Perched above the madness,
waiting with the grimmest purpose,
Gargoyle surveys the ants below,
their blustery hustle to and fro.
With centuries beneath his gnarly claws
he feigns a wisdom deep,
when all he craves both night and day
is but a chance to sleep.
For sculptor’s hands in finest form denied the beast the skill
Of exerting tiny muscles
When weariness sets in.
Ages upon ages his gaze
is fixed in weathered stone,
with no respite from this world
he abides in all alone.
Today is judgement day, as was yesterday, and the day before. Tomorrow will hold
The same status. For those who claim a day of reckoning to be lurking around the
Corner, I cry, Indeed! Both the corner facing us and the one ’round which we’ve strolled
Already. We face our God each sunrise and answer for our sins. We are sorted by our
Love or lack thereof, by our compassion and generosity. That book of life I reckon
Lists not the rolls of church membership, but the names of those who stand with the
Downtrodden, the marginalized, those who are shunned by the establishment.
Tell me to get right with Jesus, and I’ll ask who you’ve fed today. Tell me I’m bound
For hell, and I’ll plan a party for us both. I hear marshmallows toast well down there.
Walk on the wild side
across the unpaved
alley where the bulbs
in the street lights
have long since burnt out.
Climb the fence clearly
marked No Trespassing!
Take aim at the sacred
cows, tip them over in
night’s pastures.
Skirt civilization’s
political boundaries,
imaginary lines etched
on two dimensional
world renderings.
Venture too close to the
edges, and if you’re lucky
you might fall into
the realm of the
heroically unsalvagable.
I stopped at the edge of the forest, my feet toeing the line
Between sunlight and shadow, where squirrels scampered
Among crisped leaves, up and around the magnolias. No physical
Barrier barred my way, no fence or wall impeded, yet
My eyes lost focus in the dappling of the light, and I
Hesitated to stray outside the confines of the civilized
World, where the rose-scented wind had my back.
Her Collection
by Leslie Noyes
Pictures developed by her own hands arranged in haphazard collages
Adorned her rented flat. Categorized by color, style, and cut on poster board
Displayed on every available smooth surface. Dozens more she had stored
Beneath her narrow bed, occasionally swapping them out for those plastered
Around the room. She found one image in particular fascinating this day: A hand,
Dismembered, floating in a pool of viscous red. Soothing and exhilarating. Yes, she
Thought, This will go nicely with the severed head above the bureau. Smiling, she
Admired her shapely form in the cheval glass beside the door. Slipping a scalpel
Into a simple black clutch, off into the night she strolled. Stalking her collection.
Honestly, this started as a poem about a lonely woman collecting fashion photos and dreaming of wearing the items pictured to galas and royal affairs. Somewhere along the way a macabre little muse paid a visit. Maybe another day I’ll write the other poem.
Prairie sky resplendent in ozone scented spring
Promises made by rainbow’s arch spatter way out yonder
Concerned eyes watch storm’s progression stringing out hope for moisture
In a land that’s always thirsty, cumulonimbus delivers mixed blessings.
Distant rumbles echo over endless grassy acres, singing the clouds home.
My friend Ann (a.k.a. Harva) shot this picture on her land Monday afternoon. There is nothing like a prairie storm.
Heated arguments arise with names called and choices questioned. I hold my own
Most of the time, keeping a cool head even when others seek to goad me into ugly
Banter about this candidate or that policy. Occasionally though my cool demeanor
Slips away leaving righteous anger shooting from my fingertips. Sarcasm
Dripping from my well-schooled tongue. Oh, ye of closed minded beliefs, heed me!
I am Fury. A woman unsubmissive, unintimidated, unrepentant. Ultimately
Remorseful and exhausted. So much for keeping to the high road.
Peace, people.
I remember the night I fell in love. We were parked in the country sitting side by
Side in the front seat of his powder blue Plymouth. His arm around my shoulders
Warming us both. I’d been out of town a week for Christmas break. He’d missed me
He’d said, and leaned in for a kiss. On a whim I snatched up his motorcycle helmet
From the backseat and put it on. He kissed me through the face shield. I giggled,
I think I might like you. Without hesitation he responded, I think I might love you.
He raised the barrier and kissed me again, my lips felt his heat as my heart did its
Best bird imitation, fluttering helplessly. Life changed at that instant.
Our futures merged in some soothsayer’s crystal ball, ups and downs, crappy days,
Great ones, children and grands. Forty years together began in a Plymouth Fury.
I went out to fetch our mail last Thursday afternoon enjoying the brief walk up our driveway. We had one catalog and a bit of junk mail in the mailbox. No bills were in the mix, and that’s always a good thing.
