J. J. Brown, Wordslinger

"I Sling Words As I Go Along."



More Random Snippets of Poetry

So, I’ve been in a somewhat lyrical and poetic mood for the last few days.  Not sure where it’s coming from, because I don’t identify as being a poet.  Then again, both my grandmother and my mother are poets, so I guess there’s a little bit in me.


October 2, 2017
1. In theater, movies and books,
Characters and plot keep us hooked.
But there’s an unsung piece
That threads itself into our hearts.
By use of sound, cadence and pace,
Music is more than the sum of its art.

2. This is a tail, er, tale of two cats.
One is gray and persnickity,
The other is orange and snugly.
Someday, they will become best mates.

Random Snippets of Poetry

So, I’m not a poet or a writer of short stories.  I gravitate towards novels and screenplays, which are generally easier for me to utilize.

However, I’ve randomly written some random pieces of poetry over the last couple of days.  I’m amused by them, and there is no deeper meaning to find in them.


September 30, 2017
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
The stories in my head
Want to fall in love with you.


October 1, 2017
There was a crime scene in my backyard.
The poor rat did not see it coming.
I have zero suspects and few leads.
But Otis the Orange is looking pleased.


October 2, 2017
Henry the Gray abhors loud noises.
The Big Green Truck has them in spades.
While cowering in his hiding space,
Henry the Gray shouts, “Not this day!”
And then naps for ten hours.

So, I just wanted to point out……

……that I’m aware that a few of my posts regarding women transforming their lives are primarily white. I intend to correct that – I’ve read several books by women of color, like Alice Walker, Amy Tan and Maya Angelou, but it’s been awhile. I also plan to read and share more about men of color, like Sherman Alexie and Richard Wright.

I believe that strength comes from diversity and that representation matters, but I can’t espouse that and not show it. So, with your patience, I will be presenting posts that hopefully will be more diverse and representative of the world.

I would love it if you were to offer suggestions on writers and artists that you feel need more attention and their work showcased.

Thank you!


The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou
The Lone Ranger & Tonto Fistfight in Heaven by Sherman Alexie
Native Son by Richard Wright
The Color Purple by Alice Walker

*To be updated.



The Horse Tree

A fierce wind sweeps through the tree,
Stirring branches with restless ease,
Leaves dancing wildly, playing
In coltish movement.
A low creak emanates from the depth of the tree,
As its massive trunk shifts with the wind,
Its uneven fork listing from side to side.

The stallion leaps forward,
Snorting loudly, ears flicking back and forth,
Tasting the wind,
Its coal black coat glistening in the sun.
Tossing his head, elegant and proud,
He trots,
Light as air,
Yet controlled, deliberate.

He spies his shadow –
It grows long, then short
As the breeze dances along the tall grass.
Striking out a foreleg,
He kicks up dirt,
Shrills out his challenge in a long, piercing note.

It hangs in the air, then fades to an echo.
Whirling to face the sun,
The stallion bolts,
His silky mane streaming out behind him,
His long thick tail a banner in the wind.
His strides come
His freedom.

He revels in the wind
That caresses his skin,
His heart swells with joy
And he turns his muzzle to the sky.
Glorying in the beauty of the day,
He heralds his presence to the world,
His pace slowing to a mile-eating trot.
He half-rears, snorting, blowing furiously,
Sees the distance he has come,
And the distance he yearns to fly.

He hesitates,
The fields’ grasses and wild flowers
Beckoning him forward,
Teasing him, whispering to him
To come, play with them, forget the time passing by.

Shaking his head, he nickers, deep in his throat,
Wanting to play,
Wanting to stay,
Wanting to forget that time passes.
He looks again at the sky,
Turns his nose to the wind,
Scenting the air,
And knows that his time grows short.
For the hot yellow of the sun begins
To smolder into burnt orange,
Shadows into bruised purples as daylight fades.

Head and tail high, he dances forward.
One step
Two steps
Three steps.
On the fourth, he rears to his full height,
Screams his dominance,
Then whirls, gallops back to where he had come,
Knowing full well,
That he will return.

His limbs grow heavy,
Thick, as if he had traveled thousands of miles
Instead of a paltry few.
Nostrils swelling as he sucks in air,
The stallion put forth a final burst of speed,
Sweat marking his haunches with the effort it took.
Nearing his starting point,
He whistled his triumph,
Having bought his freedom
For one more day.
He slides to a halt, scattering dirt and pebbles,

Rears high, reaching to touch the sky,
Twisting his body,
His coat begins to harden into rough grooves,
Joining his hind legs,
Growing solidly one with the earth,
Thickening into a single part,
Becoming the trunk.

His forelegs branch out,
Supporting smaller branches,
Bearing leaves.
He throws his head back,
In an eternal cry,
Which the wind will carry
For all time, past and present,
And into the future
As he stands, frozen,
Caught forever in the guise of a tree.


Running horse.
Running horse.

And now, a word from Raymond Chandler…….

“An age which is incapable of poetry is incapable of any kind of literature except the cleverness of a decadence.”

Raymond Chandler, author
July 23, 1888 – March 26, 1959

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