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Selected Works
of Matthew Jordan Brown
25 September 1979 --
25 July 1997
Read an introduction
to Matthew's work and a note from his parents here.
All selections ©Copyright
1997, 1998, 1999 the Matthew Jordan Brown Foundation. All
rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication or redistribution
by any means is a violation of applicable laws. A Booklet
containing these and many more of Matthew's works is available
in the Merchandise Section.
Moreover, these and other works may be viewed in the International
Walk of Poems at The Sedalia Center, 11 miles North of the City
of Bedford off Route 122 at Sedalia School Road. Also available
on compact disc digital audio is a four-movement symphonic work
composed in Matthew's memory, The Starlight Symphony, with each
of the four movements based upon one of Matthew's poems.
The Symphony was composed, orchestrated and recorded by Bedford
County maestro Dean C. Haskins, who also serves the MJBrown Foundation
as Executive Director of Music and Resident Composer/Conductor.
Proceeds from all merchandise benefit the Matthew Jordan Brown
Foundation, a 501(c)(3) not-for-profit organization to which corporate
and individual contributions are tax-deductible.
If it all Falls
Down
I have seen the
sun set
over the Caribbean
sea
and chased spider
monkeys
through the leafy
mazes
of Barbados.
I have laughed
with the natives
and played a steel
drum
in the incorrect
way,
being told that
it didn't matter
as long as the
words 'St. Kitts'
did not fade
from my newfound
instrument.
I have watched
the moon rise
over Galway Bay
and drank with
Dubs
and watched the
light dance
on ruined churches
in Connemara,
my home.
I have touched
the grave
of Shakespeare
and ordered a cheeseburger
in a Stratford
Cafe
and sent back postcards
that read:
"the weather is
here,
I wish you were
beautiful."
I have ordered
curry
in little India,
downtown Manchester,
and laughed with
the locals
when all I had
to wash it down with
was ale.
I have seen the
Florida coastline
and smoked cigars
on the beach
with trenchcoat
wizards
and trained geeks
and rode down highway
A-1-A
on the trip back
home.
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I might not be
a scientist
or Harvard material,
my GPA might not
make anyone faint.
I might not know
the SinX
or the square root
of any number
you could name.
But I have played
with the dolphins
and done card tricks
in Cork.
I have swung on
vines
and sailed down
the coast
and taken the time
to applaud the
sunset.
I have laughed
and I have played
and if it all falls
down,
I have had my fun.
I have danced and
I have sang
and if it all falls
down
I have seen the
sights.
I have jumped and
I have flown
and if it all falls
down
I have touched
the stars.
I have fallen and
I have cried
but if it all falls
down
it was worth the
ride
and I will not
be sad
when my days are
done
because I entered
the race
and though I may
not have won,
I danced
and played
and if it all falls
down,
the memories
will not fade.
I danced
and played
and if it all falls
down
I will not fade.
If it all falls
down
I have danced
and played.
--
Matthew Jordan Brown
* *
*
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Please, God...
I am the voice
of the Jew
caged,
death staring
into my soul
and spreading,
billowing.
Every fiber of
my being
thick with wispy
fear.
The concrete
walls
restrain my spirit
and I plummet
into endless
night.
I walk the trail
of tears
and see strange
faces
in my home.
I am the Indian,
bound
and beaten to
a mass
of blood and
bone.
The gods of the
earth
and sky
close their eyes
to my plight
and I fall
endlessly into
the blackness.
I am the patriot
at war
with a faceless
enemy.
Why do these
strangers
from across the
sea
need my island?
They have already
enslaved
my highland brother;
why must they
conquer our land,
too?
I see a car
vanish in fire
and death
and I begin to
fall
into the darkness.
I am the Egyptian,
the Christian,
the Roman,
the Greek,
the Pilgrim,
the slave.
I am a scream
in the silence.
I pierce the
ears
and fill the
mind
and cry out to
faces
past and yet
to come.
I die a thousand
deaths
and with every
wrong,
every crime,
every evil,
I grow more intense.
Silence me.
