Atomic Epiphany
By Noble Collins
Isotopes have half-lives in the periodic table.
Does this mean that I am whole,
or half a life,
a fable?
For I am made of atoms, am I not?
It is no theory,
and atoms have their isotopes
that make up me, my Dearie
Just think of all the molecules
that link together nicely,
containing all the isotopes of atoms,
which precisely
form the genes, the cells, the skin,
the hair and eyes, the feet,
the ears and elbows
and the fingers writing this so neat.
A random combination, then
has lately caused me strife.
Your spurning of my love should not be blamed
for my half-life.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
POETRY: Brakeman on a Midnight Train
Brakeman on a Midnight Train
By Noble Collins
I was a brakeman on a midnight train
when steam and smoke and four good men
could take a load of steel
from Youngstown to Detroit
and did - twice a week.
Dropped off those flat cars at the Detroit switch-yard
and picked up a load of machine parts
to carry back to Ohio
all in one motion.
The pay was better, we heard, in Omaha,
where cattle cars lined up
to go to slaughterhouses in Chicago,
but that didn‘t seem prideful work, somehow,
and, besides, we had it pretty good.
Better than folks camping by coal fires
who had it pretty good
before The Great Depression came like a plague,
devouring everything in its path.
We saved them our best left-overs
for their stew.
There weren’t much else we could do.
We got regular wages
and a bonus for our shift,
so we had no complaints.
Except in miserable weather
when sleet or snow or icy rain
cut through all the wool and leather
a shivering body or red-raw hands
could safely wear -
climbing atop the cars
to turn the brake wheel - just so -
a little too much and the wheels would grab and slide;
a little too little and the train would coast
beyond the coal bin or the water trough.
That’s when we really earned our pay
“The Railroad Irish”
Born to railroad
the way fiddlers took to the bow
or quaffers to their pints.
Backbones as strong as the silver rails we rode on -
proud and sure as the locomotives.
No man would do the work we did,
and no woman would refuse us her bed.
Too many women were widows, though -
young ones at that-
living off of tiny pensions left when
a signal got confused or a step was too icy.
If a coupler wouldn’t attach properly,
you weren’t supposed to get in between cars
to fix the problem,
but the dispatcher would have harsh words for a delayed train,
and you would notice a little less in your pay envelope
next time,
so, of course, you fixed the problem.
But some didn’t.
Too many young men hobbled about
with stumps for legs.
Too many hugged with one arm.
But I was lucky
or good
or both -
Naw, mostly lucky.
And I rode that train -
Midnight to Detroit -
Midnight to Youngstown
until the day I died -.
Yesterday, in the sleet and snow and icy rain
By Noble Collins
I was a brakeman on a midnight train
when steam and smoke and four good men
could take a load of steel
from Youngstown to Detroit
and did - twice a week.
Dropped off those flat cars at the Detroit switch-yard
and picked up a load of machine parts
to carry back to Ohio
all in one motion.
The pay was better, we heard, in Omaha,
where cattle cars lined up
to go to slaughterhouses in Chicago,
but that didn‘t seem prideful work, somehow,
and, besides, we had it pretty good.
Better than folks camping by coal fires
who had it pretty good
before The Great Depression came like a plague,
devouring everything in its path.
We saved them our best left-overs
for their stew.
There weren’t much else we could do.
We got regular wages
and a bonus for our shift,
so we had no complaints.
Except in miserable weather
when sleet or snow or icy rain
cut through all the wool and leather
a shivering body or red-raw hands
could safely wear -
climbing atop the cars
to turn the brake wheel - just so -
a little too much and the wheels would grab and slide;
a little too little and the train would coast
beyond the coal bin or the water trough.
That’s when we really earned our pay
“The Railroad Irish”
Born to railroad
the way fiddlers took to the bow
or quaffers to their pints.
Backbones as strong as the silver rails we rode on -
proud and sure as the locomotives.
No man would do the work we did,
and no woman would refuse us her bed.
Too many women were widows, though -
young ones at that-
living off of tiny pensions left when
a signal got confused or a step was too icy.
If a coupler wouldn’t attach properly,
you weren’t supposed to get in between cars
to fix the problem,
but the dispatcher would have harsh words for a delayed train,
and you would notice a little less in your pay envelope
next time,
so, of course, you fixed the problem.
But some didn’t.
Too many young men hobbled about
with stumps for legs.
Too many hugged with one arm.
But I was lucky
or good
or both -
Naw, mostly lucky.
And I rode that train -
Midnight to Detroit -
Midnight to Youngstown
until the day I died -.
