Nolcha Fox’s poems have been curated in print and online journals. A best-selling author, her poetry books are available on Amazon and Dancing Girl Press. Nominated for Best Of The Net and Pushcart Prize multiple times. Editor of Chewers by Masticadores and LatinosUSA.

Website: https://writingaddiction2.wordpress.com/ and https://nolchafox2.wixsite.com/nolcha-s-written-wor/blog 

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/nolcha.fox/

His portrait on the frontispiece looks mournfully at

my wandering attention. It sighs each time I lose myself

in vanishing distractions. I promise to remember, 

I press flowers in the pages that will crumble into dust.

Books pile higher, they’re a tower, they’re a city,

they’re lost hours, they’re a platform constructed

from prayers that didn’t require an answer.

First and last lines from George Franklin’s poems, “Rabelais” and “Adam Zagajewski Enters Into Heaven,” 

I’m on the road while you’re asleep.

Dawn warms my face through misty glass.

Geese wave hello above my head.

I’ll be your ghost when you wake up.

Dawn warms my face through misty glass.

I drive a route that you don’t know.

I’ll be your ghost when you wake up.

You’ll never see my face again.

I drive a route that you don’t know.

Geese wave goodbye above my head.

You’ll never see my face again.

I’m leaving you while you’re asleep.

Watch me as I make this up.

I’m not a music prodigy.

My left hand wants to stray to right.

My right hand has no say.

I’m not a music prodigy.

Arthritis makes my left hand hurt.

My right hand aches too much to romp.

No wonder I can’t play.

Arthritis makes my left hand hurt.

My right hand’s bones are in decay.

No wonder I can’t play.

Perhaps I should just soak my head.

My right hand’s bones are in decay.

I drop my notes and casseroles.

Perhaps I should just soak my head.

Piano may not be for me.

I drop my notes and casseroles.

My left hand wants to slap my right.

Piano may not be for me.

Watch me as I walk away.

A dragon walked into the bar.

He seemed so ordinary,

as if he needed one quick drink

to make it home to wifey.

No one seemed to notice him,

which made me scratch my head.

Whatever drink is in my glass,

I think I’ll have another.

Summer’s pears hang low enough,

I reach them from my seat.

A book I love is close enough

to relish with delight.

I start to cut those juicy pears

to eat while I am reading.

But words distract me from my task.

Pears brown before I taste them.