What’s in Your Well?

What’s in Your Well 

Where do you go, storyteller?
The days are bright in your world.
Or dark.
Take us there.
Down endless flights of stairs with monsters lurking in the shadows underneath.
Or up to soaring heights filled with cumulonimbus clouds and rainbows around every corner.
Make us laugh.
Or cry.
Give us hopes.
Or dash them.
Throw stones against the barriers that separate man from God.
Hold a blanket close over our shared memories.
Don’t let us hide from the starkness of truth exposed by harsh sunlight.
Or from the shadowy world of imagination.
Illumination.
You draw from your well.
I can’t even find mine.

I Have Love

I Have Love

I have love, ill-defined and tenuous,
Hollowed out and scurrilous.
Jealous to a fault,
Impervious.

Brittle love, strained and anxious,
Stretched too thin, dangerous.
Pushed past the limit,
Hazardous.

Save me from love, rude and ridiculous,
Martyred and meticulous.
Grasping for straws,
Ludicrous.

All This and Cataracts, Too.

All This and Cataracts, Too

Sometimes I kid myself:

I’m young, sexy, skinny, and brilliant.

Yes, I kid myself.

In reality, I’m old, dumpy, chunky, and bland.

And now I’m told I have cataracts. Yes, they’re “baby cataracts,” and shouldn’t be an issue for a number of years, but dammit all to hell; I have cataracts.

I see trouble on the horizon. Wait! I can’t see the horizon!


Peace, people.

©2017 by Leslie Noyes

Snapshot #142

I took this photo after Easter last year while visiting La Antigua de Guatemala. I believe this was a view of one of the staging areas for Holy Week displays, so a good title might be “Santa Semana 2016.”

Smelly Car

Studly Doright likes to trade cars. When he’s had the same vehicle for the span of a year I can feel him getting antsy to find the next great deal, so it came as no surprise when he sheepishly showed me a photo of a little Cadillac sports sedan and told me he’d bought it on eBay.

“It’ll be my golf vehicle,” he said.

“I thought the Dodge pickup was your golf vehicle,” I countered.

“Well, it was, but I’ll sell it.”

“What about the little Nissan convertible? Wasn’t it also your golf vehicle?”

“You know it gets lousy gas mileage. I’ll sell it, too.”

As long as I have a decent car to drive I really don’t care what Studly drives, but I had to give him a hard time. When the car didn’t arrive on time I began needling him.

“Are you sure you’re dealing with reputable people?” I asked. “What if they never deliver your Cadillac?”

“It’ll be here. It’s in Detroit and they had a huge blizzard last week.”

Two days later, still no Cadillac. I again questioned the prudence of buying a car sight unseen. Finally, though, the transport driver called to say he’d be in Tallahassee on Sunday afternoon, so when he sent an address I drove Studly into town to meet the truck. 

The car was badass: Silver, with black leather seats, and every bell and every whistle one could ask for. It also came with one unexpected bonus–the nastiest smell I’ve ever encountered outside of a garbage dump.

The smell wasn’t organic. Nothing had died in the car. It was a chemical type smell, as if  someone had used it as a vat for tanning animal hides. Gag!

Studly was in denial.

“It’s not so bad,” he protested, when I refused to ride in the car.

“Three Mile Island was less toxic than this car,” I said.

“Maybe it just needs a coconut scented air freshener,” he didn’t actually say, but I knew he was thinking it.

“Let me deal with it,” I sighed.

So for the past week while Studly has been at work I’ve coaxed the nasty smell out of his Caddy. Long drives down country roads with every window rolled down and the moon roof fully open have made a huge improvement in the car’s smell. It’s not yet quite to the pleasant stage, but I have a reasonable expectation that it soon will smell almost like a new vehicle. And it’s such fun to drive.

Maybe Studly has learned a lesson about buying cars on eBay. Or not. Regardless, life with him is never boring.


Phoebe Buffay knew a little about smelly things:

https://youtu.be/XNXIZuIBJKs

Snapshots #140 and #141

This tree on the shore of Lake Ella in Tallahassee is my favorite of all the trees I have ever known. It’s massive and friendly and magnificent. I call this one, “Tree of My Heart.”


Baby, You Know What I Want

Baby, you know what I want…

…I want to eat fried chicken and potato salad without worrying about gaining a pound. That’s it. I got a whiff of a stranger’s fried chicken meal yesterday and now that’s all I can think about. 

My goal is to lose ten more pounds before we leave for Ireland’s fair shores in June, though, so I’ll have to settle for the next best thing to fried chicken: Gary Larson’s Far Side chicken.



I’m still hungry for fried chicken. 

Peace, people.

I Lost My Marble

A few months ago I posted a whimsical piece about the thoughts I entertained while picking up a marble with my toes. (Link below, if you’re interested.) The exercise eventually helped reform my wayward middle metatarsal, and I dispensed with the activity.

Recently, though, my metatarsal began behaving badly again. When I went to find my marble it was gone. I truly had lost my marble. I looked high and low, mumbling to myself like some sort of mad woman. The cats, who I suspect of having had something to do with my marble’s disappearance watched me warily as I dove into drawers, cast shoes about the closet, and peered into dark corners and between chair cushions. Alas, no marble.

So when I spied a jar of marbles at a shop in Apalachicola with the sign, “Marbles: 30 for $1.00,” I grabbed a couple of greenies and took them to the checkout counter. 

“Only two?” The proprietor asked.

“Yes sir, you see I lost my marble and I’m looking for a replacement. The second one’s insurance.”

“In that case, no charge,” he said. “Never let it be said that I deprived a woman of her marbles.”

Call me crazy, but I think he just wanted me out of his store.

https://nananoyz5forme.com/2016/10/13/thoughts-while-picking-up-a-marble-with-my-toes/

Snapshot #139

I’m trying to finish a project (alright, a nap), when Patches inserted herself into the scenario, insisting that I rise from my comfortable spot and get her a treat. I call this one, “Can You Hear Me Meow?”

The Dark Places

Everyone knows the dark places, those that linger on the edge of consciousness like a Neil Young song. 

Down by the River, why’d you shoot your baby? Did you go into that dark place and become so 

Disoriented that there was no return? I watched myself in a mirror once. Got lost in my own eyes,

And almost drowned in a river of madness before clawing my way back to the other side. 

But no one even knew I’d ventured over. I washed my hands and splashed water on my face

Before going to prepare a simple beef casserole for dinner. The onions made my eyes water.

“Woman Looking at Herself in Mirror,” artist Katsushika Hokusai (1760-1849)