#play
Speak to me, your acolyte,
from high upon your chair.
Gaze down at my simplicity,
catch me with your stare.
Reach out with your fingers,
touch me with your smile.
Embrace me with your heart,
and lay with me a while...
...The gentle waves of lovers grace
fall soft across your perfect face...
...Whisper to me, your apprentice,
from the pillow next to me.
Gaze across at my paradise,
catch me with your need.
Together we painted the dawn,
but at the ending of the day
its time the curtain descended
to close our passion play.
2d ago
Jun 2, 2026 at 7:05 AM UTC
Red Light
Green Light
Mr. DJ,
Come Play With us!
You can be the guard
"What's the Guard"
That's the person who watches the street
Red light is stop and green light is Go
Watch, like this....
Green Light,
Red Light
Green Light,
Red Light,
Ha Ha Your out!
"I see, Let me Try"
Phrreeeeet! [Whistle Blowing]
"Oh looks like its time to go"
Are you coming Tomorrow?
"No I won't be here tomorrow,
but I will Friday"
Ok Bye
"Bye Keira"
"Glad I'm not a real Crossing guard"
5d ago
May 30, 2026 at 2:56 AM UTC
Life is
one more character
in one more play
in one more theater
in one more moment
in somewhere else.
May 16
May 16, 2026 at 8:07 AM UTC
| what burns to make room |
∆
I have been the kind of fire that burns to make a room,
not asking to be tended — just consenting to the fume.
The ones who came for warmth took everything they found
and left me with the language of what it means to ground.
∆
Pain is not instruction — it is only what remains
when you stay open past the threshold of your names.
I have not broken. I have only learned the cost
and stand inside the keeping of the things I have not lost.
∆
Outside the self, the same equation governs stone and rain —
we are not separate beings each inheriting our pain.
The distance I have kept between the burning and the known
was never safety — only how a boundary is grown.
∆
Desire is not a road of counted steps toward any door;
I write from after crossing — that is what the crossing’s for.
Some count the heartbeats in the space before the touch and wait.
I only know the fire from within. I came—too late.
🔥 🪈
May 15
May 15, 2026 at 5:08 PM UTC
I’m sorry I was never enough
never enough to stop the fighting,
never enough to be chosen first,
never enough to make this house feel quiet.
So now I stand here
with two options in trembling hands:
keep moving forward,
or end the game
before it hurts me again.
And maybe quitting
would be easier tonight.
But there’s still something in me
something tired, bruised,
yet alive.
So even with shaking hands,
I press
continue.
…
Did I choose wrongly?
May 13
May 13, 2026 at 6:42 AM UTC
.
I used to think the scariest
sound in the theatre
was the house going quiet.
Programs folding.
Someone coughing like they regret they have lungs.
Overture finished if it was a musical.
Or the curtain going up.
That silence !
That heart stopping, hands sweating,
Silence.
It said...Ready.
Enter and say your opening line.
Breaking that silence and
There it is !
That overwhelming feeling of joy inside.
I have control of myself and the audience.
I can make them laugh, cry,
scream, or gasp.
I did not understand that there is
another silence.
Silence that will hit you hard,
In your throat,
make your brain do crazy things.
Now I know the scariest sound
in the theatre
is the silence that follows
the line just spoken.
Nothing !
Silence.
It lasts forever.
Silence,
Just hanging there.
Like the last leaf on an autumn tree.
You can even see it.
You know it is supposed to fall.
Silence!
You're just hanging there
waiting!
A breath, stretching wide as winter.
Is it me? Is it my line?
Oh My God !!
It is me !
My voice has stopped.
Panic ! I know these words.
I know that line.
I know it better that my own phone number.
Knowing the words,
Wanting to share the dialogue.
But unable to for that split second.
That second that lasts forever
In my brain.
Out there?
Nothing!
In here,
Nothing !
Then the mad scramble begins.
I have dropped a line.
There is nothing coming.
Silence.
My voice will not move.
It used to move.
I never needed..."line"
These days my brain
just sometimes stops.
Old age or worse??
It's like my wild dreams
where I am rushing around the stage
trying to find a script.
I am very aware of the audience.
I can't find a script.
