Poem

Sep 18, 20232 min read

fifty four roadster

The party's over early, we drive home. Tonight my wife makes me feel old by looking young to me; and being, frankly, every bit my age.

cnoecolle

Aug 13, 20231 min read

Stifled

So many letters written and unsent, so many words conceived but never born and still the need to write and speak remains, to stoke ...

cnoecolle

Dec 1, 20221 min read

City Sky

So blue, so cold and blue, this London sky stings through the leaf-shed park, and I, just passing through, who yearn to be so warm yet cold

cnoecolle

Aug 10, 20221 min read

Death of an Oarsman

The water stretched out its dark surface like a sheet of black cloth on the San Francisco Bay and the wind was dawn’s sleeping accomplice...

cnoecolle

Sep 30, 20211 min read

The Fireflies and The Tyrant

The election’s over Yes, the tyrant won. The alarm still echoes, ricochets off walls that don’t belong.

cnoecolle

Aug 10, 20211 min read

Please Help Me Be Twelve Again

Poem by Alan Paul Collenette Please help me to be twelve again, I miss myself. Of my country and my family I have little to say. I do not...

cnoecolle

Feb 1, 20211 min read

Undercover

I wear a suit and tie Over my feathered wings. afraid they’ll find me out because that is just what I do. In this uniform I blend in...

cnoecolle

Dec 28, 20201 min read

I Hate December

I hate the winter, God I hate the cold God damn December and god damn this rain. Why did I ever like it, was it you?

cnoecolle

Mar 31, 20202 min read

Man at Forty

My party's over early, we drive home. Tonight my wife makes me feel old by looking young to me; and being, frankly, every bit my age.

cnoecolle

Aug 13, 20191 min read

Stealing Time

It had been thirty years since I had stolen anything, but the red Schwinn bicycle was just sitting there and no one was around, so I took it

cnoecolle

Aug 19, 20181 min read

Body of Work

The writer feels her reader feel his writer. The reader feels his writer feel her reader.

cnoecolle

Dec 1, 20171 min read

Winged Things

You glide through my world to a greeting of silence from the gape of my mouth; a black swan that could not exist but does.

cnoecolle

Jun 1, 20161 min read

Detours

The acrid final smell of bridges burning, the sudden green to brown of fall leaves turning, the bridle foam that caps the white waves...

cnoecolle

Sep 10, 20011 min read

Stars and Stripes

As New York City wakens and rubs its sleepy eyes, a darkness and a shaking and a wailing fill the skies.