Daniel Brick

Daniel Brick Poems

His poems refuse
to mourn his passing, they
detach themselves from
books, magazines, wall hangings

I wrote a long poem
for you this morning
in the pure light
of an untouched day.


Scattered rocks lie
beneath the moss-covered boulder.

Against the sun-wall of air
the birds disguise themselves
as their own shadows,
before settling invisibly among the leaves.


Powerlines along my path bristled
with electric fire, scorching

He has better luck with women. He doesn't
obsess over them, walks next to them
with an easy gait, much like his unforced
conversation. His smile is spontaneous,

When a thing appears as a degree of intensity, we have nothing else
than the existence of the thing in a world.
Alain Badiou
Contemporary philosopher

The print is getting smaller
for each book I try to read.
I squeeze my sight to sharpen
those ever smaller letters, which

Don't call my name yet,
postpone that summons
as long as possible. Let
the earth begin a new orbit, faster

Monica spoke in her familiar soft
voice, each word carrying its weight
of sincerity. 'Daniel, I am,
and always will be your Anima,

Squeaky wheels, squeaky wheels,
the tricycle inches forward toward
the white house with white pillars.
Squeaky wheels, squeaky wheels,

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

The traffic was loud.
Car wheels slapped the pavement
like wrestlers hitting the mat.
Still I slept.

A lone wolf howls
into the night.
Five wolves hear his cry
and venture across the dark ground.

You may be surprised to learn windows
are the most patient creatures
in our universe. Always vigilant,
always ready to receive Light,

The light refuses to enter your
narrow room but clings like a trellis
to the southern window. It is a dim
December Thursday. You slipped from wheelchair

A Fantasy for Bharati

Dear Bharati, finally we meet,
in a moment between two seasons,

This is a poem of male roads. It starts
with an ordinary road made up of
daily traffic plus the occasional
traveler impulsively joining

They say we have a great king.
They say he has won every battle
he engaged, and his armies swell
with volunteers. The autumn air

Sarah, lovely and loving, offered
her hand, a simple hand, nothing
more. If her hand had held flowers,
or money, or food, I would smiling

Daniel Brick Biography

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 to God and Country. But peace did not last. Ultimately, the war-mongers of the century can always find a reason for violence, and I include our nation, almost continually fighting a war somewhere, in this criticism. I'm not talking about valid or invalid reasons for war but rather the brutal FACT OF WAR... I was introduced to poetry in grade school by several gifted seniors who volunteered to come to my grade school and recite poetry for us. I still remember I enjoyed them greatly but some of my peers mocked them. Then, as a junior in high school, I had a charismatic English teacher, Mr. Kurtz, who not only taught me how to read and interpret poetry but how to appreciate it. I became a lover of poetry at age 16.)

The Best Poem Of Daniel Brick

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
catch up with him, restore
his soul to wholeness, then
together, all of our words
linked, all of our sentences

looped around each other,
we will be the ONE POEM
he always claimed
to be writing.' Murmurs
of approval for Epic's speech
crescendoed over the meadow,

into a harmony of voices that
was almost musical. 'Excuse me,
oh, pardon me.' From way in back
where the sequence poems
had clustered, Sonnet XIV
was coming forward. He

squeezed through a group
of illustrated narrative poems,
and eased himself past
the pastoral poems, reclining
on the yellow-green lawn.
Lacking the familiar support

of sonnets XIII and XV,
XIV was unsure of himself.
Epic graciously steadied him,
and introduced him to the assembly,
'Dear friends, ' he began softly,
'we sonnets were with him for hours

yesterday. He was reading
us to his three children. It was
the happiest afternoon! He read
sonnets by the two Rossetti's, brother
and sister, his favorites. Then,
just as the sun dipped and lights came on,

something happened. He suddenly
collapsed.' XIV breathed deeply.
'We watched as two of his childen
covered his face with a blanket.'
For a long moment, it was
just the green air of summer.

Then an immense cry
sliced the greenness, and it bled
grief over all the poems.
The Elegies, whose gray eyes
had held little hope, were
comforted by a volume of

haiku. Pairs of Love Poems
embraced fiercely to crush
grief before it could
propagate. Drinking Songs from
the Chinese laughed harshly and
poured more wine. Wisdom Poems

fell into stunned silence. The other
sonnets joined XIV and they all
bowed their heads. A straggle of
Free Versers assembled, reciting
They sheltered the small poem, confused, bereft.

