JESUS AND THE STARS

Poetry

By Richard E. Noble

No Honey, I don’t write poems about Jesus and the stars.
I write more about concrete curbings and secondhand cars.
No Hun, I don’t write poems about Jesus and the stars.

I sing my songs about taverns and dimly lit bars.
I wonder about the planets, Serius and Mars,
but I do my singing about people, railroad tracks and iron bars.

No Hun, I no longer write about Jesus and the stars.
Though I often whisper my secrets to empty planets, rainbows
and distant stars,
I write more about home cooking, pony tails, pretty girls and mason jars.

But, no Hon, I no longer write my poems about Jesus and the stars.
Though we used to speak, and I’ve often gone to sleep hugging
Venus, Jupiter and Mars;
no Hun, today I don’t write poems about Jesus and the stars.

No, I don’t write poems about Jesus and the stars.
I write about love, and kindness, but more often, about things the way they are.
No, sweetheart, I no longer write poems about Jesus and the stars.

Though for me, it’s now a mist of cosmic dust and Milky Way,
I know for you, if you try really, really hard, one day,
you’ll be writing beautiful things about Jesus and the Stars
And Heaven, and the Angels, and Jesus and the Stars.
I know you can, and I’ll bet you will, one day,
be writing about the Lord up above,
and all the meanings of love.

I know you can, and I’ll bet you will, one day,
be writing songs about Jesus and the stars,
about moonbeams and Heaven’s golden bars,
about love,
and Jesus,
All about Jesus and the stars.

Yes, you’ll be singing about Jesus and the Stars,
about Jupiter and Mars,
about the Angels and Heaven,
and Jesus and the Stars.

When You live Your Life by the Side of the Road

Poetry

By Richard E. Noble

When you live your life by the side of the road,
you always know which way the traffic flows.

When you live your life by the side of the road,
you see their faces but not their toes.

You might catch a glint, a gleam, or a sparkle;
you might even think that you know who they are.

But when you live your life by the side of the road,
what you really know is which way the traffic goes.

You will see them talking and laughing inside,
and maybe children bouncing about on a back seat.

You see the mustaches, the braids, the balding heads.
You see them staring, lost in thought.

But from the side of the road, you can’t see their toes,
and all you know really, is which way the traffic flows.

From the side of the road you can watch the race;
you can dodge through the traffic when you know that it’s safe.

From the side of the road you don’t need a car;
you can walk on the shoulder or follow a star.

You can watch the lights and read the signs.
You can walk or don’t walk.

You can sleep under a bridge;
you can make your own mind.

But from the side of the road you can’t see their toes,
and all you know really, is which way the traffic flows.

From the side of the road the lights at night can get awfully bright
and the speeding traffic can buzz in your ears.

From the side of the road things can often get hazy, a blur, a maze;
one can get lost, and even go crazy.

From the side of the road, there is no place to go.
You never know the things that ‘they’ know.

Or where they come from, or where they go,
and you never see the tips of their toes.

And all you know really is the way the traffic flows.

WHO AM I?

Poetry

By Richard E. Noble

“What are you?” they ask.
I’m an open wound, I tell them.
I’m a pain that will never subside.
I’m the pity filled tear in the corner of your eye.
I’m the sorrow and the sadness.
I’m the horror and the shame.
I’m the child that never grew up.
I’m freedom in your cage.

“What are you” they ask?
I’m the weed in your garden.
I’m the flower growing in the rock.
I’m the truth that you are unwilling to face.
I’m reality in your face.

“Who are you,” they ask.
I’m the beaten and the abused.
I’m the worthless and the used.
I’m what you were...
before you became what you are.

“But, what are you,” they ask.
I’m death and dying.
I’m old and weary.
I’m all the things that you would like to hide or forget... but yet...
I’m all that makes existence worthwhile,
for without me...
even you could never be.

UNDER THE INFLUENCE

Poetry

By Richard E. Noble

“This dog-gone country is goin’ to the dogs!
All they can ever think of is makin’ a whole bunch a more laws!”

Then old Russell took a swig on his beer, for a pause.

“Yup, it’s just goin’ down hill ... goin’ to the dogs!
Take this drunkin’ drivin’ and all these darn new laws,
why a fella can’t even have a drink
before some cop is on top a him with one of them claws.
I mean, there I am ... they took away my license last year …”

Then old Russell took another slug of beer.

“I’m tryin’ to get home goin’ down one of them dark back roads
when all of a sudden one of them unmarked cars with the sirens unloads.
Jerked my heart ... nearly sent me into a ditch;
that gosh darn foolhardy son of a switch!
I’ll tell ya, I think a man drives better when he’s drunk.
He drives more careful, I mean, gosh-darn,
a man knows he’s drunk when he’s drunk!
He don’t race around slippin’ and slidin’.
Heck, he’s got all he can do to keep from collidin’.
I mean drivin’ drunk makes a man nervous enough,
tryin’ to keep a straight line and all that stuff.
Why, when I’m drivin’ drunk, so’s I can barely see
the last thing that I need is some darn cop hidin’ behind some tree!
Why, I’ll tell you the truth;
it’s them sneekin’ Po-leece that’s the problem for us all.
Get rid of them sons-a-guns,
and we’ll get this country’s horse out of this stall!"

So I Told Her

Poetry

By Richard E. Noble

So I told her once again
for the millionth time
how beautiful she was.

She smiled benignly
with that sad but bemused look in her eye
and said; Thank you, I know you do.

Which translates to; You’re so sweet
and I love you too
but please let’s not start lying to one another.

So I told her once again
what talents she possessed.
“You’re a true artist,” I told her.

And once again she smiled
a simple but bemused denial
… and I sighed.

I told her that she had a lovely voice
and danced like an angel.
She had such natural grace and poise.

It seems that pointing out her grace and poise
made her self-conscious and
she lost interest in these indulgences.

So I told her that I loved her truly
and that she meant more to me
than she could ever imagine.

She stared at me rather blankly.
She looked away and then nervously
looked back towards me once again.

A tear came to her eye.
I’m not entirely sure
But I think she may have believed me.

She Came To See Me

She Came to See Me

[Poetry]

By Richard E. Noble

I once owned a little ice cream parlor on the outskirts of a small town. Many of my customers were older people who lived in a retirement village up the road. It was hard to build a business in this atmosphere - as fast as I gained new customers, I lost an old one to … time.
The old folks always came in couples, until one day, one of the two would stumble in, awkwardly ... alone. It was difficult to know the right thing to say. You didn’t want to say; Hey, where’s Rita ... or Bob? - because if you did, out would come the handkerchief and down the wrinkled cheeks would flow the tears. So if the remaining party didn’t say anything, you didn’t say anything.
Often times nothing would be said. Sometimes there would be a brief announcement that there was no more Herb, or Ethel. Then with others there would be a long involved explanation of the last weeks or months or year.
When I was a young person, I didn’t want to hear such stories. As an older person I no longer had that problem. These were all beautiful stories, filled with love. These were all stories about people who cared about one another. They were sad, but …
On one occasion this very sad, and very alone, old man came into the shop. He had been in a few times now, without his chum. He had gotten his hot fudge, caramel brownie sundae and had left without saying anything. On this particular occasion, though, he was smiling and seemed relieved. He told me a story that I have converted into a small poem and I entitled it:

She Came to See Me

I saw you in my dream last night.
You seemed to be so happy where you were.
You were laughing once again.

You were frightened when you left.
You wept,
and clasped my hand.

You didn’t know where you were going.
I saw the fear in your eyes.
I saw the tears.

But last night in my dream
you were laughing again.
You were, once again, yourself.

Last night you were telling your jokes.
You smiled.
You were happy and relieved.

Thank-you for coming to see me.
You looked so pretty, my dear.
You were so rosy, my lovely friend.

I feel so much better knowing that you’re safe.
Now I won’t worry anymore.
Thank-you my dear.

Thank-you my darling,
I feel so much better.
My troubled heart is now at peace.

Come again, if you would like.
I enjoyed your visit so.
I’ll be waiting …

by the swing …
with a rose …
I’ll be waiting.

And I’ll remember what you said:
“Don’t forget me.
Don’t think without me.
Don’t be alone.
Don’t be without me.

Don’t forget me.

Don’t think that I have forgotten you.
Don’t think I don’t remember.
I do.
I do.
I remember
and
I love you, too.

Don’t forget me.”

Never, my darling.
I’ll see you in my dreams, my love.
I’ll see you in my dreams, my friend.
I’ll see you in my dreams …
my dreams …
my dreams.

Murder

MURDER

Poetry

By Richard E. Noble

Little Danny took his blows,
As he stood against a bigger, toe to toe.

A right, a left, a blow to the gut,
And Danny was down again dustin’ his butt.

I had never seen a fight like this,
As freckled faced Danny put up his fists.

Knocked down, and bowled over,
He got knuckled from shoulder to shoulder.

But Danny took it blow for blow,
And stood his ground, toe to toe.

I had never seen a boy get beaten so badly,
It was Danny Mulroon, and Robert Bradley.

Robert had the height, the reach and the jab,
He had the walk, the talk, and the gift for the gab.

“You’d best stay where y’er at, Danny Mulroon,
‘cause I’m gonna knock ya bloody from now ‘till noon.
I’ve already beaten a lot bigger than you,
I just give ‘em a taste of me old one-two.”

Robert had hands as quick as his feet,
And Danny was a boy who was sorely beat.

But, up he’d leap from off the ground,
Only to get tumbled and pummeled and knocked again down.

He was a bloody mess, that Danny Mulroon.
If he kept gettin’ up he’d be dead before noon.

Robert’s fists kept crackin’ his face,
To stand and watch was even a disgrace.

Each time he’d tumble, even the ground would moan.
It was too much of a beatin’ for a boy half grown.

“Give it up Danny.
Give it up, son.
We know ya got courage.
Now let it be done.”

But Danny would stumble again to his feet,
And Bobby would slam him like a piece of dead meat.

Some of the crowd began to walk away.
It was a loss, but Danny just wouldn’t give way.

It went on and on ‘till the crowd had all left,
As Bobby showed Danny who was the best.

Danny’s eyes were closed swollen, his nose a red glow,
His lips both broken, his jaw hangin’ low.

“I’m tellin’ ya to stay down,” said Bobby Bradley,
With a hint of a tear, and a voice that cracked sadly.

But when Danny heard that slight sigh of regret,
He knew that his fight was not over yet.

He leapt from the ground, and rushed to his foe,
And Bobby just crumbled from his head to his toe.

