by Michael H. Brownstein
south wind
night falls
trees go to shadows and darkness
and then
a slew of boasting katydids
katy-did-katy-didn’t. katy-did-katy-didn’t.
Showing posts with label Michael H. Brownstein. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Michael H. Brownstein. Show all posts
Sunday, August 2, 2020
Friday, January 17, 2020
December
by Michael H. Brownstein
Snow fell on white rose petals,
the way too early blossoms of mulberry,
and spun webs upon gardens of lilies.
The sky opened itself to summer,
earth crunched open with warmth,
the roses opened their mouths to the sun,
one mulberry began to ripen among miscolored Ieaves,
and three lilies spread their wings.
Seventy degrees, an easy wind,
warm swamps of what had been snow,
and we put away our winter clothes again,
headed out to the field of stone edges,
green brown moss, evergreens,
and wild flowers that did not know any better.
Snow fell on white rose petals,
the way too early blossoms of mulberry,
and spun webs upon gardens of lilies.
The sky opened itself to summer,
earth crunched open with warmth,
the roses opened their mouths to the sun,
one mulberry began to ripen among miscolored Ieaves,
and three lilies spread their wings.
Seventy degrees, an easy wind,
warm swamps of what had been snow,
and we put away our winter clothes again,
headed out to the field of stone edges,
green brown moss, evergreens,
and wild flowers that did not know any better.
Sunday, August 18, 2019
The Red Tide off the Gulf of Mexico, Florida
by Michael H. Brownstein
The colors of the ocean
turquoise with bits of pickled sky blue,
and a blend of grape juice purple—
and then, its skin ruptures,
a sudden rash red and boiling,
a lesion bleeding rotten blood.
The colors of the ocean
turquoise with bits of pickled sky blue,
and a blend of grape juice purple—
and then, its skin ruptures,
a sudden rash red and boiling,
a lesion bleeding rotten blood.
Sunday, March 10, 2019
After the Winter Storm, the Clouds Melted into Rain
by Michael H. Brownstein
The slipshod ice of clarity,
Daylight dripping snow into pellets
Opaque and clear, off white with an essence
Of ash tree, clouds, a spirit within wind.
On the dunes, scrub brush, sand thorn,
And stacked on the piles of crusted ice,
Herring gulls each with a piece of fish
Waiting patiently for the long spray of spring.
The slipshod ice of clarity,
Daylight dripping snow into pellets
Opaque and clear, off white with an essence
Of ash tree, clouds, a spirit within wind.
On the dunes, scrub brush, sand thorn,
And stacked on the piles of crusted ice,
Herring gulls each with a piece of fish
Waiting patiently for the long spray of spring.
Sunday, October 21, 2018
Evening
by Michael H. Brownstein
twilight over the Missouri
the shadow of ghost trees
paper birched and shedding:
a black current near the mud
and shells of clam and oyster
silver-sprinkle deep infested earth:
the coyote comes, the otter,
a few beavers, a family of possum
a then a bobcat thirsty-strong:
night begins to shade everything with new
songs reaching into the growing
dark, the bobcat splashes water on its face
twilight thick with trees, crickets, a forest
twilight over the Missouri
the shadow of ghost trees
paper birched and shedding:
a black current near the mud
and shells of clam and oyster
silver-sprinkle deep infested earth:
the coyote comes, the otter,
a few beavers, a family of possum
a then a bobcat thirsty-strong:
night begins to shade everything with new
songs reaching into the growing
dark, the bobcat splashes water on its face
twilight thick with trees, crickets, a forest
Sunday, August 5, 2018
Sub Storm
by Michael H. Brownstein
Today is Friday, tomorrow the beginning of next week,
An angry grumbling of earth, the heat a shower of shame,
Rising water, a plastic death to the ocean, things look bleak.
Today is Friday, tomorrow the beginning of next week.
Where is the Cuban Coney, the Sardinian Pika, the prairie leek,
The Jamaican Monkey, the Bulldog rat, the prame?
