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Contests : Margaret Reid Poetry Contest : Past Winners : 2007 : High Distinction
CHARLIE PLAYS THE UKULELE
Charlie plays the ukulele
in a small Manhattan bar
at a crowded intersection
near the pier,
where the people buy their tickets
for the Staten Island Ferry,
and linger for a drink or two,
or maybe just a beer.
He knows he makes them happy,
for they sometimes enter sadly,
but they always have a smile when they depart.
Maybe they don't always hear him,
but the nice ones standing near him
often place a small gratuity
while pointing to their heart.
Now, this Friday evening,
as the early crowd is leaving,
a lovely lady enters and sits down.
She orders a Campari
with a double shot of vodka—
her feather boa snaking
a Salvation Army gown.
Her lips of bright vermilion,
her nails of terra cotta,
her white-out skin—
all capture Charlie's eyes.
For years he's saved his money;
played his ukulele funny
to amass a proper dowry,
and make claim to such a prize.
So, he plays a special medley
"In her honor", he announces,
starting with "Amazing Grace"
and "Silent Night",
and he throws in all his best ones,
saving "Tiptoe Through the Tulips",
for the Grand Finale—
playing it just right.
But when he looks up from his music,
staring hard into the dimness,
all he sees is empty table, empty chair.
When he asks, the waitress tells him
that "she left with a nice gentleman
Paying compliments,
her tab—
and a Staten Island fare.
So, Charlie takes a break and ponders
"Will she come back to me?", he wonders
"I guess I must have played my medley wrong."
"Well, the next time that I see her,
I'll be the one to buy her beer
or Campari, or whatever,
or should I just add a song?"
MADAME SOSOSTRIS
With daily preparations made,
she slumps into her chair,
a fraying turban hiding graying threads
of thinning hair.
The hem is slightly tattered
of her dress of velveteen.
A peeking pair of slippers there
have lost their silver sheen
Around her slender shoulders
drapes a shawl with golden thread.
Stars and moons appearing
in a universe of red.
In all, she looks quite comely,
surely not the worst for wear.
She figures she is ready
for the seekers coming there.
She pulls a wobbly table
within reach of spindly hands,
and fumbles with a deck of cards
to meet the day's demands.
Her sniffles are a nuisance.
She endures a common cold,
but otherwise her health is good,
or so the cards have told.
Her book shows no appointments,
so she risks a gin with lime,
and turns the television on
to while away the time.
Just off highway ninety eight
near the town of Drear
sits the lonely single-wide—
no reason to pause here.
Outside the rain is colder,
and the afternoon turns mean.
Loud traffic takes no notice,
swishing swiftly past the scene
How little do they understand
the wonders held inside,
as weeds continue carelessly
a little sign to hide:
"Madame Sosostris
Famous Clairvoyante"
OLD STONES
Your father stoops to pick up a stone
Gently, he lays it, a nice fit,
in a small crevasse in an old wall.
The larger stones were cleared by your father,
your father's father, and before him—his father
to make a space for meager crops,
keep the scrawny cattle in
and claim a tiny bit of earth as their own.
No one lives here now,
but some, like your father, still come
to protect, preserve and revere—
keeping something alive that sprouted and grew
along with root crops and tall grass—
your heritage.
The land will someday belong to you,
and your father speaks reverently of hard history and rich legacy—
sacrifice and celebration—
and the worthiness of constancy.
You cannot quite make out the great ocean from here
or the town of Dingle on the inlet, where tourists wander—
streets cluttered with brightly painted cottages and happy old pubs.
Your father has a law office there,
upstairs over O'Connor's,
where he downs a pint or two on Friday nights,
and sometimes can be heard to speak "The Irish."
There are others too, who know the stories and the songs—
adventurous sea stories and hardscrabble land stories—
stories of Druids before Time itself,
and of Father Hannigan
who gave up the cloth for a sailor's widow.
One day, when you are more able to put things into perspective,
your father will tell you of Sean, your uncle
who disobeyed his father and went to make his fortune
rowing a dory out of Dingle Inlet to cast nets for Haddock.
He was a farmer's son—no match for the treacheries of deep green water.
For a long time, it was said, he could be heard to make his apologies,
especially when the wind blew from the west.
This is the birthplace of stones;
stone houses, barns, churches,
walls of every length and height
reflecting the toil and ingenuity of human history.
From the time creatures crawled in from the sea
seeking shelter in a waterless world,
or, later, when "civilization" evolved
and other creatures came in from Viking ships,
stones have prevailed.
Listen.
The words are carefully chosen.
Watch.
The stone is carefully placed.
Your history and your heritage
Here among the old stones.
These poems won High Distinction awards in the 2007 Margaret Reid Poetry Contest sponsored by Tom Howard Books. Author Noble Collins received three awards of $100. Winning Writers assists this contest. Copyright is reserved to the author.
About Noble Collins
Noble Collins is retired from business and lives in the cool mountains of Arizona with his wife, Sharon, and Cowboy, the Chihuahua. He has loved reading and writing (all styles) since High School where he won his first award for poetry. Later, in college, he majored in English and edited a
creative writing review. His poem "Old Hawk" won second prize in the 2006 Tom Howard/John H. Reid Poetry Contest.
Winning Writers has given Noble a wonderful outlet to pick up an old hobby and use much of his retirement time doing what he loves. For this, he is enormously grateful.
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