He fell to the ground like a sack of sweat.
I can hear his cryin’ and wailin’ still yet.

Danny never hit Bobby a blow,
But there was Bobby on the ground below.

“Get up and fight like a man!” cried Danny,
Standing up straight like a tiny Vic Tanny.

A sight like this I had never seen.
The boy on the ground was neat and clean.

The boy who was beat, and bleeding defeat,
Was tellin’ the victor to get up on his feet.

“If you’ve had enough, then say ya give ...!”

“I give ...I give ...” said Bobby Bradley,
“You win, I give ... I tell ya I give.
My mother would kill me.
It would really hurt her,
If her only son should go to jail for murder.”

No, He Is Not Like He Used to Be

No, He Is Not Like He Used To Be

Poetry

By Richard E. Noble

No he is not exactly like he used to be.
He often sits on the porch and stares vacantly
as the cars pass by.

Sometimes he appears to be confused
over the slightest interruption
to his daily routine.

He complains more than he ever had.
Now he seems to whine constantly
about nothing in particular.

His hair is always looking rough
and he seems to be losing a bit of it
more and more each day.

His appetite is good.
We can’t seem to stop him from nibbling
and poking at something.

He eats far too much chocolate.
He never used to eat cookies
and the ice cream is getting out of hand.

He seems to be limping
a little bit lately
and he has been stumbling.

He is not hearing well.
It is rather obvious.
You have to talk right at him.

He probably isn’t seeing all that well either.
But he hates going to see a Doctor
or a specialist of any kind.

The old boy is getting old.
He just ain’t what he used to be.
But I love him so.

He has always been so good to me.
He always did his best to make me happy.
I can’t really fault him for anything.

But this old age is a hard thing to deal with.
No more solo flights for this guy.
I’ve really got to watch him.

Especially when he tries to climb the cedar tree
next to the house
and get up onto the roof.

My Home Town

MY HOME TOWN

[Poetry]

By Richard E. Noble

My hometown, like every hometown, I guess, has a history. The history of Lawrence, Massachusetts involves the industrial revolution. Lawrence was a mill town and, in part, still is today. For my early life and long before I was born, they manufactured textiles there. Lawrence is the story of women working, and their battle for rights. Lawrence is the story of unions, and labor riots. Lawrence is the story of boom and bust. Lawrence is not an example of middle America; Lawrence is America.
Lawrence is Emma Lazarus’s words inscribed on the base of the Statue of Liberty, in their raw, plain reality. In Lawrence, growing up, I met the whole north, south, east, and west of Europe. In Lawrence, I met every language and every ethnic, but only one ethic - hard work.
I am glad that I had the opportunity to grow up in Lawrence. Lawrence is unlike any other place in America that I have ever been, and I’ve been almost everywhere in this United States. In Lawrence, without even realizing it, I learned to take pride in work and not look at it as a curse of a lower class. In Lawrence I absorbed, color, race, nationality, ethnic background, and difference, as the skin absorbs vitamin D from sunshine. I have friends whose names end in vowels and consonants.
I must be honest, I really didn’t think much of good, old Lawrence while I was there, but now that I have seen a bunch of elsewhere, I realize what a place it was. It is like none other, and a very large part of what I am, I inherited from Lawrence - My Home Town!

My Home Town

My hometown, as I remember, was poor and broke.
The streets were a patchwork of potholes and tar,
Three tenement houses, and out front ... an old car.
My hometown, as I remember, and it fills me with pride,
Was filled with calloused hands, and blue collared shirts,
Not soft palms waiting to be greased, and phony smiles wearing suits and ties.
My hometown was telephone poles, see-saws and swings.
My hometown was streets full of kids, and be home before dark.
My hometown, as I remember, was bowling alleys and draft beer.
My hometown, it was cheep and it was poor.
My hometown, it was old ... it was weary ... it was sore.
My hometown, it was crusty rye bread and oleo.
My hometown was salt pork, potatoes, and stew.
My hometown, as I remember, wasn’t very sweet.
It wasn’t indoor cats and walks for dogs.
It wasn’t a piece of cake.

My hometown though, as I remember, wasn’t all that bad.
My hometown though, as I remember, wasn’t all that sad.
My hometown was a bit of a joke, and a good deal of smoke,
But never a pig in a poke.
It was true workingman blue,
And they’ll spit in your eye if you say that’s a lie.
My hometown, as I remember, wasn’t shiny fenders on antique cars.
It was more brass rails and poorly lit bars.
Actually, my home town, as I remember, it was kind of nice.
It was somewhat friendly and sort of warm,
But, I think it’s gone;
That is, my hometown,
… as I remember.

My Little Friend

My Little Friend

[poetry]


By Richard E. Noble


MY LITTLE FRIEND

When I was little, I had a friend.

We said that we would be friends,
… until the end.

We didn’t lie.

And when he died,
… I cried and I cried
… and I cried.

Mister Duchnowski's Bean Suppers

MISTER DUCHNOWSKI’S BEAN SUPPERS
[Poetry]

By Richard E. Noble

The majority of my friends, and myself, spent the most of our young adult lives ... looking for love in all of the wrong places. I don’t think that we knew what we were doing. I don’t think that we realized that we were looking for love. But that is what we were doing. That is what we are all doing ... no matter how we express, or try to deny it. That is what we are doing.
Mister Duchnowski was the Dad of one of my bosom lifelong buddies. Every time that we saw him, he had the same advice for us. We had heard his advice so many times, that we knew his lecture by heart. We were always respectful to Mister D., but for the most part we thought of him as somewhat odd. I think that he knew what we thought, but he continued to give us the same speech nevertheless. There were times when we just laughed. We never took him seriously. We never really listened to his well intended lecture. And, we never followed his advice.
Today, Mister Duchnowski is no longer with us, but I can still see him smiling, his teeth back home on the bureau soaking in a glass, his stained, flat-topped golf cap stationed askew atop his wavy gray, and those polish eyes sparking sincerely and hopefully as he offered to us his best thought considerations with regards to our future love life. I still smile as I hear his voice, but now that I am the age that he was then, I have to think twice about what he was trying to say to us. I don’t think that we should have been laughing.
Here’s to you Mister D; and here’s Mister D to the all of you.

MR. DUCHNOWSKI’S BEAN SUPPERS

Listen to me ... listen to me!
You guys is entirely on the wrong track, ya see.
Skip the nightclubs, the booze, and the dim lights.
Take yourself down to a church bean supper one of these nights.

The prettiest girls that you have ever seen,
are right there in the line, spoonin’ out the beans.
I know, I know, you think that I’m old and outta my mind,
but believe me, at them ham and bean suppers are the prettiest
girls that you’ll ever find.

You wouldn’t believe the girl last night slicin’ up the German rye.
It gave ten years back to my life just to see that sweet look in her eye.
And next to her, with the Polish Kielbasey,
was an Italian girl by the name of Bonacarsee.

That dark hair and olive skin ... she could a been a movie star.
And there you guys are, down some dive or two bit bar.
What do you think you’re gonna meet down there?
You guys are missin’ it, I’m tellin’ ya ... But I don’t care.

My life’s over. It’s no matter to me.
But if it’s beautiful girls that you’re lookin’ for
them bean suppers is where you oughtta be.
That’s right! That’s right!

Oh yeah, you can laugh all you want,
but them Church bean suppers
are the places you guys oughtta haunt.
The prettiest girls that I’ve ever seen,
spoonin’ out pork ‘n beans like outta some dream.

You guys is just missin’ the boat.
Why it puts a lump right here in my throat
to think if I was you guy-es age,
I’ll tell ya, I wouldn’t be watchin’ some nude-y dancin’
in some cage.

I’d be down to one of them bean suppers, in a rush
tryin’ to steal a smile or pinch a blush
from one of them lovelies with sauce on her apron,
and bread flour smearin’ her chest.

Take it from me, it’s at them bean suppers
where the girls are the best.
You can leave it behind ... you can forget all the rest,
try one of them church bean suppers

and then you tell me if them girls ain’t the best.
That’s right! That’s right!
You try one of them bean suppers some night.
then you come back and tell me if old Mr. Duchnowski didn’t tell ya what’s right.

You just try one of them bean suppers some night
and see if what I tell you ain’t right.

Making Love

MAKING LOVE

[Poetry]

By Richard E. Noble

Let’s go for a ride on top of the tide.
The darkness is daring and sweet to the touch.
Her fingers ... his stare,
Let’s make love ... if we dare.

Let’s lay on our backs, naked as the stars up above.
Let’s fill this night with the romance of our need for love.
With the help from the smell of the salt from the sea,
We’ll make love to an ocean’s rolling rhapsody.

A moment like this may never exist.
So grab on, let’s reminisce
On the lips of this kiss.

We’ll keep ourselves warm
With the breath from our storm.
We’ll hold on tight,
Until the world’s out of our sight.

Let’s make our love
On the crest of an in-coming wave,
Then splash in the sparks
Our fingertips made.

We’ll ride this tide with our eyes open wide,
No need to dream or make it seem.
First up with a groan, then down with a moan,
We’ll ride this wave’s crest, then roll in its foam.
You’ll look in his eyes,
Feel the caress of her thighs,
Then swoon in a moon of yearning.

You’ll love him again,
And her ‘till the end,
In a moment of love ever burning.

You’ll touch with your toes;
He’ll kiss the red rose,
Of passion’s torchless turning.

And she will wreathe with a sigh,
And heave her breasts high,
Then roll in the dream of love’s tender churning.

To remember the meaning of a carnal bleeding,
To know an evening of lust,
To touch that passion, forever in fashion,
To reel, to feel, to be human,
… or bust.

It's Too Hard

It’s Too Hard.

[Poetry]

By Richard E. Noble

It is so hard.
It is oh so terribly hard.
It’s too hard.

I’ve tried.
I’ve tried so hard.
But it’s too hard.

It’s too, too hard.

I’ve worked so hard.
But it is too hard.
It is too, too hard.

It mattered once.
It mattered too much.
It mattered too, too much.

Oh how it mattered.
It was life or death.
It mattered to me.

It really, really mattered.

But, no more, for
it is too hard.
It was too, too hard.

It was too hard for me.

You were too hard.
You were too, too hard.
You were too hard for me.

And now it doesn’t matter.
Once it mattered.
But, it matters no more.
Because it was too hard.

It was too, too hard.

Now I’m too old.
And it doesn’t matter
Maybe it never mattered.

I did want it so.
I wanted it so badly.
I wanted it oh so badly.

