I was born in the late 1940s which makes me one of the BABY-BOOMERS. But we could also have been called PEACE-BABIES, because that's why so many of our parents wanted
to start families - a horrendous war had ended in total victory and the Great Depression had been replaced by the New Prosperity. My parents, from lower middle backgrounds, benefited from this prosperity and were truly grateful ... more »
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Daniel Brick Poems
After The Poet's Death
His poems refuse to mourn his passing, they detach themselves from books, magazines, wall hangings
Walking Through Autumn
September Powerlines along my path bristled with electric fire, scorching
Monica spoke in her familiar soft voice, each word carrying its weight of sincerity. 'Daniel, I am, and always will be your Anima,
Four Taoist Poems
I Scattered rocks lie beneath the moss-covered boulder.
The Abandoned Poem
I wrote a long poem for you this morning in the pure light of an untouched day.
The Alone-Child, Age Eight
Squeaky wheels, squeaky wheels, the tricycle inches forward toward the white house with white pillars. Squeaky wheels, squeaky wheels,
Half-Turned Pages A Love Poem
That autumn every time I looked out the window I saw two leaves fall from a maple tree in my yard. Always two leaves fell together
Song: Approaching Spring
To the sound of a deep melody like the ancient circuit of the sea, wise CHILD with summer's blood in your veins here, in this cold northern country,
Snowfall In The Night For Fabrizio Fros...
The snow had just begun to fall, thick snowflakes falling past the restaurant window, when you whispered, leaning forward,
Heaven And Earth A Sonnet
Head bowed, hands folded, you stand at the edge of the only heaven to suffice, waiting for a small miracle to occur. Behind us steadfast petitioners pray.
The Occasional Traveler
This is a poem of male roads. It starts with an ordinary road made up of daily traffic plus the occasional traveler impulsively joining
Daedalus Reveals His Secrets
His Pride I have scattered pieces of myself in every land I have stopped. Sometimes elaborate toys pleasing to a child, or
Snail Talk For Rosemary
My invitation was lavish. I planned my words to glide as smoothly as that single leg moves across the path of discharged mucus.
Still I Slept
The traffic was loud. Car wheels slapped the pavement like wrestlers hitting the mat. Still I slept.
After The Poet's Death
His poems refuse
to mourn his passing, they
detach themselves from
books, magazines, wall hangings
and float freely
in the fair summer air.
Their refusal to mourn is
steadfast. 'He's just changed
his address, ' one of his
first poems says to the new
lyrics. 'He's done this before,
searching for a better place to live.'
'And we always go with him, '
pipes a small poem, barely
audible, maybe not
completed, hardly a poem
at all. 'We are all of us
pieces of his soul, ' booms
the lordly Epic Poem
of 24 cantos. 'We must