THIS IS THE STRANGEST SKY

by Michael H. Brownstein

so blue it highlights her eyes,
the white sun,
and grass in dire need of drink
This was the year winter did not come
and summer arrived before spring,
strong green and full of itself.
We cut the lawn for the first time in March,
watched a frenzy of honeybees in April
and harvested our first wild strawberries soon after.
By the time May arrived,
we had gone swimming in the pond outback,
the municipal swimming pool had opened,
and the first heat violence churned through the park.
The rivers of mud cracked,
its bank's knee dropped into crumbs
and the worst part of all of this was the lack of any comforting breeze.
We sat on the swinging chair in the shade of the porch
and waited for an east wind.

AFTER CATCHING A DOZEN ESCAPEES FROM THE CAMP BEYOND THE HILL

by Michael H. Brownstein

We will never remember
the loose thread near the fence is not a thread.
nor is it hair, a part of a plant,
remnants of a spider’s web.
Look closely.
Skin.
Flayed skin.
Thinly sliced.
Caught in the thorny brush near barbed wire.
We will never remember
Morning—it's still there,
changed,
stretched,
spelling out לקוות, rajaynaynaa, հույս, vam thiab cia siab,  U du gi gv di
(hope)—
and the guards do not notice—
but we do on our way to our details
and it makes us strong.
We will never remember
How to escape,
in twos and threes,
once in a larger group of five,
All the stupid men
We are today
Still following orders
never catching on.
We will never remember
All of the camps,
And fighting back.

A PLAN AND A REPAIR

by Michael H. Brownstein

Tomorrow we swim upstream with the fresh water dolphins,
every tributary green with brown leaf, reed, tree frog silk.
Near the glades of baritones and subtleties,
the staircase of demons, the vines of simplicity.
There is no shades youth here, no faded youth, the hush
of Puritan and work ethic.

But today ice and blue light, a shape to wind, a thick glove of cold,
slush and gloom--a cleansing of litter and blood,
the silence too loud to hear. An Alzheimer's moment
and the pink thread of mist frays into light,
the sky sun ached blue-white, full of calories
and miscalculations.

HOW BEER WAS DISCOVERED: THE TRUE MYTHOLOGY

by Michael H. Brownstein

Pandora of Nubia, near the ivory trade route,
took possession of a grand ebony chest,
watched it with the eyes of a cheetah.

Somewhere within its thick walls
a secret stayed itself, and she could hear it,
now and then bumping into things.

She ignored it at first, or tried,
made promises to herself she knew she couldn't keep,
touched the wood with her palm,

played with the flimsy lock of grass and twig,
found herself admiring the grain with her fingertips.
Too much cat, the Shaman knew this to be true,

and bided her time from her grass covered home
overlooking the village near the great river.
There was something in the chest too great for her,

but not too great for Pandora with braided dark hair,
full lips and perfect skin—almost ebony black.
She was right, of course. Pandora was curious,

and it was curiosity that made her play with the lock,
break it open with an ah ha and a smile.
She opened the chest later that day,

let escape the demons the Shaman knew were inside,
thick fogs of madness and bitterness,
jealousy and selfishness, greed and contempt.

Pandora allowed them to sting her.
their noise intolerant and vulgar,
and then she peered into the shadow of the chest,

saw a round object corked and scented,
and pulled out a painted gourd
a vessel full of rich golden water,

a liquid with a smell she could not remember.
She drank from it.
It made her happy.

The painful stings left her skin,
she felt whole,
calm, able to see into her dreams.

Hope did not come with a fairy.
Hope came with Pandora’s gourd of beer—
a magic beer too easy to replicate.

The shaman went on to greatness,
made the best varieties,
and the people lined up to drink it.

Pandora kept the gourd in her home,
shared its contents with everyone,
especially those who wanted her to tell her story.

And then the Greeks came.

ANGEL IN THE DOORWAY

by Michael H. Brownstein

From the doorway an angel in red
a fire of love, an entrance to hope.
All who enter here do not burn.

She stands behind the door
peering out, looks past the trees,
winter and her grass remains green.

How can this angel be sad?
I watch her from my window
and do not understand.

Wait a moment with me, please.
I have to tell her something.
I have to tell her she is loved.

SNOW

by Michael H. Brownstein

The soft lust of snow,
White imprints against the trees,
Diamond juice, clean, responsible,
And when the great melt comes,
We lean here against the rain,
A grand mist gathering into us
Like breath, like yellow light
At the corner, each tick
Another stream to the sea,
Flickers of color in fields of cloud.

ADDICTION AND THOUGHT

by Michael H. Brownstein

 

She massages my hands and lets me put things in my mouth

Her skin clear weather, eyes blood sucker brown, hair huckleberry opium.

Everyone needs someone they can brag to safe and strong, selfish and encouraging

As if hazardous waste can spread that thin

Or a sunset can be that spectacular through polluted haze.