It was dusk but no shadows
obscured the outlines of trees,
bushes and flower patches. The sun
had withdrawn, but left behind was
a spiritual glow, suffusing all
with yellow-gold, an unasked for grace

welcomed nonetheless for beauty's sake.
A procession had quietly formed
on the furthest margin of the meadow.
Prose Poems, from his last published
work, carried and pushed a huge
covered arch. They were silent,

except for a choral hum, which other
poems joined as it gathered them
into the procession, making it more
spacious and resonant. A smiling Epic
and the sonnets understood suddenly
what was happening, and joined

the Prose Poems, who welcomed them.
Together, they braced the arch
and removed the cover. Cheering
resounded across the meadow. Then,
in perfect silence, the poems
crossed the threshold, and entered

the open arch. Sonnet XIV paused.
'You see, he is not dead. He
lives in all of us. We are his
life eternal.' Then he too
disappeared within, as did
every poem, quietly entering -


Daniel Brick Comments

Pamela Sinicrope 05 January 2016

For Daniel PS Sinicrope A flight of seagulls, A stash of old poems, muses and music, An imaginary garden, A golden skylark, A walk in the woods- These are the things that Unlock his desires And set his soul on fire. Apotheosis achieved On a daily basis In the mind of a man Who sees the world through a magic lens. A black fedora And a large winter coat Obstruct the smiling face And the gentle soul within. He’s free with a laugh, a story And a kind word— An’ irish midwestern’ gentleman to a tee. He’s a a poet’s poet That shares his passion Through imaginative commentary And inspired verse To you, we raise our hands up In a toast of friendship and camaraderie. Happy New Year 2016 Daniel Brick! 

17 1 Reply
Fabrizio Frosini 01 June 2015

E-books published: - At The Crossing Of Seven Winds (Anthology of Poetry) . - Nine Tales Of Creation (Anthology of Poetry) . - Scattering Dreams & Tales (Anthology of Poetry) .

15 1 Reply
Pamela Sinicrope 16 September 2015

I'm so grateful to have come across both PoemHunter and Daniel Brick! I love reading and analyzing his poetry... His poetry often gets me thinking (dangerously) for days... In a good way. He is a supportive writer in that he provides both complementary as well as constructive commentary. I've enjoyed our exchanges over his poetry as well as my own. It's my personal goal to grow and improve as a writer and to just appreciate good writing. Daniel's participation on this site is a gift to all of us.

15 1 Reply
Bharati Nayak 23 February 2016

I am just awed by Daniel's poems and reviews.They have so much depth, they are so insightful.It is wonderful to see how he connects our inner self with the outer self.It is always a pleasure to read his reviews.He is not only a poet of very high stature but a good human being as he always inspires others with his positive words.He is a crusader against terrorism and inequality.We can never describe Daniel as a poet, critique or person in these few words.I only salute him for his great contribution to the world of literature.I am so lucky to have met him through this webite- -Poem Hunter..

15 1 Reply
Kelly Kurt 28 September 2015

Daniel is a poets poet. An erudite, educated, intelligent writer who uses all of the senses in his works. One cannot help but be swept up in his literature. The only part I do not like, is the end. I am always wanting more! I am not an 'educated' poet. I write without knowledge of how or why, but Mr. Brick does not choose to pick my errors to pieces. Instead, he carefully explains his interpretations and offers insight, letting me know what worked and, by default, what didn't. His comments come in paragraphs, not cliched phrases. Thank you sir for all you do for poetry and poets!

13 2 Reply

From time to time I keep coming back to read Daniel Brick quietly under the radar, more than a year after writing 'A Tribute To The Beautiful Poet Daniel Brick', I will finally post it like a sad goodbye.

0 0 Reply
Valentin Savin 29 May 2021

Daniel, do you happen to know what's happened to Brian Edwards Whitaker? I have not heard of him for quite a time. Thanks in advance for any comment. And please excuse my troubling you.

0 0 Reply
John Davison 19 April 2021

Daniel suffered a stroke on 16 March 2021 and sadly passed away from Earthly life. He graduated from St. Thomas Academy (1965) and the College of St. Thomas (1969) . He was a teacher for over 30 years.

0 0 Reply
Bharati Nayak 09 March 2021

Poetry was the Joy, War the Grief, and the two were knotted together like Fire in the Lake.--These are the lines from your poem on Robert Bly.Such a wonderful poem!

2 0 Reply
Bri Edwards 02 March 2021

RoseAnn Shawiak wanted me to send you her phone number to call, but it seems the 'new' PH doesn't give me a chance to send a PRIVATE MESSAGE to anyone here anymore. i wonder if PH is leaving ME out in

0 0 Reply

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