Home » Poems » Best » Francis Brown » Best Francis Brown Poems

Best Poems Written by Francis Brown

Below are the all-time best Francis Brown poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Francis Brown Poem

Canada, Before I Know Her

You came home from Quebec,
you were never alone;

your shadow chased you around town
like a dog in love or out of love.

They told me you have been to places
where flies sat conveniently on the ledges of your lips,

you've eaten ugali with your fingers, someone else's fingers,
soaked in saliva and the red juices of greens and beef liver

I remember you leaving Scott County to drive along the roads
of summer with green trees waving at you. You were famous.

You sent a picture of Niagara. Before a mirror,
I saw my eyes in the falls that should've lectured you,

then you sent Alberta dressed in flora and sunshine,
but before a mirror, I saw where sorrow dug trenches in my brow.

At sunsets, I watched the tired lights walked slowly westward like an old lady on quad cane ... and I forgot the sound of my name on your lips

When July entered our town with loud children, you were in Whistler. His mother is continuing in Paris,
and poor James, God rested his bones somewhere in London.

You killed me with Yellowknife when you spoke of the northern lights,
but not once questioned my lonesome nights in White Sulphur
where fresh winds licked the skirt of a White horse to ignite a horseplay

You say Saint John spoke proudly of Como,
so I searched the map to find you where you would sit to sip something
that spoke proudly of Campari Spritz.

I found Whistle Pig Stout.

Some nights, I'd search for you when my finger was tired of scooping peanut butter from a jar. I traced from Revelstoke to Squamish, then to Halifax,
but I found no lobsters big enough to keep you there.

You called about Ottawa, and I found Rideau Canal, a lazy river that still works for the people. You told me Tofino spoke proudly of Costa Del Sol,
so I searched the map to find you where you would drive along something that spoke proudly of Ruta del Sol y del Aguacate.

I found Chesterman Beach Road.

December drove you home, pulling down your dress
to cover the spots where the cold winds were touching you.

I am getting used to being single.

Written 03\28\20

Details | Francis Brown Poem

My Mind Was Left To Think About

"dust scent through cold trampled field 
whilst butterflies hung by their wings to dry"  

- 'Time lost all realism'  

I've surveyed the road from 'time' to 'time' and saw Savoir-Vivre.
I will never be that woman; I've tied goats by 'their' necks in 
meadows 'to' graze and went home without remorse.

I still let my purpose wandered, 'lost,' like a panic,
or like the 'flies' that 'buttered' the 'wings' of airplanes to hijack rides
to where they are blown as 'dust' into 'Realism.'

At dawn, I milked cows just beyond the 'trampled' green, 
found 'butter' and called the vet to check for cancer. This is realism. 
We've sung songs 'by Eve,' then I 'dried' up and was BLOWN AWAY.

... and when the 'cold' came 'through' the legs of the trees, 
I became a 'Roper,' catching Autumn's 'scents' which is 'hung' up 
on waiting, and 'whilst' it lingers in these 'fields,' ...

... I stole a quote from Eve Roper. That is 'all' I did.

(Note: the first and second stanza of the poem are from Eve Roper's poem, "Time lost all realism." The third stanza is the title of the poem. I have used all the words in the lines and title in my poem ... and I confess to what I did).

