"browne" poems
Driving alone in the moonlight
An hour or two before dawn
Jackson Browne on the radio
Big wheels all humming along
Rounding a curve in the highway
I see deer in the road just ahead
The littlest one forgot to run
I hit her and knew she was dead
The body lay still and broken
Soft unseeing eyes open wide
Kneeling I took her up in my arms
And I sobbed, and wept, and I cried
I cried for her broken body
And I wept for her stolen life
I sobbed for all the loves I've lost
Through all the years of my life
Dec 9, 2010
Dec 9, 2010 at 6:04 PM UTC
"These days
I'll sit on corner stones
And count the time in quarter tones to ten, my friend
Don't confront me with my failures
I had not forgotten them"
Jackson Browne
<>
these days,
you can come by tween
the mostly soft warming cracking of Dawn,
and the early born-ing of
the first peek of a full grown
but yet
sleepy sunrise,
you'll find me siting on a
asshard dock,
two seagulls staring at the
human interloper,
alone with the threads in my
hardened head,
beating time in casual rhyme,
because that's what poets do,
to warm up their
tongues & toes,
clear their eyes
and
sniffling nose,
their partly opened,
party closed,
throats, eyes and
give up, sacrifice
the longest list of little lies,
that makes (forces) us to get up in the undimming earlies,
when it's just me, the gulls,
& the minnows poking around,
the fluke,
smarter but not wiser,
further out in deep water,
waiting to be caught
and
the cool blood barely flows,
until the rising orb warms
our fragility,
and we review the stories old,
that make us cold at night promising ourselves that
today you'll do that thing(s)
you've been putting off for years,
"Don't confront me with my failures"
Jackson pleads, but I concede,
thinking tell me them
one
mo' time,
make me unrighteous,
make me whole,
then take me,
holy displayed fully,
and the
first poem of the day,
will be my
confession total,
without reservation
and yet muse on
honor
something I thought I knew,
but needing a
closer examination
it might've been
dishonor
that was what
I was truly
knew
<>
Sunrise
July 5
'25
*sitting on the dock
by the bay,
would I*
lay down with a lie?
Jul 6, 2025
Jul 6, 2025 at 2:52 PM UTC
jackson browne's Late for the Sky is an uncanny song
illuminating the moment right before you split
with someone you love
the latenight time when despite all the swerving
you see the end of the road
the grieving and inevitability
built right into the overtones
i liked it before i had a girlfriend
and when i had one and we built a world together
and broke up
i listened to it and shook my head in recognition
and thought what a good song
Jun 15, 2019
Jun 15, 2019 at 3:00 PM UTC
Call my shadow Sylvia Browne,
play with it like Peter Pan.
Pull it off the floor, and let the darkness
sit in my hands.
Roller coasting retrograde in Saturn's domain.
The moons rays shining backwards on my face.
My heart is bleeding coffee, bitter and strong.
My ego doesn't want to release what's wrong.
Negativity is something that appears to give you pleasure,
but actually gives you pain.
I let the King of Wands **** me raw and ******
until it feels like a mistake.
Hate me so that I can break free.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 9:46 PM UTC
At the bus station
grizzled men eat Milkyways
watching
runaways squeak around
in too-tight jeans
and babies cry to Jackson Browne
while we all read the National Enquirer
and wait.
On the bus mothers shift
bags and kids around in messy piles
the empty wrappers tell stories
while Willie Nelson competes
with static to sing in rhythm
with windshield wipers
and cigarette butts
tally the miles.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
''*Well, I've been out walking
I don't do that much talking these days
These days
These days I seem to think a lot
About the things that I forgot to do for you
And all the times I had the chance to...
These days I'll sit on corner stones
And count the time in quarter tones to ten, my friend
Don't confront me with my failures
I had not forgotten them*"
These days by Jackson Browne
[?]
once again, mess with soulful perfection,
the melancholic mood of music & word
making me aching for the sweet sadness
of loss for when one possessed a curvature of
the smooth straight idyllic perfect love
of friends, family & females,
ascending into crescendo,
then the blood letting of
ego, vanity, incorrect priorities,
the hurrying up to nowhere silly manhood,
and Jackson bemoans
"About the things that I forgot to do for you,"
begging please in a daily prayer,
let me be
confronted with my failures,
my children,
I have not forgotten them,
though, they, I,
nor you,
and you too,
have not forgiven me,
nor I,
myself
*and all that is left
is counting time
in quarter tones,
and even smaller, finer
intervals,
to make my punishment for all my
mistakes, go slower, making my time taking
more grievous painful*…
Aug 28, 2025
Aug 28, 2025 at 10:17 AM UTC
Those days recall less colors
and even less sense
With longer hair like Jackson Browne,
Pensively reeling in half rhymed ballads
walkin’ like Dylan and shredding our voices
like Springsteen.
