Nolo Segundo, pen name of retired English/ESL teacher [America, Japan, Taiwan, Cambodia]  L.j Carber, became a published poet in his 8^th decade in over 170 literary journals in 13 countries. A trade publisher has released 3 collections in paperback on Amazon: The Enormity of Existence [2020]; Of Ether and Earth [2021]; and Soul Songs [2022]. These titles reflect an awareness he’s had for over 50 years since having an NDE whilst almost drowning in a Vermont river: That he has—IS—a consciousness that predates birth and survives death, what poets since Plato have called the soul.

A Morning’s Walk

My wife and I walk every morning,
a mile or so--
it’s good for us old to walk in the cold,
or in the misty rain, it makes less the pain
that old age is wont to bring to bodies
which once burned bright with youth,
though now I wear braces on ankles,
braces on knees, and I walk slowly
with 2 canes, like an old skier,
sans snow, sans mountain. 

We passed a tree whose leaves had
left behind summer’s green and now 
fall slowly, carefully one by one 
in their autumnal splendor.

My wife stopped me--
listen she said-- but 
I heard nothing—hush!,
stand still, she said,
and I tried hard to
hear the mystery….

Finally I asked her, knowing my hearing
less than my wife’s (too many rock concerts
in my heedless youth), what we listen for?

She looked up at my old head, and smiled--
only she could hear the sound each leaf made
as it rippled the air in falling to the ground.

THE CARESS OF WORDS

When I read a poem that breathes, 
pulses with its own heartbeat, 
relentless, compelling in its own desire-- 
I feel touched as by another, some
unseen hand brushing my hair,
lips as light as air licking the flesh
near my own sojourning heart…

and I return the caress as my hand 
glides ever questing o’er the soft and
solid paper, my eyes rolling over the
printed page like a hawk seeking prey,
looking with the desire of the wild 
at the naked words, unclothed by any
convention, unsoiled by any deceit.


A good poem is a lover--
a great poem, a great lover,
the kind you never forget.

The Old Tracks

In my town and only
90 feet from my house 
Run a pair of old tracks,
Railroad tracks older
Than my house, even 
Older than me, and I
Am become old, very,
Very old, like a tree
Whose branches 
Betray it with 
Every strong wind
And fall to ground
Leaving less and
Less of the tree.

I used to walk in
Between those
Carefully laid
Iron rails, stepping
On the worn wood
Of the old ties as
Though they were
Made of glass….
I walked the length 
Of my small town,
I walked the world.
I walked where 
Passenger trains
Carried lives and
Their once warm,
Now cold, dreams
And I was part of 
Each life, now gone
To ether and mist, 
And so too my 
Lonely soul will
Ride those rails
One bright day.

Still, a freight train
Comes by once or
Even twice a week,
And I thrill to hear
Its wailing horn as 
it cries out for a 
forgotten glory, 
and the ground 
still shakes a bit
as the old train
lumbers slowly 
by my house and
I wait a holy wait
For the music of
Its rumbling and 
The cry of its old
Heart as a young
Engineer pulls the
Whistle and sees 
Not that he is 
Driving eternity.