when was the last time, and did we know then that it would be?
no, for if i had understood i’d have held on forever, the end would never come;
i’d will it away.
there were tears that neither of us understood at the time.
i laughed them off. “this was too beautiful,” or something equally inane.
maybe if i hadn’t laughed, if the tears had continued, the denoument
would have only
been an interlude.
This was inspired by these stills from the film The End of the Affair.
Peace, people.
Sometimes in the early morning
after my man has left for work,
but before I have left our bed,
I hear a melody playing behind
my eyelids, soft yet insistent.
Instantly, though, once I open
my eyes, the sweet strains are
dissipated, music diffused all
throughout the greater cosmos,
and in vain I seek the source.
Creeping stealthily from covers
I tiptoe through our quiet home
pausing with held breath hoping
to surprise the makers of music,
but at hide and seek they excel.
The tiny musicians, for they must
be faeries, or related small folk,
lurk just outside of my eyesight’s
range, giggling giddily of that I
am sure; mischief is their nature.
So I return to bed, to the comfort
of my blankets and snuggle down in
a cloud of cool cotton and fleece.
My breaths lengthen, my eyes close,
and the music begins playing again.
I actually do hear phantom music, and have my entire life. Until I mentioned it to someone else I just assumed everyone heard it. While that used to freak me out, now I just accept the music as a quirky blessing. It’d be nice, though, if I could get a number one hit out of it.
Peace, people!
falling out of practice, of silencing alarms and stumbling to the shower of matching shoes to skirt and scarf to blouse, willy nilly dash to desk days run neck and neck galloping for the checkered flag, no, the finish line where clocks are punched morning and evening, and mondays aren’t mistaken for tuesdays or heaven forbid, fridays. appointments keep their allotted places and there is no need to ask, “what day is this?”
Peace, people!
I take myself apart
piece by piece:
a nose too long,
a chin too weak,
moods too intense,
and patience too thin.
There are no redeeming
qualities as far as my eyes can see.
Still, I hold hope that
somewhere deep in my bones
beauty does reside,
I only get a glimpse
when I witness and honor
the beauty in others:
generosity,
forgiveness,
acceptance,
gratitude.
the spiritual overcomes the physical.
the soul embraces the imperfect.
there you are
the mythical man;
although, your photo is dated two years past.
it must be
genetic wisdom
our lofty foreheads, near mirror imaged
faces.
ideas of you
ephemeral then
almost mythical in scope to the child I
was.
always wedged
in a crevasse deep
somewhere outside my heart, yet within
me.
no hero;
you never answered.
i fantasized your presence; you never
came.
you can’t know
how often i’ve wondered
would you have loved me if you’d stuck
around?
peace, people.
reclined on
a bed of nails
sharpened spikes
evenly distributed,
i entrust the safety
of my body’s unmarked skin
to the holy force of physics
and still, in the quietude
of darkest, velvet night
the troubled mind can
find no peace tucked
beneath a concrete
blanket of equal
and opposite
forces.
selfies:
one of the kardashians, kanye’s wife,
kim, published a coffee table book around her favorite
selfies.
hundreds
of pictures of kim, provocative, poised,
playful, compiled for public perusal,
appropriately titled
“selfish.”
i did not
purchase this book; however, i wonder
if it could be used as a template for my own book of
selfies.
so far, of
the twelve selfies in my iphone, only
two do not render my visage as a distorted picasso
painting.
much work remains.
Peace, people!
Copyright 2016. All rights reserved by Leslie Noyes.
Note: I have no connection at all to Picasso, nor to Kim Kardashian, never have been or intend to make any monies or free lunches on the back of this post, and to my knowledge was never a model for Picasso or for Kim.
I never knew I was a fan of frogs’ singing
until I moved into a home by a
lake.
Rough voices color the night while
mingling
with lights dancing off of the water’s
face.
In unison the choir stops to admire the
stars,
to imagine the sound of joined voices in
space
A whisper bounces back from galaxy’s
edge
ribbit! ribbit! echoing through the Milky Way.
Written in response to the Daily Post’s Daily Prompt:
This Is Your Song
Take a line from a song that you love or connect with. Turn that line into the title of your post.
“The Lyrics”
by Leslie Noyes
My head is
full of
lyrics
they roll
through
my soul like
honey and
thunder.
These words
soothe and attack,
seek and destroy,
reduce and elevate.
My only
defense
is to
join my
voice to
the melody,
dance
to the
beat,
or sob.
I’m reduced to tears every time I hear “Eleanor Rigby” by The Beatles. I’ve highlighted my favorite line.
Eleanor Rigby
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been
Lives in a dream
Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for?
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?
Father McKenzie writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear
No one comes near
Look at him working, darning his socks in the night when there’s nobody there
What does he care?
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Eleanor Rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name
Nobody came
Father McKenzie wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave
No one was saved.
All the lonely people (Ah, look at all the lonely people)
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people (Ah, look at all the lonely people)
Where do they all belong?
THE BEATLES lyrics are property and copyright of their owners. “Eleanor Rigby” lyrics provided for educational purposes and personal use only.
Copyright © 2000-2016 AZLyrics.com
we’ve all
been there,
done that;
inadvertently
chosen
the wrong path
or even worse,
knowingly picked
the greater
of two evils,
and still
others never
had the chance
to see the
paths of
separation
distinct for a
few, a blur to
many.
why for some
are such choices
ruinous,
unforgiveable,
irredeemable?
and for others,
merely sleeping
police in
destiny’s way?
happy accidents
of birth,
color, and
privilege
create a
line delineating
the merely flawed
from the
tragically
ill-fated.
we know our place
even if we refuse
the claiming.
Praying for Eyebrowz 