But it was too hard.
It was too, too hard.
It was oh so very hard

You made it too hard.
You made it too, too hard.
You made it too hard for me

too ... too ... hard.

It Is So Regrettable

It Is So Regrettable

[Poetry]

By Richard E. Noble

It is so regrettable.
I feel so very, very sad.
It’s so very, very regrettable.

I know that you do not understand my feeling in this regard,
but it is so regrettable,
so very, very regrettable.

I have thought about it so many, many times.
But it never seems to get any better.
It’s regrettable.

I try, sometimes, not to think about it.
I try to laugh and be happy.
But then there it is
buried in the back of my mind …
deep.
It is very deep.
And the only thing that I can say is;

it is so regrettable.
It is so very, very regrettable.
I really don’t know why it must be this way.
It is not necessary,
but yet;

it is so regrettable.
It never seems to end.
It will not go away.
It goes on, and on, and on, and on.

If I could make it stop, you know that I would,
but ... but, it is beyond me;
it leaves me speechless, and all that I can think is;

Why is it all so regrettable?
Why must it all be so regrettable?
In any case, I suppose that I will say good-bye now.
What else can I do?

I don’t make the decisions.
I’m simply here.
And I will be very honest with you, I find it all

so very, very regrettable.
I hope that you can forgive me.
I wish that I had a better way with words.
But, all I can think to say is;

I find it all so regrettable,
so very, very regrettable.
I wish you all well
wherever you go.

But while you are all here, let me tell you, sincerely,
I wish you the best,
and I do find it all very regrettable.

Thank - you.

I’M A STUBBORN OLD MULE

Poetry

By Richard E. Noble

I’m a stubborn old mule,
As stubborn as they come.
A rail between the eyes is the only thing
that’ll make me run.

He doesn’t pat me gently on the brow,
or say, “Come now friend, a little further now.”
No, No! It’s a beam between the eyes,
and a roaring scream and cry,
as he pushes and shoves with venom for an eye,
and brutality frothing in his unpatient sigh.

He has no memory of the burden I bore,
when I carried him, his gold, and a mountain of store.

He forgets how on the side of cliffs I trod,
as he cowered and crazed and cursed his God.

He has no memory of the thirst I craved,
carrying his drink to an early grave.
He’s a brave man who went down in books,
A crusty determined miner.
And I, who braved his dirty looks,
hefted the load of gold for my forty-niner.

Ah yes, a brave man was he,
but he wouldn’t have a nickel if it weren’t for me.

But I’m a stubborn old mule,
and as dumb as can be.
But the old bastard wouldn’t have a nickel,
if it weren’t for the likes of me.

Carried him where his pretty horses wouldn’t go,
through mountains, and deserts, and fields of snow.
But, in his fancies, he dreams of a saddle and a golden mane,
his pretty little horses, dining on sacks of expensive grain.

But for his trusty, dusty steed, forever at his side,
it’s a drunken mumble, an untempered lash,
and another scar in my hide.

Many a day, when I’d had enough,
I sat in the middle of the road,
and laughed as he stammered and huffed and puffed.
Oh, how he wished to shoot me ...
but who would carry the load?

Yes, many a time I wouldn’t go on.
But does he remember how I danced on the edge of a cliff,
as he trembled and gasped, and for his life hung on.
A man of might, and right and power and gain,
and as he drunk his whiskey and barked to the stars,
I stood by quietly in the snow and the rain.

I’m as stubborn as a mule,
as stubborn as they come.
A rail between the eyes is the only thing
that’ll make me run.

I carry his load, sure footed I go,
but when I’ve had enough of his rum drenched batter,
I pull up, take a seat, and listen to his chatter.

The other day, in a fit of rage,
he pulled his rifle from my side.
“Move along, you stubborn old bastard,
or I’ll shoot you right here,
and then tan your damn hide.”

I yawned, then lifted my head and brayed.
I curled my lips, then bared my broken teeth.
And when he shouldered his gun, I stared into the breech.
I felt the powder as it burnt my eye,
and a dull thud as a jolt from hell pierced my skull,
and I fell there onto my side.

But I’m a stubborn old mule,
as stubborn as they come.
I laid there with his pack and store,
and stared up at his eye.
And I’m proud to say, I hung there waitin’ to die,
long enough to see the dumb bastard put down his rifle and cry.

Yes, I’m a stubborn old mule,
As stubborn as they come.
It takes a rail between the eyes
to get me up to run.
But when you have a load too tough to hold,
it’s a call for the likes of me.
And I bear it well, sure footed and determined,
right to the rim of hell.
But what he can’t stand,
is that I’m a bit of a man.
And, as the man, I have my pride,
and how I tried, and tried, and tried.
But, oh how glad I am that when I came to die
I was beast enough to make the bastard cry ...
Yes, beast enough ...
to make that bastard

cry.

IF I WERE A BUTTERFLY

[Poetry]

By Richard E. Noble

If I were a butterfly, I could flap my wings, and fly from flower to flower...
Hour ... upon hour ... upon hour.

But if I were a butterfly, I wouldn’t fly too high,
for I could get caught in the wind currents high in the sky.
And I wouldn’t fly over the ocean, for I’d never be able to rest.
If I sat in the water ... my wings would get wet.

But oh, how wondrous it would be, to fly from flower to flower,
Hour ... upon hour ... upon hour.

But if I were a butterfly, I couldn’t hop or skip or jump.
I couldn’t eat homemade soup or potato pancakes with sour cream
for my lunch.
I couldn’t sit in an easy chair by a log fire.
Or crawl into a warm bed when I want to retire.

BUT, IF I WERE A BUTTERFLY, I COULD FLY... from flower to flower?
Hour ... upon hour ... upon hour?

But I couldn’t drink, or think ... or talk with my friends.
Or hold hands, and walk in the park,
Or stay up all night and sit in the dark.
I couldn’t sing or dance or play
Or dream about a better day.
I couldn’t hope ... or care, or want, or dare

BUT I COULD FLY! ... YES, I COULD FLY!
AND I COULD FLY FROM FLOWER TO FLOWER.
YES, AND I COULD FLY FROM FLOWER TO FLOWER
HOUR ... UPON HOUR ... UPON HOUR.

YES, YES! 1 could fly from flower to flower, hour ... upon hour... upon hour!
upon hour ... upon hour ... upon hour???

I COULD FLY... I COULD FLY!

And then end up on the side of a road to die?
Or in a collector’s net? ... or pressed between the pages of a book?
Or under a microscope for someone to take a look?

I’d be so lovely, and so free
Everyone would want to get a hold of me.

Yes, if I were a butterfly, I could fly
But I couldn’t sigh or cry ... or even tell a lie.

If I were a butterfly, could a falling raindrop break my neck?

Oh, what the heck,
...MAYBE I COULD BE A BIRD!

HOBO

[Poetry]

By Richard E. Noble

Hey Hobo
I didn’t get to say good-bye.
I miss you real bad already, buddy.
This place feels like an empty hole
without you here each morning to say hello.

Why didn’t you stay off the darn road?
You never go out on the road.
You’ve been here so long.
You knew better than that.

I guess that you just got distracted,
didn’t you, buddy.
Yeah, I know.
But now what am I going to do without you?
I’ve got a real pain for you my friend.

I know I told you that I loved ya.
I know I did.
I always stopped to pet you, didn’t I?
I even came back from the truck some nights.

You were always yelling at me.
But I liked it.
Everybody yells at me.

Now you can’t say that I didn’t do my best.
I know that you were mad at me at first.
But you were a stray.
I already had seven cats at home.
You remember … you met them.

What was I supposed to do?
I can’t take care of every cat in the world.

But when you got sick,
I got you fixed up … didn’t I?
I got you all your shots too.
I don’t even get myself shots, man.
But I got them for you.

I even took you home once.
But you were too tough for them guys.
You had old Bogie cowering behind the couch.
He’s too old for that, Hobo.

You had a pretty good time down here at the
Ice Cream Parlor, didn’t you, buddy.
You met lots of people down here at Hobo’s.
They are all going to be asking about you.

I couldn’t believe that you let them kids pull on your tail.
You were a real, real good buddy.

Will you wait for me Hobo?
I don’t know where I’m going either.
But wherever, I know that you’ll help me to handle it.

I’m going to miss you buddy.
I keep seeing you everywhere.
If I could just see you sneak in that door at closing time
one more time.

Yell at me Hobo!
Come on … yell at me!

I deserve it.
I should have done something.
What was it?

Yell at me buddy!
Tell me about it.
I can take it.

Hey … bye-bye.
Keep an eye out for me.
I’m going to be looking for you.

Just yell.
Just yell at me my friend.

Just yell.
I’ll recognize your voice.

Just yell.
Bye- bye … you sweet thing …

Bye-bye.

HAVE YOU COME TO TAKE ME HOME

[Poetry]

by Richard E. Noble

“Have you come to take me home?” she said.
And the old man began to cry.

“Have you come to take me home?” she said.
And inside he thought he’d die.

“Have you come to take me home?” she said.
She was sick, alone, and misty-eyed.

“Have you come to take me home?” she said.
“Not today, my love, but tomorrow, maybe,”
and so he lied.

“Have you come to take me home?” she said.
And then she fell apart.

“Have you come to take me home?” she said.
“My love, my soul, my heart,

the nights here are so long,
And the people cry in their sleep.
I can’t eat this food; it’s not like home,
and day by day I feel so weak.

Have you come to take me home, my love?
Have you come to take me home?
Have you come to take me home, my love,
or must I die alone?

We’ve lived this life, just you and I
and now you’ve put me here to die.
Have you come to take me home, my dear?
Have you come to take me home?

Move closer, closer. Won’t you come near, my dear?
I need your hand my love, to chase away this fear.
Help me … Help me ... You are my only hope.”

“I can’t bring you home, my dear.”
Beside her bed so near, he reached down and took her hand.

“I can’t bring you home, my love, though it would be so grand.
If only I could...” and he caressed and squeezed her hand.

“Have you come to take me home?” she said;
and the old man began to cry.

“Have you come to take me home?” she said;
and inside he thought he’d die.

“Then you’re not going to take me home,” she spoke.
“Then you’re not going to take me home.
You’re going to leave me here all by myself;
You’re going to leave me here to die alone.”

And as she cried, he thought he died
and she pulled her hand from his.
But he pulled it back and put on it a kiss.

She struggled and struggled as a weak one might,
but she was old, sick, and weary from fright.
He struggled with her, there, all night,
to keep her hand with his,
and stood beside her bed and cried,
until, at last, she finally died.

“Have you come to take me home, my love?
Have you come to take me home?”