I don't know the play.
Who am I supposed to be?
Ad lib, Oh God !
These days I need the words in front of me
If I am singing I like the score in front of me
I want them "there"
Just in case.
Am I on pitch?
Stop it !
I was always on pitch.
No fear, no searching.
I trusted my voice, to deliver the song.
My feet to deliver the dance.
My lungs to fill with air to carry that lovely sound
Out into the house
to my audience.
Some nights.
Just before curtain up
There are stomach cramps .
Not nerves, exactly
Something lower,
Something older.
A neat slug of Pepto
and I am on .
(Bet they don't mention that at Drama school)
And so,
Never again will I put
myself onstage with dialogue.
Even at this age
I still long for it.
Physically, I might be able,
but mentally, no!
Mostly it is the fear.
The fear of "drying"
It happens to many actors,
"Not me !"
In musicals, there was no ceremony.
Just adjustments.
"Let's lower the Key"
"We'll trim some harmony"
"She really doesn't need that
eleven o'clock number"
Let's cut the choreo there.
And then......
"We are going in a different direction"
Different direction. Crap !
That phrase should come with a funeral bell.
The note is there.
I just can't reach it
in time.
Half a beat late.
That's all.
Half a beat.
Enough for the conductor to blink.
Enough for the choreographer to stop counting
Enough to be replaced?
They did not say my voice was gone.
They said it was not strong enough
" now ".
Now!
Such a small word
Such a final one
It was Sondheim that made it undeniable!
You can't fake Sondheim.
You can't charm your way through him.
He gives you the architecture
You're either inside the beat
Or you are wrong.
Half a beat late in Sondheim
Isn't expressive.
It's wrong !!
Funny the things that stay with you.
Over the years.
A safe scene.
I have done it for months.
I have said it in the 80's
I have said it in regional theatre
I have said it so many times.
In one production the theatre was impossibly hot.
In another, the leading man was drunk
and forgot everything.
I carried us both.
Then one night my mouth opened to say my line
and nothing came out.
Yes,
Exactly that.
Nothing
So I have decided
I shall never ever put myself on stage with dialogue again.
I am sad,
heartbroken!
I have lost all the roles that I will never play
Because I am too old
but now I have lost pride and confidence in my work.
All actors love to bask in the warm glow of success.
No
Never again.
My time in that wonderful place
is now dark.
And I am very, very sad
I am never going on stage again.
Auditions have become polite
The phone has stopped ringing
I have folded all the costumes
and put them in a box.
Closed the piano.
But theatre never paid the bills.
Nursing did.
Nursing paid the bills
Theatre paid the soul.
So I traded grease paint
for antiseptic.
There were no rehearsals.
You took over the care of people
from the shift before.
Walking onto that floor
for the next 12 hours.
I'd hold hands in rooms
where there are no curtain calls.
I once sang to a woman
who was afraid to sleep.
When I retired from Nursing
I thought.......
Now
Now I shall give myself to the stage.
Now I would chase the roles I always wanted.
Then I realized
I had kept my head in the clouds
for far too long.
The roles I wanted......
the fierce women,
the romantic leads,
the complicated daughters,
the hilarious quick thinkers,
were written
for women 40 years younger than me.
Time had quietly its work
And I had not noticed.
There was that winter
After one audition
When I truly believed
I would never stand on stage again
And yet....
Here I am!
I still have those wild dreams
I still don't know the play
or the part. Still no script
and I can feel the audience
getting restless.
I open my mouth
And the wrong lines come out.
Lines from another play.
Lyrics from another decade.
My body and my frantic brain
continue to be
Professional!
My mind is screaming......
This isn't the song.
That's when it feels like a stroke.
Like watching yourself disappear
while standing upright.
I wake up gasping.
Running lines into the dark
Touching my throat
Still here
Still me
When I was younger
fear sharpened me.
It was one of the things
that made me good!
It gave me an edge.
Rooms leaned in
for a while.
The roles remembered me.
Then they forgot
And I thought that was the end.
I truly believed
I would never be onstage again.
But.....
Here I am
Half a beat late sometimes
Voice a shade thinner
Pepto in the wings.
Here I am
Still stepping into the light.
