Poetry

Winter

punxsutawney divination foresees
a longer winter breeze

chirping red cardinals and blue jays disagree…
we are definitely experiencing spring

ancestral seasons are three months long
in this incarnation this is wrong

the universe is indeed vast
new discoveries dismiss the last

when warmth kisses your face
embrace it, this is change

Poetry

Brick & Mortar Blues

the local independent bookstore closed its doors
after nearly a decade of remembering every customer’s name, sharing stories and laughs.

i read poetry on cold, dark nights to recovering addicts, fellow poets, and wandering customers. when i looked up from the books i found brewed tea and a homemade pineapple cake.

i feel like part of me left without permission. when i walk by the empty space i wonder who will listen to my process of being an independent author.

my words are anchored in a notebook and held close to my heart. i pray that none of the pages are torn away by the wind.

i am local. i am independent. sharing my voice on street corners, libraries and tree trunks. i am open.

***

Originally published at Goodreads blog

Prose

Nudges & Reality

I have been a francophile longer than I want to admit. It didn’t make sense to learn French living in the middle of Texas. I even chastised two friends for taking French. I took Spanish with pride. My goal was to travel the world, draw and speak Spanish. And, possibly, live in Spain.

France crept up in my love of Cancan dancers as a child. I’d swing my legs around and pretend to wear the layered dresses, swishing them around. I wanted to decorate my apartment dining rooms like French cafes, complete with a mural of France on the wall. Then there was the uncontrollable desire to be in francophone Africa and work at UNESCO in Paris.

My life stalled. My goal was not in alignment with my soul.

I finally surrendered to the nudges. I was happy in France in a past lifetime. Maybe three. The puzzle pieces now make a complete picture. France is home.

je suis Français
but it courses through my blood
like a silent stream

I even found my sweet spot. Quartier Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Sarte, de Beauvoir and Baldwin were friends there. Amis. The created history, literature and philosophy together. I’ve stepped into my path to do the same.

***

Originally published at Goodreads blog

Prose

Paris, France

I am lying on a firm mattress staring up at the teal blue Paris sky that someone in New York sees with different eyes.

Unlike the Big Apple, not a sound of birds disrupting my gaze. But, in the distant, I hear the zip of an engine. But only one.

I hear the beeps and discontent of the tiny island across the Atlantic in my memory. The marquees competing for my pocket change in visions gone by.

Here, in Paris, the flâneur is the foreground; the River Seine cascading in the back. Silence disrupted by sips of wine.

the sun is setting
across cosmopolitan
skie ripe with goodnight.

***

Originally published at Goodreads blog

Poetry

Wiggle My Toes

Wiggle My Toes was inspired by my childhood love of playing in the mud.

[verse]

When I get out of bed
I put my hands on my head
And wiggle my toes
Wiggle my toes

[chorus]

Nothing’s greater
Than saving shoes for later
So I can wiggle my toes
Wiggle my toes

[verse]

When I walk outside
The sun’s shining bright
Warming my toes
Warming my toes

[verse]

When it rains
Silky mud stains
My pinky toes
My pinky toes

[chorus]

Nothing’s greater
Than saving shoes for later
So I can wiggle my toes
Wiggle my toes

© 2017 Pamela Olivia Brown / Cosmic Mosaic Publishing (BMI)