The melodies of dozens of birds mingled on the breeze, and I spoke to a squirrel. They seldom speak back, yet I never give up hope.
As I headed back to the house I noted a curious clicking noise, perhaps one squirrel scolding another. Instead of going in through our garage I walked around the back of the house, hoping to surprise whatever critter was click clicking.
The instant I turned the corner I realized what was going on. A big, fat black snake slid away from me, and the birds had been warning one another. I should learn to speak Bird.
For the first time in my life I did not jump or squeal at the sight of the snake. Shouldn’t there be a medal for such an impressive show of bravery? Or at least a round of applause. Go ahead. I’ll wait.
Oddly enough I’d had Emily Dickinson’s poem, Snake on my mind this morning, so I snapped a photo of it from the website online-literature.com.
I will never be Ms. Dickinson’s equal in the art of poetry, but I calmly faced a snake. Take that, Emily!
The visitor looked much like this guy. I believe he is a Black Pine snake. Handsome, isn’t he? And quite polite.
Peace, people!
I had so much fun bumming around the Word of [South] festival on Saturday that I couldn’t wait to return on Sunday. Pre-festival I stopped in at one of my favorite eateries, the Crepevine for breakfast and then once at Cascades Park I was immediately handed a free mimosa. Life was good!
Part of me was a little nervous that Sunday wouldn’t be able to compete with Saturday, but that free mimosa totally erased my doubts. I’m uncomplicated that way.
My first stop was to the stage where an act billed as The Sonnet Man was already in progress. http://www.thesonnetmannyc.com 
This young man has set Shakespeare’s sonnets and soliloquies to music, creating “Hip-Hop Shakespeare Fusion.” He was incredibly fun. I loved watching the kids in the audience head bobbing to Sonnet 130.
Next up on the same stage was musician Jim White, whose debut album, The Mysterious Tale of How I Shouted “Wrong-Eyed Jesus” was the inspiration behind the 2003 doucumentary “Searching for the Wrong-Eyed Jesus.”
http://www.jimwhite.net
I became an instant fan of Jim White who bills himself on his website as “songer/songwriter, author, fine art photographer, crackpot philosopher, folk artist, record producer, film maker, dad.” He’s quirky, immensely talented, and might be a little addictive.
Jim’s set made me thirsty. There might’ve been alcohol involved, but I had decisions to make. Did I want to listen to Grant Peeples and Tom Franklin or Chatham County Line? Ultimately I flipped a coin and ended up at Grant Peeple’s gig.
Pictured below is Grant. He’s the bald guy. I didn’t catch his guitarist’s name. A self-described “’vegetarian that watches NASCAR, and tree-hugger with a gun below the seat,’Grant Peeples is known for his axe-sharp socio-political tunes, raucous humor and heart-gigging ballads.”
Watching the crowd as Grant performed, it occurred to me that many in attendance weren’t quite grasping that his lyrics were hitting close to home. He poked pointed fun at the GOP, racists, homophobes, etc., and they loved him.
http://grantpeeples.com
Trading off with Grant was author Tom Franklin, who read aloud excerpts from his novel, Smonk. https://g.co/kgs/uCw4M
I didn’t get to the book tent in time to purchase his book, but it quickly was added to my wish list on Amazon. He writes the south as he sees it, and he sees it clearly.
Next on my impromptu itinerary was author Adam Johnson. Adam is an FSU graduate with some serious writing credentials. According to Wikipedia “Adam Johnson is a Pulitzer Prize-winning American novelist and short story writer.
“He won the Pulitzer for his 2012 novel, The Orphan Master’s Son. He is also a professor of English at Stanford University with a focus on creative writing.”
Adam read his short story, Nirvana, and had the audience in the palm of his hand. Check out this man’s work. He is amazing. https://g.co/kgs/ZdTev
You’d think I could’ve gone home happy after all I’d experienced, but like a glutton I stayed for one more author, renowned columnist Leonard Pitts, Jr. Having read Mr. Pitts’s column in the Miami Herald for years I could scarcely believe I was sitting just a few feet from him as he read excerpts from his latest novel, Grant Park.
I was in awe, and pray that I didn’t sit there on the front row with my jaw hanging open like a beached fish during his talk. He also offered his keen insights on the current political climate in the U.S. and accepted questions from the audience.
As soon as the applause died down at the end of the presentation I sprinted to the book sellers’ tent and bought a copy of Grant Park.
Best of all, I made him laugh when he signed my book. Leonard Pitts, Jr. has a great laugh. Here’s the link to his website:
http://www.leonardpittsjr.com
What an awesome day. I cannot wait to dig into the books I purchased, and I’m already looking forward to next year’s festival.
Peace, and happy reading, people.
Praying for Eyebrowz 