Yesterday, in the sleet and snow and icy rain
Monday, October 5, 2009
POETRY: Mrs. Shapiro
Mrs. Shapiro
By Noble Collins
Mrs. Shapiro, always prudent
takes care of herself, a very good student
of creams for her face and healthy elixirs,
the latest cosmetics and frizzy-hair fixers.
A regular viewer of “Oprah” and “Wheel,”
“Late Night” and “Leno,” and “Let’s Make a Deal.”
a master of trends and secular knowledge,
she married a doctor, so no need of college.
The hostess of all the great parties in town,
a trend-setter wearing a new opera gown,
she knows all the gossip - starts some herself -
keeps wigs in fine boxes stacked high on a shelf.
Never would wear them herself,
don’t you know!
Her own coiffure’s stunning -
(does that underpin show?)
Her pool-boy said he heard that she was a “Doyenne.”It sounded like slander, so she pushed the boy in.
Her butler said someone had called her a “Maven.”
She said, “And just who has been doing that ravin' ?”
“A Matriarch” was the term making the rounds.
Well, none of these culprits would enter her grounds!
Not one would partake of her famous Hors d'Oeuvres
Too bad, for no meatballs were better than hers.
A courtly old dame in spite of their chorus
For Christmas, I’m giving her Roget’s Thesaurus.
By Noble Collins
Mrs. Shapiro, always prudent
takes care of herself, a very good student
of creams for her face and healthy elixirs,
the latest cosmetics and frizzy-hair fixers.
A regular viewer of “Oprah” and “Wheel,”
“Late Night” and “Leno,” and “Let’s Make a Deal.”
a master of trends and secular knowledge,
she married a doctor, so no need of college.
The hostess of all the great parties in town,
a trend-setter wearing a new opera gown,
she knows all the gossip - starts some herself -
keeps wigs in fine boxes stacked high on a shelf.
Never would wear them herself,
don’t you know!
Her own coiffure’s stunning -
(does that underpin show?)
Her pool-boy said he heard that she was a “Doyenne.”It sounded like slander, so she pushed the boy in.
Her butler said someone had called her a “Maven.”
She said, “And just who has been doing that ravin' ?”
“A Matriarch” was the term making the rounds.
Well, none of these culprits would enter her grounds!
Not one would partake of her famous Hors d'Oeuvres
Too bad, for no meatballs were better than hers.
A courtly old dame in spite of their chorus
For Christmas, I’m giving her Roget’s Thesaurus.
POETRY: Owl at my window
Owl at my window
By Noble Collins
Once,
the Owl and the Buzzard were sacred.
Only the Owl remains beautiful and revered.
The Early Ones soon discovered :
lofty Buzzard was a trickster, not worthy of ceremony.
Condemned to revulsion, surviving on carrion,
he fools no one anymore.
Buzzards only sense
The Owl knows
For several nights, now, he appears at my window.
He speaks to me in a dream:
“This way.”
“The Soul is aware in a way far different from the body.
The body knows nothing. It is carrion.”
Crow and Raven are cousins
Arrogant Crows ignore me.
Pompous Ravens mock me.
I linger, somewhere in a twilight place.
Pinholes large and small allow light through a black ceiling.
I am afraid of what is on the other side.
“This way” whooos the owl
The faint sound of a flute-whistle
drifts on the wind from a far away place,
its plaintive sighs and moans oddly comforting
A warm breeze rustles faded curtains.
I do not want to be cold,
or forlorn -
unobserved
How has it come to this?
After all the loves, the laughter
the fear and the conquest
the accolades and the acquisitions
the knowledge, the experience
the survival.
Why is Time the inexorable winner,
arrogant and pompous like the ravens and crows,
dumb, ugly and circling like the Buzzards?
This was not the plan, the dream, the goal.
Thousands should be mourning; praising my grand achievements.
My children and grandchildren
should be delighted at their inheritance.
Great Women should smile and remember.
Raconteurs should relate fine stories.
But now,
even my sighs are old and worn .
So, I listen to the Owl
He seems to know what he is talking about,
and I am growing too weak
to protest circling shadows
By Noble Collins
Once,
the Owl and the Buzzard were sacred.
Only the Owl remains beautiful and revered.
The Early Ones soon discovered :
lofty Buzzard was a trickster, not worthy of ceremony.
Condemned to revulsion, surviving on carrion,
he fools no one anymore.
Buzzards only sense
The Owl knows
For several nights, now, he appears at my window.
