I know what it’s like to be
unfriended
boycotted
disenfranchised
I know how it feels to be
on the outside
looking in
separate, not equal
I know what they mean when they say
I’m a bleeding heart
liberal
hippie
I understand they don’t mean that
as a compliment
in a pleasant way
with respect.
It hurts when old friends pile on
hurling epithets
hurting feelings
disregarding my rights
But I won’t back down because
my voice counts
I’m not stupid
I won’t be silenced.
I have a spoon for every need:
slotted,
bouillon,
curved and
Chinese,
cutty,
demitasse, and
dessert,
egg spoon,
grapefruit,
even a spork,
And yet all I require
Is a proper tool
with which to eat
my ice cream.
I was tiny. A speck on a ladybug’s spot. While all about the giants clomped and stomped
Trampling every blade of tender grass in their wide flung paths. Hey oh! They sing as they
Go, trundling hither and yon. And this speck hunkered down behind an oak leaf blown to
Ground by a fierce passing storm. Any port in a tempest, any leaf in a wind. Hide ye sweet
Speckled bairns. And live to breathe yet another sweet day outside of the giants’ bold gaze.
Lady in Green
By Leslie Noyes
sitting all alone in a bistro at noon, she was beautifully wrinkled, a smile for the ages.
Similarly alone, yet slightly less wrinkled, I claimed a seat in a nearby booth.
Waving my fingertips to catch her attention, I complimented her vibrant style,
Told her that particular shade of green suited her well, that she looked lovely.
She blushed an innocent shade of rose, saying, “Then I will wear it every day.”
We ordered, then discussed the importance of kindness as we munched our separate
Salads. I asked if she’d let me take her picture. There was that blush again.
After wiping a smudge of ranch dressing from the corner of her mouth she nodded permission.
It didn’t occur to me until I’d left the cafe that I should have asked her name.
I shared the picture of my anonymous lunch companion in a snapshot post a few days ago. The more I thought about her, the more I knew she needed her own poem.
My suggestion to my readers–find someone and tell them they’re lovely. Watching them blossom will make you feel lovely, too.
Peace, people.
I’ve long had a penchant for fast cars, and have even owned a few, though I seldom exceed the posted
Legal limit. What does this indicate about the nature of my driving? That I feel the need to speed, but lack the
Necessary courage to press the engine to the full extent of its ability? Or that I only use my car’s
Excessive horsepower as a tool to avoid potential collisions with less observant or less capable
Drivers? There is probably a metaphor for the way I live my life embedded in the
Lines of this poem, but to analyze it, I’d need to either slow down considerably or speed way up.
Friends through skinned knees and brownie scouts, shared all the secrets we’d figured
Out. Built our circle of misfit toys, hardly noticing the slights of those boys who found us too
Juvenile. We weren’t easy, but neither were we prudes. Eager to please, shy around those
More crude. Then I moved away, torn from our safety net; you found yourself caught in
Another web. Do you recall telling me that my leaving was the best thing that could have
Happened for you? I cannot imagine saying that to someone who’d been my friend.
But then maybe friendship was an illusion, and being discarded was the ugly truth.
I’ve forgiven you, but no longer trust you. Your silence now speaks volumes. Who are you?
The end of everything might’ve begun the day somebody told Donald Trump that he
Could be anything, even President, if he told enough lies and threw the right people
Under the right bus at the right time. He cowed his Republican opponents, one by bitter one.
Now, a tombstone engraved “R.I.P., G.O.P.” rises plaintively from a grave between
Reason and insanity; a silent symbol of the demise of the once proud party of Lincoln.
Just shy of midnight she sobs into her pillow. Gut wrenching, heartbreaking soul-searing expulsions of unmitigated sadness.
Down the hall, behind a sterile and locked door he offers a handkerchief, white, unsullied, starched and ironed to perfection.
Fat lot of good it does to hold out a hand that she’ll never see. But it’s all he has. All he can risk, this offer of quiet condolence.
We lingered over drinks, chatting about inconsequential topics. I like the Rangers,
You follow the Royals. I’m a Cowboys fan, you think I’m a fool. We laughed until
Tears traced meandering pathways down our cheeks. I claimed one lonely drop midway down
Your face, but you didn’t reciprocate. Maybe I mistook this connection. Maybe you aren’t
Invested as I am. Tell me I’m beautiful and I’ll forgive your lapse. Maybe I’ll believe you.
Photographic art by Julie Powell
The Colt’s Concern
Words by Leslie Noyes
I had a dream last night of galloping like the wind, of leaving your warm side and running with new friends.
Scary, it was, yet exhilarating, too, the further I ran the harder it was to find my way back to you.
You dreamed, my colt, of life as it should someday be. The time will come when you no longer have a need for me.
How will I know when the time is right to strike out on my own, a colt no more, instead a mighty stallion?
There’ll surely be false starts before you venture out; that day’s not set in stone, and we’re never free from doubt.
If it’s all the same to you, I’ll hang out here awhile longer, let my legs lengthen and my heart beat stronger.
Sweet son, stay until you’re ready in your body and your soul. I will gladly keep you close and proudly watch you grow.
Check out Julie Powell’s blog at https://juliepowell2014.wordpress.com/
Praying for Eyebrowz 