“No, my dear, but I’ll be near
You’ll never be alone.

You’ll never be alone, my love,
You’ll never be alone.”

Hangin’ Out

[Poetry]

By R. E. Noble

It was a long, long time ... a long, long time
that we were all just one of the guys
just hangin’ out, sittin’ up on the wall.

Just hangin’ out ma, just hangin’ out!

Sometimes we were just there.
Sometimes it was a ball.
Now I’m older and that’s all the past.
Often I wonder if it’s my memory’s lapse,
Or did I really know any of those guys.
We’re they really pals, buddies, friends?
Their memory gets fuzzy.
I tell myself that there’s only today.
They never knew me, and I never knew them.
They’re just a bunch of ghosts in my memory’s way.
But then when I’m huddled in one of those lonely corners
with all the dark shadows, hard knuckles and calloused hearts,
I hear a sigh, a creek, a crack, a cry,
And then there’s a tear in my eye.
I see a laughing face, then feel a slap on my back.
It could be Tom, or Dutch, Chucky or Jack.
And all of a sudden,
I’m up on the Corner. I’m on the wall.

I’m hangin’ out ma, just hangin’ out.

I’m on the corner;
I’m in Costy’s yard.
I’m down at Nel’s;
or in Meachaou’s back seat.
I’m up Joe’s cellar;
or behind the Social - a little stick ball,
or down the beach.
I’m just standin’ on the Corner
or in the middle of Lawrence Street.

I’m hangin’ out ma.

I’m just hangin’ out with my friends, my buddies.
Up on the corner.

Hangin’ out ma, just hangin’ out.

I’m up the Corner.
I’m on that old bench.
Hangin’ Out.
I with my old buddies.

I’m hangin’ out ma, just hangin’ out ... I’m just hangin’ out.

EDITH

Poetry

By Richard E. Noble

I guess, I thought it would always be,
my life, my health ... my longevity.
I’d never need ... not me ... not I!
I was the kind that would survive.
I’d always be, like I used to be.
Filled with the spirit ... filled with me.

But now, despite myself, it’s all gone.
I exist like a rock …
the thought of a stone …
sleeping ... unknown.

I thought when I reached a point such as this,
I’d tip my hat, and with a shrug and a sigh,
I’d wave to the crowd ... blow a kiss,
and tell the world ... good-bye.

But here I sit as helpless as a child,
crying all night, and praying for a smile.
I hate to say it ... it makes my ego blush,
but I don’t wish for death,
be it from a bang, or a purr felt hush.

God forgive me, but I’m in no rush.
As bad as it may be
and in this sad state as you can see,
as helpless and dependent, as I may be,
I still long to look out my window and see;
a cat with a string,
a boy with a rope,
a bird with a worm,
a pear with a frost,
a tree with a leaf
a day with a sun,
or the raindrops, as down my window, they run.

I’m old and as useless as I can be
but I pray ... I honestly pray …
please God, can’t there just be, a tiny, tiny bit more ...
… for me?

So I Told Her

Poetry

By Richard E. Noble

So I told her once again
for the millionth time
how beautiful she was.

She smiled benignly
with that sad but bemused look in her eye
and said; Thank you, I know you do.

Which translates to; You’re so sweet
and I love you too
but please let’s not start lying to one another.

So I told her once again
what talents she possessed.
“You’re a true artist,” I told her.

And once again she smiled
a simple but bemused denial
… and I sighed.

I told her that she had a lovely voice
and danced like an angel.
She had such natural grace and poise.

It seems that pointing out her grace and poise
made her self-conscious and
she lost interest in these indulgences.

So I told her that I loved her truly
and that she meant more to me
than she could ever imagine.

She stared at me rather blankly.
She looked away and then nervously
looked back towards me once again.

A tear came to her eye.
I’m not entirely sure
But I think she may have believed me.

HAVE YOU COME TO TAKE ME HOME

[Poetry]

by Richard E. Noble

“Have you come to take me home?” she said.
And the old man began to cry.

“Have you come to take me home?” she said.
And inside he thought he’d die.

“Have you come to take me home?” she said.
She was sick, alone, and misty-eyed.

“Have you come to take me home?” she said.
“Not today, my love, but tomorrow, maybe.”
and so he lied.

“Have you come to take me home?” she said.
And then she fell apart.

“Have you come to take me home?” she said.
“My love, my soul, my heart,

the nights here are so long,
And the people cry in their sleep.
I can’t eat this food; it’s not like home,
and day by day I feel so weak.

Have you come to take me home, my love?
Have you come to take me home?
Have you come to take me home, my love,
or must I die alone?

We’ve lived this life, just you and I
and now you’ve put me here to die.
Have you come to take me home, my dear?
Have you come to take me home?

Move closer, closer. Won’t you come near, my dear?
I need your hand my love, to chase away this fear.
Help me … Help me ... You are my only hope.”

“I can’t bring you home, my dear.”
Beside her bed so near, he reached down and took her hand.

“I can’t bring you home, my love, though it would be so grand.
If only I could...” and he caressed and squeezed her hand.

“Have you come to take me home?” she said;
and the old man began to cry.

“Have you come to take me home?” she said;
and inside he thought he’d die.

“Then you’re not going to take me home,” she spoke.
“Then you’re not going to take me home.
You’re going to leave me here all by myself;
You’re going to leave me here to die alone.”

And as she cried, he thought he died
and she pulled her hand from his.
But he pulled it back and put on it a kiss.

She struggled and struggled as a weak one might,
but she was old, sick, and weary from fright.
He struggled with her, there, all night,
to keep her hand with his,
and stood beside her bed and cried,
until, at last, she finally died.

“Have you come to take me home, my love?
Have you come to take me home?”

“No, my dear, but I’ll be near
You’ll never be alone.

You’ll never be alone, my love,
You’ll never be alone.”

No, He Is Not Like He Used To Be

By Richard E. Noble

No he is not exactly like he used to be.
He often sits on the porch and stares vacantly
as the cars pass by.

Sometimes he appears to be confused
over the slightest interruption
to his daily routine.

He complains more than he ever had.
Now he seems to whine constantly
about nothing in particular.

His hair is always looking rough
and he seems to be losing a bit of it
more and more each day.

His appetite is good.
We can’t seem to stop him from nibbling
and poking at something.

He eats far too much chocolate.
He never used to eat cookies
and the ice cream is getting out of hand.

He seems to be limping
a little bit lately
and he has been stumbling.

He is not hearing well.
It is rather obvious.
You have to talk right at him.

He probably isn’t seeing all that well either.
But he hates going to see a Doctor
or a specialist of any kind.

The old boy is getting old.
He just ain’t what he used to be.
But I love him so.

He has always been so good to me.
He always did his best to make me happy.
I can’t really fault him for anything.

But this old age is a hard thing to deal with.
No more solo flights for this guy.
I’ve really got to watch him.

Especially when he tries to climb the cedar tree
next to the house
and get up onto the roof.

CALL OF THE DEAD

[Poetry]

By Richard E. Noble

As I pulled each foot, pace after pace, and drudged about the yard,
Hating, despising, but keeping my place, and finding it increasingly hard.
I pulled my bitterness up from the pace, and stared at the spacious sky.
The hate siphoned down to the tips of my toes, and fancies shrouded my head.
Though not in the least did it assuage my woes, for hatred is never dead.

“Follow the song of the dead,” They said.
“Follow the song of the dead.
The dead are the spirits who know, yes know...
The dead are the spirits who know.”

I just walked in rank while my spirit sank, and my head began to bob.
But as the pavement slipped, and the leather gripped, they were only doing their job.
Their job ... it was, to keep us in step ... step, upon step, upon step.
Step to the pace ... the pace of a race ... they’re only doing their job.

I turned from the thought which cruelty wrought and returned my head to the sky.
But upon this thought, my vision caught, the horror of those who die.
And now entwined with the song of the dead, an apparition before my eye...
All ragged, worn and weary souls were marching across the sky.

“Come join the ranks of the dead,” They said.
“Come ... join us rancorous dead.”

And on they marched, across the sky, a line which had no end,
Moaning, and groaning, with ghoulish cry, the rancorous song of the dead.

“The dead are the spirits who know, yes know ...
The dead are the spirits who know.”

I closed my eye to the specter nigh, and frantically shook my head.
But in my ears, yet, the lingering cry, in the raucous tone of the dead.

“Follow the song of the dead,” They said.
“Follow the song of the dead.”

With averted eye, I shunned their cry, as yet they marched over head.
I chained my pace, and firmed my step, fearing to loose the beat.
One and two ... one and two ... Conform you feet to the beat.

I walked and walked, it seemed like miles, avoiding their deathly smiles.
But then as I looked, aside of my foot, another was pacing the same.
With horror, I shook, as his hand he put, and cooled my sweating palm.
With a frigid flame, he called my name. He tugged and yanked at my arm.
I confused my step, then shuffled from harm and joined again with the real.
But with a voice that quelled, I heard him yell;

“You’re just a spoke in a wheel.
You may march away and avoid our song,
but shortly your heart will swell.
Never can you march away from the throng,
and pass by the flames of Hell.”

With a demon-faced fear, I remember his sneer, as he rejoined the ranks of the dead.
He was last in line ... then the skies turned clear, and my face from white to red.

Well, that was a day I won’t forget, and here I am marching again.
The sky is bright, and my spirits light. It’s the happiest day of the year.
Above my head, there’s a cloudy bed, and everything seems so dear.
A smile on my face, as I skip to the pace, mocking that ghoulish sneer.
With fences around, and the treacherous sound, flowing beyond the barbed wire,
I laugh at the race, and grin at the face, as marching we tramp by the mire
The soggy and snake ridden mire ... that offers no hope or desire.

But as I walk, I hear the clock, cracking away like fire.
But oh, not again! ... It can’t be again! ... And I turned my head to the clouds,
A huge mass of white, towering in height, sailing across the sky.
Like a desert of white, on a sea of night, it brings me a breathless sigh.
It’s motion aloft, so flowing and soft, beckons me to its choir.
My head, it spins, as my heart it wins, and I dance to the glorious choir.

But then a dull tick-tock, as I hear the clock, and my feet head for the mire.
The guard screams ... “Halt!.. .It isn’t my fault!” and now I’m before the barbed wire.
The clouds they beam like a cascade of dreams, as I watch them float up higher.
“HALT, OR I’LL SHOOT!” And the whistles, they toot... “HALT, OR I’LL BE FORCED TO FIRE!”
But my feet had no fault as they mocked the assault, and climbed the treacherous barbed wire.
“To freedom!” They sing. “We’ll fly you right over the mire.”

