Tag Archives: feeling

But I am tired


But I am tired

I’m sorry;
I would read you lines of lovely prose,
But, I am tired, today. Perhaps tomorrow.

I’m sorry;
I would tell an amusing anecdote,
But, I am tired, today. Perhaps tomorrow.

I’m sorry;
I would brave brigands and burglars,
But, I am tired, today. Perhaps tomorrow.

I’m sorry;
I would sing you the sweetest lullabye,
But, I am tired, today. Perhaps tomorrow.

I’m sorry;
I would read you a thousand and one tales,
But, I am tired, today. Perhaps tomorrow.

I’m sorry;
I would tell you what the rain sings to me,
But, I am tired, today. Perhaps tomorrow.

I’m sorry;
I would dance until the dawn breaks,
But, I am tired, today. Perhaps tomorrow.

I’m sorry;
I would write a million words to tell you how I feel,
But, I am tired, today. Perhaps tomorrow.
When I am less weary.

© Bridget Noonan, 2012.

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Courage


Hello again fellas! I have written a series of piku poems before, and I thought I’d give it another go. Enjoy!

Courage

no, I won’t
run
from this feeling.

no, I won’t
stop
growing bolder.

courage is
real,
necessary

to survive.
fear
is no reason

to deny
truth.
no more running.

(C) Bridget Noonan, 2012.

Cowards allow fear to rule.
Fools don’t realize there’s anything to fear at all.
The brave know fear intimately, but do what they must.

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So many poems! Don’t worry, most are short.


This first one is my response to Sensational Haiku Wednesday at You Know… That Blog. This week’s theme is the word craft.  Here we go!

Craft

rasping steel saw blade,
hammers, nails, sandpaper slide,
sawdust falls like snow

Some more fun short poetry! This is the sort of thing I can knock out at work. And did do at work, as you might be able to tell. 🙂

Peace

that magic feeling
no customers in line to
beg for attention

Bakery

The temptation grows
Croissant, baguette, and cookie
Happy baking smell.

Gone

I saw you today
someone that I used to know
you avert your face

© Bridget Noonan, 2012.

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Wanderlust


Perhaps I ought to start with a definition, just to make things perfectly clear.

wanderlust n.
a strong, innate desire to rove or travel about.

And now, the poem itself. It is posted to One Single Impression, for this week’s prompt rambling.

Wanderlust

the wail of harmonica and voice
reminds my ear of a lonesome train
limping along barren rails to nowhere
and so wanderlust grips at me,
drags me by my feet into the world.
I ride the kilometres from
Waterloo to Peterborough,
Lake Ontario to Lake Simcoe
and before me I see blurred lights
the tail lights that stretch from here
to infinity; each one of them chasing
the next hour, next kilometre, next pit stop.
will this longing ever end?
can I be satisfied not knowing
what town or vista lies over these hills,
where the end of this road lies?
I am limited only by the gas in my tank,
and the money in my pocket.

the dust of a thousand days
clings to my worn shoes, while
I trudge on top of this busy road.
the rhythm of life: wheels spinning,
children playing, and dogs barking.
and I, weary traveller, pass through-
a shadow on the stone, nothing more.
my broken-down car lies behind me as
I gaze at the stars in the sky,
the burnt out pixels on a dark screen.
the only peaceful thing is to look up to
tiny points of light while the frantic pace
of night whizzes all around me.

this is my blood spilled across these pages,
my mind blown like a tumbleweed
along the empty miles between
myself and this empty chased feeling.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

I cannot tell you how much Elliott Smith has influenced my life. And by extension my poetry. If you have struggled, he has a song that feels like he ripped it out of your mind and put beautiful and heartbreaking music to it.

If you want to feel this poem fully, listen to the Decemberists do his song Clementine. It’s from an album of songs, made as a tribute to E. S.’s music. And if you put it first on a mix CD of driving music for roving far from home, think of me when you listen to it. I’m probably on the road with you.

I was going to post a silly freestyle rap thing I wrote at work today with/for a girl I work with, but I was feeling melancholy, and definitely had itchy feet. Maybe tomorrow.

do you miss me, Miss Misery, like you say you do?

EDIT: This has also been posted to Poets United.

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