Light fills a space like heat over paths of weed and wood

And she, a shadow in deadfall moving, the moon on the wake left behind,

And sometimes from a lack of doing nothing, she is the sun.

APOLLO’S GIFT

by Michael H. Brownstein

 

My dear Cassandra, I must punish you. From this day on you will only speak the truth, but no one will ever believe you.

—Apollo to Cassandra after she broke one precept or another

 

My name is Cassandra,

But you believe me to be someone else,

And, yes, I am a woman.

Listen! My eyes are green,

My hair is black,

Greeks do hide in the belly of the horse.

I live here, behind that wall,

My bedding, that corner.

I need not latch my door

Nor do I need clothing during sleep.

Legs gapped open, I wait for you.

Always.

WHAT IS THIS TEAR IN THE UNDERBELLY?

by Michael H. Brownstein

The world never stops filling itself with itself
and we can never stop dipping our senses into its well,
a wish for rain slips through the congregation,
a Mongolian chant, the sudden hum of the bowl of the monks,
things break and things get broken.

—Fifteen questions for the Socratic notion

conveyor belt madness?
a sampling of turbulence?
people of the pandemic,
blood work and the end of days?
the list of the ancient sequoia?
a tomahawk road? sage advice?
smoke and a pinch of anger?
bankrupt cities of sex?
values in sound? timbres in light?
an erosion of teeth? organic man?
a shake-down of hands?
the dark stain of cloud and
a thin stream heavy with water
the lost trial of  the ruins?

I NO LONGER KNOW THE QUESTION

by Michael H. Brownstein

One by one the cliff erodes,
ice bores deeper,
words stop making sense:
abyss, crucify, alliteration—

passion comes in through fog.
Who claims we must remember?
Skin always knows pain.
fingertips happiness, feet satisfaction.

THE LAST SURVIVOR OF THE CIVIL RIGHTS WAR, JEFFERSON CITY, MISSOURI, 2011--in memory of Rachid Rashad, died 10/20/2011

by Michael H. Brownstein

He would wake to the stains of battle
and we would hear the angry cries too,
huge bolts of thunder within electricity,
the tearing of clothes from poverty’s children.
He liked listening to the gallop of rain,
defending the injured, helping the betrayed.
He did not own a slave name.

You cannot tear down the Wall of Racism
ten bricks thick with only a hammer.
Once he got a hold of Casey Jones’ tools
and his work went easy until the powers
that be stripped him of almost everything he had.
He returned to his hammer beginning where he left off.
He did not own a slave name.

In his last year he read the political poems of Langston Hughes,
the Kerner Report about the riots of the sixties,
every alternative newspaper he could find to discover truth,
and he wrote letters to the editor of the News-Tribune.

Remember him as a veteran of the Korean War,
remember him organizing others with Saul Alinsky.
remember him for his petitions on fair play and equal rights,
remember him for how he shared his knowledge openly.

He did not own a slave name.

Remember him...

AT LAST THE DICTATOR TRIES TO EXPLAIN THE TRUTH

by Michael H. Brownstein

The simple lies so easy not to tell,
One hell of ice.
A Hall of Fame for those not nice,
The predator of life.

One cannot hold a flame bare in their hands,
But one can help blisters grow
And lick their bloody scabs raw.
I know.

On the table near the thumbs and eyes,
Fresh pressed buttons, six stenciled lies,
A brand new card, someone’s nose.
The truth is new, a crippled pose.

SID YIDDISH EXPLAINS AMERICA

by Michael H. Brownstein

We are a nation of talk show hosts, Sid Yiddish says
putting on his mask, his exuberant shiny white shroud, his fishing cap
before he comes to the stage to talk about throat singing,
washboards, the way faraway looks when you're in Denmark
hopefully, the Netherlands perhaps, even India, but no longer here
where intellectual companionship is a leaf floating from one great lake to another.

WHY I AM BOYCOTTING MONSANTO AND DOW CHEMICALMy Field, Corporate Greed, Monsanto and Dow Chemical

--for the Vietnamese people and the American Viet Nam Veterans
www.projectagentorange.com
by Michael H. Brownstein

When I gather my strength and walk down a row
into my field where nothing can grow
(except concrete and gravel and a few hardy weeds),
I bend in surprise to find a half dozen seeds.

I pick them up gently and find them each a pot,
nurture them carefully hoping to fill the empty spots,
but my field has too many due to chemical scorch
and my field has too many because of war’s torch.

Earth tries to heal, but it cannot succeed,
the topsoil it makes is topsoil that bleeds,
and dead space creates dead space, everything dust,
my field, my people, dying slowly, land into rust.

YOUR FACE QUIETS

by Michael H. Brownstein

to the soft end
of a question mark,
your cheeks,
thick and salty,
the ember
of your skin.

HOW DO YOU GO SOMEPLACE WITH NOTHING?

by Michael H. Brownstein

How do you go someplace with nothing?
We have different memories, you and I,
entering the room of other thought,
a rude space strong as dripping water,
a lapse of memory, a lasting envy,
whatever this is sitting next to me
cursing into the yellow darkness.

