I found a poem

I wrote this five years ago (or so...). An as-yet-untitled Ghazal:

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

Trying not to recall how your bright eyes reflect in your words,
I make note of every color change you inject in your words.

Refreshing, that change - planetary influence might be blamed
For astonishing clues culled from harsh intellect in your words.

Rotary meanings click the time into grey bites between us,
I race to harvest rationalizations suspect in your words

Please! I offer bleeding bits of my soul to your whim’s altar.
Perhaps I read only subtle spectrums of reject in your words.

I queue up in the maze and greedily wait for a sign:
See your lover scramble for hope she can’t detect in your words.

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

How did November 2009 get here without my noticing it?

Happy autumn all....

Do-it-yourself Muse

First, start with a mirror.

October and a day off

A leftover peanut butter sandwich. That’s what I thought of when the day began. What do you do with it? The kids didn’t have to be to school until 11:00 and I had to get out of the house.

By the time the time rolled around, I’d forgotten how time can do this to me.

Days off of work seem to be filled with coffee. I don’t usually drink it, but it tastes so good with solitude and music of my choosing. I choose a vanilla latte. Not too sweet, of course. The Morphine album I just bought, Tom Waits, Count Basie, some k.d. lang, Fiona Apple and a little bit of Miles Davis.

I could get used to this.

I linger carefully over our conversation. I make imaginary schedules. I know there are things I need to get done. And I ignore them, too.

You are there sometimes, sprinkling a little cinnamon into what should be solitude. But it never really is. And your flavor is welcome.

Another attempt at regular posting.

It happens on those days when you are in your oldest jeans and a way-too-clever t-shirt and an old flannel shirt you’re using like a cardigan. She steps in with her grey suit and long legs in stylish heels. And envy pours over that particular hour.

Don’t you want those days to start over?

My hair is in yesterday’s braids, fuzzy from wind and sleeping on them. My mood and my prose are being buffeted by every influence. The radio piece on the Cultural Revolution. That Daniel Handler novel I read for the third time. The humid cold. The little girl who just smiled at me. The fact that he didn’t come over to say hello. It all slides my I-finally-have-a-day-off exuberance into a soft melancholy that’s hard to overcome.

I collaborate with my schedule to contemplate the letters I won’t write before I decide that I need a platitude. An aphorism. Something that resembles advice.

And I order a large cup of coffee instead.

Maybe I should decide to think about loftier subjects. Or not.

Things tend to not happen, really, on days like today. Just rain. The smell of coffee. And the sound of background.

Every Monday should be like this.

I miss this blog.

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