When I feel sad I might curl up in a ball and sob
Or apply mascara and go out for lunch
I might dance around the room with abandon
Or sit by myself in a corner, when I feel sad.
There’s no telling what I’ll do when the self pity lands
And my thoughts go to dark places. But I won’t do that.
Don’t worry. I’m not sad.
Peace, people.
Knife-like, the blade wounds
Slicing through civility
Severing all ties
One moment shatters
False securities wiped bare
All hope stripped away
When this old heart hurts
The pain seems unbearable
The burden, unfair
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.
She haunts me at times
Those weary eyes and sad smile
When the facade fades
I cannot gaze long
Fearful of her influence
Leery of her ills
Mocking me, she stares
Eye to eye, she locks me in
My mirror tells all
Sighs
By Leslie Noyes
Whisper on the wind
Exhale an aggravation
The universe hears
Barely audible
A cry of untold anguish
Stifled, but still felt
Her sighs have meaning
As conduits for her pain
He misreads them all
he plays a little club on tuesday nights, a seedy little place off main
the voice, still strong after all this time; yet he never did sell his name.
his songs, sad and sweet, sift through my soul transcending time and tomb
my lonely heart answers the way it knows best; i feel i must call home.
invoking the loss of my family, of my false securities
his songs call out my every conceit and bring me to my knees.
home will you take me back? i’m so damned tired of this road
i thought, oh i thought i could make it, until i heard his songs.
Eating alone
at a booth meant for four
I watch in envy the
gaggle of women gathering
noisily for lunch.
They are older than I am,
sixties and seventies,
but I would join them
in a heartbeat if they but
said the word.
Do they realize how lucky
they are to have
whatever it is that bonds
them?
I hope so.
Peace, people.
old brother died
and who would pay
to send him on
his final way?
the cost of life
had been too dear
the cost of death
was dearer still.
oh who will come
to send him home
this man who lived
a life alone?
the favor of her friendship,
forged in youth,
had strings attached.
acknowledge her privilege
accept her status
unwrap her gifts
or succumb to the vacuum.
it pains me to admit that
I once felt adrift
without her approval
the old habit of relishing
her other-directed
sarcasm, snideness,
an affliction of belonging.
heaven knows I cried some
in anger and loss;
who could I be without her?
my soul answered in a flourish:
you are nourished now
deep within, all your own
healthier, wiser, independent.
He offered her a cloth
of intricately woven golden
threads, beautiful, yet
comforting, a shelter from
her storms.
Gratefully she accepted his
gift of warmth and love,
marveling at the complexity
of the workmanship and moved
by his generosity.
Bound by his offering, they
found peace and filled
their lives with love and
laughter, until she
noticed a tiny imperfection
in the cloth.
It wasn’t much, just a hint
of gray in the golden threads,
but it caused a dissatisfaction
in her restless spirit, and
old storms brewed anew.
Try as she might she could
not ignore the gray amidst
the gold.
Maybe, she thought, I can just
pull out this thread and all
will be well with my heart.
But once begun the task had
no end.
Gray became the color of
her discontent. One thread
led to another until she
touched more gray than
gold.
He watched her snipping
threads, not knowing how
to help, loving her even
as she worked at dismantling
his gift, his heart.
In the end, she sat alone
surrounded by threads of
gray and gold.
Too late she realized
the gray strands
were ones she’d added to
the tapestry by joining
her life to his.
