"A Little Something"


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.

WHERE'S OLIVER?

By Richard E. Noble

"Where's Oliver? ...
Have you seen Oliver? ...
Where's Oliver? ..."

"She can't find Oliver."

"I know.
It's sad, isn't it?
It seems like she and Oliver were married forever."

"Where's Oliver? ...
Has anyone seen Oliver? ...
Where's Oliver?..."

"Somebody ought to tell her ...
Not to be mean ...
Just in a way that she will understand."

"Where's Oliver?
Where is that man?
Where's Oliver?"

"Honey? ... Come over here and sit-down.
Yes, right here at this picnic table.
Oliver died sweetheart.
You know that don't you?
You remember? We had that big funeral?"

"Oliver died?"

"That's right sweetie. You remember now, don't you?"

"Oliver died?"

"Yes ... Over a year ago ...
You remember? ... Remember we had that big funeral?"

The old woman paused, thoughtfully.
She stared off vacantly into the cherry orchard.
She turned and looked into her questioner's eyes.
Her eyes were momentarily thoughtful.
Then slightly tearful.
Then suddenly wide and frightened.

"Wh...whe...Where's Oliver?" she asked.

"I don't know sweetie.
Maybe you had best look for him."

The old woman smiled.
"You know, I can never find that man when I want him.
I think I'll keep looking."

"Yes, maybe you'd better.

She rose from the table, then slowly shuffled her bedroom
slippers over the lawn towards their old farm house.

"Where's Oliver?" she cried out, warmly.
"Where's Oliver? ...
Has anyone seen my Oliver?
Ohhh ...where's Oliver?"

HERE I AM ALIVE

By Richard E. Noble

It's funny,
here I am alive,
and tomorrow I'm going to die,
and nobody knows that I have ever actually been here.

Nobody knows me.

It is like I sneaked in over the fence
when the world was closed.

I stood on the field ...

I held the ball ...

I played the game ...

but the roaring crowd never was, and no one saw me.

I've been here ... and there ...

and nobody has seen me come or go.

And when I die ...

nobody will care, or ask ..."God ...Why?"

I've worked like a fool,

and I haven't accomplished a darn thing.

I haven't been here.

I've hidden myself away, inside ...

And here I am alive ... and tomorrow I'm going to die,

and nobody will really know that I've ever actually been here.

And sometimes, I wonder ...

is there anyone who will really care?

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.