Nancy E. Brown

Nancy Brown as portrayed by her grand-daughter Sophia Nancy E. Brown, retired from 25 years in Alaska libraries, has been a reporter for The Nome Nugget, book reviewer for the Kenai Peninsula Clarion, freelance writer, storyteller, writer of haiku, and a lifelong fan of Dylan Thomas.

Her biggest fan, husband Ken, has kept a steady hand on the rudder for 42 years of marriage through rough waters and calm. They have a daughter Roda Motta, son-in-law Rick Motta, and three witty, musical granddaughters who also love to read and write poetry.

Her poetry is included in The Poets Loft anthology, Nine New England Poets on love and loss. Edited by Beatrice Lazarus. Order from Main Street Rag.

(Above Image: Nancy Brown as portrayed by her granddaughter, Sophia)

► Nancy's Origami microchaps & selected poems are available below.

Origami Microchap	Poems
A Real Bout
Click title to download PDF microchap “Tomato Can:” Slang term used to describe an inferior boxer that an up and coming fighter takes on to burnish his reputation & record. Also, a boxer who ‘takes a dive’ or loses a fight on purpose •	Tomato Can Blues No bets on the plodding bruiser who is not Ali’s Wepner, The Bayonne Bleeder from Jersey. Not Tyson’s Douglas in Tokyo. He’s a bad boxer picked to make this champ look good, a real tomato can kind of guy— until his southpaw found the champ’s jaw and the wrong ‘can’ hit the mat. Victory Clenched jaw slackens hand jab. - against right Feigning left, glove drives into the gut. Angle the camera to show blood drip front tattoo, - onto full glistening iconic detail in color— blood red, vein blue, long black hair matted under thorns, ribs shadowed above navel.	The crowd cheers. Illegal groin kick. Like a tall pine, the fighter is felled, cold on the canvas. Above him waivers the opponent. Gloves raised, eyes swollen, he walks to the wrong corner. Somewhere a bell sounds the end of round twelve.	Violence Becomes You “Temper, temper,” his father cautioned. He took his anger to the ring, became the Golden Gloves champ voice. basso profondo with the Still, the wrong tone, wrong look... Now, blind as a raged bull, he swung before he saw Jim taking the blow. Two fists formed in temper’s forge. His fierce face thrust at the stranger, he spat, “You made me hit my brother.” Barely the last word spoken, then the first fist thrown. He beat bloody the man until from behind, an arm locked ‘round his neck, and Jim said, “Stop. Stop now, Chet.” “Stop.” • Nancy E. Brown © 2013
I Would Never Anthropomorphize My Finches
Click title to download microchap Cover photo by Ken Brown •	OBSERVING MANNERS I would never anthropomorphize, but I see my zebra finches display etiquette toward each other, bathing and nest-building. Yet when I complain about their mess, they cock their heads at me and boldly scratch and toss seeds with wild abandon. BATHING The male hops onto the lip of the dish, dips his red beak into clear water. Did he send a signal? The mate hops into the dish, shudders and shakes to fling water onto feathers. Back on the perch preening begins, and the male enters the water.	IDENTITY From jellybean-sized eggs, the hatchlings emerge as flesh and down. No mouth apparent, no eyes open. shapes - Hours later, teardrop mark corners of beaks. The parents gorge on millet and begin a delicate plunge into open mouths that soon will scold demands for food. CAGED The male finch worries a stripped millet stem into the woven bamboo nest and tucks in cotton tufts. The mate, tiny feet clasping the bare wooden perch, watches, waits to lay a clutch of tiny eggs. Nearby, juveniles— flutter — newly rejected against the wires of their new cage.	AUSSIE FINCHES This tiny, indigenous species was there in 1788 when soldiers and convicts landed at Botany Bay— building grass nests in trees among the penal colonies. Perhaps a convict stopped to listen to their song, like the fisherman in Andersen’s ‘The Nightingale.’ • Nancy E. Brown © 2013
Mishnock, RI (An Album)
Click title to download PDF microchap Cover photo by Rocco Rainone - On the shores of Mishnock Lake The heron lifts its head to listen. •	Neighborhood Life After a restless night, I walk into dawn. Mute swans float beneath the lake mist. The creek burbles under the road next to the small cottage where Miss Lovelace— her sister dead in a crash— raised her orphaned niece and nephews after rejecting her brothers’ solution, “We can each raise one.” Summer The neighbor builds this year’s racing car. His sons play basketball in the street after they drop their bikes in the yard. Later, they walk to the lake, beach towels over their shoulders, bare feet slapping the road.	The Lake In the beginning was water, fish, turtles, freshwater clams, and hunters, fishermen, farmers with spears, canoes, nets, hoes. Then came axes, chainsaws, trucks, cars, streets, TV, Internet.... Is that Metacomet on YouTube? Mishnock Barn Fires, a hurricane and post-war building codes hastened demise of Mishnock sawmills. Still, native timber was found to build the dance pavilion at Mishnock Barn. Gone the carousel, roller rink, bath house. footed line dancing - It’s live music and fleet on the shores of Mishnock Lake. The heron lifts its head to listen.	Winter One, two...five boys push snow from the frozen catch basin, brush clear the stump where Sara can sit, but she straps on skates, grabs a stick, and joins pond hockey. • Nancy E. Brown © 2012
