House of Vanishing Doors
A breeze came through the window
In a small vacant farm house very far
From town as the soft transparent
Cloth curtains danced. A chair and
Table nearby held an open book; pages
Turning themselves as if alone by the
Force of what was searching from the
Outside coming inside, intermittently,
At my reading pace. You see, I once
Lived here in the flesh of events with
Passion like others had done so when
Our fields were full of cotton and trees
Had deep water wells for their leaves
To grow cool shades. And the back bed
Room at times became silent as things
Stood still for moments. Again, just now,
I can recall one summer day like a dream
Written down, the long letting go, a closing
That haunts me since, as I was the one
Who died here; and people were walking,
Leaving like in slow motion while the
Landscape dried up as the seasons moved
On. Still, I remain looking out the stark
Window of migrating birds and dirt roads.
Watching them going, changing, disappearing
Into some kind of a lonely series, never ending.
Stanley Morris Noah has a BGS degree from The University of Texas at Dallas. He has been published in the following: Wisconsin Review, Nexus, Main Street Rag, South Carolina Review, Poetry Nottingham and other publications in the U.S.A., Britain, Canada and New Zealand.
Copyright © 2013 by Stanley Morris Noah