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abby Nov 2019
reach out and touch my soul
the flames in me burn hot as coal

I have the token
I paid the toll

you do not yet know your role
so you slow down

you lift me up, knock me around
why must I always play the clown?

I mend the tattered fabric of my heart on the other side of town
your heart sees mine like a tunnel throughout time
we communicate through movement and love through pantomime

I find it difficult to let it go
a few months have never seemed so long ago

I've come back to let you know
I'm on fire
rgz Jul 2019
the one who thinks he always knows best
tightly wrapped in his safety vest
of surety, ignorance and pompous prattle
never aware he lost the battle

never a care for a fact or a lesson
he's content with merely guessing
before he even knows the question
he's already got suspections

yeah, suspections
it IS a word
why would I look it up?
I already heard

and I said it
so that makes it a - what?

No, I don't "always know best"
fine, then
why don't you finish the rest?
note to self
Kai Mar 2019
A sheet of tarp hanging down from the sky
Behind which we lift and tug and drop then fly;
If the stage is wrong the director will cry.

But the lead can only ad lib so long
Before we break into the next song,
It's a good thing stagehands are strong.

Open up!
Speak up!
Keep it up!

And the applause comes soon after
I had nice soft hands before people started asking me to shift furniture.

The second of three poems I wrote backstage
Kai Mar 2019
Cheers and applause from the darkened room
As a silly villain remarks on doom.
I'm standing by, aside it all,
Allowing the curtain to rise and fall.

Silence reigns as the lights go down,
Awaiting the call, so the quiet can drown.
My eyes again scan the sea of heads;
For a moment, thinking of just regrets.

In a single second my mind is made
To live for others and give them aid.
For even after you bid adieu,
I can still live my life for you.
You've a long time to think whilst you wait for your cue.

The first of three poems I wrote backstage
Irina BBota Sep 2018
Reach out your hand, take me into your palms
for one second or a minute of the leaking time,
listen to the rhythm of my heart from reckless Brahms
losing me in the labyrinth that touches me with its eye.

Open my heart's buttons to see its full nakedness,
loving me as if tomorrow morning you would lose the bets,
give him a spark, for his passion to reanimate, making us
forget about you, about me, about all our regrets.

Take me into that chamber bathing in the nuances of fire,
take the body that now is incapable of self-control,
let the music in the background comfort my hearing and inspire,
waiting until the ice melts in my heart and my soul.

Love me with a body that no longer thinks of anything new
bearing the mark of an acute and fine sensuality of a dove,
enveloped by the appetizing flavour that worries you
in this ritual of the pantomime from the game of love.

Dare me with your fingers that traces on my shoulders
lines that for a few moments are burning me, consuming me
with the intensity of the eye that fixes me, it marks me,
making me lose the last morsel of my mind, foolishly.

I would not resist your spontaneous urge to touch my bust
with your penetrating glance or emotions, awakening, letting me be,
with a burning temptation that's not extinguishing that crazy lust,
nor under the breath of night that would sneak in unconsciously.
Xaha Feb 2018
Each passing day I spend with you
Feels like borrowed time.
Two people pretending to be in love,
A hopeless pantomime.

You played me well,
I must admit.
Uncovered all my flaws.

But something in how you did -
Ended our dialogue.
It wasn’t to heal or help me up
It was just to tear me down.
And now that you’ve exposed the truth
The queen lays down her crown.
Mary-Eliz Apr 2017
A minute for a dollar, a second for a dime.
I execute it all for pay.
My daily trade is killing time.

I slice the day up like a lime
in sections green and silver-gray.
A minute for a dollar, a second for a dime.

I'm practiced in this pantomime,
proficient, quite au fait.
My daily trade is killing time.

Like a hit man in his prime
I knock off the hours of the day.
A minute for a dollar, a second for a dime.

Yet killing here is not a crime;
it's merely the established way.
My daily trade is killing time.

No. killing here is not a crime;
it's the toll road through this fray.
A minute for a dollar, a second for a dime.
My daily trade is killing time.
As a person who likes to stay busy, I hated it when, after 16 years as Audit Director at a university, I was transferred to Assistant Controller working for a person who truly earned her title as "Controller". Since the decision had not been hers, she resented it (as close as I can figure, anyway) so she held back on assigning me work or letting me do work, even when she talked about being swamped. Also it was a large office and I couldn't help but notice a lot of "goofing off". The situation was grist for the mill for this poem...and luckily didn't last long. I left and went in a whole new direction and have been my own boss ever since. :-)
Francie Lynch Feb 2015
I followed
When you lead;
If you leave
Should I plead,
Will I grovel
On my knees,
Press my hands
In supplication,
Live my life
In degradation?


Should you leave
A floor outline,
I'll dance on it,
Pen a rhyme
To embody you
And your crime.

A tragic love
In pantomime.
The Christmas season is upon us
With lots of things to show
And the best of them's the Panto

**** Whittington and Aladdin
Are two that I've forgot
But I've heard that they're amazing

A tradition every Christmas
The Panto finds the kid
Inside every one who witnesses

Actors dressed as women
Silly fun for all to see
And lots of fun for me

There's nothing like a Panto
To make the people yell
It's a laugh for me as well

This year I chose my Panto
I'm going to see the lot
So, I will wish you Merry Christmas

K Balachandran Oct 2014
Step by step a kite ascends to the sky
regains  memory of transcendence
of once being the echo of a cloud
sailing speedily westwards.
the kite remembers another life
and strays far beyond it's distance permitted,
when the string rudely pulls it back,controls,
the young cloud, narcissistic
still keeps it's love for the echo, in swirling
wisps of vapor as gently caressing wet touch

The lone woman who suppresses deep inside her chest,
the tumultuous waves of love and passion,
imbuing the emotion sunset spews, suddenly breaks down
the startled sea breeze is the only witness to her outburst.

the sky slipping fast in to the gloom of darkness
stands frozen, silent, as if melting in the pain love causes,
when one bids final good bye to the beloved, vowed never to part.
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