Tag: poetry

Things I Didn’t Do This Weekend

Things I Didn’t Do This Weekend

By Leslie Noyes

This weekend I didn’t decorate my house for the holidays, but neither did I run naked through the neighborhood.

On Saturday I didn’t bake cookies, but neither did I shave my head and paint it berserker blue.

I don’t think I cried, but then I really don’t think I laughed, either.

I purposely did not attempt to slide down any banisters; although, I was tempted to throw myself down a staircase.

I’m trying hard to balance the good with the bad, you see. I’m still here. Wondering if that’s good. Or bad.

A Drop in the Bucket

A Drop in the Bucket

by Leslie Noyes

One shard’s sharp clatter

Finally hitting bottom

Way down in the well

No splash forthcoming

Water dried up years ago

Does no good to cry

Keep shoveling dirt

Keep plowing those narrow rows

Keep harvesting naught

I grew up in the Texas panhandle, one of the areas hardest hit by the Dust Bowl. Although that was before my time, I heard many a tale from my grandparents about the dark days when the dirt blew non-stop, filling every nook and cranny and clogging lungs.

Several years ago, a book club I belonged to in Illinois, read the book, The Worst Hard Time by Timothy Egan. It’s a rather long book filled with firsthand accounts of the Dust Bowl Days, and while I don’t usually indulge in nonfiction, I found this book fascinating.

When the book club members met to discuss The Worst Hard Time I was excited to share my perspectives. One woman, a New Yorker transplanted to Illinois, couldn’t believe that people still live in the Texas and Oklahoma panhandles. I assured her that not only did people still live there, they thrived.

I highly recommend the book. If you read it, let me know what you think.

Peace, people.

Not an Option

Not an Option

By Leslie Noyes

Failure, under the spotlight, turned down a wrong road, dined at the bad trough, lessons learned.

Heartache, walked on the tightrope, fell into an abyss on the highway to hell. Seeking penance forevermore.

Trust, sought, but not earned, squandered in bushels, by deeds too heinous to tell. Forgiveness sought.

Grace, offered in buckets, washed in the blood of the everlasting lamb. Earnest prayers offered with hands raised in praise.

My Place

I know my place, here between the have nots and the one percenters. Aware of the inequities and the extravagances,

My heart catches at the injustices, the injuries, those who’ve not fallen through the cracks, as much as having been ground into them.

The ledge I occupy, precarious as it is, teeters on the edge of future fortunes and unseen pitfalls. I know my place.

If I Couldn’t Go Home

Where would I go if I couldn’t go home? Would I find the means to travel the world, a vagabond with no tether?

Might I show up in postcards mailed from exotic destinations, wish you here, but secretly glad you stayed behind?

I’m afraid I’d live in a marginal world, on the edge of respectability, begging scraps from passing cars.

If I couldn’t go home, I would never build a new one. I lack the proper tools, but perhaps I’d find a better one.

A Broken Heart

I can point out the cracks,

The places that never quite heal

This one from Newtown

Another from a Texas church

And all those in between

Etchings on this old heart,

Dinged by each death,

Pitted by the greed of lawmakers

Broken by the callous, rote responses,

Their thoughts and prayers

Who will take this cup from me?

Who wants this scarred heart?

I’m tired of carrying the damage around

Of wounds that don’t mend

And people who don’t care.

Guns in Church

Will we take our guns to church now?

Jesus take the wheel, but leave me my pistol

Dylan Roof opened fire in a South Carolina prayer meeting

Now more dead occupy the pews in Texas

Just wondering which firearm goes best with Psalms.

Yea, tho I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil,

For I am armed with a semi-automatic weapon.

No doubt lawmakers will offer meaningless thoughts and prayers

Their mantra sounding weaker by the hour

Who will answer for these deaths?

Who will offer a solution?

Packed Away

Once I was the new dress, swirls of dark blue on pure white cotton, crisp and suited for summer soirées.

The favorite, I found delight in being washed by hand and then pinned to the clothesline to dry under the warm sun.

I drew compliments from strangers and friends, alike, and I relaxed in the pleasure of being worn, washed, and dried,

Until the day my colors faded and the white no longer looked sharp. I was assessed and found wanting before being

Packed away and relegated to a cardboard box marked for donation. My hopes now lie in resurrection from a thrift bin.

Infield Fly

I understand the infield fly rule, though I doubt my knowledge will ever come into play at a cocktail hour or any other

Social event. Hey, I’d say, Did you know that if there are fewer than two outs, and runners on first and second, or first,

Second, and third, and a fly ball is hit that can easily be fielded by any member of the infield, the batter is out even

If the ball is not caught? What kind of nonsense is that? My partner in conversation will ask. Exactly, I’ll say!

Furthermore, runners advance at their own risk! With age I’ve come to realize that the rule protects the team on offense,

Even though it results in one out. What genius devised the infield fly rule? Surely he deserves a statue or a drink in his honor.

Try as I might I cannot figure a way to make this rule pertinent to my life, as I swing and miss one more time.

Things Remembered

The things she recalled

His eyes, kind smile, gentle touch,

But never his voice

With scant reminder

She remembered his cologne

Subtle sandalwood

She’d give anything

To hear him speak one more time

Though words might wound her