Senseless in Heaven

Senseless in Heaven

by Daniel Noll

I only hope that;

If the Devil has a domicile

and Hell be it and not a myth,

If I'm to dwell in the upper realms

I'd rather not know

What lies down below, and hope

That along with wings

And celestial things

Eternity comes with

A perfect forgetting

I only hope that:

If Gods nature be specific enough

To allocate itself a space for us

And Heaven be it's name

And if I, in Christ,with faith

Enough, did trust,

To get myself there

And through that hard door

And meet my old friends

That we never recall

This frail time and all

It's simple perversions.

I only hope that

If all we who've lived, survive

and death is just a passage

To another form of space and life.

If Justice more than mercy screams

In this whole vast scheme

And Hell is not a dream

I hope I dwell above

With God in all His love

With imperfect hearing

I'd rather not hear the Angels singing

If my ears are not deaf

To Hells raucus grieving.

I only hope that;

If some fair space is set apart

and Grace bestows me my fair share

for having played the game

within the bounds and kept the rules,

that I can, amidst all the glitter of that bright sky,

Bring the lids down on these moist eyes.

For I would rather blindly stumble on golden curbs

See nothing or even rust prefer

To gold, then peeking over heavens wall

See a wide-eyed image of old friends writhing

Or loved ones burning.

I only hope that

If, with my nose, I need to breathe to pray

That the wind that carry scent away

That makes a memory

Of the blooms bouquet

Blows that memory another way

Or comes scentless to my nose

Than take the chance of smelling smoke

From someone I might know

On fire down below.

So, if I, senseless, in Heaven, must abide

to tolerate the joy and glory of it all

If angels must lead me from show to show

And if of heaven all I know

Be a fingers touch

I'll at least not regret nor feel sorrow

Though I may wonder

When I come on Heavens door

just what it might be there for.

Madelines poem on Poetry

Poetry


Poems are hard to write,

you rhyme everything in sight

Poetry and prose are as beautiful as a rose

They talk of earthly things,

maybe a robin that sings

They are quiet and most people like it


Poetry relieves stress and forgets the mess

It hates strife and loves life

It has gratitude and meditates every mood


It enjoys warm fires and detail it admires

It is integrous and peace is on its list

It knows to share, it employs care

It sees beauty in everything

putting others first as if King


It’s poetry I love to write

My brain soars like a kite

By Madeline Noll 1.25.08

Madelines Poem - Spring

Spring – Twilight Lost

A blue wild feeling

Roses are peeling

Fairies are dancing

Horses are prancing

Clouds are running

Night is coming


Follow me ‘cross the boughs

Say your vows

Pass the cows

We are cunning,

The forest is humming


The humming comes to singing,

Fairy bells are jingling

We must come away,

Before the break of day

I will be gone, forever long

On west ground kneeling,

A blue wild feeling

On west ground kneeling

A wild blue feeling




By Madeline Noll 1.24.08

-Before Her Arrival

BEFORE HER ARRIVAL
Daniel Noll


And what can this hand know
That it should anticipate so
The lighting of my fingerflies
Upon her cheek?

And what can this flushing cheek know
That it should so anticipate
Her fingers falling flight,
Their gentle landing?

And these two lips,
How would they know
That others wetly lie in wait
To make a ruby ambush?

And how can these ears
Extort from time
Laughing footfalls
And sparkling air?

And shuttered eyes suspect
The soft and fair landing
That they so soon shall make?

And the flaring nose
To begin it’s fondling search
For the sticky fragrance of her coming?
How can it know?

And the whole mindful wrapper
Aching grandstand of expectation
And each mute hair
Ready to rise and cheer

This whole body, than,
Seems as mindful as my mind,
Stakes its claim on knowing you,
Knows you beyond feeling
And keeps us in touch
With the airs beyond breathing,
Instructs this brain
On the notion of completion,
With sweet refrain
And harsh discord
Sets the pace of my hearts beating.

Fickle Bird a poem about the creative urge

When I think of the creative imperative, that insistant urge that drives all types of endeavors, I visualize the smal bird described below in the poem Fickle Bird

Fickle Bird
by Daniel Noll

This fickle bird I've seen before

It has it's precedent

It can turn life inside out

Reveal the workings of all things

Open one eye and blind the sun

With the other make the insane wise

Or follow the path of a molecule of ink

Through a glass of water.

With it's delicate beak tear through the earths crust

and in the next moment pick out that particular grain of sand

From the wind blown Sahara.

With one tiny clawed foot pick a whole galaxy

Out of it's place in the universe.

It's chirpping can drown out a choir of angels in full voice

Sentence men to perdition

Order nations about

All this..yet it is so very shy

It flutters on its perch

The air turns to froth

Boulders fall from the sky

It flutters again and

The veins of the sun pop out

Fire flows to the earth from the tips of it's wings

It can dissolve common sense in a good man

Create whole religions from a childs storybook

Indict and absolve

Fury and beauty

All from the fluttering of it's tiny wings

Dispite it's small size

It is a voracious consumer of humanity

Men or women and their families

and all their households, fortunes and futures

It is a sad tyrant, well beloved monarch

God and Devil, Angel and Demon

Feed it at great risk for

It can regurgitate whole nations out it's tiny gut

Let it sit on your finger

Maybe it will only occupy a shoebox size space

High up in the bedroom closet,

Having sung it's song elsewhere.

Or it may make your whole house it's residence

And order you about

It may just sit and shit on your best china

And expect you to clean it up - over and over.

It may do that for years till the house and yard

Are piled high with the refuse of this tiny bird

And the neighbors move away.

The authorities may come and you explain

About this little bird and it's capacity to consume and shit.

You show it to them

It sits grey and silent

They ask you why, why keep this tiny bird of devastation?

And you explain that someday it may sing a little song.

They leave you alone after that.

Right after they leave you hear it.

Tinkling notes that become ponderous

with the sound of stomping men marching down the street

Delicate fluttering sounds like dancers feet

Great brushstrokes of sound

The ringing sound of steel on wood and stone

High-hatted men orating

Delicate fingers filling the air with fury and chaos

Hard crude fingers with rose petal sounds

At last it settles down and I dare to open the door

To where the little bird dwelt

But the little bird had fled

I cleaned up the mess it made

I sat, exhausted, glad it had gone

I tried to remember the tunes it sang and wished it back

A poetic blog

Poetry is a means of expression that allows me to describe elements of the real and unreal not so easily expressed with the visual art methods I normally work with.
On this site I will present some of the poems I've created.
I hope you enjoy them and contribute poems of your own.
Your comments, whatever form they take, will be appreciated.