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Briauna Brown Poem
Bearer of three bountiful births,
How could we show our gratitude?
—It would not compare to your worth.
Bearer of three bountiful births,
Our angel that walks on this Earth,
For our love, you always renewed,
Bearer of three bountiful births,
How could we show our gratitude?
(For my mom, Christina Marie. I love you more than words could describe.)
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Date: May 3, 2019
Celebrate May with a Triolet (tree-o-lay)
Sponsor: Adrea Dietrich
Copyright © Briauna Brown | Year Posted 2019
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Briauna Brown Poem
Days until ‘Pride’ fast approaching,
On the phone with mom, she said;
Not to make myself a target by going,
That she doesn’t wish her daughter dead.
Better yet, stay home, she insists,
Everyone that goes is at risk.
As if I should hide who I am inside…
Truly, I understand her warranted concerns,
All the same; the event, for me, isn’t ruined,
Realistically, the fact makes some people spurn,
Gay, perhaps no different, I’m invariably human,
Eventually, everyone will understand and discern,
Then I won’t have to live a suppressing illusion.
Honestly, I didn’t take moment to decide,
Only the one answer buzzed in my ear,
No, I won’t sit by with anxiety and hide,
Especially so, I won’t give my all to this fear,
You can take my life, but you can’t take my pride.
——————
May 4, 2019
Poem Type: Acrostic
Copyright © Briauna Brown | Year Posted 2019
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Briauna Brown Poem
In the library, we meet a young lady; her study, it does overwhelm,
Resting, laying her head down, she then transcends into another realm.
She awakes amongst a rolling fog, as it clears she heeds an immense object,
Wiping her eyes, she starts afoot and discerns a large book standing erect.
The cover presented then creeks ajar, the yellowed pages adorn with dust,
Projecting light into the binding with an antique lantern that’s covered in rust.
Pages turn rapidly, fluttering as the outskirt of her dream fold over and billow,
Suddenly she awakes to realize that she’s been using the same book as a pillow.
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Date: May 8, 2019
Free Verse or Rhyme Poetry Contest - Picture #2
Sponsor: Eve Roper
Poem Type: Rhyme
Copyright © Briauna Brown | Year Posted 2019
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Briauna Brown Poem
Shhh...
My mom
She whispers
Remember this
My beautiful girl
And listen very close
My most important advice
Especially when you feel down
Is to never go and change yourself
For the people who will not change for you.
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May 1, 2019
Writing Challenge 2- April 2019- It's All About 10 - Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Dear Heart
Copyright © Briauna Brown | Year Posted 2019
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Briauna Brown Poem
I’m so sorry…
Hillary, but it is nothing personal,
And in saying this I am also merciful,
But with a bounty on your head,
Your campaign is dead,
And for that, I am truly thankful.
You see…
I am happy to see women held high,
But for you, that just does not apply.
You don’t seem naive,
So my biggest pet peeve,
Is why you stood by your husband.
To me…
When someone accepts such an indignity,
It leads me to believe they have malignity.
I’m not one to judge,
But if you're capable of such,
Then I think we're better off without you.
It’s not you…
It’s your attachment to Bill,
Just doesn’t seem right for Capitol Hill.
It makes you seem suspect,
And since we're on the subject,
Can we mention Travelgate?
I mean…
Were you pulling strings behind the curtains?
Of course, nothing we know for certain.
Except beneath that smile,
We sense something is vile,
Why don’t you just give it a break?
It’s sad…
Because it’s hard to tell who’s really cheating
When most of your ideas are very misleading,
Conspiracies of so much deceit,
It has all ended in your defeat,
And will continue again and again.
So please,
Hillary, won’t you please listen,
Our country, it grows in division,
Humiliation you'll save yourself from,
Because corruptions not welcome
In a country that we are trying to change.
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May, 2, 2019
A Realistic Hillary Clinton Poem (It is NOT positive) Contest
Sponser: Michael Wegman
Copyright © Briauna Brown | Year Posted 2019
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Briauna Brown Poem
How would someone write an “urban” sonnet,
When the formation of the poem is lame.
Some poets will stray away from old bonnets,
And some rather keep the good lines the same.
Across this sonnet contest, so I came,
So here I write as it brings me much shame…
This poem is about the struggle I face,
As I attempt to write out all these lines.
Surely this poems is not full of grace,
But my aggravation, oh, how it shines.
Even if one is steeped in the same brine,
No other prose will compare as a twine.
Lines have ten syllables, just as you asked,
And each stanza has the correct rhyming.
Is not the best but I hope I have passed,
And this poem is found in good timing.