Well, as the clouds ... they dance, my feet ... they prance, and the guns begin to fire.
But with a few more steps ... just a few more steps, I’ll be slouching my way through the mire.
Then I heard a ringing, and angels singing. And as I followed the clouds ahead,
It seems the voice of Destiny’s choice, chanted to me and said;
“Turn yourself around, and see what you’ve found.” And there, I saw myself ... dead.
Floating in the mire, my body swept higher, as they lifted me from my bed.
The sky all red, in torrents it bled, like my body afloat on the mire.

Then, back through the gate enclosed by the wire, watching my body with dread
I heard the beat ... The beat ... of the feet ... of the dead ... and that same ghoulish voice ... it said;

“Come follow the song of the dead,” He said.
“Come follow the song of the dead.
The dead are the spirits who know, yes know.
The dead are the spirits who know.”

“You’ve joined the ranks of the dead,” They all said.
“You’ve joined the ranks of us ... dead.”

BUT, DO YOU LOVE ME

[Poetry]

By Richard E. Noble

But, do you love me?
And how would I know?
I look into your eyes, but the love doesn’t show.
So how ... how would I know?
Days and nights, weeks and years …
moments of laughter, and a lifetime of tears.
But, do you love me?
And how would I know?
Nothing I see would tell me it’s so.
We touch, we love, we laugh, we smile,
we cherish the memories, mile after mile.
But, do you love me?
And how would I know ... unless once in a while …
you’d tell me so.

BOYS AND GIRLS

Poetry

By Richard E. Noble

It all begins with little girls who giggle and chide,
and little boys who twiddle and hide.

Then pink bows give way to rosy breasts,
and baseball gloves to hairy chests.

And then it’s ... Would you like to dance?
and breathless moments we call romance

filled with starry nights and tear filled eyes,
and tender moments bathed in love’s sighs.

It’s Christmas and candy, and everyone’s dream.
It’s lipstick and kisses ... it’s roses ... it’s strawberries
and cream;

followed by golden slippers, and silken vails,
a blushing bride and tuxedo tails.

It’s two by two and all that’s due,
to a boy and girl in love their whole life through.

Then with hardly a notice, it’s bubbly eyes and goo-goo cries,
it’s ‘Mommy’ ... ‘Daddy’ runny noses and teary eyes.

Before you know it, it’s swimming meets, P.T.A. and cookie jars,
payment books, baiting hooks, and second hand cars.

Then what do you know were closing the show,
and all our thoughts are back to rosy breasts with little pink bows,

and memories of sweet little girls who giggle and chide,
and bashful boys who twiddle and hide.

So squeeze your tickets and hold on tight
to the fleeting moments,
the hugs and kisses,
and those sweet smelling seconds of romantic flight
through the smiles and tears of life’s pale moon light.

BOMBS ARE DROPPING

By Richard E. Noble

Bombs are dropping, but I can’t hear a thing.
Bombs are dropping, I can feel them ring.
BOOM! ... BOOM! ... BOOM! ... see everything crumble.
Buildings tumble, the grounds a rumble.

Bombs are dropping, but I can’t hear a thing.
BOOM! ... BOOM! ... BOOM!
Bombs are dropping, I can feel them ring.
I can hear them whistle. I can hear them sing.
But yet, but yet ... I can’t hear a thing.

Buildings are falling and crashing to the ground.
Children are screaming and running around.
But I’m all right in my suit and tie.
I’ve got my briefcase, and can’t seem to cry.

Bombs are dropping ... BOOM! ... BOOM! ... BOOM!
I’m cleaning up destruction with my little whisk-broom.
Hear them whistle ... hear them sing.
Bombs are dropping, but I can’t hear a thing.

BOMBS ARE DROPPING! ... BOMBS ARE DROPPING!
BOOM! … BOOM! … BOOM!

But I can’t hear a thing.

“BIG JIM”

Poetry

By Richard E. Noble

Big Jim was his name, and plumbing his game.
When it came to a leak, a pipe or brass fixture,
he was the man with the torch and lead mixture.
There wasn’t a joint that Big Jim couldn’t sweat,
be it horizontal or vertical.
He knew his stuff, you bet,
when it came to things metallurgical.

But I say with a sigh, and this no lie,
our Big Jim was a Mister Five by Five.
And as he grew older,
his waist far surpassed his broad shoulder.
He was quite a guy, Big Jim Sheehy, Mister Five by Five.

One night when Big Jim was on his way home from Cain and Bernard,
He stumbled into a cruiser that had jumped in the path to his yard.

By way of explanation,
Big Jim began to recite, in expletive, the American Declaration.
Then, with intention beguiling,
he burst into stanza …
the theme from Bonanza
and a chorus or two of ‘When Irish Eyes Are Smiling’.

Big Jim thought it quite appropriate,
but the cops thought that he should go to-the-poke-for-it.
So one by one, they leapt from the cruiser,
thinking that they would subdue the five by five bruiser.

They wailed with their clubs and grabbed for his thumbs,
while Big Jim just laughed and dropped to his buns.
“I give, I give ... I’m a peaceable fellow,”
Big Jim, from the ground, he did bellow.

“Well you’re disturbin’ the peace, and we’re the police,
and we’re here to entail and cart your butt down to the jail.”

“Well you go right ahead, and I’d never resist,
but I’m afraid I’m too tipsy to help or assist.”

So with effort of perspiration and sweat,
It was something to see,
as Mister Pee and Wee
struggled ‘till soaking wet.

They swore and they cussed,
as they tumbled and fussed
and tugged at Big Jim’s anchor.
But he was broad a’ beam
and jellyroll mean,
and too laughable to cause any rancor.

So they gave him a stay,
as on the ground he lay,
then wagged their fingers in warnin’.

“We’re gonna let ya go,
though you darn well know,
that we’re the police
and you’re disturbin’ the peace,
One wise peep and we’ll be back with recruits,
pulleys and shoots
and cart ya off to the jail house in the mornin’.

BARROOM BUDDIES

[Poetry]

By Richard E. Noble

“Jerry ... ah ... I don’t say things like this too often ...
... Hey Ernie?! Another round over here ... Now, where was I?”

“You don’t say things like this too often ...”

“Oh yeah … well I’m not the kind of guy who forgets things.
I appreciate you, my friend.
Put ‘er there. I mean it, Buddy.
I wanna shake your hand.
A guy don’t have too many real friends in this life,
and you are one, pal. I mean it...
Hey, talk about real friends!
Look across the bar over there.
You see that guy all dressed up in that fancy suit.
That man and I have really been through some times together.
I mean, I grew up with that guy.
We lived on the same street.
I’ve known that guy since we were this high.
I mean, I knew him when he didn’t have a nickel.
And look at him now! Dressed to kill.
He must of hit the jack pot.
And I’ll bet he don’t even recognize me.
I mean, I haven’t seen him since we got out of the Service together.
HEY, you old rascal! Where the hell you been?
Look at you! You look like a million bucks.”

“Hey, don’t I wish. Don’t let these duds fool you.
I’m about as flat as a pancake.
Lost every damn cent I ever had.
I’m wearin’ this suit because it’s all I got left.
I mean things have gone really sour for me, Bob.
I’ll tell you how bad it really is.
I don’t even have enough money to buy another drink.
You wouldn’t buy an old fightin’ buddy a drink, would ya Bob?
I’d really appreciate it.
You just don’t know how thirsty a guy can get, old friend.
It’s like a desert out here.”

“Ah, gee Georgie, I really wish I could, but I’m flat broke ...
[Bob leaned forward, and with his elbows,
covered the bills and change lying in front of him on the bar.]

“Oh come on, Bob ... for old time sake?
We were two of a kind, we two.
Just one for old time sake?
And I swear to god, I won’t bother you again.”

“I really wish I could, Pal, but I’m out ... flat out, Buddy.
[Bob’s well dressed friend across the bar,
raises from his stool, shakes his head in anguish at the floor,
then heads for the barroom door.]

“I thought he was you’re old time friend?
Your bosom Buddy?
Your best pal? You went through thick and thin together?
Old Army Buddies ... Lived on the same street? ...
Never forget the time you and he did so and so??”

“That’s true.”

“And you wouldn’t even buy the poor slob a drink?”

“Hey, he’ll find another sucker ... besides,
once a drunk, always a drunk ...
you know what I mean?

AND THE RIVER FLOWS

[Poetry]

By Richard E. Noble

A child is standing behind a closed, abandoned, department store that backs up to the Spicket River.
He tries to toss broken chips of concrete from his side of the river over to the other.
He tries to hit and break discarded soda bottles laying along the opposite bank.
A man is watching the boy from the second storey window of the textile mill.
He’s smoking a cigarette.
He’s on his break.
Beneath him the purple water from the textile mill dye, tumbles from a giant pipe.
It tumbles from the pipe, and it foams and bubbles, as it splashes into the river below.
It forms a purple, yellow, greenish cloud of bubbling foam on the surface of the river,
and it floats off down stream, a patchwork of multi-colored bubbles.
A scalloped damn has been formed from floating debris,
and they both watch as a discarded box-spring is freed from the back and into the river’s flow.
The river is shallow. It flows around exposed rocks and rubble and rubber tires ... and truck axles ... and rusted, metal bicycle rims.
There are boards, and sticks, and parts of fallen trees.
The box-spring gets hung up on a boulder, and a partially submerged stump.
The boy rushes around the bank. He picks up a long, somewhat bent piece of iron pipe.
He walks out onto the river, stepping from one pile of hung up debris to the next, until finally he reaches the box-spring.
He pries at it with his piece of pipe.
He pushes and shoves, he wants to set it free.
He wants to see it roll with the current, and rush along with the river.
He has one foot on a huge, soggy cardboard box, and the other on a two foot splinter of broken plywood.
He almost has the box-spring free.
He pushes and stretches with his pipe.
One last shove … oomph! … and it’s free!
But the boy tumbles into the rushing water.
He screams! ... He fumbles and rolls onto his back.
The man on his break throws the window up.
He whistles through his fingers ... then yells
“Stand up, kid! ... STAND UP!”
The boy hears the man.
He rolls and scrambles to his feet.
The water rushes between his legs.
It is not deep enough to rise above his knees.
He feels dumb.
He was really scared.
He thought that he was going to drown.
He looks up at the man in the window, and smiles.
His smile has a tooth missing on one side, and one of his front teeth is chipped.
The man in the window shakes his head, and flips his cigarette out and into the quiet, gray wind.
It tumbles and tosses in the air.
Then it rolls, lightly, onto the river top, and immediately it dances off with the splashing twisting current.
The boy watches the river rush between his legs.
It plasters his pants to his shins.
He forms the palms of his hands into a cup, and dips them into the stream.
He lifts the water up, and splashes it onto his face.
“Hey! … What are you nuts?” the man from the mill window yells.
“Don’t put that onto your face. Get the hell out of that river and go home.”
The boy looks up at the man. He cups his hands again and dips them back into the water.
He lifts them to his face. He slurps the water up and into his mouth.
Then he squirts it out between his lips.
He spits it up towards the man in the mill window.
When the boy finishes spitting the water up at the man, he grins.
The man shakes his head, disapprovingly, then waves his fist at the boy.
The boy scoops up more water ... slurps it into his mouth, and again,
spits it towards the man in the window.
“Go ahead, drink it. Kill yourself. It would be good enough for you. Drink it! I dare ya, drink it.”
The boy bends at the waist, and scoops up more water. He stops momentarily.
The boy drops the water and laughs.
“What’s the matter ... you chicken? ... Drink it ... Drink it!”
And the man bends and braces himself on the window sill, then shoves his head out the window and laughs.
The boy stares up at the man.
“What? Do you think I’m stupid?” he yells.
“You look pretty stupid to me,” the man yells back.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah!”
“Well, I might be stupid, but I’m not dumb enough to work in that stinkin’ mill.”
The man stares down at the boy. He pauses;
shakes his head in disgust;
then draws himself back inside and slams the window shut.
From the inside he continues to stare down at the boy through the dust and dirt-stained window pane.
And the river flows
and so ... and so
the river
flows.