Loving you all!
Sondheim once wrote about
The art of making art.
Putting it together.
Piece by piece.
Breath by breath
That is what this is now.
Not perfection,
Not brilliance,
Just.....
Putting it together.
So if I pause...
If my voice hangs there
like that last autumn leaf....
Know this.
I am not lost.
I am listening.
That passion and love
are still there.
And someday if the music stops answering,
If the script finally goes dark
I hope you will understand
I stayed.
Not because I was flawless
Not because I was always on pitch.
Even when the roles disappeared
Even when I thought it was all over
I still believed
In the art
Of making art
A breath
And yet...
Here I am !
(silence, black out)
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 6:27 PM UTC
My old piano is never played
1916 is the year it was made
Grandma’s prized possession
Handed down in succession
Garage kept for 50 years
It doesn’t play notes, only tears
4/115/26
May 8
May 8, 2026 at 8:14 AM UTC
The desire to have our poem in the hierarchy
of the covenant first second and third spots
Ultimately, the top five for the month and
To rain Supreme the best poem of the year
A lofty goal all accolades voted by your peers
Achieving success is eupeptic
The shadow of your last win is where
Trepidation begins. Wanting to do it again,
Wanting more When is it enough?
Competition does not germinate commodity
Growing resentment divides in different ways
It starts off innocent yet bubbles festering inside
A little friendly competition never hurt anyone
But Do you give sparkles to your opponents?
Knowing that would put them ahead of you?
It’s different if you don’t have steak in the game
However, you must CHOOSE who to help WIN
It hurts Watching some of your best work
Crash and Burn near the bottom of the board
head held high chipped OFF my shoulder
Start again, I don’t write for the masses or do I
Dichotomy My fellow poets, I call friends
Green with envy licking wounds.mind turning
It sticks in my craw Who and Why do I write
Second-guessing my ability as a poet is hard
I know I’m not the only one that feels this way
Knocks me down a peg or two arrogant pride
Wild ride Difficult to accept Bruised EGO in tact
I eat humble pie why do I put myself through it?
It’s principles I write subjects that are taboo
Perhaps rather harsh if you really knew
When you’re reading it,it’s also reading you
I have a conviction Certain poems had to be said
Comment “you’re very brave saying it out loud”
I never gave any thought I just wrote it.
Sentiment out in the open, my Guff no longer full
First, I have to set my priorities in order
The strategy of winning a work of art
This poem is a Sestina
(6) six line stanzas 36 lines
Plus a three line envoy
Total poem 39 lines
Footnotes
In College the use of idioms Faux paws were not acceptable poetry and look upon as bad form.
However these seem so apropos I couldn’t resist the little twist to make a point. Since we believe in anything goes, I decided to break the rule.
Apr 29
Apr 29, 2026 at 3:22 AM UTC
Remember when we'd play outside
till after dark,
till the street lamps buzzed
and blinked on
like dim, distant UFO’s,
and mum would howl
from the kitchen windows:
'Dinner's ready!'
— like a wolf’s call to prayer,
drifting out to where
we kissed the girls next door,
who both had anorexia.
Oh, what became of those summer nights,
when we dangled with the stars,
up in the old tree fort
that dad built
from tomato crates
and ripped up floorboards
— where once we played at elves and dwarves
and crossed our wills with flaming swords
among the dog-eared corridors
of a Dungeon Master’s Guide.
Now mum is wrapped in cotton wool,
and dad still roots for Betamax,
and yet,
I still remember well
— we knew exactly who we were
in those heady days of anorexia.
Apr 28
Apr 28, 2026 at 8:33 AM UTC
I sit on couch wondering how things got so out of hand
Looking at remaining scraps but I don't understand
Watching clock hands as they play a game of tag for two
Thinking "What the hell is wrong with you?!"
