"noa" poems - Hello Poetry

it feels like pulling fabric out of drawers and none of it fits last night, you put everything in the dryer and fell asleep while the things you thought you knew tumbled and knotted and turned into an unfamiliar mess it feels like a bumblebee landing on your shoulder you’re supposed to stay still and wait for it to move on until it realizes you are not a flower it doesn’t it stays and buzzes in your ear until you turn to dust or learn to scream but then, one day it’ll feel like waking up to rays of sun through the window when you haven’t slept in weeks like forgotten pocket change like a present on your half-birthday like an entire april without rain and it’ll feel like it was always there— you’d just forgotten to turn the light on

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Jun 18, 2018

Jun 18, 2018 at 2:03 PM UTC

madisen

for noa

it feels like pulling fabric out of drawers and none of it fits last night, you put everything in the dryer and fell asleep while the things you thought you knew tumbled and knotted and turned into an unfamiliar mess it feels like a bumblebee landing on your shoulder you’re supposed to stay still and wait for it to move on until it realizes you are not a flower it doesn’t it stays and buzzes in your ear until you turn to dust or learn to scream but then, one day it’ll feel like waking up to rays of sun through the window when you haven’t slept in weeks like forgotten pocket change like a present on your half-birthday like an entire april without rain and it’ll feel like it was always there— you’d just forgotten to turn the light on

25

from sea to sea and between one rest to another all my heart desired was the waves of your love towards me ~Noa Barak~

0

Mar 24, 2016

Mar 24, 2016 at 12:33 PM UTC

noa-barak

Waves

from sea to sea and between one rest to another all my heart desired was the waves of your love towards me ~Noa Barak~

5

And then there was orange, glinting in a pile from the ground outside my second story window. I sit and count the scattered papers on my bedroom floor, thinking, "Maybe someday the past and present will meet," though I know full-well that they already have. Now it is twofold, it is insult to injury, it is twenty seven eleven. We are lies, aren't we? We are thankful for the unknown. My father sips scotch and devours the truth. I catch my connecting flight and travel back in time. The man in the blue coat is replaced by the man in the black hat, the man with the feather hat, and the man with naught but war paint. It is like the movies, I decide. I settle on a log bench and read the classifieds in the newspaper. Mother and father tell me to count my blessings as if they are sheep. I tell them that their analogy is flawed. Morning comes and I tie a string around my ring finger, proclaiming, "I am here to collect thanks! Bring out your wish lists and your tattered diaries!" I am a liar; I am thankful for nothing but sickness and ink. I write "twenty seven eleven" three hundred times and vow to make a difference. I fill my car and my fridge and roller blade up the mountain, chanting, "Noa! Noa! 'Oia'i'o! A'ole mahalo nui!" My cries go unheard and I sulk back down, a landslide for the ages. I begin to write poetry that oozes pretension and reflects obsession. I try to pronounce the disease and instead find myself bound to a table crushed by feast and fear. I have written "twenty seven eleven" on my forehead and am forced to listen to the "Lord"s and "grateful"s and "God"s and I have had enough. I break free and head for reason.

0

May 5, 2011

May 5, 2011 at 1:06 AM UTC

katie-mora

a november afternoon wherein we grow concerned with deeper meanings

And then there was orange, glinting in a pile from the ground outside my second story window. I sit and count the scattered papers on my bedroom floor, thinking, "Maybe someday the past and present will meet," though I know full-well that they already have. Now it is twofold, it is insult to injury, it is twenty seven eleven. We are lies, aren't we? We are thankful for the unknown. My father sips scotch and devours the truth. I catch my connecting flight and travel back in time. The man in the blue coat is replaced by the man in the black hat, the man with the feather hat, and the man with naught but war paint. It is like the movies, I decide. I settle on a log bench and read the classifieds in the newspaper. Mother and father tell me to count my blessings as if they are sheep. I tell them that their analogy is flawed. Morning comes and I tie a string around my ring finger, proclaiming, "I am here to collect thanks! Bring out your wish lists and your tattered diaries!" I am a liar; I am thankful for nothing but sickness and ink. I write "twenty seven eleven" three hundred times and vow to make a difference. I fill my car and my fridge and roller blade up the mountain, chanting, "Noa! Noa! 'Oia'i'o! A'ole mahalo nui!" My cries go unheard and I sulk back down, a landslide for the ages. I begin to write poetry that oozes pretension and reflects obsession. I try to pronounce the disease and instead find myself bound to a table crushed by feast and fear. I have written "twenty seven eleven" on my forehead and am forced to listen to the "Lord"s and "grateful"s and "God"s and I have had enough. I break free and head for reason.

