prose

unknown tones

Trish Noble — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 03:16:39 +0000

The quiet has no place to travel.
It begs for purchase on moss-laden walls,
yet shadows keep skirting around,
finding noise in corners and crumbled stone.

You travel in spaces around my heart;
paths I have never seen and hold no hope
of discovering. I am left chasing stories
and ghosts. I wander after a forgotten memory.

Your boots are constructed of armor;
you step and the world hears you.
They stand at attention; while I run up hills
your legs have no strength to climb.

When the shadow puppets
Retire to their houses,
And the masters fold stories inside
Old books; I will sneak through
The pages, and erase your name.

Before the ink dries, and
New words find homes
They can barely afford,
I will take the music you stole,
And replace the bitter soundtrack
With the color of a summer breeze,
and the sound of a brilliant sunrise.

standing on dark wing

Trish Noble — Fri, 14 Aug 2009 20:38:31 +0000

I’m standing on the magnificent precipice,
All that lies behind threatening to push me forward,
All that lays ahead requiring me to fly.
The air is thin, and I am forced to breathe fully.
The price is high, and I ponder the cost.
Spaces are held in moments of emptiness,
and clarity. I await to be full with waters
dreamt of in moonless nights; and delivered
by dark winged angels.

Snowy winds bite in expectation and reminder.
There are no tears, only silence and a strange calm.
It is the not the direction you wanted;
there is no sun or vaulted ceilings here.
It is the true outcome of a soul’s revealed
purpose, no matter the darkness or foreboding,
no matter the shadows left to travel.

Keep your flowers for authentic mourning,
and your gifts for those deserving.
I am the servant of the moon, it is on owl’s
wings I fly. When I jump there is no descent;
only a warrior meeting night sky with
silent wing.

It will be swift; it will be
dark, and above all, it will be true.

old seaweed, new shores

Trish Noble — Sat, 01 Aug 2009 01:28:37 +0000

An over wound clock contains no time.
It holds the space for ticking yet to come.
I have no patience for subtleties.
I drink unfiltered water, and pray it will nourish.

You present me with worn boots, and ask to me to believe they are new.
My jeans are loose, and I ask you to believe they still fit.
Moments have a way of slipping by unseen, unused, un-cared for.
Each timepiece you gift to me shatters. Every jewel begs for polishing.

The wind asked me to write you. It teased with expectations
I long to have, and flirted with new futures.
I confess, I sampled new clothes today; they felt smooth
and silky. I bought a skirt. I opened my blouse a little and let
the sun take a peek. I felt shameless in my warmth.

I danced along a foreign beach and collected new memories.
I released you to the ocean, and even the whales
sang me a song. You have been met, and I give you
grace to leave. Swim to new shores, and be free.

Faery Dance

Trish Noble — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 02:16:58 +0000

In this surreal half light of the moon, among wild winds and
forbidden dances, you are the call of something I can barely grasp.
My hands are met with swirling dancers,
pulling me away, closer, and away again.

This night is held hostage by desire and fear.
I could lose myself to this faery land.
I know stories would be told. I know there would be speculations.
The company always calls, and I am loathe to turn them away.

This moment is the cry of an eagle, fleeting and hard to catch;
gone all to quickly and evaporated on air.
I stumble in my attempts to keep up.
I had a flash of something spectacular,
I had a vision of something beautiful.

This dance is my poem. The drumbeats are words and the dancers
are lines to my song. I am lost in this strange land,
but I will find your hand, and with gentle yearning,
you will guide me home.

Sitting with a Sacred Fire

Trish Noble — Mon, 25 May 2009 02:08:56 +0000

Sometimes the moon rises blue over the mountains
and the frogs sing in harmony with the trees.
The lodge calls us home and brings us to the sacred.

These are ocean moments -
when the waves crash in rhythm to the heart
and thunder like a new spring love.

These are earth moments -
when the rocks tell stories steeped
in ancient mysteries, and tell us secrets
only animals can hear.

These are wind moments -
when the trees tell us of hurricanes
and fortunes that will be lost to sea.

