I NEED ANOTHER POOR FOLK SONG
By Richard E. Noble
I need another poor folk song.
One filled with butter beans and turnip greens.
Got a condo in El Paso,
from singin' 'bout my lasso.
I'm a big country singer.
My gal-friend's a real ring-dinger.
I've got a chain of restaurants that makes a million,
Grillin' chitterlings fer yer chill-ren.
But I need another poor folk song,
or my fans will forget me a'fore too long.
I'd like one that talks about bar-b-que,
black-eyed peas and howd-ya-do.
I've worn out all my pick-em-up trucks
and 'Tractor Trailers' made big bucks.
But now I need another poor folk song
Or my fans will forget me a'fore too long.
I need one dealin' with say, leather, and filigree
with a good refrain and a tweedle-dee-dee
Don't know how I'd like it to begin
but I'll sing it with pathos and a cowboy grin.
I'd like one that could bring a tear to your eye.
Make even your spoiled rotten little brother cry.
I need me another poor folk song,
before I get a hitch in my get-a-long.
I've got fourteen accountants, old pard,
and a genuine full sized replica of the B&O Railroad in my back yard.
I've had eleven dee-vorces
and my own race track, complete with horses.
I own the San Diego Padres
And the San Antonio Madres.
I bought four professional basketball teams
and I'm runnin' out of stupid things to buy even in my dreams.
But if I don't get me another poor folk song
my fans will forget me a'fore too long.
I made it big with that one about the chewin' gum.
Hit the top ten with "Cow-Bum Dung"
Made ten million on "Spittin' and Chewin'"
But now dang it, I need a new-un.
I need me another poor folk song
or my fans will forget me a'fore to long.
Yesser,
...I need me another poor folk song.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
SCOTCH ON THE ROCKS
Poetry
By Richard E. Noble
He blazed that jug before his mug, then raised that prop to
the sky;
"To the glory of drink I draught this laugh, and make a
toast, no lie.
To live, to love, to be,
for you, for me,
it's we ... to eternity."
Then he downed that mug for a subtle brew.
Then a scotch, a rye,
here's mud in your eye.
A bucket of ale,
then a preacher's tale.
A month full of monks, then a vineyard of fears,
with thoughts for the seers, and buckets of tears,
for old lost friends, and forgotten years.
"A toast to you ... to be,
ah yes my friend, that we ever be.
And now before I burst at the knee,
it's off to the closet, my cause ... a pee ...
To friends, to life, to love, to all."
A sip, a swig, then bottle and all.
Then the guilt and the pain,
and a tuft of fluff for the lion's mane.
Oh bitter the man, and much he hates,
for well he knows that death awaits.
He holds that jug before his mug,
and sloshes around the assassin's slug.
Drink by drink, and drop by drop, with a barrel stave
he digs his grave.
He draws the weapon to his lips,
then pulls the trigger to his pain.
Slow and torturous this bullet's path,
"It's a horror my son, and the pain abides,
but why must you re-die my suicide."
That purple glass, that mug on high,
the one he hangs before my eye,
Will beam forever and never will it hide,
the bullet that made his suicide.
No never, ever, and forever and ever,
no never, ever will it hide,
the bullet that he used for his suicide.
Poetry
By Richard E. Noble
He blazed that jug before his mug, then raised that prop to
the sky;
"To the glory of drink I draught this laugh, and make a
toast, no lie.
To live, to love, to be,
for you, for me,
it's we ... to eternity."
Then he downed that mug for a subtle brew.
Then a scotch, a rye,
here's mud in your eye.
A bucket of ale,
then a preacher's tale.
A month full of monks, then a vineyard of fears,
with thoughts for the seers, and buckets of tears,
for old lost friends, and forgotten years.
"A toast to you ... to be,
ah yes my friend, that we ever be.
And now before I burst at the knee,
it's off to the closet, my cause ... a pee ...
To friends, to life, to love, to all."
A sip, a swig, then bottle and all.
Then the guilt and the pain,
and a tuft of fluff for the lion's mane.
Oh bitter the man, and much he hates,
for well he knows that death awaits.
He holds that jug before his mug,
and sloshes around the assassin's slug.
Drink by drink, and drop by drop, with a barrel stave
he digs his grave.
He draws the weapon to his lips,
then pulls the trigger to his pain.
Slow and torturous this bullet's path,
"It's a horror my son, and the pain abides,
but why must you re-die my suicide."
That purple glass, that mug on high,
the one he hangs before my eye,
Will beam forever and never will it hide,
the bullet that made his suicide.
No never, ever, and forever and ever,
no never, ever will it hide,
the bullet that he used for his suicide.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
GRANDMA'S COMING!
By Richard E. Noble
Grandma's Coming!