“walkin’ real loud…”
When poets sang and singers
Listened, from a freight car door
Waiting on an old white fence
Anything that made an album cover.
My crew was meticulously unkempt,
one day shy of a much needed shampoo
but okay -
we were just 'okay' then.
...Surely for another day.
Our moms were old with
thick rimmed glasses and smoked
and our fathers,
they were smoking men too
wearing two shades of gray
tucked in all the way… around
And around, my dad and I went.
We spoke with twisted lips
Groomed our eyes and looked out
From behind narrow poles
and ***** brick walls
That gave, what we knew of our souls,
This, sorta clandestine refuge.
And our pockets
Were empty, our wallets -
were empty .
Except a beer cap and a phone number,
Scribbled and torn from the corner of
a Houghton Mifflin textbook.
“I’ll call her when I get home.”
Let’s go home.
Sitting on the hood of my Torino
I scanned the streets, smelled the tar
Of our last summers burning.
These girls hugged their diaries to their chest
and we’d gaze
we’d gaze through
Sunlit dust and dandelion fairies
eager to unbutton their secret stories about us,
always about us,
and our eyes made such nimble fingers.
We were outward bound on inward glory...
always thinking about love
hoping on plans that’ll get us "laid" by
a girl who wears daisies in her hair.
Big sweet flowers for the butterflies
Stirring in our stomachs
Fluttering to land softly at the entrance
of her big – sweet - flower.
My generation loved love.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
Ebbo says its time to die
she mix you a slow potion
relish the end game
prodding a reply
Where's your will ?
She ride your pride
call you Mr Browne
tell everybody you smell
If you're lucky maybe
fillet fish at Skegness.
No one wants you anymore
handkerchief sniffle sniffle.
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 1:10 PM UTC
lady stands before an open window
Staring so far away
She can almost feel the southern wind blow
Almost touching her restless day
She turns from her window to me
Sad smile her apology
Sad eyes reaching to the door
Daylight loses to another evening
And still she spares me the word, "Goodbye"
And sits alone beside me fighting her feelings
Struggles to speak, but in the end can only cry
Suddenly it's so hard to find
The sound of the words to speak her troubled mind
So I'm offering these to her as if to be kind
There's a train every day leaving either way
There's a world, you know
There's a way to go
And you'll soon be gone, that's just as well
This is my opening farewell
A child's drawings left there on the table
And a woman's silk lying on the floor
And I would keep them here if I were able
And lock her safe behind this open door
But suddenly it's so clear to me
That I'd asked her to see what she may never see
And now my kind words find their way back to me
There's a train every day leaving either way
There's a world, you know
You got a way's to go
And I'll soon believe, it's just as well
This is my opening farewell
Aug 26, 2023
Aug 26, 2023 at 11:44 PM UTC
Lets hear it for the penniless street beggars:
Tories call them unemployed working ****
Let's hear it for every
****** up woman filtered
in tight cotton lace knickers.
The same lies over and over.
We are... in this together.
The exposure of Gordon Browne coverage
just another political propaganda
twisted by a bunch of crooks
in corporate suits.
The Youth learning to defend
fighting for the futile future.
Students are the enemy
Cameron hero of the hour.
The same lies over and over...
we are really ******* up in this together.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 5:02 PM UTC
“Do you like it like this? Do you like it like that?
Just tell me which way you like it”
Thank you, J.T.
Jim Croce sang it, too.
“No, it doesn't have to be that way.”
Remember the Blow Monkeys?
Jackson Browne
Quoted, saying, “You have to take the trouble,
To try not to be misunderstood.”
Words spoken in the thick
Post-mortem.
Not ever remembered prior to.
Neurons wired to align to emotion
With the perfect elixir of chemical responses
Lining up
Wake up to choosing sensibly
Utilize hidden wisdom
As preventative care leaps to the front of the line.
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 3:50 PM UTC
Imagine no apocalypse
What then?
You Vanish.
That’s it.
