Roger Noons

Biography

I began writing creatively in 2006 when I completed a screenplay for a film making friend. I caught the bug and started with short stories, evolving to poetry and other types of prose. I have completed a novella, but would not consider attempting a novel. My favourite forms these days are poetry and flash fiction, but will have a go at anything. I like variety of both form and subject matter. I've had two books published, the most recent, SLIMLINE TALES, comprises 75 pieces, each of 300 words or less. Prose and poetry have appeared in anthologies and from time to time, I perform my work. I have conducted workshops on Flash Fiction. I belong to two Writers Groups as well as The British Haiku Society.

Samples

Many Years ‘Tis many years I’ve rested here, no chamber pot beneath my boards. Carved posts support my canopy; drapes, a tapestry of camlet, dornick and brocade. A feather bed topped with bolster, pillows of silk, sheets of finest linen and cotton. ‘Tis many years I’ve listened here, heard maiden’s whimper; virgin’s cry. Secrets of state shared by master and servant, disgruntlements between lord and lady; admissions of love, confessions of lust. Threats and pleas; promises and acceptance. ‘Tis many years I’ve breathed this air, bouquet of roses, cologne and musk. Stench of gases from excess of food, waste from drink; flavours of passion. Stink of bodies too long since bathing, odour of fear, firm foetor of horror. ‘Tis many years I’ve felt the pain; kicks of boots, pummels of fists, scratches from nails, pounds from limbs; pressure of bodies over fed and abused; torn and broken by ardent actions; suffering as was their fortune. ‘Tis many years I’ve rested here, with polished panels and dusted tassels; keeping counsel, shielding bedfellows At last retired from hurt and harm, guarded by ropes; for viewing only. Peace and rest for many years more. RIP Eva Snow, like sugar cubes, softens greenery coming into leaf; misted window panes reveal trees bending as if in prayer. Happy Birthday Eva, safe from the city’s sea of fire. Wearing newly-made, navy-blue, sequined dress, adorned with a brooch looking like a fallen butterfly, over paler blue lingerie, she waits. Eats fruits, sweet cookies, drinks champagne, while waiting. Then he comes. No flowers nor songs, no gifts nor felicitations, the wedding takes place. Vows spoken, rings exchanged, witnesses dismissed. Immortal drops of Moët et Chandon sipped. Wife of thirty six hours, sitting legs up on a couch in a dress with black roses. Hair newly set, whiff of powder, touch of lipstick, perfume liberally sprayed to conceal stench of metal and sweat. Remembering riding bikes by lakes, walking beneath linden trees, with love he lays the glass phial on her tongue. Biting down, eternal sleep comes, after a searing smell of bitter almonds. Canal Dog Hang on a minute, what’s the rush? There’s a ripe smell here, no need to push or pull. Let out the lead, cut me some slack, take it easy, we’ll soon get back. Learn some patience. I have to wait while you stop and talk to all your mates. Light your pipe, clear your throat talk for ages about your bloody boat. We don’t come along here all that often where there’s bits and pieces nice and soft an’ my pals have walked, left messages for me, latest news by old elderberry tree. Fox and badger come at night for a stroll leave me something in which I can roll. Shouldn’t be ignored nowadays, few enough, two months of dog days. You’ll get your dinner and I’ll be fed shut in the cabin, sent to my bed. Another day passed, minimum adventure; nothing gained as little ventured. It used to be fun, when Missus was here but since she’s gone there’s been little to cheer. A miserable sod you’ve turned out to be passing your melancholy on to me.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.