The gathering of dead wood - driven, pinched in faces between the strain of Van Gogh's setting - had all the more realism hastening down that leaden street. ...
As I watch the clouds assemble, steam-ship fashion, with funnels to alert passersby, I realize the Romanovs tore silk & riches from every bazaar leaving the bright spot of this evening studded with emerald marks....
In slow sutures of pale white - dabbed in growing spume & mud dried earth, a glowworm is obliterated by warm, soft light coming up to elbow particles of near dappled clay...
"Corn's high this year," chirped the old woman, almost with a cackle. "All's the better for them to hide in," the old woman was continuing, her face a brazen mixture of distain and contempt. ...
And I, cooing in my saddle, with lost time. His weapons and horses the finest. Beloved of God, engendered fiercely for the occasion - with pin stripes and a drinking vessel of the most expert silver....
The colouring of spacious flowers rove delicious to the eye. The road above the harbour fickle, carousing in its tendency to pull too gray by sky enamelled water....
Sun on the eiderdown breaks tiny corners off the bedspread, declares green plants its bidding before summoning Fragonard's maiden off her swing - so richly dressed in picture from the sunlit wall. ...
For my part, I spied red berries on a currant bush lush in August; the canopy of leaves a nesting place for hornets clocking one hundred in & out of their ice-castle hive....
Like a wail in the back of an inflammed throat came that protracted noise once again. Interminably, the rhythmic pitch of pounding grew louder as if several loose stones had swished themselves against the larger cylinder of his...
Everyone is a poet, or so the philosopher said. The world teems with poetry in much the sense the universe teems with life. A poet or two is squirrelled away in every major office....
I borrow De Quincey's Confessions of an Opium Eater, the aforementioned an account of that singular Oriental vice, whereupon misplacing the volume in transit from the checkpoint, I attempt...
People with money but no fortune or stomach for the life of an albatross, watch him soar on self-made wings, fetch the dingy redness of morning's first catch with a long necked bottle...
Bertrand had been surprised by the recoil of his father's rifle. He had not prepared for the sight of the weasel pasted against the barn door, a dozen pellets alone penetrating its upper neck and mid-thorax region. A mass of bl...
"He was always the one to figure things," remarked Humboldt. "Always the smart ass type, big jawed lazy bones - couldn't make a good farmer out of that sort. Didn't want to do much of anything 'cept run. All his money went on h...
...The poetry is fine... rewarding reading... Almost every poem in Sympathetic Magic boasts an admirable image or two. Brown can write, without a doubt.