I never lose sight of responsibility.

On the train platform of predators,
I do as the wolves taught me—
stare into them until they leave me go.
But none of this has any real importance.
Twice I lost my way. This is what is important.
Once in the snowfields, Northern Montana
and again in the bogs, Southern Wisconsin.
Last night I felt my place slip again.
Where do you think you are going?

HIKING TO GOOSE LAKE

by Michael H. Brownstein

threads of grass
thin as hair,
breath thick with light,
a path, stone,
one dark green river
silk weed and thorn.

light snuggles into the green,
rough hewn and knotted,
thick and crusted,
the softness of color,
the threadbare,
threads of grass.

THE COLOR OF DUSK AT THE EDGE OF A FIELD

by Michael H. Brownstein

Carnival's dusty
oranges' yellow fading fast
bedrock, salt and water,
a snag among trees,
a tree among snags,
the wind pouring swiftly,
rain blowing past.

Cloud storms ending,
thunder could not last,
bedrock, salt and water,
torn roots in the water,
a water of torn roots,
wind mist and drizzle,
rain whimpers past.

Mud of evening,
orange yellow's shadow cast,
bedrock, salt and water,
fallen leaves with branches,
branches with fallen leaves,
the wind tired sore,
rain passed.

The Trees of Winter’s Grace

by Michael H. Brownstein

Introduction:

The Sacred Trees—oak, willow, ash, date palm, wild plum
The Trees of Prosperity—holly, box, ivy, bay, laurel, conifers, oak
The Druid and Christian Tree—evergreen, oak

1.

Snow is always cause for courage,
and love,
a need to pray, forgiveness,
wamth.

2.

It was then the small boy came knocking,
the wind a blizzard of disease and frostbite,
and the old couple opened their home to him,
offered him from the little they had,
hot apple cider, a stew of potato, warmed flour.
They gave him the warmest place in the house
and covered him with extra blankets they themselves used.
In the morning, he was gone and they had slept through
the snow drifting in piles covering their door.
He left no tracks, he took nothing with him,
but when the sun came out and the day’s frost began to ease,
they saw the beginnings of a grand tree,
its leaves pointing to heaven, its branches laden with fruit.

2.

Years later the child now a man found himself
in the Germanic forests near a town buried in snow.
He saw the people kneeling before a great oak
and he knew it offered support for the spirit,
but little for the belly or the pregnant.
He chopped it down when the people slept
and when he began to cut it into firewood,
they woke frightened and enraged.
He stood his ground, raised one hand
to where the tree had been, pointed with the other
to show them what was to become
and the people watched as the ground moved
and a fir came from the seeds of snow and earth,
its branches laden with gifts of greenery,
food, fruit, nuts, and roasting meats.

He married a year later, a princess of Viking strength,
a woman who held a staff larger than a tall man
and liked to color the long nights with stars and rainbows,
fruits and fresh bread, venison and anything green.
Together they wandered the Northlands
bringing song and trees that remained ever green
even during the dark of the winter
when the sun slid beyond the ice for its long sleep.

3.

The Arabians chronicled his adventures later in life
after the Qur'an, after the solistice of the Druids,
after the closing of the Germanic book on Winter’s Magik,
after the last celebration of the Roman festival Kalends.
It was told by many who claim they saw it with their own eyes
how one winter when famine had struck the land
and water had dried up, great snows came from the north
burying everything and the people were not prepared.
Then a man with a beautiful wife walked among them.
They stopped in the center of the village,
blew into the night, and the wind stopped,
the snow cleared and suddenly trees were everywhere,
great laurels and firs, bay and ivy, their leaves strong,
their scent the perfume of warming and good health.
They say winter was hard that year, the hardest in history,
but that morning the people found clothing for the weather,
supplies of dead dry wood at each tree’s trunk
and enough food to last until the coming of summer..
Snow never fell again in that region, but when that snow melted
great wells formed across the land. The trees
shriveled in the heat, petrified into sand and stone,
formed shapes to hold clear water,
and the shadows of the two people are still there
imprinted in the shadow of sand dunes,
carved into rocks holding clean water,
etched into the bark of the sacred date trees.


Poet's notes:

This poem couild never have been composed without the help of THE CHRISTMAS TREE by Barbara Segall which gave me insights and knowledge into how The Tree of the 12 Days of Christmas came to be.

Additional info can be found in the Mystery Play, the chronicles of George Jakob and the tale of Wynfrith of Crediton.

I LIE ABOUT EATING

by Michael H. Brownstein

I lie about eating.
My wife says,
Don’t eat that,
that’s not good for you,
you’ve had enough.
She asks,
What are you eating now?
Didn’t I ask you to stop?
and my mouth is full
or I just then took a large swallow
or grand food stains are on my face
and I tell her—
sometimes still chewing—
I’m not eating,
I haven’t touched a thing,
I’m just smelling
or something like that
because the only time I lie
is when I’m lying about food.