JCDC Award

A few weeks ago I got a JCDC Certificate of Merit for a short story I submitted called 'Informer fi' Dead.' It is a story I wrote in college and edited recently for the competition. It is my second JCDC Certificate of Merit, I recieved one in 2008 for my poem 'Dance with Gwen.' Since the story is 18 pages long, I uploaded it to a site and the download link is available below if you would like to read it. My mother, father, and my two aunts Maxine and Nadine attended the ceremony as they have done for the past two years. They are a big part of my writing success and I thank them. More poetry on the way soon. :)

Informer Fi' Dead Download Link : http://limelinx.com/files/125a5a6b676f92391550e1cd56cd6b97

The Children Worship Pt. 3

Voices

Lips rejoice,
throats scream
tonsils Shiver
tongues slap and flicker.

Words are emotions,
sounds are spiritual vibrations
of the vocal chords
that have no care
for letters or language.

It moves to the rhythms of the heart.
Not a monotonous bump
but a musical fingerprint of the soul
giving the spirt an identity
that can never be visualized.
As it beats the congo on eardrums
and lives in the bloodstream.

The Children Worship Pt. 2

Tears

Who knows what leaks
from the eyes of children.
The salty pain that drips
and boils on the trembles of their lips.
Wishing that the doors to their past
could be closed like eyelids.
Unable to flash memories like repetitive blinks.
Each blink making the eyes heavy,
causing it to overflow,
becoming empty and purified.

The Children Worship Pt. 1

I Wrote a 3 Part Poem inspired by the children at Moorlands Camp which I counsel. Here is Part 1:

Raised Hands

The children lift their arms to heaven
elbows speak
sweaty palms and
fingertips weep
as they release their unwanted past
like steam exiting their skin.

Poems from my Senior Manuscript

2 Poems from my senior writing manuscript for under grad.



Pins and Needles

The room shifts and strips,
Flake by flake, like peeling a ripe tangerine
When he cracks his fingers
It is so loud he thinks someone is crushing caterpillars
He remembers when he crushed them as a child
Squashed them against tree barks
Later the survivors turned into butterflies and flew around him
Reminding him how he killed beauty before it existed
His friend’s face melts
Everyone is laughing at him
But he doesn’t care and slips back into a trance
He lets the bed swallow him
The sheets are filthy with crumbs and cigarette burns
But today it smells like bougainvilleas and feels like silk
The feeling explodes through his fingertips
When everyone is ready to leave,
He uses a pin to replace his missing top button,
Then rolls down his sleeve.



Cigarettes and Tea

Her hair pulled back and clipped
A light residue of baby powder around her neck
The left strap of her blouse slides down her shoulder
When she exhales the smoke
She breathes the grey cloud slowly
You can see an imprint of her wet lips
On her tea cup
As if to purify what is left inside her.
She breathes hard
Cigarette smoke and mint steam
She wishes her mistakes can be ashed
With the flick of a thumb.

Poems Inspired by art of Kai Watson pt.2

Flag Bearer

Little boys in school yards
race bare foot across green grass,
golden sun beating on their young bodies,
making their skin shine like polished shoes.

He remembers those races,
this one is for the little boy in him,
for the little boys racing now.
This one is for the sufferers,
who cannot run from the poverty
that has shackled them like broken ankles.
This one is for 'the almost'
who pulled a muscle in the middle of the race.

This is more than black BMW's
gold medals,
or green money .

This is for a nation.
A nation he carries on his back
and wears across his chest like a hero,
He bears the flag like the cloak of a warrior,
the Jamaican warrior.
His chest wide like the skin on Djembe drums.
The same drum he had to beat one last time
before crossing the finish line.
Drums that play the beat of Jamaica.
A beat that represents hardship, sun and land.
A drum that beats three words,

Black
Gold
Green.

(Positive) Vibrations

“You can't just live that negative way
If you know what I mean
Make way for the positive day.”
Bob Marley, Positive Vibration

Sometimes, words can break bones,
but numbers can slap you in the face.

