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 Nov 2013 Emma
Seán Mac Falls
Flowers soon forgot,
Light as it fell on her face,
  .  .  .  She mirrors the sun.
 Nov 2013 Emma
Tilly
Curtains up
NOW OWN
~IT~

AS IF
  you're the King
   of the whole
    **** stage  

when

you're
really
  just another
player

acting out
for those
cheap seats
you survey

Where else
****
HERE

would
THEY
get to see
such a
[defamation]
-free play?"

(laughing)

"Best you
throw some sweets.

*
Indulge them


...
I'd say!
...I'd say!"


The Evil Queen 
smirks
&
a knife glints in her hand

Is
she
creeping
up

Behind You?
(or... does she need a real man?)


Ahhhh!!

    you see...

she's
exhausted
A-LADD-IN
& she knows
where to find you..

(evil laughter)

Ohhhh!

It's
just as well
you're in costume
...now  remember
your lines


"Don't props (& illusions) make a jolly good night!"

and baby, *WOW!


you look
Oh! Soooo cute
in those tights!

                                  *and with a sweep of the stage, the smirking Queen exits >               right


This stage
is all yours now

So Buttons...    take a bow
(us Brits love an underdog in a fight)

... Make your bow deep
~with a flourish of resplendence~
that captures their hearts

try more than That wiggle
-and a lot more-
than one dance!

                       To do it well...                                                          ­              
get a catchphrase

(which we'll ALL lurvey darlink from the start)

Believe me,
is good

Always
is
    another...

try
the one
    you've used in  
   rehearsals with the
  Stepsisters
- all dragged up-
looking
L
   O      
       V      U
          E            G
               L       L      
                                                 Y              (like their mother)

                                                      
 ­                                   cough                       ­ 
                        
                                **** it..
                               Everyone chokes
                               on the dry ice that swirls!

                     The audience ponders....

WHO's the boys ?

THAT's... a... girl ?!  

 
                            &
                      in
                 the
               low
             glow   
            they'll see      
    Cinders singing
of loves' sweet melody,
  those s l o w shoe shuffles    
        softly sliding across their        
                                             t
                                                   r
                                 ­                        a
                                                               ­ p
                                                              ­                             door hearts  
Laughing & crying along through
each emotion of the tattered  
sweet princess, who     
         simply hasn't had        
                     a Prince in her...                
    winks
                           sights             
                                  (YET!)  
       
then
  Act II ends
with

a Flash!
&
a Bang!


 
They all lived  
ever after...
      
Cinders' happy?

*THE END
Enjoying the merry-men-t of Pant-Oh!
;)
Pantomine...Traditionally performed from Christmas ' til mid January, with family audiences.

A popular form of British theatre, incorporating song, dance, buffoonery, slapstick, cross-dressing, in-jokes, topical references, audience participation, and mild ****** innuendo.

SHE
ditches
           HIS crown &    
            shashy's away    
             with a
           fabulously
               well        
              practised        
                             courtesan                   
                     sway
                         .

(written, as part of the Yule-tired man series in December 2012)
 Oct 2013 Emma
UHG
I might write about
Your smile
Or
Your laugh
Or
All the ways in which I wish you were mine.
I might detail for you my
Devotion or
Show you snapshots of my
Heartbeat
And how every
Thump
Sounds like your
Name.
I might tell you
How you haunt
My dreams.
But a good kind of haunting.
One that I want to
Put away in mason jars
So that I can
Save it for the winter.
When It's
cold and
I don’t
Have you
Anymore.
I might write to you about
How much
I love you,
Or I might just be content
In writing  
Nothing
At all.
 Sep 2013 Emma
Hadley
Monsters
 Sep 2013 Emma
Hadley
I have tried it all
To get the monsters in my soul
Smoking them out
Drowning them in alcohol
Poisoning them with pills
Putting them to sleep with green happiness
Bleeding them out
And yet every night they whisper
I am here
I will always be here
As long as you are here
 Sep 2013 Emma
Montana
This is the poem where she stays.
This is the poem where her hand grazes
the doorknob, turns 45 degrees
then stops.
She stands still staring at a spot
just above the doorframe.
(What is that—a water stain?)
She bites her lip and waits;
listens
to your apologies stuck
like a lump in your throat.
And you watch her hand twitch
and you pray
that she doesn’t turn the doorknob
any further.

This is the poem where she turns around.
This is the poem where she gives
you an icy stare
but she stays; sits
in her favorite chair.
She crosses her legs and she waits;
listens
to your frantic explanations
about why you did what you did and
how you’ll never do it again.
And she wonders
if you really mean it.

This is the poem where you kiss her.
This is the poem where she doesn’t resist,
but doesn’t quite reciprocate.
She takes her bag back
to the bedroom to unpack
and you stand there and wait;
listening
to see if she starts putting her stuff away
where it belongs, or if instead
she puts the packed bag by the bed
incase she changes her mind.

This is the poem where you come home late
from work the next day.
This is the poem where she pushes you away.
She screams and makes threats
about the bag by the bed.
She’ll leave you—she swears it.
Just give her a reason.
You calm her down with words
like “I love you,” and “Trust me.”
****** forth your phone
“Call the office, if you must, babe.”
She walks towards the bedroom
and you stand there and wait;
listening
to see if you can hear the exact moment
when she stops loving you.

This is the poem where she leaves, anyway.
This is the poem where she doesn’t look back
as you beg and you plead
and grovel on your knees.
You paint a picture with your words
of your life before this.
How you wish it never happened!
“What if it never happened?”
She stops and she drops
her bag on the floor
She turns and she stares
at you in the door.
“You can’t change the past.
You can’t wish it away.
It’s just not that kind of poem, babe.
This is not the poem where I stay.”
 Jun 2013 Emma
Poemasabi
Thankful
 Jun 2013 Emma
Poemasabi
I am thankful for you dear
and will until
you no longer hate me
Considering the tomatoes
Sunshine turns the grapes to wine
We have 27 tomatoes standing in a line
Waiting to be burnt and blushing to the sun

But too much sunshine makes me taste too sweet
But if I jump now I will lose my green feet
You have got to be mature enough to be squeezed
To juicy sour and loosely sweet

For I am a tomato,
*A tomato thinking about life
 Jun 2013 Emma
April Marie
God?
 Jun 2013 Emma
April Marie
Today I went to look for god and the church was locked.
 May 2013 Emma
Amanda Jerry
You probably understand. Or maybe you don't, after all. Either way, it is jumping around inside me and if I don't let it out soon all my carbonation will fizz up and run over the side of my glass and I don't want to waste all that sweetness.

I want to kiss you underwater.

I want that kiss to be the only thing keeping us alive. Down there we are foreigners, aliens. Grasping, I want to feel your flesh in stark contrast to the smooth wetness all around me, like a secret.

All that life where we cannot live. Exotic, forbidden, so lovely. I am sick with love.
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