These are fire moments -
when volcanos spew forth the anger
of furious godheads and the revenge
of divine retribution.

These are moments of clarity and truth,
brought on by sweat and fire, and the struggle
to see what has always been.

I have been covered by layers of ash,
and will find freedom in the wind and rain.

I will tell no lies,
and these moments will be held sacred
in the opened heart of the dreamer.

Night Drive

Trish Noble — Thu, 14 May 2009 20:29:09 +0000

You are my night drive, tendrils of light and a bright storefront -
a summer breeze on a hot neck; like the cool, unexpected kiss of
a much anticipated lover.

The cement holds stories; I heard one about you the other day
as I passed along. It floated up to my ears and whispered it's tale.
With you I am all attention, I am ever waiting. I listened and crumpled
the papers that held your name; I threw them down storm drains
and prayed for rain.

These veneers hold no interest – show them to the tourists.
I want the antiques and the furniture with integrity. Show
me the hand made and woven tapestries I know you hold.
It's not a fair trade – you are for sale and I hide from the marketplace.
But as always I admire you from afar.

I listen to the roads,
and I watch your name in lights every time I drive -
illuminating the night with the promise of something beautiful.
It is not a truth that shines forever, but it is what is true for now.

the lurking ghost

Trish Noble — Sat, 11 Apr 2009 03:01:53 +0000

your existence cannot be ignored.
sultry movement begs for viewing; for touch.
you are the sweet smoke and music of youth.

this is descent. a rough, momentary vision.
you are a potent reminder of desire;
a page book of nightmares best forgotten.

I know you now, just as I knew you then.
the mirror reflects a different image,
but the soul remains the same.

be the candy to your masses;
this dish no longer serves.
your arms are relics to the
memory of a ghost.

I remain called to your haunting,
but watch you in the movies.

your shadows are now only
trees caught in the moonlight.

giving over

Trish Noble — Tue, 17 Mar 2009 21:09:29 +0000

and in the tumbling of the waves, in the surf and in the sand,
I rolled violently with shells and seaweed. There was no swimming,
only the tumble and drowning, a desparate search for air,
and a final expulsion of sea to land.

It was rude in a way. the sky did not look real and I could
hear nothing. Connections came in flashes, and I bore out the
death with strangled sighs, with grace and with horror.

I laughed at everything and cried at nothing. When the ocean
came for me again I was ready and willing, I offered no resistance
to the waves. In the darkness I was free to dive with whales,

so I fell deeply and sang softly; and finally, closed my eyes.

releasing

Trish Noble — Fri, 06 Mar 2009 00:02:14 +0000

these concrete bricks make for lousy shoes. I could take them off, but
why shatter your expectations? I walk with awkward stride to please all
that you continue to despise.
for all the newsworthy items and reports of stained sheets, you seem
more than common to me. I could crumple your image and discard it,
and no one would notice you missing.

I need to change the light bulb. I need energy efficiency. I need something
that burns longer. Give me all your green wisdom and preach to me
on public television.

You caught me being obtuse and told me to make myself straight.
I want to be the wind on a curve, and a flashpoint that teases.
You are lead in my pockets, and a blindfold of shame.

I release all your ties, you are free of all due burdens. Fly
to another cloud, and bear it rain.

I am mist burned up by sun;
I am the bee bringing home honey to the hive.

empty frames

Trish Noble — Thu, 26 Feb 2009 02:17:25 +0000

rain leaked through the bus shelter. the umbrella
failed to open. bus after bus came and went, and the travellers
wondered what she was waiting for.
her watch read well past time. the church bells had long since retired.
she never moved off the bench. not for the old lady with a cane,
not when the group of teenagers huddled around her
and talked loudly about nothing.
i think maybe she checked her wrist once, but mostly she
just looked ahead. perhaps her feet grew into the pavement,
maybe someone came and finally escorted her elsewhere.

her eyes were always empty, and something inside her was missing.

I don't know the ending. the camera asked me to find
new frames. the journey had new tales to tell.