Tag: poetry

The Write Stuff

Almost every day for more than four years I’ve written something and posted it on WordPress. In the beginning, just pressing the “publish” button was enough to make my blood pressure rise and my palms perspire. Would my words be good enough? Did I have the “write” stuff? What if someone publicly laughed at my incompetence, told me to go back to knitting potholders?*

I used to worry about stats. There were awful days in the beginning when only two or three people, mostly relatives, took the time to read my blog. Then, slowly I gained a few followers, and I began reading others’ blogs and becoming part of a community of writers, until finally I forgot about the nerves and the stats and just wrote. Nowadays I’m liable to hit publish before I’m even finished with a piece. Yeah, I’m laidback like that.

Over the holidays, I took a big step (for me) and submitted a few poems to be considered for inclusion in an anthology about vultures. Yes. Vultures. When I saw the theme I laughed out loud and commented to a blogging friend that I practically live in Vulture Land.

“Then you should write that!” he replied.

I felt as nervous submitting those vulture poems as I did my first few days of blogging. I’m terrible at following instructions–and wasn’t sure I was doing everything as prescribed. Had I successfully removed all identifying information? Were my margins correct? Would my cover letter be too angst-ridden or needy sounding? After walking the floor for a good half hour, I finally clicked the send button.

And now I wait.

*In the first month of blogging a reader told me to cut the bullshit and stop being so cute. In reply I said, I’m sorry, but this is my bullshit, and I can’t help being cute.

Peace, people.

Hung Out to Dry

Yesterday I posted a link to my friend, Julie’s blog post that featured her photo (below). Just in case my readers didn’t click on the link, here’s the poem I wrote to accompany the photo.

“Hung Out to Dry”

Passion had its way with her

Swept her up

Cast her about

Until she was

Strung out,

Wrung out,

Hung out to dry,

Swinging from tenterhooks

For all the world to see.

A lesser woman might’ve

Given up,

Shriveled up,

Dried on the vine,

Not she, no for

She claimed her place,

Staked her bets and

Stood on her own two feet.

Unbound.

Inspiration and Collaboration

The work of my photographer friend, Julie Powell, whose blog can be found at juliepowell2014@wordpress.com, inspires me. Her work is often playful, sometimes edgy, and always beautiful.

Occasionally my mind runs along similar paths as Julie’s, and I’m moved to write a piece in response to her art.

I hope you’ll click on the link to Julie’s post and my poem.

https://juliepowell2014.wordpress.com/2020/01/05/hung-out-to-dry-by-leslie-noyes/

Wistful Drinking

Pour me another

A full bodied deep red wine

Something slowly sipped

Bring me memories

Of times spent on lazy lakes

Simply holding hands

Give me a reason

To hold on when life’s too much

Pour me another

I became incredibly bored watching the OU-LSU football game on Saturday night. Only a second glass of wine got me through it.

Peace, people.

A Little Lost

Crushed by a harsh word

Confused and a little lost

Left alone to cry

Don’t even mind her

Feeling sorry for herself

Sitting in the dark

Why is she always

Afraid to test the waters

Lest she slip and drown

An Artist’s Prayer

I borrowed this from one of my favorite authors. It applies to just about everything, and I felt compelled to share it this morning.

Peace, people.

Filling the Silence

You talk. I listen.

Words slip smoothly from your tongue

To fill up my ears

Rain beats steadily

Drumsticks on the windowpane

Filling the silence

I watched for your car

After all you claimed to be

Puddled around me

(I found the photos on Pinterest. They suited my mood, if not my words.)

Peace, people.

A Good Find

Yesterday while Studly Doright played golf I went into Tallahassee to shop at St. John’s Episcopal Church’s annual market day. I’d never been before, and I was excited to see what they offered.

There were baked goods and jewelry, kitchen wares and knick knacks.

And a great many books!

As soon as I entered the book room I saw this little paperback.

I love Billy Collins’s poetry, so I grabbed this treasure. It was the only purchase I made.

One of the poems had been bookmarked. I’m always interested to see what another reader liked so much that they wanted to mark the spot, to come back to at another time for a second or third or fiftieth reading. Maybe they wanted to share it with a friend.

Directions

You know the brick path in back of the house,
the one you see from the kitchen window,
the one that bends around the far end of the garden
where all the yellow primroses are?
And you know how if you leave the path
and walk up into the woods you come
to a heap of rocks, probably pushed
down during the horrors of the Ice Age,
and a grove of tall hemlocks, dark green now
against the light-brown fallen leaves?
And farther on, you know
the small footbridge with the broken railing
and if you go beyond that you arrive
at the bottom of that sheep’s head hill?
Well, if you start climbing, and you
might have to grab hold of a sapling
when the going gets steep,
you will eventually come to a long stone
ridge with a border of pine trees
which is as high as you can go
and a good enough place to stop.

The best time is late afternoon
when the sun strobes through
the columns of trees as you are hiking up,
and when you find an agreeable rock
to sit on, you will be able to see
the light pouring down into the woods
and breaking into the shapes and tones
of things and you will hear nothing
but a sprig of birdsong or the leafy
falling of a cone or nut through the trees,
and if this is your day you might even
spot a hare or feel the wing-beats of geese
driving overhead toward some destination.

But it is hard to speak of these things
how the voices of light enter the body
and begin to recite their stories
how the earth holds us painfully against
its breast made of humus and brambles
how we who will soon be gone regard
the entities that continue to return
greener than ever, spring water flowing
through a meadow and the shadows of clouds
passing over the hills and the ground
where we stand in the tremble of thought
taking the vast outside into ourselves.

Still, let me know before you set out.
Come knock on my door
and I will walk with you as far as the garden
with one hand on your shoulder.
I will even watch after you and not turn back
to the house until you disappear
into the crowd of maple and ash,
heading up toward the hill,
piercing the ground with your stick

– Billy Collins

Certainly a beautiful poem and worth a bookmark.

Peace, people.

Who Goes There?

Interloping man

Creeping ’round my craggy lair

Shaking in your boots

Sir, you seem my type

Quite crispy on the outside

Moist in the middle

You smell of cold fear

And yet still you venture forth

Brave fools taste good, too.

Double Edged Reblog

https://nananoyz5forme.com/2019/10/30/double-edged/

For some reason this attached piece never appeared in my published posts section, yet it’s no longer in my scheduled section. Weird. I know it was published because folks have commented on it, but just to be safe, I’m doing a reblog.

Here’s an irrelevant photo of a cute kitten.