AFTER WE’VE GONE OUR SEPARATE WAYS

[Poetry]

By Richard E. Noble

When we’ve gone our separate ways, and the years are all yesterdays
Will you see a pair of loving eyes and then remember mine?
When we’ve gone our separate ways, and the tomorrows that were once ours are all just lost todays,
Will you awake from a warm dream of love, then sit alone in the
darkness and remember me in your arms?

When we’ve gone our separate ways, and the years are all yesterdays
And the tomorrows that once were ours are all lost todays
Will you remember that I really did love you, that you were all my dreams come true?
Will you think kind thoughts and spare me a smile or two?
Will you love me for just a second because I will always be in love
with you,
Even after we’ve gone our separate ways.

I’ll remember the feel of your lips, and the smell of your hair.
I’ll remember the tone of your voice when you still loved me and you still cared.
But for now I want us to go our separate ways before the coolness in your eyes kills me, And turns all my loving sighs into wishful good-byes.

But when we’ve gone our separate ways if you see me walking,
Don’t cross the street or drop your hat over your eyes and pretend that we never met.
Let’s be nice, and remember that a million years ago we looked into each others eyes and breathed each other’s sighs.

So when we’ve gone our separate ways and all our memories are yesterdays,
Let’s remember the plans that we once made.
Let’s remember the loving moments in the cool green shade.

When we’ve gone our separate ways and all our years are yesterdays,
And the tomorrows that once were ours are all lost todays,
Remember that I really did love you.
You were all my dreams come true
Think kind thoughts …
spare me a smile or two …
Love me for just a second …
Because I will always be in love with you,

Even after we’ve gone our separate ways.

A CHILD OF NIGHT

[Poetry]

By Richard E. Noble

The rain rushes and sparkles, in streaks past the bright, white street light globe.
Within its light, all is bright, and knowing and clean.
But beyond its gleam, all is dead, and black and red, and nothing is what it seems.

It wouldn’t be so bad, and he wouldn’t be so sad,
if it weren’t for the night, and the fright of the Devil by night.
Beyond every crack, and below every track,
it’s the Devil, THE DEVIL! the Devil ... He’s back.
And God doesn’t care because He’s combing His hair and fixing His gowns,
and counting the jewels that the angels have found.
So what can be done, but to run and to run, to cry and to scream
and to hide in the light of each street light beam.

If he had a friend, or maybe a dog, who would bark and would bite,
and maybe grab onto the tail of the Devil by night;
and fight, and bite, and grab onto the tail of the Devil by night,
he could make his way from beam to beam,
and run in the shade
that the rain drops made,
and get to the bakery for the bread and the buns, and the rolls with the creams,
and escape the evil of his devilish dreams.
But instead, he would have to go it alone, and deal with the dread
and the black and the red
and the bodies of all those who have ever been dead.

He longed as he ran and leaped from fright
over cracks and potholes in the street that night,
to see the ovens and the heat and the glow from the baker’s light;
like a halo at night, shining bright,
what a wondrous sight all powdery white,
with sugars and creams
and all the love and warmth of the street light beams.
Under his jacket, he would put his bread,
and with his hat he’d cover his head.
Then off he would go, into the rain and the snow
pushing and shoving for that street light glow,
and when he’d get home, he’d be safe and sound,
and all the Devils would be back in the ground,
and the cracks and the trees, and the shadows and the breeze,
and the rain and the fright,
and the hooting owls of night,
and the tears and the cold,
and the demons so bold,
with their braces of gold,
and their teeth of mold,
and the gurgling pipes,
and the sewers and snipes,
and the black and the red,
and all that's been dead,
and the buildings that sway,
and the noises that prey,
and the shadows that grow,
and the heels that click,
and the boots that clomp,
and the doors that bang,
and the signs that rattle,
and the night that fights against all that is right
… will be gone,
And he’ll be home and ready for bed.
And dear God, he’ll say, I made this day,
and I hope You’ll remember, the tears and the fears
and the years upon years, that you howled in my ears,
and that you won’t delight,
in the ghoul and the horror, and the evil of might
to take pleasure in the tears and the fright of a child of night.

Queen of Bingo

Review

By Richard E. Noble

There’s a card table set on the center of the stage and it represents one table among a gym floor full of similar tables at St. Joseph’s auditorium in a Catholic church in Battle Creek Michigan, U.S.A. Two sisters, Sis and Babe, will be meeting there for the traditional evening of hard-core, Saturday night bingo playing.
Sis, Beth Blair, is the first to appear. She has all of her Bingo paraphernalia. Her favorite seat cushion, her magic-marker daubers, and all her good luck charms. Sis is the meticulous one - everything in its right place. Beth Blair who studied speech at Muskingum in Ohio clearly understands the bingo-player cult and the Michigander culture. She loves to play bingo and her characterization of Sis is lovable and endearing.
Babe, Dorothy Marie Robinson, arrives somewhat late - but not too late - but, I’m sure, always late. We all know the type. She is the outspoken one, the big sister, the leader of the pack and the envy of her “little” sister and all their less confident playmates. She comes with all the same “equipment” but is somewhat less organized and colorfully verbal. She is right there on the surface but as we will learn later in the play her hard, gruff exterior will be softened by a sensitive and vulnerable interior.
Both women are “pretending” to be over fifty and once again husbandless - both facts a tragedy in themselves.
Being raised a Roman Catholic myself the inspiration for this play was very, very familiar - and equally predictable. But then as the spotlight on the center stage bingo table softened and the characters proceeded into a stage right and stage left halo of abstracted attention, one dips into the personal lives and private hopes, anxieties and angst of the two main characters. As the G-12’s and 1-16’s of bingo notoriety are called out in a muffled background, in the foreground we hear “confessions”. And here we learn the silent tragedies of the two sisters who are the stars of this production.
Both of their humorously rendered stories are familiar to all of us - loneliness, compulsion, neglect, mortality, maturity - but each story is told in the common vernacular and understood without interpretation or serious contemplation, spontaneously by the audience.
You will “get it” while you are there and if I am any kind of a student of the human mind you will get even more of it by the time you get home and in the future days of your life. If you don’t get it consciously you will get it osmoticly - because that is what “art” is; because that is what art does. It sneaks into our lives via the laughs and the giggles and around the corners of our apprehensions. Often it is sophisticated and subliminal - though on its surface it may appear mundane, everyday, and even trivial. But you will get it. It will get to you in the sounds of its notes or the burst of its laughter, in its shapes and designs, in its textures and feel, in the coarseness or beauty of its language or in its tears and sadness.
This is a humorous play on its surface, but nevertheless a tragedy at its roots. As Ernest Hemingway once expressed, and I paraphrase; Every life is a tragedy; each ending in death.
Don’t let me frighten you away - this play is funny. It is meant to be funny. Father Mac, David Poirier, is funny. His rendition of the joking Irish priest giving away frozen turkeys and hosting fund-raisers of every “bake, muffin, and cookie” is great. Though I must say I remember no such priest in my career as a child. All the priests to whom I was exposed were very serious - very “new roof” and “new furnace” in their character. Most were Irish though. The only happy-go-lucky Irish priest that I ever saw was Bing Crosby in the “Bells of St. Mary’s”.
Both Beth Blair and Dorothy Robinson are funny. They are typical mid-west. I know mid-west via my wife’s relatives who are all from Michigan. People from Michigan and that area, I have come to believe are the true “American Travelers”. Whether you go north, south, east or west you will invariably run into people from Michigan, Ohio, Indiana and thereabouts - not so with other areas of our country. I feel I know Babe personally - I could tell you her real name, but I won’t - Marge, Beverly, Barbara, Gail and a host of others will all be mad at me if I do.
Even Kurt Blair whom I have seen “perform” at many a very somber County Commission meeting is funny as an exuberant church bingo usher. I have seen and known many an usher exactly like Mr. Blair’s brief but exacting performance.
I am also convinced that the - sit-down and put your head between your legs and breathe deeply - trick is of Roman Catholic origin.
This is not a religious play. It’s a satire of the religious message but nevertheless, in the setting of the Bingo Parlor (without all the smoke, I’m happy to say) we have a tiny “spiritual awaking”. Inadvertently we stumble onto the root of religious intimacy - fear, loneliness, and desperation sitting along side of socialabilty, love, friendship and community.
This play was “lite” but not shallow. It was written by Jeanne Michels and Phyllis Murphy and directed by Cleo Holladay.
This particular production was produced by Dixie Partington and Jerry Hall.
I know that the Dixie Theatre has its crowd of regulars and loyal supporters but if you are like me and have been raised in the pungent atmosphere of sweat, blue-collar and calluses and have never before witnessed a “play”, the Dixie Theatre is really an opportunity of a lifetime. It is quite an experience. It is somewhat like the Big, Silver Screen - but with considerably more imagination and real, live, everyday people who sparkle nonetheless. Try it one evening or afternoon. Who knows, you might be “inspired”.
Call Susan Turner down at the Box Office at 653-3200 and get the upcoming schedule of events.

