Biography of Daniel Brick
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to start families - a horrendous war had ended in total victory and the Great Depression had been replaced by the New Prosperity.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.
Daniel Brick's Works:
NONE A note about this issue of publishing. I would give strong encouragement to anyone wanting to publish THEIR poems. I did work as the editor for a friend's poems about his experiences in the Vietnam War, moving tragic, poems, heightened by his love for the Vietnamese. I myself am fulfilled by posting my poems here at POEMHUNTER for a group of readers I know and admire. We share our poems with each other every week.
Daniel Brick Poems
to mourn his passing, they
detach themselves from
books, magazines, wall hangings
for you this morning
in the pure light
of an untouched day.
Scattered rocks lie
beneath the moss-covered boulder.
the birds disguise themselves
as their own shadows,
before settling invisibly among the leaves.
Powerlines along my path bristled
with electric fire, scorching
Between Stone And Stars
Walking down Summit Avenue, I saw
the smooth stones and Romanesque arch
of St. Luke's Church, long ago my family's parish.
Inside a solitary parishioner knelt
in the last pew, clutching his rosary,
reciting 'Hail Marys' in a monotone.
My appearance hushed his prayer.
Then and there total silence
always poised within pale brown stones