Fish will return
land will rise, fall
merlins will take sparrows on
the blackberries.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 1:00 PM UTC
*i know, i should have attempted to collect black sabbath's oeuvre, instead i missed out on master of reality's song solitude, loved that song, learned to play it apart from the solo, and a girl remarked 'i did't know you could play country music', country?! ah, you mean country as in: sleepy hollow haunted woods and wide open fields and remote routes into isolation? ah, well then yes. shame really, but i'm not going to feel ashamed having collected iron maiden and slayer oeuvres (up to a sensible point), but **** me, that song! and thank god i smashed my guitar on the stones, bye bye, you haunted guitar.*
you know, after reading a lot of books,
esp. in your ****** prime and want of party party,
you digest things a lot easier,
mind you, i used to visit my grandparents
in the summer religiously, a perfect environment
to have read major books:
kierkegaard's either / or, bertrand russell's
history of western philosophy,
dostoyevsky's the karamazov brothers,
bolesław prus' the doll,
don quixote, tatarkiewicz's on joy...
i mean mammoth-sized books (by the way,
mammoth is a word derived from estonian,
and they didn't become extinct as far back
as you might think)... but the perfect environment
to read them... and after you've done that,
and enjoyed a few other books in between
you just turn to writing, and reading book
reviews... like today, i sneezed four times
to protect me against the guilt of laughing
reading a book review, rather than the book itself:
death drive - there are no accidents,
a book about celebrities crashing their cars,
fatal car accidents; enlisted examples refer to:
jayne mansfield, albert camus, james dean,
eddie cochran, mike hailwood, mike hawthorn,
marc bolan, tara browne, isadora duncan.
i guess you just forget reading books,
having testified to yourself an adequate cultural
canon being possessed: well, i mean,
imagine going back to the town of your birth
you left aged 8 and spending time with your
grandparents for a month - you have to
make shroud economics in such scenarios.
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 11:59 AM UTC
Book Thief taught me why painting is better than burning (books.)
Hamlet gave me a glimpse of grief, cutting the heart of tragedy with his poisoned rapier, where beads of things red and desperately human trickle forth. He helped me realize my dream of being king- king of nutshells and withered violet petals.
Tris reminds me of myself, and Gatsby, too.
Keegan’s car and Browne’s poems awkwardly sit in the corner; I see them as I walk back and forth down the halls, too busy to pick them up. My mind palace is a hoarder’s nest.
They make me, I paint them over, thick and
bubbly with memories.
Layers upon
layers, now a
sculpture.
What’s me and what’s not?
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 2:49 AM UTC
Doctor my eyes by Jackson Browne.
Mom and child reunion by Paul Simon,
Quiet violence by Arthur Lymon,
Heaven bust be missing an angel by
Tavares
Theme from A Summer Place by the
Percy Faith archestive
Island in the sun by The Sandpipers,
Love power by the Sandpipers,
The horse by Cliff Nobles & Co,
Only the strong survive by Jerry Butler
Moonlight feels right by Starbuck,
Expressway to your heart by the Soul Survivors,
Shotgun by Junior Walker
Afternoon delight by The Strand
Vocal Band
We live in Brooklyn Baby by Roy Ayers
And Dance with
Me by Orleans.
Jun 22, 2018
Jun 22, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
oh, you don't actually think? ha ha! yeah, i aimed at expressing white man's reggae and selling my soul with the title and the oncoming tide of a hurricane!
i could write much
but i feel so exhausted;
the epitome of an epidemic,
esp. one that isn't stressed;
well then alice,
you're ably bodied, and,
well, p.s. **** you!
chase the ******* rabbit...
go! go! go you yuppie *****
everyone's waiting for karma marx!
teeth clenched and rubbing off
enamel with a smile...
well there's me with enamel hardly smiling...
ah, let's have a sing-along anyway to
hear a cowboy's ye-ha saddling up
like a *** with the stirrups!
i swear i discovered belgium with that chocolate
factory in Maine;
like the *** who found a balance saddled,
which brought him no closer to the Mongol's
successful escapade without the stirrup; oddly enough,
the russian said.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 6:36 PM UTC
I suppose this will be more of a rant than anything.
In order to capture the casual tone
in the form of poetry.
Or something like that?
I'm sick. Holy **** am I sick.
Sick of passive aggressive ******* nonsense and the
denial that comes with it.
When every sentence is meant as a slight attack,
every word laced with venom,
and you think I don't see it? Of course.
Because how could I see something you don't even see
in yourself. Impossible. Improbable, right?
That's what being above reproach is all about, isn't it?
To believe in your horse **** so whole-heartedly
that you find the justifications where ever you can,
no matter how many words and situations you have
to turn around, no matter how much you have to
deflect the subject to other trivial things until
we are doing nothing but talking in circles,
no matter how much you have to detract from the
truth to save yourself.
**** that.
I don't deal with that. I've done that **** to
people before too. I still do sometimes.
But holy **** at least I can see it.
I can forgive it easily too...and do.