Like slow-motion video each scene ticks on by
Analyzing suffering
Helpless to see intensify
In an assembly line heart is dismantled
On conveyor belt blatantly mishandled
Waiting for you to give up on me and officially quit
Stop forcing into a mold we don't fit
Fingers tapping against wall built high between
Cloistered as if each were in own personal quarantine
Heart thumping drumroll leading to the worst
Cannot help but dive into disaster headfirst
And patient ears hesitate to hear the word "goodbye"
Dreading moment our strings untie
Our dreams dangle tattered and torn
Years passing over which I now mourn
Spilling from open wound ripped into my chest
1000 drops of intimacy we must lay to rest
Shadows converge on shoulders and mingle
When our lips brush no longer feel a tingle
The street burns with nostalgia for fairer days
Before steps got lost within the maze
Passion and pain adventure hand in hand
Currently don't even know where we stand
Headlights flicker through fog
We move nearer to our epilogue
I can almost taste flavor of being free
At least once more lay next to me
Before door shuts and the final curtains close
We each take a bow as the applause grows
The faint scent of loneliness lingers in air
Fondness evaporating from stare
Doomed from start like Juliet and Romeo
No choice but exit stage-left and end the show
Apr 26
Apr 26, 2026 at 10:59 PM UTC
You can tell
the quality of the fire
from the way
the smoke billows.
You watch it from the porch,
counting the seconds between the grey curls
and the way the wind catches the soot,
turning it into a fine, black lace
against the blue of the afternoon.
------------------------------------------------------------------
You’re thinking about the silver—
if it needs polishing.
You’re thinking about the door hinge
that squeaks every time
the cat pushes through.
------------------------------------------------------------------
You’re holding a glass of water,
and the ice is melting against your palm,
a small, cold comfort
while the air begins to taste like copper.
------------------------------------------------------------------
What you
can’t tell
is the moment
the air turns
from a warning
into a weapon.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Whether you’ll get blisters—
a sudden, stinging bloom
across your knuckles
as you reach for the handle.
Or if you’ll simply stand there,
still holding that lukewarm glass,
and see your house burn.
— Around —
you.
------------------------------------------------------------------
TiB
Apr 21
Apr 21, 2026 at 8:04 PM UTC
Gradually but surely comes the night
though only by the waning of the light.
And after the darkness has had its play,
light’s return will herald in a new day.
__________________
Apr 15
Apr 15, 2026 at 10:59 PM UTC
Chorus]
I can’t go on without my notes!
I can’t go on without the words!
I can’t go on without my notes!
I can’t go on without the words!
[Verse 1]
My princess tells me, late at night,
Some boys are good, some still can be.
With some, the world turns bright and strange,
And flowers fall like rain on me.
In Russia, many open hearts,
With simple truth, no hidden knife.
But fool the French is harder, harder
It's hard for bit...es them to stupefy
[Verse 2]
The Dutch will lure you: crackling smoke.
Italians attract with honey talks.
The Arabs shine in clean silhouette.
Indians are famous for their girlfriends' pose
[Chorus]
I can’t go on without my notes!
I can’t go on without the words!
I can’t take fake, I can’t, I can’t!
Don’t make me play the fool again!
[Verse 3]
It seems the world is not a song like,
It’s someone else’s pain re-sung one.
To find the one who keeps you hooked,
Comes easiest if you are a punk.
Though many worthy walk in Russia,
Though Frenchmen wear a lion pride,
My princess gave one gift to me now,
She said: just keep your words alive!
[Verse 4]
Today the world moves on, dead set,
Toward where no living breath is left.
Today they herd us, sheep in lines,
Through Plato’s gorge, into the drift!
[Chorus]
I can’t go on without my notes!
I can’t go on without the words!
© Copyright: Оле-Да-Оле, 2026
The song has already been recorded in my friend's tiny recording studio. There should be a release in two versions (in two languages) on Soundcloud on 12-13/04/2026
https://soundcloud.com/ole-ole-698765421
The original text ( https://stihi.ru/2026/01/11/28)
Я не могу!
Я не могу, без нот я не могу!
Я не могу, без слов я не могу!
Я не могу, без нот я не могу!
Я не могу, без слов я не могу!
Слышу рассказ моей принцессы,
Что парни бывают хороши
Что мальчики есть, с кем мир чудесен,
Где дарят кипами цветы
Что среди русских больше славных,
Много открытых простецов
А, вот, французов одурманить
И стервам сложно - ждёт облом!
Манят голландцы дымом крэка,
А итальянцы - мёдом уст
Арабы славны силуэтом,
Индусы - позами подруг!
