Patty Brown

Sign in

in times like these

i ask

are you there

behind the clouds

looking down

on us

the world feels all alone

as if it is spinning

in the universe

out of control

i saw the slaughtered dolphins today

weeping in the sea

bloody red

i had to look away

yesterday i saw a mantis on the fence

praying on a post

under changing leaves

in the warm morning sun

but only one

i saw angry people at the store

later in the afternoon

i opened the door for them

enraged they passed me

they obviously left their heart

somewhere in…

i love you

the words sound concise and true

but what about when i’m feeling blue

can you remain true to the words

when my soul is feeling low

the languishing sinking

feeling of sad

will you grow tired of me

weary of me

in that passive aggressive way

or will you sit with me

and forever stay

be a carpenter

for my soul and bones

mending me

building a better foundation

of trust

for me

for us

maybe you would rather

i fake happy

a fabrication that everything

is always perfectly okay

in lieu of allowing melancholy

to simmer…

Until recently, I didn’t give much thought to my breasts. I knew they were there, but they were not on my mind. I felt lucky I could go braless in a tee shirt, and that I can still somewhat wear a bikini. My girls are perky and never flop around going up and down stairs or getting tangled up in yoga poses where I can’t breathe. So as far as I knew, all was going well, except for the fact that I hadn’t had a mammogram in ten years.

I changed doctors recently, and my new one, a woman, insisted…

the passage of time

a walden kind of pond

sits nestled in the trees

the dock sits empty

a kayak is idle by the shore

the paths are narrowing

the rose of sharon

in full bloom

the spruce so tall

the dogwoods with berries

the leaves almost red

the world is changing hues

the lives who’ve grown old here

their secrets

sway in the pines

once all was new

now weather worn

the wind

the rain

the love

the pain

a line here

a line there

sprinkles of slightly gray hair

love is felt everywhere

they are a part of…

it is september eleven

that day that i remember

almost everything

the surreal-ness of it all

the slow motion reel of hate

and deep deep love

the smoke

the ashes

the fear

the people

the lives

the people running in

the people running out

blank faces

fear and doubt

in a race against time

and time has passed

and all that we once felt

clinging to our screen

as we played it out

we now have nothing left

to talk about

we bicker among ourselves

about trivial stuff

we are worshipping

all the doom players

the home wreckers

the narcissist…

and when you sit in an empty room

all alone with yourself

a sink

a chair

the wallpaper aged and stark

and you feel that your luck

might have just run out

you understand

what time means

and how many days



that are maybe left

perhaps you have to fear a bit

the wasted days

the slow minutes

the short hours

and how you don’t use them

as the sand silently

slips through your hands

the longing to keep your heart


on the good side of life

no regrets

because one day

in that empty room


Abortion is a topic that creates a great abyss between people. It is looked at as either “a bigger love” by some people or, surprisingly, as “murder” by others. I think the topic has left us standing on one side of a fence without a gate, without ever stopping to consider what creates a world where abortion is rarely considered or maybe not even necessary. Why do we not first solve these root problems instead of focusing on the divisive debate of abortion? What problem will abortion bans really solve, and how many problems will be created? …

You get a strange feeling when you’re about to leave a place, I told him, like you’ll not only miss the people you love but you’ll miss the person you are now at this time and this place, because you’ll never be this way ever again. — Azar Nafisi

This is the last Labor Day in which I will wake up in my hometown. All of my life, Shelby was a place I could return to. Soon I will drive away, my parents gone, my life a memory, and oh the wonderful memories that I keep. So much of who…

i am not here to stroke

your flame

to claim you do no wrong

to pretend the kindling

is always warm

and kindly hesitate to use a match

when rubbing stones

as you say

always worked before

but not on this day

the words are so worn

my heart tired and forlorn

there is a better way

and you know this to be true

want and desire

cannot be just about you

the caterpillar in us

cannot be doomed

to one monarch

going from flower to flower

sucking the sweetness dry

when cocoons are waiting

for their transformation

to be…

he saw now that you can’t go home again — not ever. there was no road back. — thomas wolfe

do not ask me to believe

what i can already see

do not ask me to feel

when my awareness

begs my heart

to decipher what is real

do not ask me

to be like you

i have traveled

past many moons

to where i now stand

in this garden of hope

where i might

unfold and bloom

i require no approval from you

i may find you intriguing

but copies lack ingenuity

and are quite deceiving

and so sadly

Patty Brown

If life steers you into a dead end road, and you are trying to find your way, skip the GPS, take the road with no traffic. Founder studiO, early morning poet.

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