Let's clean all the pots, and boil all the pans,
wash all the tots, and scrub all their hands.
I hope, in the plates, we can all see our face,
because ... "you know how Mother hates, dirt and dust all over
the place."
Clean up the shed, and pick up the toys,
make up the bed, and warn the boys ...
"Grandma's coming, so do what you're told.
No chewing gum, or guitar strumming,
you know, your ma's Mother's coming."
Let's make this house fit for a King.
We'll use the good silver and every fine thing.
Let's clean out the oven, which hasn't been cleaned,
since Eleanor Roosevelt's Mother was weaned.
Tell all the neighbors, we ain't gonna sell.
It's just Grandma, visiting for a spell.
There's only one thing that ruffles my fur,
If all year, this old place is good enough for me ...
WHY THE HECK AIN'T IT GOOD ENOUGH FOR HER!
By Richard E. Noble
Grandma's Coming!
Let's clean all the pots, and boil all the pans,
wash all the tots, and scrub all their hands.
I hope, in the plates, we can all see our face,
because ... "you know how Mother hates, dirt and dust all over
the place."
Clean up the shed, and pick up the toys,
make up the bed, and warn the boys ...
"Grandma's coming, so do what you're told.
No chewing gum, or guitar strumming,
you know, your ma's Mother's coming."
Let's make this house fit for a King.
We'll use the good silver and every fine thing.
Let's clean out the oven, which hasn't been cleaned,
since Eleanor Roosevelt's Mother was weaned.
Tell all the neighbors, we ain't gonna sell.
It's just Grandma, visiting for a spell.
There's only one thing that ruffles my fur,
If all year, this old place is good enough for me ...
WHY THE HECK AIN'T IT GOOD ENOUGH FOR HER!
Thursday, March 06, 2008
She Came to See Me
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 or whatever 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.
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 or whatever 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.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
EYES
By Richard E. Noble
I love this poem, not so much for the poem, itself, but for the circumstances that precipitated it.
I was standing in the dollar store, at the Tallahassee mall. My wife was shopping and I was in my usual daze. I was in one of those pensive, contemplative moods that most would associate with a state of depression. I had withdrawn into myself so deeply my thoughts were echoing inside as if I were in a cavern. My eyes had pulled back so far into my head that I felt that my vision was being obscured by the bony rims of their sockets. There was nothing and no one in this store or mall but myself and a blur of lines and colors, and a background of discordant noises. I associate this state of mind with an exaggerated state of concentration. This is a serious state of 'gonzo'. It can last for hours, and even days. Edgar Allen Poe discussed a state of mind between the unconsciousness of dreams, and the consciousness of waking moments that he described as a creative state. In any case, I was either daydreaming, being creative, or descending into a state of depression, when I felt this pulling and tugging at my sleeve. When I looked, there was this beautiful pair of concerned, loving eyes; a pair of eyes that I had never seen before in my life. They were smiling, and then they spoke... "Are you all right?" They questioned. And suddenly I felt warm and alive once again. Were these simply the eyes of 'beauty', of a transient human being, or were they the eyes of a transcendent thought, the eyes of the soul of the universe, the eyes of God, possibly? Who did they belong to? Where had they come from? Why did they care about me? For days, and then weeks afterwards, I saw those eyes and the lovely, smiling, concerned face that surrounded them.
She was nothing more than a nice woman in a department store, her face a bright flower, in a world of blur and haze. She was startling. Since that time I find myself looking into a good many more eyes and more intently. There is something there. Even in cats and dogs and birds. It’s something magical. And oh, how I love the ones that laugh and that aren't afraid. They're a needless, want-less phenomena, that sing with a spirit so beautiful it's blinding. A spirit that can make one wonder if all this world isn't in fact a delusion designed solely for our personal intrigue and entertainment.
And so I wrote this poem about some of them.
EYES
Eyes!!!
Excuse me, please? ... and a hesitant smile,
with a pair of eyes like that of a child.
Thousands and thousands, all cloudy and dark ... mysterious
and frightening.
a pair in the park
a life in the dark
a dollar a pair, for
a cold blank stare
a sheet of glass
a child's 'whoo-ray!'
a sexy stare
a menacing glare
a molten hate
swooning, on a swinging gate
a dripping tear
a wanton fear
a pair to love
and another to hug
a pussy cat
a vicious rat
a disappearing cold
with a pair to hold
Eyes!!!
She is nothing more than a pair of eyes,
cuddly and warm, powerful and strong,
wonderfully bright ... heartbreakingly wrong,
the power of poetry, and the wonder of song,
and when they don't see you...
...life is, ohh ... so long.
By Richard E. Noble
I love this poem, not so much for the poem, itself, but for the circumstances that precipitated it.