Today is Friday, tomorrow the beginning of next week,
An angry grumbling of earth, the heat a shower of shame.
Today is Friday, tomorrow the beginning of next week,
An angry grumbling of earth, the heat a shower of shame,
Rising water, a plastic death to the ocean, things look bleak.
Today is Friday, tomorrow the beginning of next week.
Where is the Cuban Coney, the Sardinian Pika, the prairie leek,
The Jamaican Monkey, the Bulldog rat, the prame?
Today is Friday, tomorrow the beginning of next week,
An angry grumbling of earth, the heat a shower of shame.
Sunday, April 8, 2018
Friday Morning
—for Ryllis of St. Kitts
by Michael H. Brownstein
Come. Today, clear fishing and day bright,
morning sun strong breath and fresh light.
My friend, here's a paw paw and water nut for you.
Morning comes in crowing. Milky milky. Love vine. Bamboo.
Everything a ripe breadfruit and sugar cane together,
lime, palm leaf, a shadow of heather.
Silence in the ocean with large birds of prey,
one by one the lamps tickle out across the bay.
Now is the time, my love, time for waking,
time for praying, time for telling, time for baking.
Come. Today, a clear start and day bright,
early o’clock, strong breath and fresh light.
Come. Today, clear fishing and day bright,
morning sun strong breath and fresh light.
My friend, here's a paw paw and water nut for you.
Morning comes in crowing. Milky milky. Love vine. Bamboo.
Everything a ripe breadfruit and sugar cane together,
lime, palm leaf, a shadow of heather.
Silence in the ocean with large birds of prey,
one by one the lamps tickle out across the bay.
Now is the time, my love, time for waking,
time for praying, time for telling, time for baking.
Come. Today, a clear start and day bright,
early o’clock, strong breath and fresh light.
Sunday, February 4, 2018
The Great Missouri
by Michael H. Brownstein
Clouds mark tracks across an arm of sky;
Blue water pools near the banks,
Grey-green storms of current stretch
Across mudflats, erosion, a stretch of skin.
Near the Mississippi, both clouds and river
Change lanes, dwell into wind and storm,
Stretch the great strengths within
And let out wind and rain, guts and flood.
Clouds mark tracks across an arm of sky;
Blue water pools near the banks,
Grey-green storms of current stretch
Across mudflats, erosion, a stretch of skin.
Near the Mississippi, both clouds and river
Change lanes, dwell into wind and storm,
Stretch the great strengths within
And let out wind and rain, guts and flood.
Sunday, January 28, 2018
Smog
by Michael H. Brownstein
This morning
we woke to orange smog streetlamps,
in the pale blue skin of sky,
a shape of white washed shadow:
breathing became hostile
and then something fell
acid within white
chemically deranged
black blood, broken blossom.
This morning
we woke to orange smog streetlamps,
in the pale blue skin of sky,
a shape of white washed shadow:
breathing became hostile
and then something fell
acid within white
chemically deranged
black blood, broken blossom.
Wednesday, July 12, 2017
International Falls, Minnesota, Winter
(a few decades from now, a century)
based on the writings of David Auerbach
by Michael H. Brownstein
In the sweet wish of day,
a scone of buttercup and dew,
a lisp of cloud, a wash of sky—
in the heat of the valley,
in the heat of the rock lines,
in the heat of Kabetogama,
in the heat of broken asphalt—
the song of the scarlet macaw,
vibrating toad, blue lipped frog,
and lantern bug. Everywhere
water lily, wild rose, snakes with limbs,
lists and lists of whitewashed bone.
In the sweet wish of day,
a scone of buttercup and dew,
a lisp of cloud, a wash of sky—
in the heat of the valley,
in the heat of the rock lines,
in the heat of Kabetogama,
in the heat of broken asphalt—
the song of the scarlet macaw,
vibrating toad, blue lipped frog,
and lantern bug. Everywhere
water lily, wild rose, snakes with limbs,
lists and lists of whitewashed bone.