5

He looks up at the screen,
'lane number?'
'No that was 7.'

5

Position, fifth.
Numbers can slice hearts.

2

Second 100 meter loss in the Olympics.

0

No gold medals at the Olympics.

0

No medals at all on the big stage.

8

A number that visualizes the knot in his stomach.

2008

A year to forget?
He wants to be happy for his friend,
'Fifth?'
Numbers can snap your happiness like twigs

“Why not help one another on the way?”

Numbers can move you, lift you up,
vibrate from one entity to another,
manifesting itself as energy that never dies.

4

Four runners

1

One baton
Four knuckles make one fist as it grabs the baton.
As the energy of a champion flows through the baton,
His shouting voice vibrates through him,
the final runner.
Turning his negative energy into
positive vibrations

Numbers can build you up,
lift you high
heal you.

He looks up at the screen

5

Lane number

1

Position, first.

“Oh, what a new day!”

Simon Brown 2009

Edited Workshop Poem Pt. 2

One more poem from the Calabash workshop


Baby Steps

The wooden floor groans with each step
the night air whistles through the house
she clutches her stomach , looks down the steps
Dante's pillars and layers to hell.

She remembers the beatings and the cursing
the bleeding and tearing between her legs,
fighting for breath under dark sheets
not knowing how to see God in a tainted womb.

Her sisters sing Kumbaya and speak tongues
rub oil oner her belly to bless the child
she gets sick at the sight of baby shoes
cribs,toys and the sound of children.

She looks down the steps with pain and regret,
as she falls she feels the baby kicking.

Edited Workshop Poems Pt. 1

I decided to edit some of the poems I wrote in the Calabash poetry workshops with Kwame Dawes and Greg Pardlo. Here are the edited versions



Reflections

A father screams for his son
who was thrown into the sea
wishing the gods will spit his son
back into his arms.
The ship feels lighter.

Moonlight creeps into the ship,
it allows me to see his eyes
purple shades of his bruised face
that hides in shadows.

He sucks milk from a woman's breast
while she hushes her dead baby
I suck hard on the blood
beneath the shackles on my wrists.

I try to suppress the vomit
rising in my chest
I can see the silver leaking from his eyes,
but he never looks at me.

We work together
but he never looks at me.
How can we connect in these fields
if he does not speak to me.

When the family passes us,
he watches them
while leaning on the stone wall.
His palms flat on the rocks,
like a wolf looking into a full moon.

His eyes tell a story,
Yellow and red shades of the Sclera
Scarred eyelids and eyebrows.

His face shows his struggles,
his cheeks, the cuts
on the skin that hugs his jawbones.
I want to know more,
but he never speaks to me.

The day he did,
I was filled with regret.
He planned our exodus
their punishment.

We stood in the woods
waiting for the moonlight
before throwing handfuls of sunlight
onto the roof.

I could not concentrate
I was distracted
by the confused screams
of a little girl.

I wanted to find her
but I couldn't follow the sound.
So I ran to the rivers,
haunted by the screams.
The moon guides me like a torch.

As I swim down the river
and the water steals my breath
I wonder if the girl would suffocate
before turning to ash and smoke.





Sun and Snow

Layers of cotton
slide on face like silk
makes crunching noise
underneath my boots.

The leaves burn
in the sunrise.
Red leaves, white snow
freezing and melting.

God and the Devil,
dancing,
fighting,
making art together.

Poems Inspired by the art of Kai Watson

Sentenced

He is sentenced to death
without a judge or jury
Displayed as entertainment
His black soul is about to be flayed
stripped and separated slowly.

The cool wind spreads his sweat.
It hums through the trees,
his final church chorus through nature.
The chains press him against the tree,
so he breathes with the bark
His veins red as the dirt
He feels the leaves in his phlegm
tastes the wood on his tongue.
His lips and fingertips swell like ripe fruit.
His lungs feel heavy,
he becomes one with the earth,
before sharing his blood with the soil.