35

Dear Golden Gate Bridge, Can you give her back to me? Split the water in two and I will be Moises Angry and scared, desperate and delusional like Dolly was about Jolene She fell in love with your edges and your deceiving depths And you never saw right through her and thought that maybe she just wanted you to be the sloppy second for once. Rebound to a better life. Splash! You are a ruthless lover but I'm starting to understand the fascination with that edge of yours. Breathe in. Breathe out. Jolene, I need to be baptized in your love And I will assure you that I can swim and you will pretend to care. Moises will fly to a sure fall. Let him drown. He would have never made it to Noa's arc anyways. Let me drown.

0

Oct 18, 2017

Oct 18, 2017 at 4:02 PM UTC

CallMeVenus

2 am talks with Jolene and Golden Gate Bridge

Dear Golden Gate Bridge, Can you give her back to me? Split the water in two and I will be Moises Angry and scared, desperate and delusional like Dolly was about Jolene She fell in love with your edges and your deceiving depths And you never saw right through her and thought that maybe she just wanted you to be the sloppy second for once. Rebound to a better life. Splash! You are a ruthless lover but I'm starting to understand the fascination with that edge of yours. Breathe in. Breathe out. Jolene, I need to be baptized in your love And I will assure you that I can swim and you will pretend to care. Moises will fly to a sure fall. Let him drown. He would have never made it to Noa's arc anyways. Let me drown.

15

The mourning is about it never being the way I needed it to be. My life itself a disturbance of mourning Stands in my life. Before me. The dead girl under the bed her skin transparent as mine disappears. I come out and there is no mother. Sometimes she appears and there is no telling what attracts her warmth. Approaches and departs. Becomes desire, the loot of her mourning. Empty womb pillow. I am not enrapt. Its’ tufts flap my fringe. Behind me, at my sides stands mourning. I have only to be busy with your burial. Sharpening flint to a pillar pile to a mound and turn from it. It is gone forever. And I am. By Noa Vardi, M. D.

0

Jan 23, 2021

Jan 23, 2021 at 5:23 AM UTC

irinia

Mourning and Melancholia

The mourning is about it never being the way I needed it to be. My life itself a disturbance of mourning Stands in my life. Before me. The dead girl under the bed her skin transparent as mine disappears. I come out and there is no mother. Sometimes she appears and there is no telling what attracts her warmth. Approaches and departs. Becomes desire, the loot of her mourning. Empty womb pillow. I am not enrapt. Its’ tufts flap my fringe. Behind me, at my sides stands mourning. I have only to be busy with your burial. Sharpening flint to a pillar pile to a mound and turn from it. It is gone forever. And I am. By Noa Vardi, M. D.

27

It is Maori language week here in NZ, so... Ko te ahua o taku aroha He ngawari taku aroha Ka pupuhi nga puawai ngawari i runga kahui puna mahana Kei te takaro toku aroha he matotoru kopikopiko i roto i te tito aroha Ko taku aroha he ra raumati takai te kare ite marama me te mahana Aroha katoa ahau te kotahi te honi pi huri noa i ahau i roto i toku ngakau ~~~~~~~*~ and in translation.. The nature of my love my love is gentle soft petals blown on a warm spring breeze my love is playful a tender tickle enveloped in a loving tease my love is a summer day wrapped in emotion clearly felt and warm my love is all for you the one true honey-bee as around my heart you swarm. J.C. honey-tiger 09/09/2019.

0

Sep 8, 2019

Sep 8, 2019 at 10:29 PM UTC

scarab280

The nature of my love

It is Maori language week here in NZ, so... Ko te ahua o taku aroha He ngawari taku aroha Ka pupuhi nga puawai ngawari i runga kahui puna mahana Kei te takaro toku aroha he matotoru kopikopiko i roto i te tito aroha Ko taku aroha he ra raumati takai te kare ite marama me te mahana Aroha katoa ahau te kotahi te honi pi huri noa i ahau i roto i toku ngakau ~~~~~~~*~ and in translation.. The nature of my love my love is gentle soft petals blown on a warm spring breeze my love is playful a tender tickle enveloped in a loving tease my love is a summer day wrapped in emotion clearly felt and warm my love is all for you the one true honey-bee as around my heart you swarm. J.C. honey-tiger 09/09/2019.

30

Goeie avond nostalgie, wat fijn dat ik u zie, zien mag. Sinds FIFA veertien lag ik al aan uw voeten, fijn dat ik u mag begroeten. Vanavond gaan we drinken, tuimelen, duiken, vallen, zinken in een zee van liefde voor elkaar. Eenmaal, andermaal, niemand bezwaar? Dan leg ik mezelf in de watten, vanavond gaan we boiten.

0

Jun 14, 2019

Jun 14, 2019 at 8:17 AM UTC

Daan

Noa Boite

Goeie avond nostalgie, wat fijn dat ik u zie, zien mag. Sinds FIFA veertien lag ik al aan uw voeten, fijn dat ik u mag begroeten. Vanavond gaan we drinken, tuimelen, duiken, vallen, zinken in een zee van liefde voor elkaar. Eenmaal, andermaal, niemand bezwaar? Dan leg ik mezelf in de watten, vanavond gaan we boiten.

11