War and Economics

By Richard E. Noble

War is good for our national economy. It creates employment; encourages investment; builds new industries; promotes higher wages and raises values on the stock market.
I am convinced that the majority of Americans believe that the above is true - some have a conscious belief that it is true and others only a sub-conscious belief. But, all in all, most Americans believe, though it may be unfortunate - even sad - that war is good for business. It brings prosperity. Of course, you must be fighting the war in another country, but that has not been a problem.
Both the Democrats and the Republicans in the United States Government are pro-War.
The Democrats want to promote “moral” Wars - wars that the country can engage in for humanitarian purposes. “Fight for Right but not for Might”. The Republicans are not quite so conscientious. The two parties’ only disagreement seems to be in the choices and the methods and logistics - but both want war. The reason is because War is necessary to America’s economic well-being.
I have had people today tell me that even with our present government spending on these two foreign wars we are now engaged in, even with the looming deficits, the burgeoning National Debt, and the inevitable inflation that follows with it, they are still better off financially because of the increased value of their investments in the stock market and the rising interest rates on their CDs and bonds. They feel that their stock market and other investments are outperforming the debt and inflation that the war encourages. So economically war is a winner, not a loser.
Peace-nicks and pacifist for decades, maybe centuries, have tried to counter these arguments by presenting to the people all the negative moral, social, environmental, personal and world impacts of War. Everyone nods their head in agreement and says ... yes, yes - but it must be done.
World War I basically made the United States the richest country in the world. And World War II cured the Great Depression - the biggest economic disaster in modern history. During these conflicts the businessmen prospered, the industrialists and Bankers prospered, even the workers prospered.
The Vietnam War brought with it the greatest period of continuous increased economic growth yet to be seen in American History - with no tax increases.
Most Americans believe - though some might not say it openly - America needs war to feed its thriving Military Industrial Complex. Without the stability that is brought to this nation via spending and investment in the Military and it supporting Complex, America would go into an economic tailspin and precipitate a World Depression like never seen before in human history.
Instead of debating with this economically accepted principle and trying to prove that it is not true - let’s accept that it is true. Let’s sit down and figure how War is able to produce prosperity; and then with that knowledge under out belt, try to figure out how to use the methods employed in promoting and sustaining War (Cold or Hot) to the positive advantage of our nation - and residually for mankind.
How does War work; how does War make money?
After World War I we had a good many people who tried to expose War as evil, pernicious, and negative. They made a good run at it; they precipitated a number of investigations and caused a number of National and international scandals. You can check into the “Merchants of Death” investigations for more on this topic.
But this attempt to convince the world that war was bad or negative failed miserably. Those who promoted the idea were labeled cowards at best and, more often than not, traitors.
For a brief enlightenment on this matter you can check into the Nye Committee investigations on War profiteering; the DuPont Munitions Plant controversy; and the public lives of both Albert Einstein and Bertrand Russell.
Strangely enough it was Winston Churchill and Adolf Hitler who won the argument in favor of War. War does make strange bed-fellows.
Adolf Hitler was the advocate for the Glory of War. Adolf not only considered War to be a positive, but that it was an absolute necessity and the Will of Divine Providence - we seem to be having a revival of Adolf’s philosophy on War today around the world - both in Muslim and Christian countries.
Winston Churchill was also somewhat infatuated with the glory and character building nature of war. But he came more to his positive War position from the point of view of self-defense and cruel necessity. I would say that most of America supports the Winston Churchill position today. War may be terrible but it is necessary and all those who participate are heroes - all those who refuse are basically, if not cowards, severely misguided.
So it was not World War I that turned War into a positive economic policy. With no War the War suppliers and purveyors had to cut back, slow down or close up entirely.
After World War I the U.S went into an immediate recession or depression - employment fell, business investment fell, consumption fell but nevertheless, prices went up. Labor struck out demonstratively. In the year 1919 alone, 4,000,000 workers walked off their jobs. There were 3,630 strikes in the year 1919. The lack of a continuous War produced economic disaster. This has always been the case.
Then came the Great Depression. And the Great Depression led to a Great Economic Debate. This Great Economic Debate centered on the questions of how this collapse could have happened and how the economy could or should be revived.
Albert Einstein and others talked about over-production and the too rapid increase in technology. John Maynard Keynes talked about a mysterious disappearance or drying up of savings. Others commented on the sudden shortage of money in circulation and about the lack of consumption and incentive for business investment.
Contrary to popular knowledge Hubert Hoover doled millions of federal dollars out to the wealthy and the investment community in the form of tax breaks, incentives and outright gifts. But the business community wouldn’t spend it - at least not here in the United States. So down and down things went.
The poor, the unemployed, and the partially employed screamed for the government to do something. The wealthy and the business community said that economics was not a matter of government control. The country and the people of the United States would just have to tighten-up and endure until the “business cycle” once again started rolling in the right direction. It was just a matter of time and waiting it out. And beside a little time without a job would give all these striking workers something to contemplate.
In 1932 along came Franklin Roosevelt. His overall philosophy was basically rather simple. He would take tax dollars - money basically collected from the rich and the wealthy - and spend it on creating jobs for the unemployed, starving and homeless - the Robin Hood Principle.
Needless to say, the rich were not happy with this solution. They had all come about their money the “old fashioned way” - they had earned it - in a very competitive market place. They didn’t go out on strike to get it - they worked for it.
But with unemployment approaching 30% with another 20% only employed part-time and even those with jobs receiving pay cuts and threatened with the loss of their jobs - Roosevelt’s philosophy prevailed.
In the light of the recent developments taking place in Russia, Conservatives called this Roosevelt policy Bolshevist or Communist inspired.
The poor, the unemployed, the homeless didn’t really give much of a damn what they called it, as long as it meant food in their mouths and hope for the future.
Now this is the Great Debate - Did the Roosevelt, Robin Hood policy of Government spending - taking the money from the wealthy and giving it to the poor - work to bring back investment and prosperity or not?
Well, though I have read many interesting books arguing and analyzing this historical economic experiment, it seems to me that the consensus - certainly the consensus in the minds of the average citizen - is that this policy did not work. What solved the problems precipitated by the Great Depression was - World War II.
So, War is the answer and everybody knows it. It was not Government spending but War that returned America to prosperity.
So then - the truth is the majority of the people of America believe in the teachings of Winston Churchill and Adolf Hitler. In Adolf’s case some today still agreeing with his Solution to the Jewish problem and some not agreeing, but nevertheless, all accepting his basic premise with regards to the positive-ness of War in general.
At the end of World War II a new twist was added to this theory or proposition - War is the answer to continuing and sustained prosperity.
The problem was that the War had come to an end - again. That is one of the biggest problems with Hot War - they keep ending. Now what?
Well the answer to that question was pretty simple. Without a War the prosperity would die. It would be the same old story. It happened after every War. Business investment would decrease, soldiers would be idled - and looking for real jobs - women would be replaced from the workforce along with many men; wages would fall, consumption would decrease; business investment would be further cut and once again the vicious cycle of recession/depression would be on the rise. Not only that but we had Uncle Joe and the Russians to worry about. What do we do?
No amount of consumer goods could ever replace the investment and job promotion precipitated by War. As Mr. Grumman once said: It takes a lot of canoes to make up for one F-15. Even planned obsolescence and, pre-ordained product disintegration could not compete with the producing and immediate destruction of bombs, bullets, tanks, ships, and airplanes. In what other industry are products manufactured for the sole purpose of destroying? Only for War. And only with war is this type of production approved and supported by the overall population - after all it is the way that it must be.
In War every unacceptable business practice is tolerated - graft, corruption, profiteering, kick-backs, pay-offs, excessive inordinate costs, excess wages, faulty production techniques, black marketing in the war-torn countries; you name it and it is overlooked during a War. The business community loves War. No legitimate peace-time business can beat it for unchallenged, unadulterated PROFITS. It is the best business and business idea ever devised - save possibly Banking. [Banks are able to give IOUs to their depositors and collect “cash’ from their borrowers. If the depositors come rushing back for their money which the bank has loaned out, the government will sustain the banks with low or no interest loans. And even if the bank fails totally in its obligations via a series of bad loans, possibly to friends and relatives, the government will pick up the loss. There are not too many businesses like that in the world.
But, if we let the inevitable, post-war business cycle continue we will be setting ourselves up for another Pearl Harbor. Once again we will be unprepared - and the Russians will get us just like the Japs did. So, what do we do?
Basically what was decided was that we would keep the machinery and the investment in War in place - just as if the War had never ended. This was called “The Cold War”.
So now we had Hot Wars and Cold Wars. We would keep up this exorbitant investment and inevitable waste in over-production of War implements and goods stockpiled (if the war is Cold, unfortunately we have no place to blow these products up) by explaining to the taxpayer that it was necessary in order that we “be prepared”. But whether it is a Cold War or a Hot War we once again had the proper answer to the question of continuous prosperity ... War.
War is once again the answer.
The Cold War was a good solution but it was not the perfect solution.
The problem was that under the Roosevelt Robin Hood economic policy the rich taxpayer paid the greater portion of the expense for this solution to continuous economic prosperity. Roosevelt actually increased taxes on the wealthy to pay for the War. This is something that Lyndon Johnson, Richard Nixon, Ronald Reagan, and GW have chosen not to do. A better answer had to be devised to spread the burden of the peace through War policy via this Cold War economic enterprise.
The answer was Deficit Spending.
Of course this was also a part of the Roosevelt Robin Hood policy to help the poor during the Depression years. But what was necessary in the more prosperous post war era to satisfy the complaint of injustice by the rich was a redistribution of the costs. Instead of increasing the taxes to the rich and super wealthy - they would be cut. The resulting shortfall would be gradually compensated by borrowing - Deficit Spending.
But how does borrowing take the burden of payment off the backs of the rich?
Inflation spreads the total costs out over the entire population. It does this via the compensating effects of inflation.
All classes of people then pay proportionately. The wealthy and super-wealthy pay extra for their yachts, sailboats and racing horses; the poorer class pay extra for their bread and butter. The middle class pay extra for their cars and pickup trucks. And even the wino pays extra for his bottle of M-D 20/20. So everybody is happy and the idea that the rich should pay more because they benefit more is dissipated. Inflation is egalitarian and democratic.
In addition borrowing for the Deficit also provides the wealthy and the super-wealthy the opportunity to purchase the treasury bonds that the government has issued to borrow for its deficit spending. So instead of the rich having their incomes confiscated by the government via taxes, they actually get to invest their money and their dispensated tax rebates and gain a profit from the newly established debt. So with this system not only are the wealthy not taxed additionally to pay for the war, they are given the opportunity to invest and profit from the war. Of course this is much more appealing to the wealthy than the Roosevelt option.
So Deficit Spending and borrowing is a win-win situation for the super-wealthy. They collect on both ends and the middle.
Since the Republicans have learned about this method of paying for Deficit Spending they no longer have any fear of borrowing for anything and everything.
Now we have what is being called the reverse Robin Hood policy - the government takes from the poor and middle class while sending interest payments to the wealthy and the super-wealthy and providing tax cuts at the same time.
It a good deal for the rich and famous. They profit from their investments in the machinery of war; they profit in the secondary sale of the over-produced weapons - many of them are involved in arms merchandizing and arms sales; they profit on the interest payments on the national debt. And if there is an actual Hot War they profit from their ownership in the Military Industrial Complex; they profit from the international sales of the weapons of mass or minor destruction; they profit from the increased interest rates on treasury bonds and notes; many of them even profit from the inflation because of the higher interest rates and any lag that they can manufacture between the wages that they pay and the real inflation rate. As long as the general pubic can be convinced that inflation is not escalating and wages can be kept low or even decreased - they can downsize and they can take domestic factories abroad and simply shut down their pension and wage burdened domestic enterprises.
So now we have War, Hot or Cold, and we have everybody paying for the cost - rich and poor alike - a few participating in the gigantic profits; some profiting modestly; and most profiting somewhat.
War works. War is the answer. War is the way to build a strong economy and promote the general welfare.

