Saturday, November 17, 2007

Tom Noyes

The universe is a barbershop quartet, one ongoing medley that won’t be interrupted, even for applause. When you get a red light, someone else gets a green, and it is good. The traffic flows. If you dig a hole, the next thing you do is fill it up. You inhale then you exhale. Too fast you faint, too slow you suffocate. You stay in step despite yourself.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

St. Patrick's Day in Boston

There are bombings in Belfast
but in Boston, it's still.
Stars dance above Charlestown,
the Moon balances on Bunker Hill.

All of the troubles an ocean away,
we drink our pints of Murphy's and Guinness,
toast "Erin Go Bragh!"clad in green,
and wear pins that demand other's kisses.

In Belfast, black cabs drive the tourists by
IRA men that are painted, enshrined on walls
Above sayings like "Ulster forever, Protestant or die!"
while the Catholic's revenge echoes from Falls.

In Bean Town, it's a great day for the Irish!
Dance the jigs, sing the refrains.
Oh me? I'm 80 percent, on my father's side.
We've even got one of the old tribe names.

Pass the beer, tinted Green,
Dance a reel on the floor,
It's a great day for the Irish!
My lovely, could you want more?

Tuesday, November 06, 2007


The apples were shining with the condensation of early morning sunlight. Overhead, a distant crow called forlornly into the crisp air. From somewhere off in the distance came the whistling lull of cars passing through puddles.

George laid on his back, looking up at the light reflecting off of the leaves and fruit above him. His back was stiff and cold with the chill of morning. It almost ached beneath him (or was it inside him?) as he breathed disappearing wisps of smoky breath. He had no knowledge of how long he had been laying there. The dullness of his bones made him feel that he had been there most of the last night.

Last night there had been cider, spiked cider. There had been the taste of apple pie on a lover's lips, sugary and sweet, warm like a kitchen fire. Last night there had also been yelling. Had there been a fight?

Yes, George thought, pulling a night's worth of spiderwebs off this memories. There had been a fight.

This solid memory awash in a morning that seemed so cold and frail, moved George to sit upright. The spinning of his head reinforced the memory of spiked cider. He looked at his hands. Bruises there reinforced the conviction of the fight. A knuckle, swollen and red so that it resembled a crabapple, throbbed steadily beneath its frigid dullness.