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Brian Bronson Poem
Words will sour
in your lust
for power,
it is these
deeds
that come.
Prayer is lush,
it makes
one cower
but pure
is the cure
that scours.
I fend off
these baleful insults
which tumult
through my brave
innocence.
The flower
of the flesh
is stretched
into power.
I oft come
here
and smell
the daisies
by the lake,
where bones so
fresh
waste away
in your wake.
Copyright © Brian Bronson | Year Posted 2022
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Brian Bronson Poem
The sun lights up the air at dawn,
and crystal lutes play the tune.
We wonder whatever went wrong
as we choke on funeral fumes.
They leave it in the air tonight,
packed in slowly a tempest fright.
The fever spills upon the sand
as armies march across the land.
We play in time, the world cries,
out amongst the things that die.
The cinders come and draw us nigh
as we figure upon the lie.
To restrain the number called
while ladies dance inside the hall.
They look so lovely at the ball
just before the maddening fall.
Copyright © Brian Bronson | Year Posted 2025
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Brian Bronson Poem
I am as constant as the stars.
From your soul I shall never depart.
The fever grips her in large part
in the phase of popular charts.
For you I am forever in debt
about the things you never said.
Issue warnings of winter’s dread.
To see you is my one regret.
She bathes inside the plastic jar,
taking the joke much too far.
It pleases me to see you again.
In the summer the river runs red.
Believe me now for I have lied.
A thousand stars could never hide.
The last of us have been despoiled.
A hundred years we shall ever toil.
Copyright © Brian Bronson | Year Posted 2025
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Details |
Brian Bronson Poem
Looking at the miracle
is the sound of something lyrical.
Holding fast and listening still
to the sound of nature’s will.
The frame is full of written sights
that forever speak of blight.
You listen close and are certain still
that your opinion is always right.
I wish that I had a river filled
with all the sanctimonious trill
one swallows like a bitter pill
like nothing that a conscience kills.
So, look to your rumors now
while the oars fill the prow
and find the gold upon the mound
of the once forsaken crown.
Copyright © Brian Bronson | Year Posted 2025
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