pelvic thrusts and tableaux change.

People are divisive, dolls less so.
the dolls know nothing of that.

[9]

Begin And Beguile

If brains be gables & minds, say, the shutters
in a derelict New England Mansion
then intuition is in the
eaves & casements
the well-springs seeping into turrets & cupolas
of all other nether spaces.

These big, wide entrances are ourselves in all their splendor,
notwithstanding the Winchester Mansions
or Vanderbilt Estates where our
very personalities are laid bare
see antics give rise to attics
feed in onto themselves
where the Astor's of our alter-egos
are resplendent in rich pride of self
longing to manifest in lavish architecture
so redolent of wealth
yet see-sawing in, squabbling
their thread-bare servant quarters
where murderous passions
bare dingy walls and where stained,
yellowing wallpaper is harbinger to
further heart-felt quarrels &
what is unspeakable, gilded and more.

Manifold and many, recant and lament. Repent.

[10]

Fire Bush

If flies be dragons
and they may you know.
In large desiccated brambles
where wasps go
involuntary blue-green coelacanths
these Devil's Darning Needles
wedge in Flying Circuses
frame pale diaphanous wet green sky
as shooting columns
twig and Rock Face.

There, fire-bush
entrance scrapes paler wax
green fronds then
Blue Holes into canopies
thru the stars.

[11]

Skootematta

Sheldrake, a magician
—the mandrake
a mythic plant whose shriek
drove listeners wild....
this lake, Sheldrake
and its windsong-heartswoon
counterpart, Skootematta
with Shabomeka &
a whiff of Buckshot Lake to boot,
waves lapping the
prayerful stones—
water's edge
the earth's bones....
Lakes an art-form
hardscrabble scribble
shorthand on a blessed land.

The mysticism of basic shadows,
occult shapes of ourselves.

[12]

Animals And The Stars

Crickets are a strange place,
cricks of dew hemmed
with hoar-frost
mushrooming by a door.

The glens are fashions of a loom
eerie pads
are nightly rooms.

The padlocks
remove the key
as grass-hoppers
keep the meadow free.

A twilight world
along the edge
at rapier's length
this light, this point
at end of the void.

[13]

And Then Some

The anger past
as a cat arches her back
a thickly rich robust anger
blackest coffee in a thick
earthen mug
this thug & mugger with sufficient
silk thread.

Yet the assassin is back
with catcalls & hiss
cortisol adrenalin that
lunge like that cat
rapid-fire along the back garden fence
this patio stroll
my senses black.

And time luxuriating like a thick veil.

That dread pack with
anger in the lead
—what prevokes it—
obviously really
a pack of violent
running lies—wolves
hell-bent running over
intent on deceit,
thievery, then some.

A narrative with a long reach.

[14]

Woodsy Backwoods Poem

I saw Bear
shopping with Santa Claus
at the North of 7 Plaza
only he wasn't wearing a bib—
only a cotton-wool imitation synthetic
polystyrene white fluffy instead.

I saw the Bear
gracing a wall at the
Old Trout Lake Hotel
(part-time job),
looking self-satisfied,
smug back of the Mosque Lake Road
but a self-starter, no less,
lacking the wherewithal, nonetheless,
to be a serious shit-disturber
accolades & kudos aside, still
circus Work is hard &
good dancing difficult to come by,
poor dish of custard, sticky stuffed bastard.

yet the pay-off begins
when Bear gets home
with only grubs in the bank
and maggots to show
for his life's work, alas,
no fireworks for free
in the big grin as you den,
leaf-off frenzy
witch begins October
month of orange zen
zip up only can ya please.

[15]

Corner Store Fifties Reveille

I met Bear at the 5 n' dime
sipping a Cream Soda
he was voluble &
needed to talk...
"I got a shit-load on my mind,"
mumbling something about some
run-in with a Mountie—tampering
with Crown Evidence, the purloined Honey Jar,
in question, Jimmy Dean was there, too,
polishing his coolness though he would
have his own Run-In later in the evening.
As Marilyn had left,
I decided to forgo Bear's company,
still slurping his Soda &
crying into the bubbles,
some things never change.

[16]

Trout Lake Hotel

The walls don't lack sincerity, here,
or be accused of "ordinary,"
what with the bleached remains
of a carbon skull, a yellowing pike head
of uncertain girth, adder-like fangs
positioned like the Bear Head
gasping for the night air
one wall over or
the old pool table
that's seen as many games
as ghosts fly by or drinks downed
in the penumbra Shooters
flaming elixir stars,
a shooting gallery of exotica and potent portions—
crimson Garter, Pink Panties,
the men in this lounge live up to that
with cigarettes bullying the air, chortles,
one doesn't expect to see southern good ole boys
in the North Backwoods with no 'gators
or Biloxi Blues but a gallows to good intentions,
nonetheless.

[17]

Northwoods Poem

Watermelon,
ears of skeleton
wet nose with marshmallow
I saw the Bear leaning on
Santa for a favor.

II
Here's Bear, week's growth of beard,
long bushy eyebrows
still reeking of gin
apparently wanted the penny-strapped Claus'
to dump Rudolph,
spray-paint his coat white
use Bear's fleshy drinker's nose
to lead the sleigh
that crazy night.

III
A tiff erupted
Rudolph almost lost it
santa ended paying Hibernation fees
though Bear grumbled he wasn't
bedding Next to no knot of worms garter snakes.