He speaks to me in a dream:
“This way.”
“The Soul is aware in a way far different from the body.
The body knows nothing. It is carrion.”
Crow and Raven are cousins
Arrogant Crows ignore me.
Pompous Ravens mock me.
I linger, somewhere in a twilight place.
Pinholes large and small allow light through a black ceiling.
I am afraid of what is on the other side.
“This way” whooos the owl
The faint sound of a flute-whistle
drifts on the wind from a far away place,
its plaintive sighs and moans oddly comforting
A warm breeze rustles faded curtains.
I do not want to be cold,
or forlorn -
unobserved
How has it come to this?
After all the loves, the laughter
the fear and the conquest
the accolades and the acquisitions
the knowledge, the experience
the survival.
Why is Time the inexorable winner,
arrogant and pompous like the ravens and crows,
dumb, ugly and circling like the Buzzards?
This was not the plan, the dream, the goal.
Thousands should be mourning; praising my grand achievements.
My children and grandchildren
should be delighted at their inheritance.
Great Women should smile and remember.
Raconteurs should relate fine stories.
But now,
even my sighs are old and worn .
So, I listen to the Owl
He seems to know what he is talking about,
and I am growing too weak
to protest circling shadows
POETRY: RE-CREATION
RE-CREATION
By Bruce Wales
My soil evolves from spring to spring
From leaves and twigs my neighbors bring
With shreds of bark or scraps of cloth
So stewed and chewed by bug or moth.
And cardboard snips or garments old
Are layered deep for fungus, mold
Then, chipped and raked and laid with dew.
They’ll decompose - the earth renew.
Oh, worms and slugs will slime on deep.
They’ll slide and rise – bacteria keep.
The creeping fungi tentacles
Invade the woody cellulose.
Small pill-bugs armadillo-like
Will chew, proliferate germ-like.
Black crickets nip and chirp aloud
As green-stuff breaks down, earthen bound.
Tough weeds and thistles thickly lay
broad birthing beds for seeds to splay.
The grass seeds sprout to soon reclaim
And forbs and bush will do the same.
The tree and shade will moisten life
Bourgeoning growth, hey, life’s a-rife!
These are my friends –for heaven’s sake-
While here on earth such means they make
That forms the base for nutrients’ ride
in each backyard where veggies hide.
For there cucumbers and our corn
Will sun-ward climb when mantles shorn.
And berries plump up for the tongue
Thick watermelons swell for fun
The chives, potatoes, peppers, too
Once tended, eaten two-by-two
As pomegranates burst in pink
So grapes and cherries clump in sync.
Thus, weeds and waste, insects, debris
Comprise a food web thriving free.
As treasure, trash: they’re all confused
Since food and waste are either used
By creature, plant; with moisture pure
They’re ripe for appetite for sure.
One hardly treasures easy means
Once giv’n to him for what he needs.
Yet needed most are presents free
Like food for life, a saving spree.
And so I’ll eat my garden free
And save my coin from grocery.
I’ll build the soil and plant the seed
To answer body’s nutrient need.
My soil evolves from spring to spring
From leaves and twigs my neighbors bring
For the water, worms, soil and all life Bruce Wales 8-27-09
By Bruce Wales
My soil evolves from spring to spring
From leaves and twigs my neighbors bring
With shreds of bark or scraps of cloth
So stewed and chewed by bug or moth.
And cardboard snips or garments old
Are layered deep for fungus, mold
Then, chipped and raked and laid with dew.
They’ll decompose - the earth renew.
Oh, worms and slugs will slime on deep.
They’ll slide and rise – bacteria keep.
The creeping fungi tentacles
Invade the woody cellulose.
Small pill-bugs armadillo-like
Will chew, proliferate germ-like.
Black crickets nip and chirp aloud
As green-stuff breaks down, earthen bound.
Tough weeds and thistles thickly lay
broad birthing beds for seeds to splay.
The grass seeds sprout to soon reclaim
And forbs and bush will do the same.
The tree and shade will moisten life
Bourgeoning growth, hey, life’s a-rife!
These are my friends –for heaven’s sake-
While here on earth such means they make
That forms the base for nutrients’ ride
in each backyard where veggies hide.
For there cucumbers and our corn
Will sun-ward climb when mantles shorn.
And berries plump up for the tongue
Thick watermelons swell for fun
The chives, potatoes, peppers, too
Once tended, eaten two-by-two
As pomegranates burst in pink
So grapes and cherries clump in sync.
Thus, weeds and waste, insects, debris
Comprise a food web thriving free.
