Another one of time's creations

So, I started this poem at the beginning of a long-term relationship and finished it when it was over... it is symbolic of a real musical experience involving this person and also of the break down of communication that can happen when you are... well involved with a narcissist- eek. I know. Well, we all make mistakes, now don't we.

Blown

Sit. Listen.

Do you hear?

Dissonance rings to

Resolve- heated debate,

Ending with harmonious

Embrace-

Something created-

Something learned.

Eyes dart from fingers to

Mouths breathing

Life into metal

Vibrations plucked

Like ideas from thought to

Words that cannot be

Expressed, only felt by

The instinct of passion

And the measured movement of skin

Against skin.

Then, he takes,

No steals, a solo

When I thought, ‘ensemble,’

Means electrons shared,

Chemical change- molecules

Giving birth to something

New, unexpected, experimental.

But some bonds are weak with

Saxophone pocket pinball- you

Rationalize interjections with illogical

Explanations of jazz tradition.

Art forgotten by technical jargon-

Musical equations conquer, rape,

Pillage emotional nomads,

Barbaric collectivism.

Lulled in the cerebral,

Furrowed-brow lollygag,

You notice me silent

And suddenly ask, “Is everything okay?”

“Okay is difficult to define,” I say.

© Copyright 2008 Joanna Brown

A Day in the Auditory Life of an Austinite...

“Interference!”

Birds chattering, no,

Flirting.

Leaves applauding at

The rooster’s caw, “It’s still the day!”

Whishing tires over distant highway concrete

Shush train horns boasting, “I’m here! I’m here!

Here.

I’m off!”

The wind chime colliding, ming-^ming

-miiiiiiiing.

Motorcycles rev-rev-revving, strutting

Their stuff, “Grrr, grrr, grOwlllll!”

Bombastic bass pumping,

Bumping,

Flooding into this

Austin audio ascension.

© Copyright 2006 Joanna Brown

Aging

This is my salute to aging... in the face of my late twenties, I made a choice. I refused to "get old." This does not mean that I found the holy grail or found my way to a witch doctor... or am in denial. It simply means that I will do whatever I can to maintain my body so that I may remain as active as possible in my life. Meanwhile, I will not acknowledge deep within my soul that I am old, for I do not feel old. It is true thus far- you are only as old as you feel. Yes, I feel wiser, but do I feel old. Hell no.

P.S. It should be mentioned that my line breaks are VERY intentional in all my poems. Pay attention and you will be rewarded with a shower of double entendres.

Of Crow’s Feet

I still wear turquoise cowgirl

Boots and green eye

Shadow with a mini-

Skirt smile, yoga wit.

I’ll still gun you

Down with a sharp-

Shooter tongue- it saves

Space on the hard drive.

Because I can no longer decipher my wrist-

Watch. Well, I no longer

Carry a watch- what an utter waste

Of my dear, time.

© Copyright 2005 Joanna Brown

Gothic much?

Hahahaha- this one must be my goth side coming out... it's pretty freaking dark... but I still find it interesting... What can I say, I feel love as deeply as I feel loss. This poem helped me to purge that. It's a heavy, weighty poem, but perhaps some may like... you never know.

Crimson

From the smoke curling off

The end of a gun,

Red flashing, around, around

Me, like a migraine daydream,

Or so they say, I see

Your cotton-candy

Delight in my most wretched

Hour of solitude,

But I do not feel scarlet

Talons curling, encircling,

Until all is flooded

Blood-black and warm.

Safe it seems, until the stench

Forces a pin-prick to this

Collapsing cavern.

Singing of freedom and trembling

Thimbles while you

Shush the flailing, slurring false

Promises of best intentions,

And I know it and say it

But choose to remain,

Remain color-blind to it.

All the red, red around me,

Sticky, messy, filled with regret.

The red, red, red, red

Wild and pulsing

Burns, burn, burn, burn,

Burning red to black.

And I know it and say it

But choose to remain,

Remain color-blind to it.

Later, much too much, too

Much later, the pain, wild and pulsing

Sets in to slap me.

Slap me

Back to the smoke curling off the end of a gun,

And all the damage done, before me

And with me…

Crawl out of this

Cave, remnants of “me” trailing

Behind to watch our Love die,

And I raise the golden goblet,

Encrusted with rubies,

“Salud, to those who choose to remain,

Remain, color-blind to it!”

And the tannins slide down my throat.

All the red, the red,

Sticky and

Messy, filled with regret.

The red, red, red, red

Wild and pulsing burns,

Burn, burn, burn,

Burning red to black.

And we know it and say it

But choose to remain,

Remain color-blind to it.

© Copyright 2005 Joanna Brown