Details | Francis Brown Poem

Thoughts of Yesterday

Let it be before I go from where I've seen moons after moons,
crescent and full; let memories carve yellow suns on the 
dark-skinned children, polishing them with sweat and sea salt 
to surface their natural oils. Let me see them smile again.
Let me see September's winds push cane leaves into spirals,
while singing like jukebox in an almost hollow bar,
far from where her spirits caused heartbreaks.
Fix my mind so it can carry me, like country bus
on scenic routes, to custard apples & mango fruits
on the ground in thick pangola grass,
drooling like miss Mabel's full black lips,
 leaving nectar for she-goats, & pests that frequent 
drop toilets. We tied T-shirts (necks & sleeves), make sachels
 for the loads, while skipping a few ounces of uncivilized 
honey bees, living, but dying to hurt us. To soften 
the venom, we slowly pissed on the unwanted gifts 
appreciating when a girl's bladder is full;
painful, but still, they are good people with virtue
Life was okay; every story has one lie and one truth
despite our age, and the arrogance of its teller
It was the mountains that speak most;
cannabis smells have a way of creeping betwixt
wild coffee trees, finding evening breeze
heading for our noses, asking our clothes to take them home,
and parents were customers who buy no excuses.
They have no evidence to support accusations;
without red eyes or high, our truth was sold as lies
Sunday was a beautiful woman. She would bring
cricket; two bats, one ball. Now I sit here, one bat
two balls, almost helpless. The bowlers,
deceptive like the president and a seer in a mask.
They have leathers behaving in unusual ways;
cutting out, cutting in, all gay, nothing straight
You have to be forward to intercept. Exposing
shin, like Arabian god, unpadded to face 
unpredictable elements. Sunday was a lady.
I missed her on the open common in Goodwill.

Details | Francis Brown Poem

Crab Fest

The nights I sleep are the nights I stopped 
dreaming, so I stayed up and watched him.
His lips fluttering to get rid of nuisances 
from his lungs. I prayed for him and prayed
he'll appreciate me telling him to rinse mouth 
after Crab Fest. He stirred, reached for me,
he cracked a nut, went back to sleep,
and I remember saying, "God help our son."

Details | Francis Brown Poem

A Different Kind of Plague

Someday, today will be the stranger whose children's 
gifts are sold on black markets more than smartphones, 
but this is just like the chance of seeing wolves using
bone-sharpened teeth for the betterment of Monrovia. 
This reminds me of a power outage; blown pole pig,
nothing to seduce fire from the prime circuits, & the streets
are dark and benighted. This is the kind of $h1# that
caused me to lose sleep; when a slug crawls in 
the middle of town, it burns every eye that sees it,
every small window suffers from the cataract, clouding,
from heaven, because the earth wouldn't do this injustice;
this judgment is otherworldly. I believe the latter rain
will wash away the first, the dust on things that
cover the loss. Think about the outcome, if there's any.
But if the rain continues to dilute the curse of the sea,
imagine what changes will affect the taste of the fish.
The length it takes makes me wonder, we must be 
Egypt in the act; the plague did not Passover. Is
there a Proverb for this? I've heard the Psalm of
Lamentation, the squeaking of the slothful ships
that carried the Exodus with the senseless cry for
repatriation because we were taken to a promised
land, but it was never promised to us. Still not now.

Details | Francis Brown Poem

When Things Eaten Eats Us

They told us to dream, 
but there is this brand of dream
that is hard to imagine ... So, I'm picturing ... 
and in this will-o'-the-wisp, I become 
Desmodus Rotundus,  
Vampiro en el grottos; 
a travel pig for the mattock
pruning the roots of the people.
First off, I  did not open up like eateries 
... but I've watched senseless thoughts 
eating what they should never eat, 
rubbing their bellies to go home and discontinue,
but this was just the first wave.
At nightfalls, I scour the darkness
in the forbidden of Wuhan, sucking everything disagreeable. 
I am saturated with wicked warranties, 
nothing outrageously seducing, but brutally illogical.
I was horrified when society looked me dead in the eyes
before bringing down the meat cleavers.
They display me as Paniki to plan their murders,
they open up and invite me in, flesh into flesh ... 
and flesh to flesh I swear to share
what I've buried in me as disasters. 
There are souls more neighborly, 
I hid what I portioned quiescent in their organs.
Only a mucous analysis notices it ... waiting ...
to strangulate the defenseless.
Life is brittle; it often falls and smashes the big noise.

Details | Francis Brown Poem

How I Remember Maine

a vulgar morning
          unveiling the naked fragrance of sun-burnt dog turds.
It came to me,
          played tunes on the cords in my nostrils
until my left eye caught them hiding
          by the roots of loblolly pines. 
The poor trees, their trunks still wet where about two
          bladders were emptied at daybreak.
The turds, seared like good scallops, made me think
          of Bangor and Lewiston;
I saw a big woman beat two conches to make a salad.
          I am no ordinary man; 
twenty heads of cows made me think of a fleet of oilers & tankers.
          I saw a Jew in a shtreimel,
I thought of Presque Isle where the sun stayed in my hair
          except at night when the earth turned away.