Of course I get mad about it, but there's hardly a
point in engaging that behavior. Why let that turmoil
swallow my emotions? **** no. Accept it, handle the
emotions that come with it, **MOVE THE **** ON.**
You can try to tear me down all you want,
but of course you know what they say about that.
It has had far too much of my attention as it is.
Even this is probably too much. But this is my outlet.
This is how I deal with things. Writing this, I'm
not even the least bit upset. I'm just letting thoughts
pour, and that's fine. The emotion behind them has
been processed without any damage to anyone.
You cannot possibly think it is healthy to use people as
emotional punching bags.
But anyway.
This is a side of me that doesn't come out. When you
know people, even casual friends, you learn their flaws,
they learn yours. It's not dishonest not to inform them.
At least, in my opinion. I believe everyone should
introspect closely enough to be in tune with their own imperfections.
As Jackson Browne put it, "Don't remind me of my
failures. I had not forgotten them."
And so it goes.
I plaster my own venom upon paper. Know that
if you read it, you have made the choice to poison yourself.
None of this takes away from my love for you, nor the
friendship we had.
It is what it is.
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC
These nascent
Symptoms are growing
In intensity
I’m hot. I’m cold.
I’m hot. I’m cold.
Menopause is under sold
This is what happens
when you get old
There’s no set age
Every woman is different
Life is the gauge
This whole fiasco
could have been avoided
Had my doctor told me
Of the possibilities
Quick lickety-split
Jump up
leg cramp
Ready to set in
Cramps are not just
in the leg,
the upper arms,
the middle of your back
It’s just like that
No rhyme no reason
it’s menopause season
It’s more than just a cramp.
That won’t let go.
It seems to reach
My very soul.
Just when you hit
Your all time low,
there’s something new
Starting to grow
Restless leg syndrome
that’s a mouthful
The legs, have a mind
of their own
It drives me mad
This is not driving Miss Daisy
It’s driving me crazy
I wish I only had these conditions
Just add him to the list
Breath, focus, cry
Wondering why
Getting through it
Stay calm,
it will go away
In a bit
These can be extremely bad
The worst condition I’ve had
I never imagined
There was something
worse
than body cramps
Restless leg syndrome
will make you beg
Please stop
Bending twist hop
God help
I’m at Wits end
Too much to contend
literally are not sure
what comes next
Perplexed
Body cramps vs Restless leg
Which is worse
Order me a casket,
A long black hurst
Can you get them
both together?
Thankfully, not yet
Jump before the
Leg sensation sets in
The body in a tailspin
Dead tired I need sleep
Life can’t get more bleak
Standing waiting for relief
rocking back and forth
Rational emotions head north
Is this par for the course?
Questioning my sanity
By duration immensity
by the side of my bed.
The sensation grows
lacking body self control
How long before they let go?
this new phenomenon
Does a number
In your head.
Women
One sure sign
You’re in menopause;
When you’re
standing
in the kitchen
Naked
with your head
in the freezer
And your husband
Treads lightly with Care
Broken egg shells everywhere
Does not dare engage
His wife a wild
Animal in a gilded cage
A quick glance
he Looks away
quickly walks by
He hears her muffled cries
Caution in his eyes
He has a million questions
Does not ask why
In frustration
All you can do
Is cry
Inspired song
(This is perfect)
Doctor My Eyes
By Jackson Browne 1972
May 30, 2025
May 30, 2025 at 12:35 AM UTC
At funerals eve we lift a glass or two. Ref 015
—————————————————
At funerals eve we lift a glass
To drink to life of our dearest Barbara.
For fighting for life leaves nought to chance
Under such a threat they let you go
Not minding that you were my finest jewel
Engaging through how sweet the nectar flows
Rarely stopping in pursuit of the Wizards too
And fearless did you act and it goes to show
Lesser women fade but not Barbara Browne
She had enough she had enough yes enough
Eventually the strongest boughs will break.
Virtual reality comes to the fore mind n body
Earth to earth ,ashes to ashes , dust to dust.
Woman of a very extra special beauty note
Even if your face n body are beyond compare
Little hints and wrinkles become so apparent
I could only see the most beautiful of women
Fortune favoured me when I met my Barbara
Twinkling eyes ,a noble hint of sophistication
And an arrogant methodology scary but true
Glasses we would raise upon a nightly phase
Limited as one is to just a long iced cordial
And me ? Well me she poured a *** or scotch
So at funerals eve we lift a glass or two
Summers ,winters,year on year to Barbara.
——————————————————-
Rest In Peace my darling girl. Be not afraid
The tornadoes now released will fade in time
Written by Philip 26/9/2018.
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 7:21 AM UTC