Black Days and White Knights

Black Days and White Knights
by Leslie Noyes

She wiped down the counter,
Rinsed out the cloth and draped it on the sink’s edge to dry.
At least three times each day, often more,
Her life boiled down to these
Clean counters.

Daydreams of white knights,
Daring rescues carried out beneath a watchful dragon’s eyes.
While envious ladies-in-waiting stood, wringing expertly manicured hands,
Sighing wistfully.

She never learned their names.
The knights blurred one into another over forty years of drudgery.
And those ladies never amounted to much, married hastily in stiff organza,
Ignoring dragons.

“The Sword of Air” by R.J. Madigan

Cup of Tea

I don’t want to be your cup of tea
Bar me from the cool kids’ table
I’ve outgrown your silly rules
No more need to be in your stable.

Do they know you talked about them
Confidentially, behind their backs?
I’m sure now I wasn’t immune
From your quick tongue and its attacks

All those years I played along
Feeling dizzy underneath your wings
That elitest delight was heady stuff
I giggled at your sharp barbed stings.

And now I just feel remorse
For the many years I wasted
Striving to be inside your circle
And the bitterness I tasted.

The Bracelet

We all wore one, a spring steel bracelet bearing the name of a
Young soldier, a prisoner of war, or missing in action in a foreign land
I prayed every morning and every night for this faceless man,
In my mind he was handsome and brave, with a shy smile and sad eyes.
He just wanted to be fishing in a pond, drinking a beer, flirting
With his best girl, watching the Cowboys play on a Sunday afternoon.
Instead, he was stuck in a prison, and my teenaged mind could not,
Would not contemplate what conditions he might be living under.
I worried over that bracelet, twisting it this way and another until one
Day it snapped, and I lost one half. I never discovered what happened to
The man whose name I wore. All that remains are the letters CDR Q,
On half a bracelet, and try as I might I cannot recall his whole name.

Took Me Long Enough!

I posted my first piece on July 10, 2014, and voila! It only took me nearly three years to reach the 1,000 follower mark. Oh, and if you add in my follower numbers from Facebook (468), Tumblr (78), and Twitter (237), it’s still fairly dismal, especially considering that many of those are folks who follow me on more than one platform. 

So why do I continue? I asked Studly Doright, my husband of forty plus years why he thought I continued writing in spite of my low followership. He said, “I dunno. Because you’re a masochist?”

So there you go! And if you’re a follower, thanks for being here! I love each and every one of you. Yes, even you. 

Peace, people!

I Still Want to Dance

When the music starts,
when the beat begins,
I still want to move
like I did way back when

My hips find their groove
My feet find the beat
Hands sway in time
And I can’t keep my seat

Lord, I know I’m past the age
Of raising hell on the floor,
But when that downbeat hits
I beg for one dance more.

Bully for You

America, land of the free,
Home of the bullies.
We elected one to the
Highest office, after all.

A self-proclaimed
Grabber of pussies,
Slum lord,
Inciter of violence.

He’s a tiny fisted
Litigious nightmare,
Get out of his way,
Let him preen.
What’s to admire?
This browbeater.
This petty elitist.

Bully for you.

Canopied Road

No destination in mind, I was free to choose. Flip a coin, left or right, or perhaps bear straight ahead where a 

Canopied road beckons, shadow-stippled, playing footsie with the sun. No artist painted this. Slow down,

Patterns shift with the slightest whisper of wind. Blink, and the world has changed already. Dark to light and back

Again. A forest green turtle ventures a crossing. Hurry, little guy, not all who travel here will care if you safely reach your

Destination. He ignores my wave, but soldiers on, tiptoeing persistently across this canopied road. His choice matters, too.

Days Off

Days Off by Leslie Noyes

I gave my characters the weekend off. The beggars were complaining that I was working them too hard; that the

Hours were too long and the pay too cheap. I swear, I’d fire them all if I could. Except for the smart ass who keeps

Coming up with all the witty lines. I swear, he makes me laugh even when I’m trying my level best to be serious.

He has a mind of his own. How can that be? Isn’t he a figment of my imagination? A golden boy with a quick wit

That I can’t control. I hate to play favorites, yet there’s no denying this guy is stringing me along. Too much time invested in him now.

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