Missed Poetry Month

Darn. Missed poetry month
and forgot to post poems. Must
resort to doggerel.


Lack of poetry
doesn't mean one can't compose
silly ass haiku.


Happy Month After National Poetry Month.

*sigh*

Happy Birthday to the Bard

I'm celebrating in my usual manner. I hope all of you are, as well.

Whew

As much as I love theatre, I am thinking about taking some time off so I can have time to myself and for my kids. They are growing up fast. (Liam is now, officially, taller than I am. *sigh*)

If you are in the Reno area, please come and see "Wait Until Dark" at the Reno Little Theatre. Okay, so you have to brave the uncomfortable seats at Hug High School... it's worth it for some fine acting and a good escapist thrill of a story. Two more weekends: Friday and Saturday nights at 7:30 and Sunday matinees at 2:00. After April 19, you're out of luck.

I am currently reading Black Swan Green by David Mitchell and I'm enjoying it. Not as much, however, as I enjoyed his novel Cloud Atlas, which was... amazing. One of the best things I've read in years: thought-provoking and just really great story-telling (encompassing 6 different, loosely interlocking, stories).

Poetry soon.

Poetry Month 2009

I haven't forgotten. I just won't be as ambitious as last year. I will post poetry this month, however...

Currently, I'm involved in yet another show at Reno Little Theatre and now have breathing room as we opened last night (Friday, April 3). "Wait Until Dark" runs Friday and Saturday nights and Sunday afternoons this week and the next two weeks. Come see the show! It's great suspenseful entertainment, and the cast rocks.

And it's nice to have my life back.

Happy National Poetry Month.

Update on Becket

It was a wonderfully successful run. Thanks to everyone who came to see it!

The company photographer managed to capture one picture of me doing what I did best in this show: tying down blinds.

Above is a pic of the set (which was cool with the industrial look of scaffolding and metal blinds). I was the one behind the blinds raising them and lowering them. I still have callouses on my fingers from those ropes.



I will be happy if I never have to raise or lower a blind again.

Or light a candle.

But it was memorable and I miss the cast and crew.

Thanks to all!

On Stage

Whew. The show's up. I have been spending much too much of my time on yet another stage production. I am stage manager for the Reno Little Theatre production of Becket. (Scroll down and click on the performance photos... I am not in any of them, but the handsome cast is there and the really cool stage Holly designed...)

Yeah. I think I do have something wrong with me to put up with all this hard work for no money and no glory. But it's still wonderful to be involved in such an undertaking. The cast is large (15 actors), but they ROCK.

If you're in Reno or nearby, please come see the show. It runs two more weekends, Friday and Saturdays at 7:30 PM and Sundays at 2:00 PM, closing Sunday the 21st.

Holly Natwora is the power behind it all (she directed) and she's done some wonderful things with this show.

Anyhow, that's what I've been up to and now I need to see about getting things ready for Christmas.

Back soon!

Birthdays

Strange how they can give one pause, no matter how one tries to dismiss them...

Poetry on the fly... no editing, just typing:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
birthday

random text greetings from friends
who I often give up on
(I'm not even in their top 100
on MySpace...)

a card from co-workers

an old friend sends a real written letter

the chimes on the church across the river
play a sort-of-off-key version
of Ode to Joy (or maybe the harmony drowned
the melody's message?),
and I wonder if, maybe,
it's a completely different tune
familiar enough to make me grind my teeth

full moon surprises

while trying not to look inward

trying not to slip into a cliche
sadness

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yeah, Right

Seems sarcasm is an evolutionary survival skill... hmmm...

Sensual poem

A little sensual poetry for a Monday. How to be erotic without being blatant...


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
stir



Up to my hips in metallic gem-light

seeing dark eyes feast
silver streaks
was that your heart going by?

Up to my ache in wordless seasoning

tasting more than
skin-salt and liquid moon foam
was that your soul I savor?

Up to my lust in satin aroma

inhaling much more than
essence of sequined man-tides
is this where ecstasy perfumes?

Up to my sanity in startled “oh!”

uttering more than clichés
melody in key of vowels
is that the secret sung in swallowed “yes?”

