Tag: love

Practice Made Perfect

He began preparing for her death years before the actual event; his shocked expression;

A hand clasped to his chest. Practiced repeatedly asking what had happened followed

By a stumbling pause. When the time came, though, he found himself genuinely grieved;

Motions more than mere pantomimes of loss. Maybe, he thought, I’d actually loved her.

Reflecting on this he realized he’d never fully appreciated her. Their home became mausoleum-like,

Every photo of her, just her, now papered the walls. His own visage cut away, often raggedly.

His guilt lurked in every corner, yet no one ever looked. Rehearsal had been his undoing.

Slow Dancing

Put my head on your shoulder
This feels so right
You don’t like to dance,
But maybe you might
Enjoy holding me close
While shuffling our feet
Kissing during the refrain
More on the downbeat.
I love you so much
That I forgot how to dance
That’s the truest love
The biggest romance.
But sometimes I wish
That you’d welcome the chance
To take me in your arms
And initiate the dance.

A Poem for Helen

Some people light up the world. Not in a showy, boastful way, or a flashy, sassy way,

But in a deep down, soul-satisfying, love you with every beat of my heart kind of way.

Their spirits are so infused with goodness and grace that they make everyone around

Them feel important and valued and loved. My mother-in-law, Helen is one of these

Extraordinary people who can erase your fears with only words and a calming touch,

Whose faith and spirit make you glad to be alive and in her presence. Today we 

Celebrate her being on this earth for eighty glorious years, and we hope for many

Many more. 

Calling 

A glass of wine on the table
Merlot, smooth and deep red
Grains of sand on the patio
A new book waiting to be read.

Drowsy sighs escaping lips
A touch of lethargy inspired
By recurring sips from the
Depths of a broad bottomed bowl.

Call me to your boudoir soon
With opened, welcoming arms
And I will answer eagerly
My love, I’m coming home.

  

Rusty Whiskers

He walked tall, that Rusty Whiskers, said what he meant and meant what he said.

Devoted to doing the right, if not popular, thing, while spreading peace, love, and

Fried shrimp across this massive land. His life a benevolent mystery, marked by epic

Climbs to far off mountaintop gurus. The meaning of life intertwined with the taste 

Of beef jerky and dried sunflower seeds. A brief dance with cocaine kept him humble,

Unaddicted, but slightly paranoid. Always up for a good story; always there for the 

Woman he loves. His pottery and her signs bringing enlightenment to the masses.

  
Several days ago the words “Rusty Whiskers” popped into my mind. I rolled the words around trying to decide what needed to be done with them. Then, lo and behold, I meet a man named Rusty and his lovely lady, Sherry. It seemed like a sign. 

I’m pretty sure Rusty Whiskers will appear in future posts. That name is just too great to let go.

One Day

Mother, in your life
did we honor your efforts?
Not nearly enough.

Only when you left
could we see your worth, your love
so ingrained was it.

Do we mark our breaths
or the beating of our hearts?
You were everything.

We give you this day
however insufficient
filled with all our love.

I miss you, Mom.

  

When God Speaks

https://www.facebook.com/leslie.h.noyes/posts/10207965981321722

When God speaks I hear
Love others as yourself
Judge not
Fear not

When some hear God
They say He wants them to
Run for office
Exclude others
Discriminate

I really doubt that’s
God talking.

When One Cat Cannot Find the Other 

What a commotion she makes when her sister goes missing

Even though when they’re paired there’s often much hissing

Rooower! Rooower! Scout calls as she wanders

Come out! Right now! Where are you? She ponders.

When finally lured from her best hiding place

Patches stretches long, with disdain on her face.

Dear sister, Patches yawns, I was here all along

Why did you disturb me with your strident song?

But Scout is oblivious having now claimed

The comfortable spot on which Patches had lain.

Crafty cat Scout
Gullible sister Patches

Love’s Song

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. 

 


When Mercy was Murdered

The day they murdered Mercy we all stood still around
Hands inside our pockets; eyes firmly on the ground
Unwilling to witness the death of our dear friend,
Yet complicit were we in assuring her end.

Fierce sun beat down, unabridged, unabated
Sweat’s stench laced with fear filled the street, permeated
No respite in shade on summer’s cloudless day
Mercy lost a step, slumped into a sway.

Sharpened spears in their grasps, old men prodded apace
Laughing and pawing as she fell upon her face
Roughened hands yanked bleeding Mercy sharply to her feet
Spun her in a circle, stomping to a beat.

The scene looked so familiar as we’d lost Hope two days past,
And Mercy’s fate was sealed when she stood up at the last
Calling foul upon accusers, judge, and jury, in the wrong
But the damage was done and Hope was dead before that day was done.

Now most pray that Mercy’s end will come without a hitch
That we can mourn in silence; no one will raise a fist
Surely if we remain inert the murderers will soon tire
Of dragging innocents to their deaths upon a raging pyre.

The grisly deed is drawing near, the wood begins to smolder
Perhaps we ought to save her, perhaps we should be bolder.
But we bargained for this merciless life when we let Charity die
Upon the bloody campaign trail stoked by wicked lies.