Five Poems by Nolo Segundo

 

                                             

The Old Tracks

 

In my town and only 

90 feet from my house  

Run a pair of old tracks, 

Railroad tracks older 

Than my house, even  

Older than me, and I 

Am become old, very, 

Very old, like a tree 

Whose branches  

Betray it with  

Every strong wind 

And fall to ground 

Leaving less and 

Less of the tree. 

 

I used to walk in 

Between those 

Carefully laid 

Iron rails, stepping 

On the worn wood 

Of the old ties as 

Though they were 

Made of glass…. 

I walked the length  

Of my small town, 

I walked the world. 

I walked where  

Passenger trains 

Carried lives and 

Their once warm, 

Now cold, dreams 

And I was part of  

Each life, now gone 

To ether and mist,  

And so too my  

Lonely soul will 

Ride those rails 

One bright day. 

                                                                           

Still, a freight train 

Comes by once or 

Even twice a week, 

And I thrill to hear 

Its wailing horn as  

it cries out for a  

forgotten glory,  

and the ground  

still shakes a bit 

as the old train 

lumbers slowly  

by my house and 

I wait a holy wait 

For the music of 

Its rumbling and  

The cry of its old 

Heart as a young 

Engineer pulls the 

Whistle and sees  

Not that he is  

Driving eternity. 

 

 

 

THE TIME OF NOSTALGIA 

 

 

We went to visit our old neighbour  

after they moved her to a nursing home, 

an old English lady of ninety-one, 

still with that accent of east-end London 

and the sweet pleasantness of the kind. 

 

She was too old, too alone to live alone. 

She would forget to turn off the gas range 

or how to turn on the thermostat or TV,  

She had trouble following a simple talk, 

but remembered the Blitz, 75 years past, 

as if the Nazi bastards were still at the door, 

and London was in turmoil: as though Hell  

had crashed through the gates of Heaven. 

 

So her family moved her, leaving empty 

the house next door, empty of our friend 

of 30 some years, empty of her lilting  

English accent and her sharp sense of 

good old fashioned English humour… 

and it seemed like someone had died. 

 

After a few weeks we went to visit her, 

my wife and I, taking some sweets and 

a small plant-- oh yes, and our sadness 

too-- though we made sure to leave it 

outside, unattended to for the moment. 

 

We entered a very large and rambling  

sort of building, with pleasant lawns 

and locked doors and intercoms for 

some voice to decide if you can enter. 

It was like sort of a prison, you think, 

but a very nice and very clean prison. 

Our neighbour was in a special wing, 

called rather romantically, ‘Cedar Cove’ 

and as we entered through yet another 

set of stout doors, we greeted her and  

she smiled back, but very much as  

one might greet a total stranger…. 

 

 

 

FALLING LEAVES 

 

 

I always feel a little sad 

watching dying leaves 

tumbling to the ground, 

each bravely making  

the journey alone as  

it dances its final dance 

until it lands with grace 

on the ground, joining 

the fallen myriad…. 

 

Leaves are lucky: they die 

fulsome with beauty, red  

or yellow or orange, and 

the tree always left lesser-- 

something we humans 

might envy….  

  

 

 

Breathe Close to Me 

                                                                                                                                

Breathe close to me, 

Let not your head droop 

Nor your face grimace  

In fierce grief, for when 

I must leave, all will not 

Leave with me, I promise. 

 

 

The memories we made  

Together will sit safely 

Inside your mind’s nest. 

I’ll leave the photos too— 

I can’t take them with me, 

So you’ll have the proof 

We were young once, 

Both pretty and foolish,  

Drawn together like 

Two bees put in a jar, 

Buzzing around each other 

Until their disparate sound 

Becomes a kind of music. 

 

 

The photos and memories  

Can take you back to all 

The places we loved in 

Italy and France and that 

Windblown prehistoric 

Southern beach where  

Our hearts first linked  

In tandem as flesh merged 

And the monk-like sun set 

Slowly, silently o’er that 

Endless and holy ocean. 

 

Yet they lie, those photos 

And remembrances of our 

Youth and middle years,  

For no canvas or brain  

Can seize our love, the  

Living thing it is, unseen  

But tangible as a hand, 

Vulnerable yet enduring  

Past anger, illness and 

Even death, because time  

Cannot diminish this  

Being born between us.      

 

 

 

Ego Or Soul 

 

 

You always have to choose, 

between your ego or your 

soul-- 

one will deceive you every 

damn day, because ego is 

a trickster, 

a liar, 

a cheater, 

telling you how great you are, 

how smart, how kind… 

while the other will always 

be honest with you, if-- 

and it’s a very big if-- 

you listen to it….

 

Nolo Segundo, pen name of L. J. Carber, 77, became a published poet and essayist in his 8th decade in nearly 200 literary journals in 15 countries on 4 continents. A retired teacher [America, Japan, Taiwan, the war zone of Cambodia, 1973-74], he has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and thrice for Best of the Net. Cyberwit has published 3 poetry books: The Enormity of Existence [2020]; Of Ether and Earth [2021]; and Soul Songs [2022]. These titles reflect the awareness he gained over 50 years ago when he had an NDE whilst nearly drowning in a Vermont river: that he has, or rather is a consciousness predating birth, surviving death--what poets since Plato have called the soul. Half a century on, he still has more questions than answers, but at least he has the questions. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[nolosegundo70@gmail.com]