Up to my smile in seamless grasp

pulling more of you inside than body
buttered obsession
did you give warmth your name?



19 Feb 2003

A slice of time

Here's another terzanelle. It was written (surprisingly) quickly when I saw a man place a bouquet of white roses on the stoop of an abandoned building. I wrote the poem when I passed by the building a week later and the roses were still there.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Still Life on Stairwell


He placed the roses down with so much care,
their breath became the sunlight, fading green,
which left a tender shadow on the stair,

and gave a final stroke of tourmaline
to soft, forgotten petals, velvet white –
whose breath became as sunlight, faded green.

I pause to mourn – no fragrance reunites
me, in my bitter tea-stained reverie,
with those forgotten petals, velvet white.

I know that future’s roses, meant for me,
won’t keep that heart of green and drip with tears.
I slip back into tea-stained reverie.

He walks away in ashen atmospheres,
the light shrinks from those blossoms, now sad gray
No longer white and green, they drip with tears.

The wilted stems and ribbons swept away,
where once he’d placed those roses with such care
the light shrinks from the blossoms, sad and gray,
and leaves no trace of shadow on the stair.


14 Mar 2004

Meanings

When I was given the word "still" as a title to write with, I immediately came up with three different definitions in my mind. The first thing that came to mind was the adjective that suggests lack of movement. The second thing I thought of was the adverb suggesting always...continuous-ness. And the third was the noun that suggested a vessel in which liquor is distilled.

So here is what sprang from my fevered brain.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
still


I.
holding onto
the breath I should have
used
to tell you

your words
paint upon my monotonous sky
a crescent moon
spilling
fog onto skyline’s jut

but I wait

exhaling so softly
water doesn’t
know


II.
in case you missed the way
my hair
insinuated itself

and don’t recall the taste of rosemary

I’ll untie me
from your cerebellum

reminders are
forthcoming

here
I
am


III.
nothing to do
but condense comfortable conversation

heat

pull the moist
leaving

essence



25 Jan 2004

One more sonnet

What the heck... I think Shakespeare's birthday deserves yet another sonnet. (And I'll be almost caught up to my "one poem per day" promise for April.)





~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Freeze-Dried Sonnet



As if the darkness of your eyes could show
a way for me to trap the voice of pain,
and set in amber life’s imbroglio
for me to hide, so only you remain.

Jars of my desire, well preserved –
formaldehyde-postponed in its allure,
patient in the hope that I’ve reserved
for packing up my soul, in honey-cure.

Repentance never froze a single urge,
but kisses stir emotions long left stored.
From suspended animation will emerge
warmed and soft – adventures unexplored.

A trophy, not of conquest, but of art –
A taxidermist version of my heart.


29 Dec 2002

Another sonnet

Another sonnet for the Bard's birthday.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shadow Theater


We live, as many do, within that space
where footlights end, and audience begins.
The fear lurks, unrelenting, in that place,
too close to catch the actor’s disciplines.

Tentative in spotlights, under wraps,
I seek the hand of moonlight’s puppeteer.
Stage fright fills imagination’s gaps
where props behind love’s curtains disappear.

Your words betray the secrets sought in silence.
The eyes of all observe your crucial scene.
A soliloquy of gestures in defiance
of direction, daring me to intervene.

Returning, where we comfortably consume
The space between the curtains and the gloom.


25 Jan 2003

Happy Birthday, Will

In honor of Shakespeare's birthday (he's 444 this year... not 544... I mis-typed his age last year), I am posting a sonnet (Shakespearean, of course) I wrote in a fit of mathematical ecstasy.

I will go read Hamlet... or watch the movie. Please celebrate in your own customary way.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Science of Patterns


The order of the colors, prism bent;
The fractions in a chambered snail’s shell;
Statistics buried, called coincidence;
The chemical recall of asphodel.

So water congregates to build a cloud
and droplets marry heavy, forming rain;
With Spanish moss’s chaos-patterned shroud
To respirations measured fill and drain.

