....Collected Poems...of Wayne Noone
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_______________________________________________________ Compline Even darkness must allow how I see your face when my hands are cupped with rainwater, how I smell you in my sleep. Miracles "And a great multitude followed him, because they saw his miracles which he did on them that were diseased." - John, 6 "And if they see a miracle they turn aside and say transient magic." - Koran, 54.2 It is said in the Books of Islam, and in the other faiths of the Book that there are two lesser miracles and three greater miracles by which we are healed, and myriad beings participate in them and enact them. Water is the first of the lesser miracles, the sound of water running and the warm smell of foam as the woman pours bath salts into the tub. Walking is the second miracle, enacted each day without fail by that small fellow I see each evening rushing for his bus, his large ears burning. Of the greater miracles, first there is hunger, enacted by Loretta who quit her job because Jesus told her to, and Minnie, when she heard this, Minnie, who's son having worked himself up in the Pittsburgh Police Force, a Force not known for racial equity, died in his sleep from some obscure respiratory ailment, her only son, for whom she fretted over shirts each Christmas, Minnie, when she heard this said well I hope Jesus puts food on her table. The second greater miracle is death enacted by crows and rain crows. Of black crows, death by boredom and despair and suicide, and to the souls of suicides black crows hold. Of rain crows all manner of death by divers ailments and cancers, and for this reason the rain crow is called by the people of the Book the mourning dove. And all you who have died and have shed tears over the dead are participants therein. But the miracle of the highest order is the miracle of sleep, which is given to us by the pine always sleeping in blue light, and blessing us with sleep which does not hunger and is not dead, and wherein lies the only place I still hear you whisper my name. Glass in My Mouth: A Love Poem Just another piss poor poem trying to write without sentiment trying not to sound like anyone else resisting the temptation to steal from my betters but the thing is I’m afraid I’ve snatched away from you almost twenty years (You could have done better) and I have no words but I want you to know that I remember like that day at Fort Necessity red plaid hood around your head snow in your hair standing in the Peach Orchard looking across the crowd at you dabbing your forehead with a tissue in the heat watching you at a thousand dinners animated your food growing cold first time you mounted me first time I was mounted as I stared at your silhouette ghost dog dancing behind us when my father died feeling your shoulder against my side as they turned him off how you throw your head laughing against me how you look at cows or birds how your smell and your skin still make me drunk maybe if I had more coffee or maybe if I could get this onerous jackass in the cube next door to stop droning about welfare I could write the words these are not the words I have no words these are the things I remember and it is your birthday and this after all is a love poem We and Bernie Mac One day he'll just stroll in, Bernie Mac. Course we always knew he was coming just never sure when. He'll arrive around supper time, might like to have a ham sandwich or a little soup, and he'll sit down on the couch, the soft one where your butt sinks to the floor, and he'll be sitting there in his porkpie hat with his knees rising to his chest and his pants sliding up revealing his gleaming shins and he'll be making us laugh, telling his jokes, bugging his eyes out like he does, and when he thinks we're okay he'll tell us its time to go. We won't argue with him, its no use, and after all we always knew there'd come a time when we'd have to take a drive. We'll take Bernie's car, a big old Ford Galaxie, eight cylinders. It'll be more roomy for her in back he'll say, so we'll help her in the car, careful with her oxygen, and Bernie'll be very soft with her, fixing a pillow behind her head, making sure she's alright and comfortable. I'll ride shotgun, I won't be left behind, and off we'll go. We'll ride down 60 through Heidelburg past John Dewey Junior High to the place she and I used to go, when we'd take a blanket from her car to lie on under the stars, and I'll point it out to her and ask her if she remembers and she'll shake her head as best she can. We might get a little bit wistful, but Bernie'll shake us out of that, doing his shtick, bugging his eyes, looking pretend mean over his sunglasses. Then we'll head out to the highway past where the mills and everything used to be. And it'll be alright, I guess, going down the road, me and her and Bernie Mac. irreparable this isn’t talk there is no room for talk this isn’t madness we haven’t the luxury of madness this isn’t consolation or healing or starting over isn’t even rage has nothing to do with rage this isn’t about tears or grief or anything you might feel feelings make no difference words make no difference you, and I your daddy your children your pet cat where you were on this day make no difference so don’t speak shut up they’ve called for 10,000 body bags Let My Prayer Rise Like Incense to Thee I'm praying for the bombs to fall fall hard Not just some quick strike blowing up a few munitions dumps and oil refineries not some calculated attack designed to spare civilians but blood running by great gallons down their streets stinking, ugly black-clad Arab women howling and cradling their dead children I want a lot of that I want to see footage of their hospitals filled to overflowing with unattended wounded I want the innocent to suffer I want untold casualties atrocities I want ethnocide Dan Rather telling the story of the couple jumping hand in hand from the ravaged building thrusts his tongue against his cheek bites down and chokes back a shard. Karma I only hunted once in my life killed a big old coon. I imagine I’ve suffered some for that. But I’ve had no qualms bout slapping my share of mosquitoes as they sought to suck my blood. And when my father and I would spread a slick of oil cross the stagnant pond behind the house to choke their nymphs we did it in good cheer. I’ve burned the nests of tent caterpillars took em all out innocent along with the guilty. You know that cherry tree never looked so happy. Everything that goes around comes around. But only sometimes. White Christmas This time of year you’ll see him, crooning around in his Packard, Bing Crosby. Brown felt fedora cocked, collar of his overcoat up against the cold, sprig of holly through his lapel. Pale eyed, pipe in hand, he’s whistling, while nestled in his trunk he’s got a twelve year old, trussed so tight she squeaks. God's Train We read in the sixth chapter of Isaiah that the Lord's Train was so big It filled the temple. I think that Train is so big it makes its way to earth sometimes. And I think it must've been His train casting rocks of coal across the tracks where my father and his brother Steve picked them up in sacks based on their father's promise. See, old Bela said that if they'd fill the coal bin they'd get a case of pop and they filled that bin but when they asked for the pop he just laughed and the posts of the door moved and the house was filled with smoke. It must have been His Train barreling down the Wabash Line through Heidelburg shearing off the legs and killing my Uncle Gus stumbling drunk across the tracks but all that was before I was born, see I am a man of unclean lips in the midst of a people of unclean lips. It was His Train made the metal scream when it hit Matthew Swierdorski on leave from the Navy and three friends whose car had the bad luck to stall out on the tracks as I stood urinating in an alley behind Talotta's Bar about a hundred yards away and He made the heart of this people fat, and shut their eyes lest they see with their eyes. And I know it was His Train I heard this morning echoing through the cracking cold. This February morning, when the land was utterly desolate and the Lord had removed men far away. And the whole land was asleep save me. On To Page 2 ..............Return To Other Poets This site sponsered by 
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