Details | Francis Brown Poem

Vote and Remove Our Ego

I am a woman in a man's world drinking milk to prepare a mustache.
The struggle to survive is disobedience.

In my garden, behind the weeds, there is a String of Pearls and the skulls we found on ice on Mount Everest, their genealogy goes back to Eden.

My job called for me to take two shampoos, two rinses, but since the plague, I walked past the gallows where time is being killed.

It is laborious, but I did it with one bath, petition, & Lamentation.

It feels as if I'm here too long. I've LIVED to see the unlikely, a peach-faced commander-in-chief who makes me think about the Indians ...

painted for war, but ...

where is his war? Who he is is unveiled in the foreskin of his eyes. By this, I know I'm here too long; I'm in a kitchen licking heaven from bay leaves.

I can tell he is uncircumcised, a Philistine, his palms do tell the circumference of his manhood. Money does not give birth to men.

I've heard him; Go crucify yourself to save my ego. When men need milk, you should hire a women to slap COV-19 back to vampire bats in China

... and sealed the caves

before the 'second wave' smashes into the puddles of people in Wuhan, Tehran, Gilan, New York, New Jersey, Catalonia, Madrid, Lombardy,

... & other known places

The voice from Washington, the banknote is not real. We do not have to panic but we must be righteous. That's the only way they'll see ...

the diagnosis of what is right within us.

I have a gut feeling that people are harmful to their stomachs. From all the gators, frogs, snails, dogs, and creepy crawlers we have eaten ...

we are coming to our conclusion.

Women can do many things. We just need space for the surgery; the decapitation of ego. Don't tell us we can't do it; we can remove the tumor

... Lorena Gallo in Manassas.

I say this because there's a John in the Whitehouse.

Details | Francis Brown Poem

Coupled

When tears soaked pain in pity
and forced man and God from Junction City
They prayed he'll come again
when the whites melt
forcing $hi# and sticks
down the hungry storm drains
Can ladies be gentle, man?
What if he's a gentleman;
a saint of undeniable piety?
Will she walk the desirable side
or otherwise, be lost in hidden cares
life spoke of a worthy deity
with a good man at his right?
Man and wife will have no fear
when minds are well aware of his delights
What is the place where we are at
where fingers tell who's at fault?
A nurse is inside every house,
every wound is packed with salt
with all corrosions seeping out
Curses are filled with excerpts
from newspapers and vlogs
Her youthful mouth beneath
blue eyes filled with  blood and bogs
would say "Fake news is for feral dogs,
we are in a tamer time"
People have baggages;
two honeymoons and domestic fervor
Muy Leal, they ate mofongos
elsewhere, it was fracas in placentas
This is where they now lie together,
living on and off like FM radios

Details | Francis Brown Poem

Something About Bars

In the After Hour, afterlife, away from
borough and a woman. I bellied barstools 
for balance, contemplating the ensuing draft;
Rumpkin, to be exact. The taste of nutmeg
calling forward a wayward heart, swimming
like Lochte, trying hard, to remember the truth
of mama's porridge in Dutchpots.
I'm still not steady writing these lines.
The mischief of barreled ale brings a flat,
and I'm happy for that, because
a percentage of today's people
are way too high, above bigger successes,
then collapse before my organs sang,
annoyed at my choosing, the likes I hate. 
Still, there are many spirits below me,
small people, smaller without their flesh,
the worms took eyes they cannot use,
and someone said, "Taste Mezcal,"
but how could I,  after knowing 
what scientists did not reveal; 
there's a worm in it. From this place,
my understanding will travel by uber
on a bridge over the slope of a small hill,
under a quick tunnel to a shelter
where sleep and resurrection is revenge
From my head, in lengths, you can see defeat, 
embodied in a notable woman, flare nails,
hair; Brazilian. Her bed hosts a man,
sleeping, still tied to a post, David's Psalms
over his wasted body, Psalm 23. She sits there.
the sacred letters written on dead goatskin
could not come alive for any of us,
and suddenly I know why David slew Goliath;
he was ignoring his poetry, devotedly