Conflict of Interest

With the poise of an emancipated mind,
Her shoulders stand erect
Her internal scars are hidden
but she feels the the breath of her past
on the back of her neck
A past surrendered to civilian generality
void of unique personality
A blend of smeared paint
conflicted with the desire
to expose her inner masterpiece

Her life is filled with boundaries.
Handcuffed and limited to the expectations of others
yearning to display her potential,
her pride and power.
She turns her back to the past,
lifts her head
allowing her cheekbones and her chin
to represent her inner strength.

3 Poems

These are a few from a group I called When the Ghetto and the Suburbs Collide

Ghetto School Boy

He packs, showers, polishes his shoes
Puts on his school’s uniform
His father is ready and starts the car

He hopes that he will soon transfer
To a school without pickpockets and boys with scarred faces
Bruised and cut knuckles, scuffed shoes and torn laces

Classrooms are furnaces, lunch lines like prison riots
Food is thrown in the roads or in gullies
Boys are pinching girl’s butts and breasts
They couldn’t be civilized if they tried

Children look in the gully shocked, holding their nose
The boy looks in and sees a dead body with an empty eye socket
Rats nibbling on the skin, crows circle the sky
He throws away his food and walks back to class



Babylon


“The characteristics of Babylon are never failing. Babylon
will invade your privacy as a routine; insist on wearing uniforms, particularly
boots, guns, hats, dogs on leashes and they particularly love marching in imitation of robots.”
- Bob Marley



He loosens his top button, swallows painkillers
Buys a flask of white rum to stop his hands from shaking
The bodies haunt him, he thinks;

They call us Babylon yet they do devilish things to each other

He picks her up, pops a pill, takes a sip
He drinks to destroy nightmares, fucks to forget
She sucks away his sorrows, he ejaculates to erase his evil thoughts

He licks the sweat from her nipples
His flaccid dick sleeps and leaks
He takes another sip and spits out bloody rum

She laughs at his hallucinations
She doesn’t know the look of seared flesh
Or gaunt drained bodies that has been bleeding for hours

The hour is finished
Pay more or leave
His cell phone has two messages
He skips his wife’s and listens to his partners.

Another body, come now

The body is by a high school
He pays her, finishes his flask and grabs his badge and gun

God have mercy on those children’s souls.







Just Do it

He waits outside a cheap hotel uptown
The stripping paint falls on his neck
Down his shirt
Patiently he waits with his hand in his pocket
Fingers against the steel
He knows he shouldn’t do this
Questions it
Feels like he should walk away.

He sees his target and moves towards him
Slits then stabs, then runs
The man falls while his lover screams
The killer wipes everything clean
Changes and puts everything in a bag to be burnt
Everything except an envelope
Money from his victim’s wife.
Enough for a toy for his son, or a new pair of Nikes.

Swollen

Swollen

Young teenager at an age we call sweet
sobs metallic tears,
over three month old pleasure turned to pain.

How she enjoyed every
lusting
ejaculating
moment.

Only to live from now on with the suffering
from the army shot into her uterus.
She misses her period.

Now she sits with a swelling stomach,
afraid of what's to come.

(c) Simon Phillip Brown

Spoken Word

For the people who have not downloaded the album yet here is the download link

http://www.megaupload.com/?d=N1B90K6A

and my music video:




and check out the myspace websites.

www.myspace.com/simonbrown
www.myspace.com/thebparmy

Why call it Written Word?

Well for those who know me well, they know that I am also a rapper not just a writer. My first independent solo album was titled Spoken Word. This was done with the intention of having a poetry book titled Written Word to follow the album. Hence they would co-relate i.e. Spoken Word and Written Word. Well I made the album, shot a music video, but publishing a book is much harder than making an album. So I able to fulfill that plan through this blog website. I am in no way trying to be blasphemous as the bible is referred to as the 'The Written Word of God' but I feel that the term can be personal as this is my Written Words and not quotes from my Spoken Word.

Blog Uno

So this is the first blog... just typing a little bit of nothing while setting this up YAY!!!