Poetry

Noodle 

You

by,

Anthony Oberon

Reflections

There’s a noodle in my candle

Many, quite in fact

Red and yellow

Green and tan

There’s a noodle in my candle

With a wick half-inch tall

Recessed in a hollow

And there’s still a noodle in my candle

Quite many now in fact

An oft white-greenish wax

Sitting on scissors

As students sit silently reclining

watch with displaced eyes

those brave enough to play the game

to risk their lives on a wooden stage

and expose.

Finally

free

of

customary

restraints

of

words                                                                                      and

lines

and                 

p

a

g

e

s

.

But as I sit, too

reclining against the stone.

I see cowardice and fear

for in those eyes that turn

            toward me

brief glimpses are imparted

reinforcing my own troubles

            and fears

As the crowd murmurs

whispers, speaks, and gossips

the few who slow in stride

or pause in thought

realize their infantile nature

and gaze in step at walls not walls

in boxes self sustaining

at murals, posters, poets

striving to achieve in days of silence and unrest

a moment clear of particulate nature

longingly lusting after attention

of those who stroll on by

caring less at assignments due

or papers past

on pieces left unsaid

for better scene

could exist in minds and eyes

not canvas pressed

by wood and thumbtack and staple too

for [the] glimpse of artist soul

splayed for all to see

and analyze and speak

images profound and not

inspire form and function

of allowed ideal

but time has passed

all for naught

as dust collects on fading paint

still too on canvas pressed