Category: Poetry

Travel Games You Cannot Play on an Airplane 

One cannot play the alphabet game, the signs are too far below,

And the license plate game is likewise moot, no cars zip to and fro.

One could play the I Spy game, at least a round or two

Until it’s apparent that the objects in view are limited to just a few.

Name That Tune is out, ’cause other passengers aren’t amused,

When you sing an off key Yellow Submarine and they all feel abused.

So I’ll twiddle my thumbs and wiggle my ears the better to pass the time

Or maybe I’ll write silly poems, some may even rhyme.

A Long Way, Baby

I’ve come a long way, baby,
Still got a long way to go.
Every time I think I’m there,
I find myself laid low

Try to rise above the hate,
Ignore the arrows and slings.
They go low, I try going high,
But, damn, their insults sting.

These days of alternate truths,
Lies, if truth be told,
Just wear me out in spirit,
Got me feeling old

But I have come a long way
And I’ll keep traveling on
The road often will be rough
And I’ve got skills to hone.

Slimy Lies

Like multi jointed worms, oozing from the earth after a thunderous summer storm, slimy lies wend their way from

Dark places of hiding, feeding on hate and prejudice until the traction they gain propels them through the conscienceless

Oral orifices of greedy politicians. Alternative facts, misrepresentations, broken promises, all squirm from their tongues.

The Fear Gremlin

There are nights when I lie awake, terrified for what the future might hold. Tomorrow is a gremlin crouching in dark 

Corners, his fingers wrapped around all the possibilities. There are madmen in charge of our security: liars and mobsters and

Thieves, that some hailed as saviors. But now, those of us who’ve studied history know we’ve crossed lines that may

Never be uncrossed. Who will save us from the gremlin? Who will pry his bony digits from our lives? Only we can save ourselves.

Endings and Beginnings 

I never cared for endings, the final breaths of dying embers, glowing stubbornly, banked against the coldest 

Night. Beginnings, though, bright promises of better days, slipping through the grates, landing on my doorstep, 

With a grand thud. Extra! Extra! Dream all about it. Wrap a ribbon around the past. Cap it off with a shot of tequila.

When Things Change

We age, first in slow-motion, will we ever ride a bike, drive a car, kiss a guy, marry well, bear children?

Then in a blur of wrinkles and gray hair,
Burgeoning numbers of bad cholesterol
Measured in blood tests,

Weighed against stress tests, when we thought our testing days were done. The numbers now matter

More than did our percentages on history tests and English exams. We only thought those were matters of life and death.

The Winds

The Winds
by Leslie Noyes

Can you see the winds?
Or merely the dust they move?
Motes dancing on air


Particulates swirl
Rising high on thermal waves
Swept beyond borders


Across the oceans
Your specks mingle with my own
Touching the same light

Climbing El Capitan

I watched the news, the pictures of a man climbing El Capitan alone. A solo feat, no wires, no safety net, 

Only chalk and hands, feet and guts. I struggle climbing stairs. I’ve fallen on level surfaces, tripping on my

Own shoelaces, or worse yet, over nothing at all. I’ll drink a toast to the man and his mountain, and ask for help getting to bed.

It’s a really long walk, and the tiles are slippery.

The Invisible Woman

She waved her arms, jumped up and down, but not a single person noticed, even though there were plenty near.

Her bold orange blouse and flamboyant floral jodhpurs, a sight to behold for those who might’ve seen, had

They bothered. A certain age had rendered her transparent, of no apparent interest to the world at large. Their loss,

She thought, launching into a power ballad that threatened to shatter windows. Except no one was listening. 

https://g.co/kgs/ICTSWF

Because I Can’t Scream in Public

There is a gargoyle living in my gut. His gruesome stone snarl scraping against my colon. The heartburn never ends.

He must have moved in as a pebble, a tiny worry about what could be, and every minute since that shitty November day he’s

Grown more abrasive, more corrosive, taking up too many centimeters of my being. He spits acid from a contorted tongue,

Searing the lining of my duodenum, creating blisters that won’t soon heal. Resistance hurts, but acquiescence kills.