Thursday, June 9, 2016

Eric Robert Nolan- Two Poems


A woman in a white convertible.
Some short words, a long
Pull at a brown bottle.

Approaching the city
The improbable White shapes
Of The Dome and The Monument
Glitter against midnight.

Somewhere in that city stands
A vast, empty room,
Quiet except for the echoing wings
Of a plain brown bird.
The room
Has no windows, only
Four white walls and the sound of aimless flutter.

Thump, thump
A sound
Punctuates the stillness, the sound
Of a tufted breast against white plaster
An almost inaudible collision.

How improbable those walls seem
To the indolent eyes of a bird.  The walls
Are eggshell White, really,
The same eggshell White as its birth and yet
So unlike those breakable surfaces.

Thump, thump, the corners
Are new and also sharp.  Everywhere
White walls and angles
Confront its persistence.

Its own breast was White once
And its brown, twiggy nest
A universe of failure, it
Never imagined a night
When such bright, clean places
Existed only elsewhere.

Union Station.
Ethereal tunes escape
A brown-skinned man and his horn
Of unpolished brass.
The moon, as White as Love,
As White and as cold
As a headstone for the sky
Sits low above the Dome.

Thump, thump, the sound
Is only a gentle reminder
Of the ordinary aspects of life
White walls and angles,
Childhood' past,
Hubris and White plaster,
The existence of corners, the fundamental
Limits of endurance.
(c) Eric Robert Nolan 2012
"Crow's Feet"
Crow’s feet arise
Beside my eyes.
There’s no bird ruder
Than age’s raven.
Marched and marked nocturnally
All across my face, did he.
Is “goose-stepping blackbird”
A contradiction in terms?
(c)  Eric Robert Nolan 2016

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