For my skills, I am molding and priming,
For good work I and pushing and climbing.
Did not get all, but my ass you got half,
Now, I hope this poem has brought a good laugh.
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May 2, 2019
Urban Sonnet Contest
Sponser: Emile Pinet
Poem Type: Urban Sonnet (10 syllables/line, ABABBB- CDCDDD- EFEFFF- GG)
Copyright © Briauna Brown | Year Posted 2019
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Briauna Brown Poem
Lifelong companions had set off to sail,
When a man-made misfortune changed their course.
Now, that fearsome feud did blow a strong gale,
And distanced the two with vigorous force.
Though they were damaged, neither ship did sink,
Both drifted further, lost on the ocean.
Hatred and sorrow pushes to the brink,
Qualmish now, with the ocean in motion.
Lonely at sea when they were torn apart,
So that same strong wind forced both ships to turn,
Calling on the friends to follow their hearts,
Knowing deep down, for friendship they still yearn.
Follow the breeze, ahead, what would that be?
Just two friends that have washed in from the sea.
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Date: May 14th, 2019
Poetry Contest: Choices Poetry Contest (Picture #1)
Sponsor: Sara Kendrick
Poem Type: SonnetKendrick
Poem Type: Sonnet
Copyright © Briauna Brown | Year Posted 2019
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Briauna Brown Poem
I sit down in my cold, stone seat and shuffle sheets of music,
Arranging them in different ways from fast-paced to acoustic.
Spanning collective scales, bars and notes and lines,
I've read through them all before at least one hundred times.
Flats are feeble, sharps are sour,
Notes sound better by the hour.
Staccatos sound short while fermatas feel full,
Using the skills I have learned in school.
The second ending comes; the closure is in progress,
The note subsides, applause, success.
But something's not right,
The feeling's all wrong.
I played the music right,
But my music's not a song.
I lean astern in the chair and allow my eyes to look in wonder,
Running through the countless notes, the rhythms I do ponder.
I score all pianissimos, all the slurs and all the rests,
If I want to earn that solo, I have got to do my best.
I feel the emotion behind each bar and try to connect my thoughts,
The sound is closer to a struggle, this section sounds distraught.
The upcoming crescendo should be more moderate than the next,
The following is voluminous, the feeling is perplexed.
I’ve played the piece how it’s written and still can’t find the problem,
Recollecting every note from the top and to the bottom.
But what's so rotten about the composure?
The underlying message needs exposure.
Throw out the sheets, throw out the score,
Think about the music, but feel it more.
I close my eyes and let the notes meander,
They’ll fall in time but let them show candor.
Forget about the fundamentals if only for a while,
Think about the notes overflowing, in what way or in what style.
Sense the rise and fall with every breath excused,
Notice the flurry of sounds meant to confuse.
Draw in and release in unison tempo,
I see a breath mark and make a memo.
If I really push the messages through the sound,
The pieces come together, an answer I have found.
Now we've played so well that it is no surprise,
How the feelings brought such tears to our eyes.
Captivated the audience with our musical best,
Our concert can now finally end with this success.
Copyright © Briauna Brown | Year Posted 2019
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Briauna Brown Poem
Knowing how this heart aches for love lost and coming to the realization of what is truly needed. Phone calls are forwarded and messages unanswered so in transit, headed home. Sorrows and apologies prepared before greetings while windshield wipers clear the sky’s tears. Soaked pant bottoms, leaving muddy shoe prints up the stairs, a bouquet of favorite, fresh flowers in hand...
Peer through the windows,
Nothing but pictureless walls,
Too little, too late.
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Date: May 2, 2019
Pick A Title, Vol 4 - Haibun Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Copyright © Briauna Brown | Year Posted 2019
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Briauna Brown Poem
My mother use to tell me that she had the ugliest color of birthstone,
While she adored my month’s gem, an April beauty that was known.
I grew up thinking that November babies were particularly unlucky,
Given how she had a vast indifference and beheld her own as mucky.
Unknowing that this merchant stone embodied the love of my life,
The blonde bead became a symbol for both my mother and my wife.
The gleaming sun incased would soon illuminate the depths of my soul,
When these two transcendent women, lift me up and help me seek my goals.
All luminous qualities this amber crystal is said to possess,
Go forth with prosperity and confidence, in love we shall transgress.
As motherly mineral quartz relays to me messages from Mercury,
Please, won't you keep whispering simple, sweet nothings for all eternity.
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Date: May 7, 2019
A Tribute to a Precious or Semi-Precious Gemstone Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
Poem Type: Rhyme
Copyright © Briauna Brown | Year Posted 2019
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