[To be Continued - This is a three part series.]

Bill O’Reilly

Culture Warrior

By Richard E. Noble

A friend of mine sent me “Culture Warrior” by Bill O’Reilly. He said his son gave the book to him after he had read about twenty pages. His son who is in his thirties or forties said; “Dad, maybe I’m too young for this guy; I don’t know what he is talking about. See if you can figure it out.”
My friend, the father, said that he read about fifty pages and he gave up. He said why don’t you give it a try. So I started reading.
I’ve reached page 98 but I have decided to quit. I feel rather lazy minded to just quit - after all I am the same person who has written nearly 800 pages, a page by page analysis of Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf. If I could finish that certainly I should be able to complete a little 200 page rant by a modern day right-winger with an ax to grind or a bat to swing. Adolf had a big ax to grind but Bill seems even angrier than Adolf - if that’s possible.
But I hate to spend as much time as I have reading Bill and not getting something out of the experience to write about. So here is my review of the first 98 pages of Bill O’Reilly’s million seller book “Culture Warrior”.
The cover of the book is red, white and blue on a black background. Bill is sitting in the foreground with an American flag waving behind him – he is wearing an American-flag-blue windbreaker. He has a very familiar Irish looking face. He has those “twinkling” Irish blue eyes and a warm friendly altar boy smile. He could easily have been walking a beat in my old neighborhood. He has the well-known Irish temper - as he admits himself throughout the book - or the first 98 pages.
Bill has discovered a conspiracy. Now I’m a true believer in conspiracies so I can’t knock him on that one. It seems that there are a group of people, living right here within the borders of the United States who are presently involved in the overthrow of our government. They are not doing this by means of a revolution or violent overthrow. They are too cleaver to come right out and fight like men. They are doing it by guile and persuasion and trying to sway voters and by real sneaky, underhanded, dirty methods like using their money to twist the media and the “truth”. Bill has a lot of terrible names for these people but overall he benignly refers to them as Secular Progressives or S-Ps.
These S-Ps are a very cleaver group of evil and vile people and they have a horrible anti-American agenda; wait until I tell you about it, you won’t believe it. It is truly beyond your widest dreams.
In the beginning of this book he has a fictitious spokesperson mouth the future as seen according to these S-Ps. This spokesperson is a imaginary future American President. She is a female and her name is Gloria Hernandez.
Gloria and her friends it seems have some horrible ideas - like right out of George Orwell’s 1984.
First and foremost these S-Ps do not believe in God; they are very anti-Judeao/Christian. They want to take all the money from the rich people and use it to make their version of a “better world”. For example they want everybody to have their own home - with no mortgage; they want all children to have an education - for free! And that includes college if they are that cleaver; they think that everybody should make a living wage - whether they deserve to be alive or not! (my God! these people are horrible); they want businesses and corporations to act and conduct themselves in the world market place with a moral conscience (what a pernicious method for undermining capitalism and the American way); they want prisons to be reformed and drug crimes to be looked upon as an addiction to be treated as a sickness and not simply incarceration; they want any and all sick and even healthy people to have access to health care - even if they don’t have a penny!; they actually want the United States to be attacked before the United States attacks anybody else; and one can only conclude from all of the above that these S-Ps would probably try to outlaw war if they could get away with it.
In contrast or in opposition to this group of S-Ps there are the Traditionalists.
Traditionalist love Christmas, and Santa, and lots of presents and Christmas trees and Christmas shopping. They particularly like the word “Christmas”. They love their country and support their country in whatever it chooses to do - especially war.
Charles Dickens and Tiny Tim were both traditionalists who would have liked Bill O’Reilly, Bill claims. Charles Dickens was a traditionalist says Bill. You remember, he wrote that great book about celebrating Christmas, “A Christmas Carol”. As you will remember in that wonderful tale a man named Scrooge (an S-P no doubt) was poo-pooing Christmas and all the other characters, including some ghosts, tried to educate Scrooge to the wonders of Christmas (Traditionalist’s Holiday). And as you will recall in that story, Tiny Tim and his mom and dad and Scrooge’s nephew and all the Ghosts and everybody but Scrooge were strongly in favor of patriotism and war, and capitalism. They were adamant on the rich being able to do as they damn well pleased with their money and that the poor should be damned and get up off their lazy butts and get a job. After all, didn’t Scrooge pay his taxes and support the prison system? What more could anyone ask of him and his rich friends? And that dirty old Scrooge wanted to open orphanages, and feed the poor, and do all sorts of kind things with his money. But Tiny Tim and his mom and dad and all the other characters and all the ghosts of Christmases past, future and present would have none of it. They all said; So what if we are poor, sickly and crippled, we are in this condition because that is the way we choose to be. And we want to be free. You take all your damn money, Mr. Scrooge, and shove it! If God wanted us to be rich also he would have had us born in a welfare state - not in a country like this one where we can all be poor, crippled, and homeless if we choose to be. That’s freedom, man!
John F. Kennedy and Robert Kennedy were both traditionalists. They loved their county and thought that rich people should have everything that they wanted - remember Fiddle and Faddle and Marilyn Monroe. Teddy Kennedy is kind of like the diseased afterbirth of the Kennedy family - he is an S-P and Bill cannot figure out how that happened. Teddy may be the only Kennedy who is not really Irish. Bill didn’t say this but I have heard the rumor that Rose may have actually had an affair with Eugene Debs or possibly Norman Thomas that resulted in Teddy “the social dwarf’.
Bill is fearless in exposing this underground of S-Ps in the U.S. population - he names names and shows their pictures. You will not believe who some of these people are. I will list a few but you should buy the book to get them all and see for yourself.
Many S-Ps are or have been in the media - Walter Cronkite has just recently come out of the closet. He was probably an S-P since day one but he fooled all of America for about 80 years. Tom Brokaw, Bill Moyers, Jim Lehrer, Meredith Vieira, Matt Lauer, Katie Couric are all definite S-Ps. Dan Rather and Peter Jennings are wannabes but tried their best to keep their S-P nature secret.
But some of the worst S-Ps who have ever been born are celebrities and appear on T.V. regularly. Wait until you hear this! Two of the biggest are Jay Leno and David Letterman - Jon Stewart ... of course is another. These S-P people are all over Hollywood - just tip over any rock or slime covered growth and you will probably find one of them.
And Bill, who looks to be over six feet tall and a couple of hundred pounds, keeps getting tricked and beat up by these little Jew-boy intellectual types with glasses and speech defects. These people have been harassing Bill to no end. He has even had to go so far as to buy himself a multi-million dollar mansion and hibernate and take respite. He has been forced to hire bodyguards because these S-Ps are the type of people who will resort to anything.
There is one among these riffraff who is a billionaire. He was born a Jew in Germany but to escape being baked in an over he went so far as to change his name and maybe even pretend to be a Protestant. The cowardly S-P then escaped to Hungry or some place where the Russians discovered his S-P tendencies and he had to escape to America. When he got to America - just like all the rest of his kind - he somehow tricked everybody and became a billionaire. But now that he is a billionaire he has finally come out of the closet and now he is attempting to get all the money from all the other rich people in the world and give it to the poor. Isn’t that just like a rich billionaire - I should have known it.
So that’s how it has been going up to page 98. There are a lot more of these pictures of angelic looking people who are really S-Ps and are out to steal from the rich and give it all to the poor and ... and heal the sick ... and ... and clothe the naked and feed the poor and put a chicken in everybody’s pot and a car in everybody’s garage. You will not believe it! You must read this book for yourself. And don’t worry because Bill has these people’s number and each week on the Fox News Network (of which he is an executive producer) you can see him expose all these vermin. The only thing is that now most of these people are afraid of Bill and they keep refusing to go on the air with him and have an intelligent conversation. You may have seen Bill and Geraldo having an intelligent conversation just the other day on the news.
I agree with Bill. I can not understand why any person would not want to come on to his show and discuss their political perspectives. These S-Ps are like roaches. They just want to stay hidden in the dark and sneak around at night eating all our crackers and hors d’oevures. I don’t know about you but I think these roaches need to be exterminated. OOPS ... wrong book. That was Adolf. I’ve read Adolf’s book four times now but I don’t remember if he liked Christmas or not. He was a Catholic but I don’t think that he was a good Catholic. He wasn’t Irish; I know that for sure.
Keep up the good work Bill. Keep that light shinning! And don’t you worry, I’ve got your back, buddy. You are a true American and don’t let any of them commie, Jew, atheist, fascist, pussy, cowardly, treasonous, manipulative, tricky, lying, drug-addicted, parasitic (I don’t think he used that one - Adolf really liked that one), scum sucking pigs get you down. I know how depressing it can get for sensitive, kind, generous, fair-minded types like you and me. Gosh, oh golly gee, sometimes I just want to go over into a corner or lock myself in my room and cry. But whatever you do Bill - Don’t let the bastards see you cry.