The Gossamer Nature of Random Things presents a collection of introspective poems composed over a twenty-eight year period by writer and poet Howard Brown. These poems are based on the random observations and internal reflections of the author on a wide range of topics: from encounters with interesting people, to special places he has visited, to the unique nature of the moon and its cycles. His poems reflect upon everyday joys and sorrows- whether chronicling an enjoyable afternoon at his daughter's house listening to his grandchildren at play in Alicia's Backyard", or musing in "Ghost" over the futility of trying to hold on to the past. The Gossamer Nature of Random Things provides an intimate look into the life and emotions of one man-a sort of personal journal in verse form. Kaleidoscope Sheltered by a neon sky, the mountain, a collage of red, green and gold, the magic of the landscape enhanced by its own inherent transience".
The Gossamer Nature of Random Things
A First Collection of PoemsBy Howard BrowniUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2012 Howard Brown
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4759-5217-9 Contents
Rainy Day on the Mountain...........................1Alicia's Backyard...................................2Wolf River..........................................3Winter Sunday.......................................5Driving Up the Mountain.............................6Walking to the Post Office..........................7View from the Foot of the Grove.....................8Rogue River.........................................10On the Porch........................................11Early Morning, Lookout Mountain.....................13Pebble Creek........................................14Dog Days............................................15Christmas Day.......................................17Kaleidoscope........................................18Better Days.........................................21The Scars She Bore..................................22Standing in Line....................................23The Enigma of Friendship............................24On Being a Gulley...................................25Her Number..........................................27Her Heart Could Not Be Still........................29Beware..............................................30Twilight............................................35Gibbous Moon........................................36Just Before Daybreak................................37Crescent Moon.......................................38Autumn Moon.........................................39The Moon and I......................................40Wind Dream..........................................45
Chapter One
Rainy Day on the
Mountain Once again, the mountain is shrouded in fog.
Rain has fallen for days, an incessant downpour
which shows no sign of passing.
To the west,
a murder of crows waddle noisily
across the verdant expanse of the Commons.
Beneath the table,
the dog is curled at my feet,
drowsing contentedly in the midday gloom.
Across the room,
atop the worn back of an easy chair,
the cat has found his place of silent repose.
The red light on my cell phone winks—
A message
from beyond this place
of rain and fog,
of talking crows,
aging dogs,
and Delphic cats.
9/21/2009
Alicia's Backyard Sitting placidly in my daughter's backyard,
a place of refuge,
where one can escape the wind
and bask in the failing warmth
of the October sun.
I close my eyes
and listen to the afternoon cries
of the children at play:
laughter one moment,
agony the next.
Simple things, to be sure,
but life is fleeting—
take your pleasure
where you find it.
10/4/2010
Wolf River Listen to the silence,
the palpable absence of sound
which pervades the low ground along the river.
And in that moment of solitude, dream—
Of the whisper of bird wing on air,
the almost imperceptible scrape of scale and claw on sand
as the runners quit their places beneath the bridge
and, one by one, slip away into the forest.
Watch them move with a singleness of purpose
through a labyrinth, whose winding passages
are defined by sycamore, cypress, willow and gum.
Toward what do they move?
Perhaps to that secret place deep within the wood
where muscadines hang fragrant upon the vine,
and the sun filters down through the trees to spill golden
upon honeysuckle, jewel weed, sumac and fern.
Then, in a quickening moment, they have come and gone,
their passage marked only by a breach in the spider's web
and the frantic motes which dance in the luminous air.
In the distance, I hear them calling:
On, on, they cry, on, on. And, as their voices fade and merge with the locusts' whir,
I realize that my question has been answered;
I need ask no more.
9/9/1988
Winter Sunday Beyond the crystalline panes of the cathedral windows,
the leafless elms trace a tangled pattern
across a dark and lowering sky.
Wrapped in purple vestments, the priest stands before the altar
and recites a spiritual nostrum.
My attention drifts,
as he makes the sign of the cross,
a holy talisman to protect us from evil.
Then, as if waking from a dream,
I hear those about me softly chanting:
et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo. And, as their voices float down the length of this holy place,
I murmur, sotto voce:
Save us not from the snares of Satan, Lord,
save us from ourselves. 2/14/2010 Driving Up the Mountain Driving up the mountain,
the sun dappling the blacktop
where it breeches the forest canopy.
The air cool and brisk,
your mind
clear as a sounding bell.
Above it all,
a bone-white moon
perched high
in the midday sky.
10/10/2011
Walking to the Post Office Walking up the street
to the post office.
The sky is blue,
the sun shining.
Manuscript in hand,
I try to think positive.
After all,
I tell myself,
There was a time
when Faulkner
walked up the street
to the post office too.
3/25/1991
View from the Foot
of the Grove High atop a granite pedestal
at the foot of the grove,
the Colonel stands
in stony silence.
Hand raised to shade his eyes
from the winter sun,
he peers to the east
down University Avenue.
In vain, he searches
for the comrades,
(long since gone to dust)
with whom he marched away.
Poised, vigilant, he waits;
waits for the bugles to sound,
the cannon to roar,
the vanquished to rise.
But what of the rest,
the nameless ones
for whom there was
no such noble cause,
Those for whom no monuments stand
as tangible reminders
that they have come and gone
and will come no more?
Who waits,
who remembers,
who heralds their passage?
9/26/1984
Rogue River As the fog began to lift,
you could look down the flat, black surface of the river,
beyond the patina of evergreens
which cover the sides of the mountains,
to a point in the distance
where the opposing ridges tumble
to the bottom of the canyon.
And, at that precise juncture of granite and water,
a shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds,
transforming the air just above the river
into a sort of golden ether,
So that one might well imagine
that everything in life which had gone before
was leading, inexorably, to this precise moment,
and whatever else might follow
could not really matter.
