Poetry

this looks like a nice area

Posted in Poetry on May 14th, 2013 by Noebie – Be the first to comment

it sounded more like a compliment
than an inquiry

i felt uneasy

no gangs? he asked

and i’m thinking

no, not really – are you joking?

and then i’m imagining menacing groups of teenage boys in do-rags
galloping
through the streets of
the gracefield subdivision

i tell him
no, not really, but of course they’re kind of everywhere

i’m trying to say that we’re all the same
and that nobody is really secure
and that

well, also, gangsters are just people
i mean, if they were around here
i wouldn’t be
uh, terrified, or anything

i drive through some pretty
rough neighborhoods
every day

hey – it may look like we’re doing well
but i’m not like the rest of these people

it’s just good luck at the moment
and it could change

i wonder where he lives
and what it’s like there
but i don’t ask

why
am
i
ashamed?

at his own hands

Posted in Poetry on May 10th, 2013 by Noebie – Be the first to comment

you people

i don’t know what to say to you

you expect some sort of
explanation
or
justification

or insight concerning my state
of mind

at the time

you can talk all you want
about cries for help
or
brain chemistry or
family history

and some things being overdetermined

but i swear
to christ

some days i am just

disgusted with you
disgusted with myself
disgusted

with this world…

ps:
but, honestly
mostly with you

the tree of libertarians

Posted in Poetry on March 26th, 2013 by Noebie – Be the first to comment

god forbid
we should ever be
twenty minutes without some grey haired white guy
casting swine before pearls

the people
cannot be all, and always
well informed

am i right?

lethargy

misconceptions

you have the right to
remain silent

and pardon my pacifier

but the blood of tyrants
will not be shed
by your update on facebook

bereft

Posted in Poetry on March 22nd, 2013 by Noebie – Be the first to comment

empty feeder sways
over the backyard terrace
birds have flown away

In November, We Remember

Posted in Poetry on November 2nd, 2012 by Noebie – Be the first to comment

Red November, Back November
by Ralph Chaplin

Red November, black November,
Bleak November, black and red.
Hallowed month of labor’s martyrs,
Labor’s heroes, labor’s dead.

Labor’s wrath and hope and sorrow,
Red the promise, black the threat,
Who are we not to remember?
Who are we to dare forget?

Black and red the colors blended,
Black and red the pledge we made,
Red until the fight is ended,
Black until the debt is paid.

In memory of the Haymarket Martyrs, who were executed by the State of Illinois in November of 1887.

sunday night

Posted in Poetry on October 28th, 2012 by Noebie – Be the first to comment

i look up to the heavens sunday night
if there’s a star up there to wish on
i don’t see it

if there’s a prayer
or an incantation
i don’t
know it

if there’s a reason
to believe

in anything

i suppose i believe
in leaving
well enough alone

i solemnly swear
or affirm

i swear

it’s not the tragedies that
kill us

it’s the paper
cuts

that awkward thing

Posted in Poetry on June 21st, 2012 by Noebie – Be the first to comment

that awkward thing where
the woman who calls you her husband
reaches for your hand and tries to interlace fingers
she never does that – not in all these years
and it’s like somebody just tried to hand you a spider or
a bucket of something repulsive
and you pull your hand away and shudder

ew

was that out loud?

also, you’re in the same mall
where you strolled with your lover
just days ago
fingers interlaced

where you had your picture taken in one of those
coin-op photo booth things with the curtain

you still carry the pictures
of smiles and passionate kisses
in your wallet

and you’re coming upon the photo booth now

and the woman who calls you her husband
suddenly gets this great idea

If It Be Dark

Posted in Poetry on February 2nd, 2012 by Noebie – Be the first to comment

If Candlemas Day be fair and bright,

Winter will have another flight;

But if it be dark with clouds and rain,

Winter is gone, and will not come again.

One of my favorite days of the year, Feburary 2nd is a cross-quarter day, falling between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox. It brings the hope of renewal, the coming of light. Catholics celebrate it as the Feast of the Presentation of the Lord. In our tradition, candles are blessed and distributed. In some cultures it also marks the end of Christmastime.

In Celtic tradition, it is Imbolc, the feast of the lactating ewes – again, a celebration of hope for Spring to come.

…and of course it was the Germans settling in Pennsylvania who brought the tradition of Groundhog Day to the United States.

Garrison Keillor offered a succinct history on The Writer’s Almanac a few years back.

It is cloudy and foggy here in East-Central Illinois this morning. Dare we hope that Winter is gone?

UPDATE: Bright sunshine here now…

don’t walk – walk

Posted in Poetry on December 29th, 2011 by Noebie – Be the first to comment

he stands
blue
against a gray sky

memory

it’s loose gravel underfoot
you
remember one thing
you remember
another

and then the thing you wanted to forget

the bitter wind
chafes his cheeks

collar raised and
face set

he steps toward the abyss

A Curse For Kings

Posted in Poetry on December 27th, 2011 by Noebie – Be the first to comment

A curse upon each king who leads his state,
No matter what his plea, to this foul game,
And may it end his wicked dynasty,
And may he die in exile and black shame.

If there is vengeance in the Heaven of Heavens,
What punishment could Heaven devise for these
Who fill the rivers of the world with dead,
And turn their murderers loose on all the seas!

Put back the clock of time a thousand years,
And make our Europe, once the world’s proud Queen,
A shrieking strumpet, furious fratricide,
Eater of entrails, wallowing obscene

In pits where millions foam and rave and bark,
Mad dogs and idiots, thrice drunk with strife;
While Science towers above;–a witch, red-winged:
Science we looked to for the light of life,

Curse me the men who make and sell iron ships
Who walk the floor in thought, that they may find
Each powder prompt, each steel with fearful edge,
Each deadliest device against mankind.

Curse me the sleek lords with their plumes and spurs,
May Heaven give their land to peasant spades,
Give them the brand of Cain, for their pride’s sake,
And felon’s stripes for medals and for braids.

Curse me the fiddling, twiddling diplomats,
Haggling here, plotting and hatching there,
Who make the kind world but their game of cards,
Till millions die at turning of a hair.

What punishment will Heaven devise for these
Who win by others’ sweat and hardihood,
Who make men into stinking vultures’ meat,
Saying to evil still “Be thou my good”?

Ah, he who starts a million souls toward death
Should burn in utmost hell a million years!
–Mothers of men go on the destined wrack
To give them life, with anguish and with tears:–

Are all those childbed sorrows sneered away?
Yea, fools laugh at the humble christenings,
And cradle-joys are mocked of the fat lords:
These mothers’ sons made dead men for the Kings!

All in the name of this or that grim flag,
No angel-flags in all the rag-array–
Banners the demons love, and all Hell sings
And plays wild harps. Those flags march forth to-day!

- Vachel Lindsay (1915)