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Noel Lopez Poems

 Here are a number of poems I wrote.


Writing Is
riting sounds like
An open door,
Letting a waterfall
Into a blank room.
Writing looks like
The wind
Blowing one grain
To mould
An empty desert.

Writing feels like
A glass window
Ground into the smallest
Grain possible
To let the world in.

Writing smells like
An early leaf
Collecting the droplets
Of rainforest
Before time clears them away.

Writing tastes like
An ancient glacier
Clouding across salty oceans
To absorb and protect
Its changing surroundings.

Writing is
The sky
Built separate from time
Providing an opening
Into minds and the past.



A Sticky Situation

There I was
Trapped in a big messy web
Wondering, When will the spider come?
How did I get here?
Hours went by like a river flows
I struggled – No sign ...
A bug flew into the web
No sign ...
I tried and tried until
At last
I was free!
I helped the bug
Giving no thanks
He flew away
How empty I felt
When I realized –
The web was



A Thousand-Year Moment

If a moment
In time
Would freeze
For a thousand years,

The entire universe
And everyone
Would pause

A thousand years.

No one would notice
Because it was just a



What is Reality?

What is real?
Is matter real?

To exist,
It should be made of something.
Smaller particles?
What makes those particles?
And the next ones?

It cannot go on forever
For Infinity isn’t real.

What is the smallest unit
Made of
If not something else?
Does reality exist?

The Hat-Snatching Cat

Once upon nine times, there lived a sly cat.
He would roam the streets in veil of shadow.
He would steal in a blink and think it slow.
He snatched what he liked and took every hat.
In Rome was he known, the Hat-Snatching Cat.
His large collection continued to grow.
As days passed, it began to overflow.
It took him some time to realize that.
Through Rome the cat scavenged to find more room.
He left no place out—not even a tomb!
He found enough space but the pile still grew.
The Vatican had a hat shortage too.
He finally chose to return them all
And start a leaf collection in the fall.





Beobug (Inspired by Beowulf, the Anglo Norse epic)
So!  Yes!  No!  Aha!  What?
These confusing words commence a tale
As epic as any if hero defied snail.
The question in question is really not so —
Beobug was human, as the myth will go.
His nickname derived from early English Olde
Meaning to bother, to pester and scold.
The descendant of a small line of rulers is he,
Being the authority on inches and degree.
Their claim is to be of Germanic origin
Although many call them the Germy kin.
Offering unwelcome help far and vast,
Questing for monsters to extinct at last,
This journey he chose at the loss of his royalty
Disowned by his father for his insanity.

After months of travel through many régimes,

Accusing all from midgets to dreams,
Of being the evil he must mortally subdue,
He was banished from all land that was not blue.
Beobug’s last hope was in serpents that are said
To slither by the edges of the ocean bed,
Where the Earth’s boundaries cease to be —
The bravest explorers leave plenty of sea.
With a crew assembled of last-minutemen sailors,
Beobug sailed forth turning the crew into traitors.
Left but a lifeboat and scarce supplies,
The ship back at port with those sailor guys,
He searched for the end that did not exist,
Circling the sphere, too many to list.

Beobug found neither edge nor land

Till one fortunate day appeared an island.
Upon reaching the isle he joyfully docked
And collected fruits to be well-stocked.
The island seemed to be oddly deserted.
Abandoned huts rimmed the shore he asserted.
In little time his deep pondering was answered:
From the jungle came crashes of trees being hammered.
Large hairy two-legged beasts came to the open.
Beobug drew his sword and stared at the ten.
Defiance gleamed in his eyes as he charged —
Sword raised, piercing half-inch through hide, he barged —
The stab’s depth shown by his marked sword,
Very precisely, being the specialty of his horde.

Pulling was no use, the sword would not free.

He staggered back and threw a rock angrily;
“Free my sword thou foul beast,
Or I shall make of you a fine feast!”
The monster flicked the sword to the side
And these brutes advanced toward the hero in stride.
Beobug rapidly collected his sword and warily
Escaped the monsters’ grasps but barely.
He mounted his boat and rowed from the shore
Where he cheered, to the entire mob’s bore.
As he tauntingly launched them with fruit,
Their heads began to twist and form root.
The necks elongated and — off they fell!
The serpent-necked heads slithered and swam well.

Beobug realized his horror and frantically deweighted,

Lightening the boat from the fruit he had collated.
His paddling was not substantial, for the serpents gained.
They reached the boat and ferociously rained.
He slashed at the snakes and found his sword
Penetrated soft new skin as their blood poured.
After many slashes (he had stopped rowing),
Beobug fended them off and caused a mass water mowing.
He lay resting, allowing the boat to stray.
When he woke he saw a trade ship coming his way.
They rescued him, wondering where he received
Such bloodstain:  he said it was animal, which relieved,
Somewhat, their suspicion to his being dangerous.
They dropped him off at his Germ port, still lacking some trust.

He humbly approached his Kingly father and insisted

That he be forgiven for foolish thinking monsters existed.
In his failed search he had wisened, grown mentally advanced.
His father accepted but warned there would be no third chance.
Beobug added he had found an island over the horizon,
With no inhabitants, that may be suitable for colonizing.


Copyright © 2008 Noel Lopez

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