The Noresoup Jukebox

little by little, a lot has become a lot. have you seen how the rain does more than wash away the dust from a week of drought? the puddles become lakes and the drain makes rivers, the house cannot make for a boat, so I learn to swim. little by little, a lot becomes a lot. will God take again what has been given? tying myself to a branch of hope as the waters of death attempt to drown me. how foolish was I at the young age of 5 to pray for swimming pools and lakes to play mermaids in! little by little, a lot becomes a lot. perhaps it is the ceaseless rain that drums against the roof or the symphony the clouds make up above for my prayers remain  unanswered. or perhaps, this is grace meant to deafen  to flood the mind as to  lull the loss that awaits, and the grief, the loud undying grief.

spending quiet mornings  sat in front of a loud book coffee still as bitter, still as dark      good morning,       sparrows nesting beneath our soffit      how do you do? stillness stirred by internal nagging i pick up the broom and sweep the night away the skies have humour and they bless us with rain and then, all too much, all too fast so, our dining table hosts a soggy spread  and soggier guests     sorry for the wait,     and sorry for the poor meal     and also, sorry for the weather. damp laundry hovering over the bed and a quick attempt to  dry tomorrow's uniform smell of heat, warmth, dampness and the distinct whirring of a fan the tired head, so heavy hits the cotton pillows August slumber brings the joy of a monsoon gone sooner

"I would never betray my pillars of hope!" said he "I am a man of my words." Mr. Fiddle dilly-dallying under the pretty willow tree Fiddling with his words and their worth.  "Aye, we understand," said the sprites "For you often say, You are noble and kind! And all the trees long for your embrace, And all the sprites help to keep you alive." Mr. Fiddle bursting with pride But the willow tree hides it with her branches. Fiddling with his integrity,  Mr. Fiddle gets second chances. "Oh, Mr. Fiddle, You have become strong and wise. Let it not fool you or others, for your growth may feed you lies. For the yeast must first bloom, before it is made to bread. And ye know best, To have bread first,  Before the news of harvest is spread!" Mr. Fiddle now confused Those silly little things! Fiddling with his austerity,  Meddling with his worth. "You foolish sprites! How dare you defy me? Do you not know that I suffer in hunger Before any of yo...

Huckleberry isn't easy;  Huckleberry is tough. Gotta get the body strong, And help the mind learn to love. So that when another callin', Huckleberry don't keep still. The legs train to be runnin' So no one goes for the kill. Huckleberry isn't easy; Huckleberry is tough. Gots no one to turn to And not a place on earth to run. So Huckleberry sharpens up his wits The destitute know the way All avoid the deep canyon and  Go round' the cold, dark, wet bay. Huckleberry isn't easy; Huckleberry is tough. Palms hardened from the labour, Begs no wage for the job is enough. Huckleberry gots the momentum goin' Ain't no way he's gon' succumb. Got a few more years to go, he says, And then, he'll be done. Huckleberry isn't easy; Huckleberry is tough. Death is a friend, he says, No fibre of his bein' be afraid. Had he no ties to the human world, He'd long pull the trigger on that metal gun. Huckleberry isn't easy; Yes, Huckleberry is toug...

May be with you Despite the relentless heat May be with you  Through the solitude May be with you Despite the many losses May be with you Though your truth misconstrued May be with you Despite the deaths May be with you  As you find yourself May be with you Despite the aching May be with you To carry you to June

They have rough hands unskilled in love, And could not make a thing out of wood. They furrow their brows at the thought of  Doing anyone any small bit of good. And, of course, human are they, still, So, they cry and moan even if without sound. But they come out of it entitled, To every woman's womb, ears, and somehow Suppose that their pain is bigger than the woman's plights like they fight demons only known to men. Well, Harpman, shall we tell them, We were only 8 when we befriended them. So marvelous do they paint their spirit And special do they feel for reading works of complicated men; Men who knew no better, far less, Than the women who fed and raised them. A look at their soul, so empty and bland; So lustful for their lost mothers' affection, And vain do they continue to be, For they are very well appeased by a lass' feigned attention. Not knowing she would rather be left in solitude To write and read, To be cared for by buzzing bees and then be stung, Dying with...