10/24/2008
On the Porch From your chair, look—
at the ferns
which fill the planters
on the edge of the porch,
how their fronds
move in the breeze;
the canopy
of the towering oaks
which stand
in the yard;
the couple
strolling lazily
up the street,
behind their panting dog.
Then listen—
to the discordant notes
of the tree frog;
the mournful coo
of a rock dove;
the moan of a train whistle
a mile to the south;
a car door slamming
somewhere down the block;
Look, listen,
absorb it all;
this is the marrow of life.
8/20/2008
Early Morning, Lookout
Mountain Floating toward daybreak,
fog envelops me
like a dream.
Time slows,
sound is muffled,
light distorted.
How can I put it—
like reality viewed
through a piece of gauze?
11/16/2010
Pebble Creek Remembering the mottled carpet
of browning grass and grey-green sage
which cover the meadow floor;
the curving sweep of the stream
that parts its surface end to end;
the crumbling, volcanic slopes
of the mountains which rise beyond,
their ridges dark silhouettes on the horizon;
the endless expanse of cerulean sky,
broken only by a single column of towering cumulus;
you understand that these words
will never quite capture
the sacred nature of this untamed place.
9/3/2008
Dog Days Now,
the dog days
of summer
are upon us.
The heat,
a demonic presence
dancing out of
a fevered dream;
the languorous air
so still, so passive,
its abiding torpor
almost visible;
the incessant
ringing of the cicadas,
a pervasive presence
which paints the backdrop
for the tenuous
sense of calm
which overlies
the breathless afternoon.
While far to the west,
clouds billow on the horizon,
their bellies purple
with a false promise of rain.
Such are the dog days
of summer,
such are the dog days
of the soul.
8/8/2008
Christmas Day Snow has been falling
since before first light,
enormous, wet flakes
that dance in the wind
as they float to earth
from a pewter sky.
Beyond the window,
a smudge of scarlet
settles in the crepe myrtle,
positioning himself
for a pass at the feeders
which hang nearby.
And all the while,
I sit by the hearth,
listening to Stravinsky,
dreaming of spring.
12/25/2010
Kaleidoscope Sheltered by a neon sky,
the mountain, a collage
of red, green and gold,
the magic of the landscape
enhanced by its own
inherent transience.
11/10/2011
Better Days Watching him
through the window of the car
on this cold December Sunday,
I remember better days.
Days when his eyes
had the spark of the sun
on moving water.
Days when his hands
would flutter before his face
as he spoke,
like a covey of rising quail.
But now
he is nothing more
than a tired old man,
Who stands beside
a clap-board house,
chopping kindling
in the drizzling rain.
2/5/1988
The Scars She Bore Like most everyone else,
she'd seen her share
of hard times,
yet, somehow,
had always managed to survive,
outdistancing whatever adversity
happened to come her way.
And, amazingly,
the evidence of her battles
was nowhere to be seen
upon her face.
Beyond question,
she was still
a strikingly beautiful woman,
the pure essence of style and grace.
So, only the very few
she ever allowed
to get close enough
to glimpse what lay inside,
could begin to fathom
the tell-tale scars she bore
upon her heart.
6/4/2008
Standing in Line It was like this:
I was standing
in the checkout line
at the library.
The wait was really long
and as I stood there
looking at all the people
behind me,
I kept wondering
how so many geeks
could congregate in one place
at the same time.
Then I saw
this really flakey-looking guy,
back toward the end of the line,
staring in my direction,
And I began to wonder
exactly what conclusions
he might have reached
about me.
1/23/1988
The Enigma of Friendship Like love, friendship is,
in the end,
a matter of the heart.
No expectations, no demands,
beyond a knowing smile
and a willingness, not only to listen,
but always to understand.
Springing from nothing,
moving toward nothing,
it is, simply, what it is,
nothing more, nothing less.
Yet only those for whom
it is a reality can actually
define it, can truly say,
we know.
2/11/2004
On Being a Gulley There were worse things than being a Gulley.
You could have been a Turpin,
living out your life in ignorance and poverty
in a two-room shack on the edge of town,
cutting a little pulp wood now and then,
but never earning more in a week
than you could blow in a single Saturday night
drinking cheap whiskey and eating fried fish
in some piney woods juke-joint.
Or you could have been a Tull,
living likewise in ignorance and poverty
but lacking the mental acuity
to understand the essence of either;
too slovenly to work
and too much an outcast
to eat fish or drink whiskey
with anyone outside your own kin,
even if you had the money to do so.
Yes, there were worse things
than being a Gulley,
but being a Gulley was bad enough,
for, in all likelihood,
though you would have been
neither ignorant nor poor
and could pretty much
move in society as you pleased,
to us you would still have been white trash
just the same.
4/8/1988
Her Number To have someone's number
was a casual expression,
something you heard
from time to time
but simply as metaphor,
a clever way of saying
you had a fix on someone.
Never once had he
considered the possibility
that each person
might actually have
a specific number
that was more or less
unique to them,
Until one day
he found himself
writing the figure,
eight million, one hundred
fifty-one thousand,
nine hundred forty-four,
across a sheet of paper.
And then,
as he stared blankly
at what he'd written,
he understood
that not only
does each person
have a number,
but this one was hers.
7/18/2008
Her Heart Could
Not Be Still Like a tiny bird
flitting about
in the privet hedge,
her heart could not be still.
Each time she landed,
we wondered
if this was the place
she'd finally choose to stay.
But, inevitably,
a moment would come
when she'd sound
a single, tremulous note—
which was goodbye—
and then she'd fly away.
11/06/2002
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Gossamer Nature of Random Thingsby Howard Brown Copyright © 2012 by Howard Brown. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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