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.