Will you yet be moved
By sleight of hand,
By hook or by crook,
Or consequences grand?
Will you yet be called
To arms,
To conscience,
Consequence, be damned?
Will you yet be taken
By surprise,
By force,
When violence commands?
Will you hold steady
Standing firm,
Taking stock,
As your conscience demands?
Beach Combers
by Leslie Noyes
We were the Beach Combers, baby
Barefoot and easy on the eyes
Ripped jeans and plain white tees
Making music; earning sighs
We covered the Beach Boys
Crooned all the smooth tunes
Scattered all the seagulls
Drove the turtles from their dunes.
Lately I’ve been thinking,
Life came easier back then,
But the music now’s much deeper,
And we’re rocking once again.
(Photo courtesy of Robin Garrett, a.k.a. Effron White, one of the original Beach Combers.)
Be sure to click on Julie’s link (below) to get the big picture. It’s gorgeous!
Time
Time doesn’t count,
Unless you’re counting on time
To heal a broken heart or
Comfort the mourning soul.
Feel the watch’s weight,
Note the imprint in the pocket.
Time waits for no one,
Yet claims everyone.
This fob in my hand
Its heft, the smooth silver
A metronome in the round
Time’s own keeper.
Come, bring your flowers,
Your condolences, the
Awkward and the eloquent.
Bring offerings of food,
And sincere expressions
Of loving concern.
Those I love have lost
A husband, a father,
Grandfather, and friend.
A life well lived,
A loss deeply mourned
With grace and faith.
Early on Friday morning our son, Jason, texted us the sad news that his father-in-law had passed away. We’d known that “Jamie” had been battling terminal cancer, yet the news still hit us hard.
We never had the opportunity to meet Jamie, but Jason loved him, so as soon as we heard of Jamie’s passing I hurriedly packed a bag and headed west towards the town of Hemphill, Texas.
Even in the midst of her grief Jamie’s wife, Fran welcomed me into their home. She and her daughters, Pam and Liz (our daughter-in-law) are, separately, forces of nature–strong, beautiful, and independent. Together they are the best kind of formidable. I went thinking I could be of some help, but soon learned that these ladies had everything in hand.
I know they will have hurdles to overcome in the days ahead, and they are in my prayers. But I won’t waste any time worrying about their coping abilities.
My brain keeps trying to formulate a tale around Jamie. While I didn’t know him I feel like I have an idea of the kind of man he must’ve been. Maybe one day I’ll have the right words. He deserves the right words.
Peace, people.
Barely scratched surface
Patina’d revelation
More than meets the eye
Mischievous metal
Scavenger of carrion
Vulture in waiting
Stacked terra cotta
Patient bare receptacles
Filled with potential
First star knows about wishes.
She hears them murmured wistfully:
Star light,
Star bright,
First star I see tonight,
First star understands wishes.
She gathers them like forget-me-nots:
I wish I may,
I wish I might,
Have this wish I wish tonight.
First star hears wishes,
and then promptly forgets them.
Star light,
Star new,
I wasted many a wish on you.
First star regrets her lapses,
but what can we expect from a ball of gasses?
I wish I may,
Oh, wish I do,
To someday have a wish come true.
I resolve, she said, to abstain from running naked down the boulevard.
That’s no decent resolution, said he, since not doing that won’t be too hard.
Ha! she said, You’ve no idea of the urge I have to disrobe every night,
And jog joyfully down Monroe street clothed in nothing but moonlight.
In that case, he smiled sincerely, I hope this resolution breaks,
And I’ll wait for you on the capitol steps no matter how long it takes.
Lines in the sand,
arbitrarily drawn;
you are here.
Lines in a face,
describing a life;
worried etchings.
Lines for bread,
necessity’s calling;
separate, not equal
Lines of poetry,
quiet reflection;
heart on my sleeve.
The Sewing Circle
by Leslie Noyes
Friends of a feather
Gathered closely together
Nimble fingers poised
A work in progress
Stitches in red, white, and blue
Most, perfectly spaced
“Janis, there’s a hitch
In the shape of your last stitch.”
“No, that clump is trump.”
hanging in there,
or hanging up
twisting strands
in idle thought
hemp or nylon
hangman’s choice
to succor those
without a voice
decisive action
in tying knots
warm salt tears
obscure the plot
neither painless
nor a graceful act
release the hatch
reduce the slack
Praying for Eyebrowz 