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Only down the road the theatre show,
actors and crew the flowers they throw.

And only one man seated down at the back,
no applause from the palms of his hand.

And red curtains this time fall and unveil,
what I should of felt from love for sale.

And don't shine those lights on me.

And you did.
Carl D'Souza Jul 21
A parent in a supermarket aisle
slaps her toddler hard and
the child screams in pain and shock.

A teenager walking along a busy street
drops the wrapper of his chocolate-bar
on the footpath.

A woman in a cinema-theatre
in the middle of the movie
calls on her mobile-phone
her son to tell him about the movie,
disturbing the other movie-watchers.

A man walking his dog along a street
takes his dog off the leash and
the dog barks aggressively and lunges
at frightened pedestrians.
Prerna Singh May 30
My puppet
Feeds on Fame
It stammers while remembering
A handful of names
She sleeps with her curtains
Wrapping all her pain
With strings made of nerves
And warm days made of rain


She can control
All her thoughts
And untouched soul
Which remains hidden behind the plot
She is a puppet
And she sees with my eyes
And understands with her brain
And if she speaks of rebellion
She would be abandoned
And killed



She would rather betray her dreams
A character at last
Amongst laughter and tears
She would see them
Cherishing her exploitation
In stories she'd receive no love
And appreciation
Oh but she would live through.
A flood for the emotionless
A puppet.


-Prerna Singh
With strings made of nerves
And warm days made of rain
Noh
Look up to the sky
                     the challenge
Robes attained flowing pure
edged with the symbol of blood
Clear love and soul singing beyond,
And boredom is forced to dance,
Love's fullness loose-- spreads to a body
An image, a show,
Communal hands efforts ascend a net
correct; "A blanket for your bed",
Life goes from moan to release,
You will see your true form
through the eyes of the world
My face is caked
With pigment, baked
In glaring lights, and I,
Can't wait.

My stomach churns,
Adrenaline
Is coursing through my veins,
but then

"5 minutes!"
Someone shouts, my head
perks up immeditely
And when

They beckon fervently
For me
And I cannot contain
My glee

Step out onto polished wood
Look out into the aisles
See faces staring up at you,
You're here to make them smile

I have the power to make them laugh,
To make them shout or cry,
And my nervousness is gone now that
I know their hearts are mine.
Alternate title: I'm a dramatic ***** ;))
Crystal Freda Apr 22
Twisted, golden curls
bounced on her red, silk dress.
A theatre full of surprise and tension.
Everyone dressed in their best.

Iced sequins glistened
as she strutted her way in.
Dark, leather seats cushioned her body
and the show was ready to begin.

She imagined her life so grand
like the gorgeous actress on stage.
Living a tale of majeed ventures
unraveling after each page.

Gracile finger tips tapped with wit
on the charred arm rests.
Music so melodic and mighty
mulling of the plot's earnest quests.

Her eyes blinked and a tiny droplet
streamed when the play was done.
Another one to be portrayed,
who knew what was to come?..
Margot Apr 6
We lie amidst Ripe mountain herbs,
The nightingale has just begun its summer trill,
This hymn for golden vocal cords
Composed no owner of a writing quill

So sweet were melodies produced
That I mistook the front row lady’s cheap perfume
For blossoms, above which haunting hornets mused;
For an aroma of our Shakespeare love in bloom.

The serenading cardboard creatures –
Those thieve their voice from birds with no address.
Meanwhile a glass raised in a playhouse features
But colored water, as red as gipsy’s dress.

When the last spectator goes,
Having not found at least one genuine sun,
As actors, we recede into descending roles;
Electric blood in lamps’ capillaries feels numb.  

A lovely ladybug, I doubt, I will ever catch,
A lifelike flower, dipped in a painting fusion:
All this, fine artists tenderly attach  
To lifeless decorations, for aid they do us in a willful staged illusion.

Three burnt sienna pearls run down your spine
Yet after a big round of applause
These jewels are no longer signs of the divine,
But witches’ marks or, rather, unalluring flaws.

After the play I went to buy a notebook from my shopping list
To store the overgrowing verses, such as these;
A sheet of paper guarantees
To treat them like extinguishing bees

Cashiers ****** the change into my hand,
You purchased hothouse roses with;
And up those pretty useless beauties stand
In someone’s vase, whose name remains a myth.

They give me back those polished dimes
You traded for a pair of shoes.
I’ve seen you marshal through onstage lifetimes,
Yet to disclose personas’ traces the theater walls refuse.

Your chocolate hair has just fallen from the hairdresser’s hand,–
That’s how I know the summer’s coming to a bitter end.
This poem I dedicated to a local theater actor Julian. During one of his plays I thought of this fictional plot. Thank you for reading!
Jade Mar 27
I had my first kiss at the cinema, the contour of our silhouettes illuminated by the glow of the rolling credits. He tasted like Altoids and cigarettes, an ambivalent concoction of ice and fire. At one point, I'd bitten him by accident. Whether this was a manifestation of inexperience or (seductively, with heat in her eyes) hunger,  I'm not sure. But, sitting there in the thrill of My Something New, I was certain of one thing: this was a red carpet moment, the stuff of silver screens and glimmering Hollywood starlets and rows of type writer ribbon waiting to be transposed into something theatrical.

After the film, we sat outside a cafe a block over, the fever of summer adhering to the back of our necks like (giggling) misplaced hickeys. Smoke corkscrewing from the end of his parliament, he told me how John F. Kennedy was addicted to opioids. I couldn't help but think back to earlier that afternoon when he first admitted to being a smoker. How he'd asked me, "Is this going to be a problem for you?" hesitation rising up his throat like bile.

I smiled because 'Everyone's got their poison," I replied.  

And poison? Well, there's something so strikingly poetic about it, don't you agree?

(beat.)

JFK must have been Marilyn Monroe's poison, I think.

"So," I offered, "What do you really think happened to Marilyn Monroe?"

"How do you mean?" he said between drags of his cigarette.

"I mean was it really an overdose or--"

"Was it an assassination?" he interjected.

"Mhmmm."

Another drag of his cigarette.

"As they say, the simplest answer is often the correct one."

"Maybe. (beat.) But what makes for the better story?"

After two weeks of courtship, he took his leave. My mother's obvious, unwarranted disapproval was, perhaps, a source of anxiety for him. Me being freshly eighteen, he was also concerned about that (sarcastically) whoppin' three year age gap. (beat.) Not fully buying it, are ya?

Well, neither did I.

Here's my theory: his feelings (or lack thereof) were the reason he called it quits. And instead of being a man--instead of being honest, instead of owning up to the true nature of his intentions--he spun some relatively believable excuse. A coward's way of removing himself from a situation he doesn't want to be in. Surprisingly enough, I wasn't as disappointed as I would have anticipated, had I foreseen the end of our fleeting romance.

I was (beat.) fine.

It does make for a great story, after all. (wryly) But you knew that already.

Because for every Norma Jean, there's always a Marilyn Monroe.

Tell me then--who are you?

(beat.)

Girl curtsies, transitioning into a tableau of Marilyn Monroe's iconic pose wherein she attempts to hold down her dress as the air from a nearby subway grate threatens to expose her undergarments.

Lights fade out.

{Fin}
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

jadefbartlett.wixsite.com/tickledpurple

(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience.)
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