Alaska Album
Click title to download PDF microchap Cover Photo by Maureen Conley Dedicated to the memory of Milli Ekak who served me whale meat and muktuk and taught me to play 'Hearts,' to the memory of my son Jason B. Brown who took his first steps on St. Lawrence Island, and especially to my husband Ken Brown and daughter Roda L. Motta who share many of the memories and stories in these poems about our former home. •	Tenakee Springs, Chichagof Island Norwegian men—eyes glacial blue, Blond hair burned white by sun, Shoulders built to ship strength— Sluiced and dredged Nome’s gold Then wintered at these hot springs. Nearby in wilderness coves stand raven, Orca, eagle totems. In the strait a pod Of orcas stampede seals to shore. Rocks tumble in the crimson tide. Tangle Lakes, Denali Highway Traveling the road rough as miners’ hands, We turn off the engine to watch One, two snowy owls ride the air Like white smoke over the tundra. A young porcupine huddles under a willow. At the next rise, Tangle Lakes shine like New coins or maybe moons fallen from Jupiter In homage to this midnight sun. After a blueberry and grayling breakfast A snow smell blows into camp. Quickly we tie the canoe to the car top In a rush to outrun the blizzard.	Gambell, St. Lawrence Island Duffles drop on the floor before Milli, my children, and I hustle To where spring ice clings to the shore. A whale’s blood path Marks the way to flensing— One foot in the oomiak The other on the whale’s back. Alarm: a small boy toddles off the ice. Splash! Snap, a gaff grabs his parky. That night, dancing at the school, Aieee! Tong!Tong! Walrus-hide drums. Later, hands join hands, join hands To reach home through forty-mile winds Blowing snow from Siberia. Aggie Creek, Seward Peninsula We read the shallow rivers — Wet maps of boulders and sandbars — Until we bank our boat at Aggie Creek. At midnight Martin Olson glides his Super Cub Onto the sandbar for coffee at our fire. Bang! Pop! Bang! We duck and stare. Martin laughs, there are abandoned oil drums. Pop! As temperatures drop like the sun’s arc Beyond black spruce silhouettes against A char-pink sky. Late light Lingers behind the Bendelebens.	Goodpaster River, Delta Junction Tanana River— a rumble of driftlogs, oxbows — Heavy with silt the color of goose eggs Hauls its glacial load past the mouth Of the Goodpaster, the river never seen By the Kentucky family bearing its name. Up the Goodpaster delphiniums bloom, Planted long ago at a trapper’s cabin Now collapsed into earth on a bluff Above the beavers that build A new lodge on an old oxbow. • Nancy E. Brown © 2010
Home: Ohio, 1950
Click title to download microchap Cover by JanK •	Home: Ohio, 1950 - I. Cold well-water gulped from a gourd. A dose of brown sugar and turpentine - An old-time remedy To keep away worms. Cod liver oil from a cold metal spoon. Buttermilk cornbread baked In a cast-iron skillet. Sun-warmed tomatoes and peppers, White corn on the cob Rolled in butter. Pan fish fried on Fridays. . II. A worn quilt, feather pillows Wet grass between bare toes Papery wasp nests abandoned The tickle of a praying mantis’ legs another — A raw potato against a wart time remedy. - Old The pop of ripe gooseberries in the mouth Warmth under a hen’s wing The soft wrinkled feel of Grandma’s cheek.	III. In the kitchen window sit Mason jars of sage. Coffee boils in a speckled pot, Sausage sizzles on the stovetop. Baking powder biscuits bake In the oven of the kerosene stove. Down in the musty basement — Piles of dirty laundry Oily overalls Dingy boxer shorts stained undershirts. - Sweat From the wringer washer tub, Mrs. Stewart’s bluing Scents the air. IV. The screen door, framed, bounces shut; - Wood Rag rug for mud. Outside, Weeping willow branches Veiled in green buds. — Devil’s shoestring — Trumpet vine Brings hummingbirds. Blackberries stain lips. - black - A spider, yellow White, writes its web On the grape arbor. A calico apron hangs On a nail.	V. ourning doves coo In branches above hens Clucking as they peck grit. The robin’s song springs Bold as thunder. Mice scritch scratch in the grain. Newspaper pages rustle, A slurp of coffee, then The cup clinks In the saucer. The porch glider Squeaks back and forth. • Nancy E. Brown © 2009