under the dust

I really got an image in my head from something said in a class I was in tonight. We've all heard the expression of "kicking up the dust". So, here is a poem, inspired by this small phrase from class tonight.

Under The Dust

what is
under the dust
not really
the best
parts of "us"
didn't see it
till I kicked at it
but now that I do
I'd rather hoped
it had rusted away
the past?
the present?
pushed in a corner
dented

choices

some mine
some

body else's

mistakes made
I hide
in the shade
grab my blade
to slay or trade
my broken pieces
which to keep?
which should be
put to sleep?
which
make me feel
like a creep?
yet
under the dust
some garbage lies
don't want it to be seen
not trying to be mean
yet I mean
what I say
when I tell you
I want
to sweep it away
don't let it
come out & play
not today
not tomorrow
throw it out
like dead flowers
cause if it doesn't
get thrown away
it'll get kicked up again
someday

by b.e. noll

May His grace drip from your fingers,
B

a sudden, & odd poem

A farewell letter

sorry I must go
sorry
that is
for you
this isn’t as sad
as I thought it would be
at least
not for me
I have a story
I have
a storyteller
I do not always like the way he tells my story
or the speed
at which
I get to read [see]
the story unfold
sometimes
I even try not to let
the pages turn
for fear
of loosing something
or fear
of gaining something
that isn’t as good
as I’d like it to be
yet
this changes nothing
I still must live
more loosely
with you
than I originally did
Why?
because
I
let you
set my boundaries
you
however
are not
the author
of my story
I
must do
whatever it takes
to remove
you
from
the place that
the author
is supposed
to be
please
forgive me
for ever putting you there
I know
my author can
it is my hope
that you can
as well

by b.e. noll

I wrote this poem, moments ago. Just so I don't make anyone uncomfortable [please don't ask why I feel the need to type this] this is a good-bye of sorts to a variety of persons, places, objects, routines, habits, thoughts, etc. These are both past, & present. Thus, somehow, this poem seems to be written... more to me, than by me.

May his grace drip from your fingers,
B