Colours

Green is the carpet that covers the hill
White is the sheep who is eating his fill,
Blue is the curtain that hangs overhead
Black is the darkness that's better not said.

Purple is kingly and rightly should be
Brown is the earth as it holds you and me,
Yellow is summer and warm like the sun
Red at the end of the day when it's done.

Grey is a bleak day and filled with the rain
Always uncertain and so to remain,
Silver is quickly, and costly is gold,
But lovely are poems
When once they are told.

Written Feb 1994

poem by John Carter Brown
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Living So Close

I think these people must be mad
In row after row and en bloc;
Living so closely together
As starlings, in one seething flock.

I hear that noisy Lab' next door
And the other, next door but one;
If things were up to me, I know
That both would soon be gone.

These people must be crazy
Putting up with all that din;
If push should come to shove
I wonder just which one would win?

How do they sleep in their beds at night?
Their heads must be all of a fog;
Living so close to the enemy, but,
What do I know - I'm only a dog!

poem by John Carter Brown
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You've Got To

You've got to leave something
Behind when you go,
No matter how large
Or how small;
A lasting memento
Of who you once were
For family and friends to recall.

It's good to be making
A mark in this world,
Like creating from naught
Something new;
But don't leave it until
It's too late, or my friend
I know for a fact you will rue.

You may think you're happy
Just pleasing yourself,
Doing nothing but
Having a ball...

[...] Read more

poem by John Carter Brown
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The Ordinary Man In The Street

Who is this strange creation -
'The ordinary man in the street'
How best can we describe him,
What say us if we meet?
He is but pure invention,
A meaningless disguise,
A bafflement, a camouflage
I do not recognise.

You can't reduce a person
Of any sex or race
To such a mundane sentence,
A being, without face;
We can't be averaged out so
It simply doesn't hold,
We'll not be departmentalised
Or do as we are told.

So listen to our heartbeats,
Remove us from your plan,

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poem by John Carter Brown
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I wonder why

I wonder why you love me
When I'm feeling blue
I always try, but baby
What can I do
If you should go
I don't know what I will do -
I wonder why
I wonder why
I wonder why.

I wonder why I say
The things that I say
I just can't help myself
From feeling this way
Looks like new leaves will need
To be turned today -
I wonder why
I wonder why
I wonder why.

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poem by John Carter Brown
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What You Say

You say you'll be with me
Come even the end;
You say you will always be
Always my friend;
You say that we two
All through time have to spend
Togetherness...
That's what you say.

You say we are one
Even though we're a pair;
You say that you understand
Always, and care;
You say that we one
Made a bond that we'll share
Togetherness...
That's what you say.

You say in your hope
That you never will bend;

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poem by John Carter Brown
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A Poem Lost

As I lay in my bed, unable to sleep
I composed a good poem I wanted to keep;
It kept going round and around in my head
(I should have been bothered to write it all down)
But decided, by rote, to remember instead.

Once honed, I repeated, lest I should forget
It felt so secure in my mind there, and yet
Time and again I have made this mistake
I should have got up, or at least stayed awake.

In spite of persisting I was not receiving
No matter my anger, there was no retrieving
And so, after all, I now know to my cost
This delicate whisper,
This poem, is lost.

poem by John Carter Brown
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Mirrors

Take all of the mirrors,
Please take them away,
I don't want to see my face today;
It gives me the jitters
Because there's no way
Of keeping these horrible wrinkles at bay.

Of course, I'm aware
That it isn't just me
Who's face is now craggy and lined as can be;
But still I'm despondent,
And as you can see
Addicted, like most, to my own vanity.

But - back to the mirrors,
Please take them away,
I don't want to stand here and mope all the day;
But hold, what is this
In the glass? something smacks
Of jiggery-pokery, those are just cracks!

[...] Read more

poem by John Carter Brown
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Free Verse or Prose

Sadly, to me
This thing they call Prose
Is naught but just talk,
And often verbose;
I think it's too easy
And honestly, I'm
Just wanting to say
I much prefer rhyme.

And almost the same is the
Form called Free Verse,
It isn't for me, I'm not keen,
And what's worse:
Explaining the differences
Should be a breeze,
But even amongst the 'experts'
No one agrees.

Now I'm no academic
But I won't be fooled

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poem by John Carter Brown
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If Only

If only I could write such words
As men whose hearts and minds were full
Of life's great prize,
Oh but alas, my eyes
Have been pulled o'er with wool.

If only I could see as they,
And feel the freshness of the breeze;
And soar and fly
Oh but alas, I
Cannot see the wood for trees.

If only I could plainly pour out
From my soul, what there exists;
Write, and be free
But no, you see
A veil is drawn just like a mist.

If only I could break the chains
And then unlock the heavy door;

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poem by John Carter Brown
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