Muffle my cries
with an assault
of light
to fill the darkness
and leave not
a single
empty space
for the darkness
to fill
again.
Spread like the
smoke,
the deadly gas.
Crack the whip,
explode.
Expand your heart
and silence me.
--
Matthew Jordan Brown
Written
25 July 1997,
the
last day of his life on this earth.
*
* *
I Love Her, Even if She doesn't Believe Me
I love
her even if she doesn't believe me,
because love is not
a competition of wits or eyes.
It is not a guessing
game or simple twist of fate,
just like the currents
of the sea that seem to arbitrarily flow
without rhyme or
reason or answer or prayer,
but still wash the
shores in the same pattern and plan
that they have since
time out of mind.
I love her even if
she doesn't believe me,
because she has taken
a knifeblade of scarlet lips
and white skin and
torn open my dreams,
watching the dancing
visions parade out
onto white tile floors
that accent the colors.
I believe in her
even if she doesn't believe in me
because I have driven
down darkened roads
late at night, listening
to music, and I have thought
I could smell her,
thought I could see her hand
drumming the dashboard
in time with the tunes.
She has crept into
my brain like a shadow of light
and she loves driving
me crazy
with comments that
comfort yet bite
and slink from her
mouth to my ear like a spiderweb.
She cannot look at
me without smiling,
and that is what
makes me love her
even if she doesn't
believe me.
--
Matthew Jordan Brown
* * *
I Speak
I speak.
I open my lips
and words flow
like wine.
Large, intimidating
words,
so pleasing to
the ear
and logical to
the mind.
I speak.
I talk of hopes
and dreams
and wishing wells,
moonlight oceans
and old, brown
photographs
of lovely places
I've never been.
I speak.
I philosophize,
I theorize,
I paint poems
of self inspiration.
With tiny shards
of glass
I prick my skin
and bleed indecision,
smearing the
questions
on paper
for all to see.
I speak.
If word was deed,
then I would
be king.
If tongue was
hand,
I would build
a kingdom
out of empty
air.
If fantasy was
tangible,
I would crown
myself
with dreams.
But, alas, I
only
speak:
I live and die
in the making.
--
Matthew Jordan Brown
* * *
Epitaph by a writer for himself
I am
leaving on a quiet train,
and leaving the
past behind me,
where it should
be.
Out of the station
and into the twilight,
beyond the sky
and imagination.
I'm leaving on
a quiet train
and don't know
where I'm going.
Maybe I'll end
up
as a thought in
a mind
and become an idea,
given life on paper.
I am leaving
on a quiet train,
bound for destiny
then who-knows-where.
Maybe I'll pass
you
somewhere in
dreamland,
making my way
into legend.
Don't wave to
me on my quiet train,
I'll try to be
on my way.
I'll be flying
on
towards God or
the moon
and I won't look
back
from my quiet
train.
--
Matthew Jordan Brown
* * *
Snowflakes on the Breeze
At birth,
we are snowflakes:
pristine, white,
immaculate.
We are snowflakes...
and then there is a
breeze.
Just a slight breeze,
it smells like the
ocean
on a clear day
and it picks us up,
gently, from our snowy
home.
This breeze is a song
and it blows us on,
toward the end
and beyond,
to the meadows
of spring.
We twist
and tumble,
we glide
and soar
on the song
that sang the world
into being.
It moves us faster
and faster
at such a pace,
that by the time
we melt
and drip into the sea,
we look back over the
song,
the story,
and wonder
what happened to the
snow.
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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . -- Matthew Jordan Brown
* * *
One way street to eternity
I am on
a one way street to the eternal
and I can only hope
to leave my mark along the way.
Funny, maybe, but
moreso corny
with just the right
amount of philosophy.
I write and write
and scream to my hand:
be neat but creative...
like oil and water.
I write and write
on this one way street,
I guess I'm getting
better.
My only companions
are my life,
friends, family,
music and magic.
I dance a polka
down this one way street,
attempting seriousness
but just turning out funny.
That's okay, though,
life is funny.
With my life and
some words,
perchance I'll
stop along the way
and sit down for
tea with some long dead wizard.
