Nolo Segundo, pen name of retired English/ESL teacher [America, Japan, Taiwan, Cambodia] L.j Carber, became a published poet in his 8th 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.
Love is Not Known
Love is not known, and
can never be known.
Love cannot be weighed
Like bullion or flour.
Love cannot be roped—
A wild mustang running
Free, never tethered,
Never corralled—freer
Than the North winds.
Love has its own mind:
It comes when it comes,
Will not hear entreaties,
Will not beg its bread,
For love rules all worlds
And love soaks all life.
Love is a gangster,
Obeying no laws,
Taking what it wants.
And love is a priest,
Making holy life’s dirt,
Redeeming then the
Wreckage of hope by
Pouring its holy water,
Quenching all longing
Love is a magician,
Appearing in two
Hearts at once,
Transforming the
Beast into a man,
Girl into woman--
An alchemist
Changing lead
Into pure gold….
And love can never die.
When the heart it holds
Beats its last beat, then
Love will soar with soul
To the next world, for
Love is the only key
That can pry open
Heaven’s heavy door.
OCEAN CITY
I saw it then as my own little Shangri-la,
for I was very small and knew nothing
of the big world, the grown-ups’ world.
And for the child-me it was nirvana,
that little town on a barrier island
between the gray, cold, untamed and
endless Atlantic Ocean and the quiet,
near somnolent bay where the boats
of the less brave could sail safely….
I could ride my bike from Nana and
Pop-pop’s little house on that bay,
feeling as free as the myriad seagulls
swirling forever above my head--
I ‘d ride ‘cross town to the boardwalk
and if I had a dollar, see a movie by
myself, feeling like a proud little lord--
I remember as though yesterday, and
not 60 some years, my favorite theater,
with its long darkish hall that looked
like the entrance to a pirate’s den,
lined with displays of model sailing
ships, mostly men-o-war chasing, yes,
pirates, but never catching them….
But most afternoons I was happy to
just sit quietly on the porch of my
grandparents’ house, smelling the
dinner Nana was making while I
read of countless dreams in books,
books that captured like a pirate
his prey, and took me round the
world in the finest and fastest
sailing ship of all—imagination!
In Mourning For A Tree
I heard the ungodly racket
of the chain saws, those
cruel barbaric weapons
‘gainst somnolent nature,
and I thought, Could it be
that tree? The old oak
which had stood like a
seventy foot high king
for God knows how long
in my neighbors’ yard.
I could see for some time
it was dying, with a paucity
of leaves the last few years
but trees can take a long time
to die—and so I told myself,
he’ll make it another year….
And perhaps he would have
but my neighbors must have
tired of the near leafless tree
and so called in the butchers.
But when I left my house and
walked past their yard now
sawdust strewn, and saw the
empty sky where the oak had
once held court... I mourned.
impspired 