The poems here have been written between the years 1986 and 2005. The earliest poems were written when I was around 14 years old.

The poems are arranged chronologically, roughly speaking. The exact dates listed on the poems may be estimates, or yet to be pinned down.

My opinion of my poetry shifts around over time, but some of my current favorites are:

And I do have a few lasting favorites. Here are two:

You can find my other poems by going forward or backward through the entries, using the links to previous and next poems on each poem’s page. (You could start at the beginning, or the end, or somewhere in the middle if you like.)

If you’d like to publish or use one or more of my poems, please feel free to contact me.

Thanks for your visit.

-Lance Brown

And that steam
would later be captured
In the thin mist of
Nervous perspiration
On the brow of
A young lover
As he approaches the door of
She whom he most desires

And never conquered-
No–
Never conquered
Not the steam
Nor the drop
Nor the noonday sun
None of these,
Or the armies that follow
can defeat
the dream of a love
Untarnished

And that is not to say
That there had been no attempt
At tarnishment
That is not to say
That there had been no
Challengers
That is not to say that
There had been no battle,
Then triumph, then battle again,
Then defeat, then triumph
And more battle
No!
No!
There were all those things
And more
In the young lover’s heart
as he reached the door
And he mopped at the mist
that gathered on his brow
As he anticipated
the evening, and the morrow

And why would a dewdrop
transformed into the bead of a young lover’s anticipation
And all the unknown battles that were fought to produce it
Why would these, together
with the young lover himself,
and his lover as well
ever confess
To being a lowly poem
or worse– mere players within?

A proper poem would never
Pull off that mask
It would never
Answer that question (or another)
A proper poem
would not step right up
and introduce itself
It would not look you in the eye
And profess its true nature

Proper poems are more sly than that
They make me jealous
Sneaky bastards.

(Written 11-13-04)

Is a bird fascinated
By the view it enjoys
Or no more than we are
By the sidewalk?
Do miniscule pieces
Of colored dust
Feel a sense of community
As chalk?

When a star catches light
From a billion other stars
Does it sense that it’s surrounded by peers?
When a newborn fly
Feels tiny and afraid
Does it know that we all share its fears?

And that morning
I resisted waking up
Kept wanting to stay in that dream
Partly
Because I wanted to unlock the
Mystery of the subconscious message
that it had for me
Partly
To stay snuggled in the comfort
The safe universe
That dreams can supply
Partly because
I didn’t really get a chance
To talk to my friends
And I’m not sure if I
Apologized sufficiently
To the woman in the wheelchair

But mostly
I wanted to go back
And back
And back again
Just to see
How the dream
Was going to end

If questions were answers
I’d ask them all day

And that’s when I developed a connection
To San Pedro
A connection that lasts to this day
And will almost certainly last all my life
And I still don’t know if San Pedro is even a place
If it is
It’s a place I’ve never been

Every moment
A unique perspective
Every moment
Never to be seen again

Thanks to the trees
That tree
This tree
Those two trees
These three trees
That tree there

They truly triumph
Those trees
Towering timelessly
Titans

Roadkill
That’s what most of us think
Nothing beyond that

We certainly don’t think of the worry
Of a mother who waits at home
Not knowing
Perhaps never knowing
That she is now a widow