Saturday, June 17, 2017
Strength
by Michael H. Brownstein
Hike with me through this field of prayer,
through mudflats and iron foot,
the eulogy deep and dried passion fruit,
the salt of columbine, a terrain of frenzy,
lacewing and the yellow mollies of spring,
milk and milk thistle, a porcelain of words.
Hike with me past the girth of oak,
the prayer tree of Cambodia, the field of glories
behind the back forty no one touches.
Share with me wild onion, mint,
dandelion leaves and acorn meat,
the edible leaves of the Acacia.
The storm will pass. The forest will replenish.
Rivers will not run dry. Nor will they shrink.
Hike with me five years from now. Share
my bounty anytime. The eulogy premature,
prayer alive in flower and grass, blossom
and honey bee, a porcelain of words.
Hike with me through this field of prayer,
through mudflats and iron foot,
the eulogy deep and dried passion fruit,
the salt of columbine, a terrain of frenzy,
lacewing and the yellow mollies of spring,
milk and milk thistle, a porcelain of words.
Hike with me past the girth of oak,
the prayer tree of Cambodia, the field of glories
behind the back forty no one touches.
Share with me wild onion, mint,
dandelion leaves and acorn meat,
the edible leaves of the Acacia.
The storm will pass. The forest will replenish.
Rivers will not run dry. Nor will they shrink.
Hike with me five years from now. Share
my bounty anytime. The eulogy premature,
prayer alive in flower and grass, blossom
and honey bee, a porcelain of words.
Sunday, August 28, 2016
The Summer of Heat
by Michael H. Brownstein
A shallot of cloud
silver gray
braised oyster
lucid.
What happened
to the rain?
The liner notes
of cloud?
The hiding place
for wind and weather?
Nightfall
the moon onion shaped
the darkening sky
silverback and empty.
A shallot of cloud
silver gray
braised oyster
lucid.
What happened
to the rain?
The liner notes
of cloud?
The hiding place
for wind and weather?
Nightfall
the moon onion shaped
the darkening sky
silverback and empty.
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
Watching the Wind
by Michael H. Brownstein
A frontier of lightning,
a train whistle of cloud,
the thick court of wind
combs brush, limb and leaf
and the rain that was to come
does not.
A frontier of lightning,
a train whistle of cloud,
the thick court of wind
combs brush, limb and leaf
and the rain that was to come
does not.
Thursday, September 24, 2015
An Embrace of Trees
by Michael H. Brownstein
How powerful to swim into your arms.
How steadfast and stubborn. The curl of your palm.
One finger finding another. A gathering
Of love’s flesh like the glorious crown of a tree
Reaching beyond a fence of silver brush
And goldenrod to lay a hand of leaf
Upon a friendly arm and find whatever wonder
Lives in the wind, the brightest day, a cool evening.
The squirrels at play. The murmur of doves.
A warmth turning everything valuable into God.
How powerful to swim into your arms.
How steadfast and stubborn. The curl of your palm.
One finger finding another. A gathering
Of love’s flesh like the glorious crown of a tree
Reaching beyond a fence of silver brush
And goldenrod to lay a hand of leaf
Upon a friendly arm and find whatever wonder
Lives in the wind, the brightest day, a cool evening.
The squirrels at play. The murmur of doves.
A warmth turning everything valuable into God.
Sunday, June 7, 2015
Fading
by Michael H. Brownstein
A thin lisp of fog smokes beyond the trees,
white tracks line the farm. Somewhere
someplace else is lost in the picture, the gray
photograph of winter's thaw, the nearby river
missing what makes it a river, one identifiable bird
an unidentifiable smudge on driftwood, the optimism
of beginnings, a hole in white bark.
A thin lisp of fog smokes beyond the trees,
white tracks line the farm. Somewhere
someplace else is lost in the picture, the gray
photograph of winter's thaw, the nearby river
missing what makes it a river, one identifiable bird
an unidentifiable smudge on driftwood, the optimism
of beginnings, a hole in white bark.