[18]

Orange Lichens

Orange lichens, in sun-like clusters,
entomb the Rockface wall
a sheer ascent from the waterline
into glassy viscous green—-
the plummet from skyward
to lake face
passes breathless squadrons
of Dragon Flies
—devil's Darning Needles
threading the air
where Wolf Spiders
bivouac in web-castles,
thin Draculas to their insect host
each hairy mantle black
with burrow moats at high watermark;
yet unforeseen are the funnel lairs
for bull snakes
each water thrasher
gracing the rotund, behemoth Rock
lunging like a SSpirit Presence up
from this watery chalice.

[19]

Six Owlets

Six owlets sitting in a tree,
six cats in effigy,
six of both in a boat
the leeward lives in Innisfree.

Six women marching
through a park,
six lanterns at rest
six cauldrons to
six walking abreast.

In the still of the morning
I'd hazard a guess
there's a little less.

[20]

Twillingate

We all end up badly and
it's not the season nor the salt
rather, I suspect but type of gherkin used.

We all end, badly, at least
the more modest of us do.
the old salts they dine on
limericks anyways.

We all end up, sadly, the distances
and the wiles only last up,
sideways, and barely with
the edge-ways of a smile.

Some of us, sadly,
limit our losses
call off the posse
quit deals, the
quicksilver steals.

Some of us, gladly,
surrender or catch
a slow boat to Twillingate,
if not willingly,
at least painstakingly.

[21]

Bravura

Memory as embankment,
a mudslide at High Tide
with shades up...
my avocado green brethren
pleasures the soil.

Memory as enchantment
a Belle at a Soiree,
pureed, Gaston at a Dinner Party.

Napanee suggests sympathy,
a serendipity...
as water winders its way
to clay in a moonlight
turn of the bottle,
I shall find a way.
that's ironclad.

[22]

Whisky Girl

I like'em ragged round the rim,
rough drawn at dawn
panting at the edge,
belly-button ring
tattooed naval
drinking silk panties shooters,
not much in between
if you know
What I mean

[23]

High Frequency Draw

(High Alert)

Les bougies sur les tombeaux
(The candles on the graves)
antilles dread locks ...
french chocolate it is not.

[24]

Red Fox

(Red Horse Lake)

A magnificent Red Devil
splayed out in his tracks;
this tumultuous soul, baron of the backwoods
with his provenance unknown ...
this compromise to individuality
abandons him to chorome death
under a canopy-canapé dream-coated rock dome.

Trepanned, empire of trees, dark matter
& a castle of leaves,
a fish-hawk for a tomahawk
in his thermo-cline eyes ...
dithyrambic young osprey in the offing,
candelabra under stars.

Going inland for freshwater prawns,
sandalwood and tortoiseshells
finding bewitchment amid moving cars.

[25]

When I was a Much Younger Man

When I was a much younger man,
my spiritual homeland was a scrub-mile of bush with thicket
leaves the size of your palms.

Saucer-size holes of white air enveloped the edge of trees
and the sky was large, an upturned pitcher
placed upon its ears...
edge-wise cicadas & June Beetles let out long throbs
and the people rounded out lives between the farmhouse & the barn.
This ennobled them and they were famously resilient and, in turn,
redolent with firmness & the gladness of life.

There was a Drive House, a pig pen, sheds & a chicken coop and, by
night, stars became the earlier evening swallows gulping the space Left in
the train of the moon. There was no one Empress of the Night anymore
than a Prince or Kings towered across the landscape.
Stillness and the largeness of things, predominated, and a hill cascading
between the fields & pond held both largess and chaos in nature.

A fence line divided the dynasties, then Regencies across an orchard
& what seemed to many an enchanted bridge to the woods.

It was here a boy made his stand.

The language of rock/hillside/lakes & nettle stands like the back of my hand
to fill a calendar wall, their musical sounds are brave arias in waves
with sonatas first in strength, then pleasure.

This Frontenac Axis as fortress, strong-hold, its booty lichens, moss,
legends such as Meyer's Cave, John Meyers murdered for silver,
Mazinaw Rock, the Mugwumps
more water in this Davy Jones locker than all Araby,
this wonder & merriment all strung in a violin string
as webs of beads these lakes
silver cistern,
lovely listening,
this necklace of forest wreath,
placid leaf fingering wide-eyed watershed rich in Massasauga serpents
like daggers in that tarn, karst topography lime-stone carapace
Painted Turtle hemorrhaging as orange leaves in Sumac troves,
copses as sky counts, lakes like the back of my hand ache with the wish
I could swim them all, wallow in their own restless energy.
Snapping Turtle Point, a pail of water and a beast three bucket sizes
with a yellow underbelly like an alligator, claws, black raven mouth
lunging his neck as some gladiator's sword primitive in his ferocity.
Nigh near lacerated my hand, no wish, here, to leave digits there as new
Finger Lakes.

Names masculine to the touch and their roundness——Mississageon,
Buckshot could pepper a listener or blur in seconds turning effete,
Shabomeeka, Sharbot or learn likeness and leisure in the form of the
lute, Kashwakemak, sound brittle——Rogue's Hollow, Marlbank,
Lime Lake, the Claire River disappearing into a swamp & muskeg
where one maps out one's personal Mythology—
Napanee is and as Anthology.

[26]

The End