I was standing in the dollar store, at the Tallahassee mall. My wife was shopping and I was in my usual daze. I was in one of those pensive, contemplative moods that most would associate with a state of depression. I had withdrawn into myself so deeply my thoughts were echoing inside as if I were in a cavern. My eyes had pulled back so far into my head that I felt that my vision was being obscured by the bony rims of their sockets. There was nothing and no one in this store or mall but myself and a blur of lines and colors, and a background of discordant noises. I associate this state of mind with an exaggerated state of concentration. This is a serious state of 'gonzo'. It can last for hours, and even days. Edgar Allen Poe discussed a state of mind between the unconsciousness of dreams, and the consciousness of waking moments that he described as a creative state. In any case, I was either daydreaming, being creative, or descending into a state of depression, when I felt this pulling and tugging at my sleeve. When I looked, there was this beautiful pair of concerned, loving eyes; a pair of eyes that I had never seen before in my life. They were smiling, and then they spoke... "Are you all right?" They questioned. And suddenly I felt warm and alive once again. Were these simply the eyes of 'beauty', of a transient human being, or were they the eyes of a transcendent thought, the eyes of the soul of the universe, the eyes of God, possibly? Who did they belong to? Where had they come from? Why did they care about me? For days, and then weeks afterwards, I saw those eyes and the lovely, smiling, concerned face that surrounded them.
She was nothing more than a nice woman in a department store, her face a bright flower, in a world of blur and haze. She was startling. Since that time I find myself looking into a good many more eyes and more intently. There is something there. Even in cats and dogs and birds. It’s something magical. And oh, how I love the ones that laugh and that aren't afraid. They're a needless, want-less phenomena, that sing with a spirit so beautiful it's blinding. A spirit that can make one wonder if all this world isn't in fact a delusion designed solely for our personal intrigue and entertainment.
And so I wrote this poem about some of them.
EYES
Eyes!!!
Excuse me, please? ... and a hesitant smile,
with a pair of eyes like that of a child.
Thousands and thousands, all cloudy and dark ... mysterious
and frightening.
a pair in the park
a life in the dark
a dollar a pair, for
a cold blank stare
a sheet of glass
a child's 'whoo-ray!'
a sexy stare
a menacing glare
a molten hate
swooning, on a swinging gate
a dripping tear
a wanton fear
a pair to love
and another to hug
a pussy cat
a vicious rat
a disappearing cold
with a pair to hold
Eyes!!!
She is nothing more than a pair of eyes,
cuddly and warm, powerful and strong,
wonderfully bright ... heartbreakingly wrong,
the power of poetry, and the wonder of song,
and when they don't see you...
...life is, ohh ... so long.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
It Is Not Fair
By Richard E. Noble
It is not fair,
and you know it as well as I do.
Yet here we sit,
as if our hands were tied behind our backs.
It’s not fair,
and you know it as well as I.
So why do we try to justify it all?
It is not fair today;
it wasn’t fair yesterday;
and it won’t be fair tomorrow.
So what is the argument?
Unfair should remain unfair?
Right and wrong are inconsequential?
It is not anyone’s fault?
It is beyond rectification?
Justice should not be our standard;
Order - would be more appropriate?
It is just the way things are?
Don’t ask me,
bring your complaints to the Responsible Party?
If we all do what we must do,
then who is left to do what should be done?
I don’t have the time;
you don’t have the inclination;
together we don’t have the money nor the means?
So?
It doesn’t get solved.
It is never rectified.
It all continues as it always has.
It is the dust beneath our beds.
Are there any debts to be paid for this indifference?
Who is there righteous enough to demand payment?
No one knocks on my door.
Sad faces stare wide-eyed and bewildered.
Their tears say;
it isn’t fair.
By Richard E. Noble
It is not fair,
and you know it as well as I do.
Yet here we sit,
as if our hands were tied behind our backs.
It’s not fair,
and you know it as well as I.
So why do we try to justify it all?
It is not fair today;
it wasn’t fair yesterday;
and it won’t be fair tomorrow.
So what is the argument?
Unfair should remain unfair?
Right and wrong are inconsequential?
It is not anyone’s fault?
It is beyond rectification?
Justice should not be our standard;
Order - would be more appropriate?
It is just the way things are?
Don’t ask me,
bring your complaints to the Responsible Party?
If we all do what we must do,
then who is left to do what should be done?
I don’t have the time;
you don’t have the inclination;
together we don’t have the money nor the means?
So?
It doesn’t get solved.
It is never rectified.
It all continues as it always has.
It is the dust beneath our beds.
Are there any debts to be paid for this indifference?
Who is there righteous enough to demand payment?
No one knocks on my door.
Sad faces stare wide-eyed and bewildered.
Their tears say;
it isn’t fair.
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