Honeycombs, whose architects are bees;
The icy veins in alabaster’s skin;
The march of leaves up eucalyptus trees;
The oscillating song of violin.

An ocean wave will roll in, uninvolved
In differential equations it has solved.



30 Oct 2003

More fun with forms

Electronic signatures produced by collisions of protons and antiprotons in the Tevatron accelerator at Fermilab provided evidence that the elusive subatomic particle known as top quark has been found. (Image courtesy of Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory)


The terzanelle is yet another form I like to play with. It's similar to the villanelle in that it uses repeated lines, but this one takes the middle line of the stanza and it gets used as the last line of the next stanza, so the rhyme scheme changes each time. And the final line should be the last line of the first stanza.

It's like putting a puzzle together... the hard part is making sure it makes sense. And this one just barely does.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~­
­Subatomic Terzanelle


In orbit, strewn with waiting, patient protons,
With you beneath – unaware my anxious hover.
Beaming light, my kisses touched like photons,

And quantum flux in wavelengths of a lover,
Are positively charged in spectrum’s hope.
Beneath my hungry stare and anxious hover,

Add neutrons, and my heart’s your isotope.
Creating radiation, banish dark –
So positively charged in spectrum’s hope –

Infecting every flavor of each quark,
Until they shake in subatomic lust,
And create that radiation – banished dark.

Adding electrons to your nuclear husk
Can ionize your will to spark a fusion.
They’ll vibrate you in subatomic lust

Swirling in subnuclear confusion.
In orbit, strewn with hope and patient protons,
Ionize your will to spark that fusion –
Lightly, as my kisses, touched by photons.


15 May 2003

Because I wanted to use "hieroglyphics" in a poem

Another villanelle. So they're fun to write...


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
encryption


I found the definition of “beguile”
in places where your blush would hibernate
amongst the hieroglyphics of your smile

It dawns on me, I cannot reconcile
so I repeat until my mind can conjugate
and still see definition in “beguile”

I grasp the implication, pause a while
let meanings there unfold, as I translate
the wondrous hieroglyphics of your smile

So let me take a lifetime to compile
the essays that your eyes communicate
expand my definition of “beguile”

into vocabularies versatile
(hard-pressed for me to ever understate)
and solve the hieroglyphics of your smile

A scholar of the context of your style
and expressions as your eyes deliberate
I find the definition of “beguile”
inside the hieroglyphics of your smile


30 Aug 2004

Another Monday sonnet

A sonnet for Monday.

I have a theory that writing form poetry is (for me) a sort of exercise. I think sometimes that I write better with structure because the form itself (with its rhythms and rhyme schemes) keeps the left side of my brain occupied so my right brain can actually create. Kinda like giving a child a toy to play with so you can finish up a chore.

But it's just a theory. I could be way off base.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Abstract


Impassioned portrait sketched in words of lust,
Enticing me to reconsider all.
It traces doubt with grey upon my trust
And intimations hide behind the scrawl.
Relinquish every preconceived intent,
And paint my face with violet crystal tears.
I cannot take them back, so I relent,
And let the brushstrokes cover all my fears.
The sharpened edges blur with every hue -
Impressionist emotions, tinged with red.
I dip my fingers lightly into blue
And dare to replicate those things unsaid.

Kandinsky never could imagine these
Colors of my heart’s geometries.

13 Jun 2002

Because sometimes it just is...

I can't think of anything to say about this one except it was easy to write.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
tectonics


all the rocks
insistent in their geology
couldn’t be still enough

to buoy my being
when your smile
slips off my shoulders

and tickles in tendrils
eroding with insist

pull the alarm
and sound
for the majesty
of darkened entwine

lifting until scream
pushing until ahhhh
and never letting
silent knowledge of my love

fracture


28 Mar 2004

Just because I like the sound of the words

I got the title of this one from an Emily Dickinson poem.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Prodigal of Blue


neon
slithers art deco edges
into greyhound bus familiar
startle

sunsets
from the 12th floor
forgotten with
touch
drop
curl

the purple flowers
were bubbles
in the oxygen of wonder

you heard the aria
before dinner

I was incandescent
marigold


14 Mar 2003