you drink me

with your glare

until I can

spill nothing,

until you’ve made

enough room

to trickle in

touch by touch

to flow

to pour pleasantries

down my spine

behind and down

my thigh

cupping my heel

for a real feel

of just how much

I can truly hold…


-B. Brown


( image by Anders Rokkum: Lovers)

Cast the Ancient Spells…

My mother’s hand would clasp around mine, grasping the pencil, tracing the letters, I learned the art of word structure through my mother’s insistence. And her persistence was critical, for reasons I did not know until I found myself craving the crisp landscape of paper, with an ink pen as my wand, I drafted spells in countless of journals.

Some of my best, some of my most raw, some of my most pivotal writing was cast during school, during church, during bedtime in a dollar store notebook, a brand new text book, a long awaiting napkin

oh, the magic that I created with these phalanges.

Something happens when we put pencil to paper, it’s our flame to our cigarette, our blunt and our spoons. And when we’re riding that high… oh man, you know what I mean?

I mean, we can get high too from stroking the keys, clicking away, upping the word count, page numbers, justifying that our alignments are edged to percision, uploadin’ that bih, showing the world that you ain’t plannin’ on quittin’…


but if I may,

I have to remind you,

um, isn’t there something that you’re forgettin’?


Can you remember when that bright idea blossomed in our brains

and we made our marks, carved with rocks, chalks, and calk

got pretty name merry with juicy berries to brighten our bearings

remember that first line, that first shape, that first grouping

that first structure

the first spell we cast?

that spell that seeded language

the spell that promoted pensiveness,

the spell that bound all of us as one

the spell that captures our entire existence


and it’s persistence

is always incentive

because it is embroidered

somewhere very deep, somewhere very sacred,

somewhere very ancient, something very primal

under the veils of our minds

that spark us upon arrival


when we spell cast with our hands,

these magical phalanges of ours,

that activate significant


of our human nature,

of our human drive

of our human souls

from our literary roots

that have come to grow


so I thought I’d let you know

that maybe it’s time to take a chance

and envelope yourself

in a primordial trance

and embrace the tracing,

the sculpting

the religious imprinting

of our reality of existence,

put that pencil to paper

remember what it is

to be human again…

-B. Brown


Thank you for reading 🙂 If you’ve been spending so much time behind the screen, trying to figure out what to write, when to write, how to write, then maybe it’s time to revert back to more basic measures. Our brains act differently when we write, pencil in hand, versus when we type, tap dancing with our fingers. You can reach different areas of your mind because the action is so deeply embedded in our kind. Don’t be afraid to shake off these contemporary measures and get back to your roots. And it’s probably a good idea to develop a healthy balance between the two, alternate. I hope this post helps. Have a beautiful day 🙂



Grave Turner

with soil still slipping from my fingertips

he found me, shriveled petals in my hair

with a tombstone corroded long ago

swimming in my dress, noes to the air

watching him from the left

tasting the air, searching for fear


then sighting his crusted shoes

a worn shovel

caked in mineral, fixed focus

as branches whipped

scattering dust and crits

with a lick of his lips

he pasted a recognizing smile

against a haunted face

and a beholding gaze


he nicked the earth

and I flinched

still, ready to quench

a hundred year hunger,

I quivered,

he smells meaty


then he huffed,

well you didn’t need

any help getting out

of there, now did you?

-B. Brown


Thank you for reading 🙂 I’m learning how to write flash fiction so your feedback will be greatly appreciated. Have an inspiring day!


(image courtesy of Pinterest)



I can’t hear you sailing in

through glass blades

on crystal winds

or pattering my sun roof


my breath aloof

how do I

live again?

-B. Brown


(painting by Wyatt Mills)



spare me 
the virtual intimacy,
I’m more of a 
hands on learner,
don’t cheat
your pleasures…
-B. Brown
(image courtesy of Pinterest)


the breeze whipped
her wisps

a droll display,
she sweeps them away
and says
what are you
smiling about?

…just the way
She graces you…

-B. Brown


viaDailyPrompt: Droll

(image: courtesy of Pinterest. This is a photograph of a butterfly wing, ultra close, so intricate.)


To Walk on Water…

the single cell amoeba
sends out it’s distress signal
in the form of a secretion
that attracts other
single cells…

safety in numbers,
fish maintain
a closed distance
from one another,
constantly keeping tabs,
not too close, not too far
just enough to up
the odds of survival
should nature decide
to rush it’s course…

and it’s the same
for our famed avian,
collectively riding
magnetic winds,
formations reforming
according to the shift
in elements,
highly efficient
as one…

and what are the bees
without their queen?
what is the pride
without their king?
what are the packs
without their alpha?

these, algorithms,
these rules of life,
of survival, of existence
of community, of society
are prevalent everywhere

even with our kind

but the funny thing is,
for some reason,
one way or another,
we can generate
new algorithms,
new ways of life

we have options

we don’t need
to provoke a congregation
(did I push a button?)

we don’t need
to keep others
just within our reach
for detection,
for protection
(is the shoe starting to fit?)

we don’t need
and patterns
to really feel,
to get where
we need to be
(did you forget
you’re a spiritual

we have autonomy,
in a universe
constantly conspiring

we have
an unmatched form
of navigating
for survival,
through community
throughout society,
of our existence

that’s right,
we can navigate
our own existence

so there’s no need
to be a part
of a sluggish consciousness,
there’s no need
to swim blindly
with the purely surviving,
there’s no need
to clutter the horizon
with the rest of ’em,
you don’t necessarily
need a queen,
or to carry a king
or be ruled
by an alpha…

unless that’s your place,
and that’s just fine,
in a way,
it isn’t any less divine

but what if you could be
a multi-celled anomaly?
what if you were
destined to walk on land?
what if you could
survive the flight
to holy heights?

what if you need no form?
what if you could walk on water?
what if you could make it to the sun?

what if,
my darling,
what if?

– B. Brown

(painting by Linda Olsen)


follow to really be in the know

tag if you’re down for the cause

like for the money to flow your way

share to keep the demons at bay

comment for a chance to win happiness

subscribe to help the unfortunate

send a text to bring world peace

honk if you smell bullshit

– B. Brown



viaDailyPrompt: Honk

(image courtesy of Pinterest)

Powered by WordPress.com.

Up ↑