We would ponder
the mysteries of life and magic,
if only for just
a day.
I'm running from
life down this one way street
and heading towards
eternity.
I'll stop when
I get there and look back in wonder
at how short of
a time it took me to get there.
A head like a
melon,
(thick and self
contained)
but a heart the
size of the moon,
battling ignorance
down this one way street
and heading towards
eternity.
See you when we
get there...
--
Matthew Jordan Brown
* * *
Leap
The mountain
is high
and traces of those
not so lucky,
those who tried
but failed
or tried in vain
or tried but once
and could not stand
the wounds,
litter the ground
around its base
like war scars
lingering from
a battle
against a familiar
foe.
I climb the
stones,
I cling to rocks
and roots
that occasionally
slip away,
plummeting into
the invisible depths,
dissolving as
they fall.
The peak approaches
with every grasp
and pull
and it's too
far away to be real
but just close
enough
to seem certain.
Occasionally,
I glance down,
back to where
I came from,
back to all the
dangerous ledges
and loose handholds.
The ground is
so distant
that it glimmers
and shifts
and plays with
my eyes
like a desert
mirage
and I hang in
the middle:
too close to
stop
but too far to
return.
Slowly, I approach
the summit,
with each foot
it grows more real
and I think I
can make out the top
amidst the mist.
Moments pass
and I am there.
I walk in circles,
surveying the
surface
and scratch my
eyes in disbelief,
but it still
seems barely real.
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I step to the
edge and look down
for the final time
and I think I can
hear the echoes
of those who have
fallen.
My feet half-hang
off the edge
and the wind blows
and my palms sweat
and I know what
I have to do:
I have to jump.
My feet finally
leave the ledge,
my legs hurling
me outwards.
I can feel the
air
gush past me
and,
even for just
a moment,
I am weightless.
Darkness comes
--
or perhaps it
is light --
and I don't know
where I am...
until I brush
past clouds
and taste the
sun.
Suddenly I realize
that we all have
to leap,
we don't have
a choice about that.
It's what comes
next
that is within
our control.
Sometimes when
we leap,
we fall.
But sometimes
when we leap,
we fly.
--
Matthew Jordan Brown
* *
*
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A River Through Our Days
There is
a river running through our days.
Imperceptible,
the quiet waters
brush our rocks like feathers,
never disturbing
a single grain of sand.
The still waves and
ethereal blueness
wash over our eyes
and equally flow
over all times:
good and bad times
and times that are
neither good or bad
but merely quiet
and there.
Know this river.
Know the boat that
gently rocks
on its shores, tied
to our minds.
When you wake one
morning to find
that you are no longer
blind
or suddenly look
at your dog and say:
"Everything I've
been doing is completely wrong;"
or when you're cooking
dinner
and suddenly feel
a sensation in your chest
that is strange enough
to worry you
but too good to go
away
and, all at once
you take a fancy
to sunsets
instead of business
suits
or salmon instead
of expensive cars
or breathing deeply
instead of worrying
or merely dancing
alone:
wade into those waters
that lap at our legs
and have a temperature
that is so right
that we cannot feel
it.
Swim.
Swim and dive under
the waves
that wash away our
names,
and don't break the
surface
until everything
sings to you
and you see that
there is nothing much to do
other than live.
--
Matthew Jordan Brown
* * *
For Matthew Jordan Brown
I know
your names,
you daytripper,
you nightrider,
you joy boy.
One flick of
your wrist
turned copper
coins into golden moons.
Remember
we were going
to sail away on a pirate ship
far far away
from here
across the
lapping blue waves,
you marauder
of beauty,
you brigand
of gladness.
I see you
at the prow
sailing ahead
of us,
black cape
draped across your shoulder,
wreathed in
moonlight,
you lightbearer,
you wonderstruck
wizard
who witnessed
the alchemy grace alone can bring.
You breathed
in life until time flew away
and time has
set sail with you
across the
wide dark sea,
you wordshaper,
you song giver,
leaving us
only your legacy of names
to unmire us
from the commonplace.
--
Leslie Shaver
(Matthew
Brown's creative writing teacher)
August
16, 1997
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