As treasure, trash: they’re all confused
Since food and waste are either used
By creature, plant; with moisture pure
They’re ripe for appetite for sure.
One hardly treasures easy means
Once giv’n to him for what he needs.
Yet needed most are presents free
Like food for life, a saving spree.
And so I’ll eat my garden free
And save my coin from grocery.
I’ll build the soil and plant the seed
To answer body’s nutrient need.
My soil evolves from spring to spring
From leaves and twigs my neighbors bring
For the water, worms, soil and all life Bruce Wales 8-27-09
POETRY: Girl With the Red High Heeled Shoes
The Girl With the Red High Heeled Shoes
Dee Strickland Johnson, © 2009
(This is a true story which it has taken me nearly forty-five years to write)
Surely, United States Border Patrol,
is a job that few people would choose.
She might have been dead a day, maybe two,
the girl with the red high-heeled shoes.
She lay in the slight dappled, grudging sparse shade
of a small palo verde tree,
A merciless sun slew such shade as it made.
I found her amongst the debris—
Aluminum cans, sacks, and diapers and such
we find scattered about every day.
O, I’ve seen the dead and the dying too much,
yet this took my breath clean away.
She wore but one shoe – it was high heeled; bright red.
How it spoke of her tragic ordeal!
The desert’s unkind to both living and dead,
and the shoe in her hand had no heel.
She was young and she might have been pretty.
Probably fled from her harsh poverty
To some Norte American City
To begin life adversity free.
She’d left from some village one morning,
decked out in her finest new clothes,
With her hopes and her dreams still aborning:
red shoes, fancy dress and silk hose.
I cursed the deceitful “coyote!”
‘Tis sure she could never have seen
That he’d leave her to die in the desert
where the heat blazed a hundred eighteen.
He had probably told her, “A bus will come by.
Just over the hill there lies wealth.”
The whole thing was a lie: With result that she die,
while he lives by deception and stealth.
I knelt and cried, “¡Madre de Dios!”
I felt the hot tears on my face
As I lifted her ever so gently
and took her away from that place.
¿A donde vas, Seňorita?
¿Como se llama? ¿Who knows?
¿Maria, Rosita, Lupita, Juanita
con zapatos tacones altos?
Did coyote forecast that this trip be her last?
Be he damned for his treacherous ruse!
Her sun has long set, but I’ll never forget
the girl with the red high-heeled shoes,
I still weep for the girl in red shoes.
Dee Strickland Johnson, © 2009
(This is a true story which it has taken me nearly forty-five years to write)
Surely, United States Border Patrol,
is a job that few people would choose.
She might have been dead a day, maybe two,
the girl with the red high-heeled shoes.
She lay in the slight dappled, grudging sparse shade
of a small palo verde tree,
A merciless sun slew such shade as it made.
I found her amongst the debris—
Aluminum cans, sacks, and diapers and such
we find scattered about every day.
O, I’ve seen the dead and the dying too much,
yet this took my breath clean away.
She wore but one shoe – it was high heeled; bright red.
How it spoke of her tragic ordeal!
The desert’s unkind to both living and dead,
and the shoe in her hand had no heel.
She was young and she might have been pretty.
Probably fled from her harsh poverty
To some Norte American City
To begin life adversity free.
She’d left from some village one morning,
decked out in her finest new clothes,
With her hopes and her dreams still aborning:
red shoes, fancy dress and silk hose.
I cursed the deceitful “coyote!”
‘Tis sure she could never have seen
That he’d leave her to die in the desert
where the heat blazed a hundred eighteen.
He had probably told her, “A bus will come by.
Just over the hill there lies wealth.”
The whole thing was a lie: With result that she die,
while he lives by deception and stealth.
I knelt and cried, “¡Madre de Dios!”
I felt the hot tears on my face
As I lifted her ever so gently
and took her away from that place.
¿A donde vas, Seňorita?
¿Como se llama? ¿Who knows?
¿Maria, Rosita, Lupita, Juanita
con zapatos tacones altos?
Did coyote forecast that this trip be her last?
Be he damned for his treacherous ruse!
Her sun has long set, but I’ll never forget
the girl with the red high-heeled shoes,
I still weep for the girl in red shoes.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Fitting photo for final front page
Photo by Bill Huddleston
This young dancer performed at the Rim Country Heritage Festival last weekend. We thought her pensive look most appropriate for the Gazette's last front page. Many thanks to Bill Huddleston for his excellent photographic contributions to the Gazette. We hope to feature some of Bill's best photography here on our blog.
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