Я не могу, без нот я не могу!
Я не могу, без слов я не могу!
Я не могу, слышать фальшь я не могу!
Я не могу, быть снова лохом не могу!
Похоже, мир совсем не песня,
А парафраз чужих обид
Найти того, с кем интересно
Попроще тем, кто сам дебил
Пусть среди русских много славных,
А у французов - гонор львов
Моя принцесса мне в подарок
Сказала: - Просто хорошо!
Сегодня мир идёт упрямо
Туда, где нет уже живых
Сегодня всех ведут баранов
Платоновым ущельем в выр!
Я не могу, без нот я не могу!
Я не могу, без слов я не могу!
© Copyright: Оле-Да-Оле, 2026
Apr 10
Apr 10, 2026 at 4:56 PM UTC
I really don’t know what to do,
You’re so calm and collected, and I wish I was too,
Always so open and so warm,
I really don’t want anyone to do you any harm,
To you and only you,
The only one who can see me through,
I wish I had the courage to make the first move,
But this feels like a game of chess I don’t want to lose,
So I need to carefully plan all the moves I choose,
Because this isn’t a game I can refuse.
All the pawns I use must put me in a good spot,
Otherwise I’ll end up being the only one caught,
And as for my bishops longing to play,
I feel I might soon have to put them away,
Carefully weighing the inner vows I’ve made,
While still attacking my one and only with my rooks in play,
I see an opening to leave you in your corners,
It’s amusing how you keep thinking only about the others,
Maybe I should just checkmate with my knight and queen,
But what if it’s a bad move, and leaves my love unseen?
I need to attack, or it might be too late,
It’s okay to take my time, but not more can I wait,
Bringing this all to an end with checkmate,
I’ll hold your hand and ask you out on a date.
Apr 9
Apr 9, 2026 at 8:43 PM UTC
He said no.
Soft. Almost apologetic.
His fingers curled into the bedsheet
knuckles pale, like he was holding onto something breaking.
He stopped moving.
The ceiling fan kept spinning above us.
His eyes fixed somewhere past my shoulder,
like if he left his body he wouldn’t have to feel it.
They would never look at me twice.
They would high-five him instead.
But when the room went quiet, I heard it clearly
he said no… and I kept going.
Apr 4
Apr 4, 2026 at 2:17 PM UTC
he works all day
my woodman
he deserves some play
some interchange in tempest pools
my woodman makes me sigh
he makes me giggle
his pleasure’s my triumph
whatever I do is exchanged for better
my woodman’s prodigal tongue
sparks soul-confirming oaths
I lose myself
Lucky me
I have a woodman
the gipsy's cool audacity
and I’ve known the charms of love
.
.
Songs for this:
Teach Me Tonight by James Taylor
Playing house Kudu
I'll Tumble 4 Ya by Culture Club
Mar 18
Mar 18, 2026 at 9:40 AM UTC
Remember when
the day was meant for play
unplanned adventures
sidewalks & trails
crossing grassy lawns
dirt patches
shimmering asphalt
uncut fields
Remember when
excitement & laughter flowed
from a handful of sand
slipping slowly
tickling skin
or pooling puddles
beckoning tiny feet to stomp & splash
run & jump
descending with eager anticipation
3, 2, 1, contact
sending streams glistening
Did you see
huh, did you see
I did that
I ran
I jumped
I sent glistening streams
amazing
again
& again
Remember when
a heart could feel warmth
towards everyone present
a hug, a touch
wasn't in violation
kind words given freely
without thought or consequence
Remember when
Mar 10
Mar 10, 2026 at 2:52 PM UTC
Every time when the wind carries itself
From here to there,
In the midst of the grey,
The trees welcome its grace
With gossips and claps.
And the sky that roofs this
Earthly sight
Steams up in delight and pours out the pearls.
The land rejoices upon the gifts showered from the heaven
And tunes out soft happy melodies.
Thunder, that courses through the distant horizons
Declares its presence now and then
And swiftly in a flash, traces- in its divine light;
The play of the dark
That has long reigned the night.
Apr 14, 2025
Apr 14, 2025 at 11:43 AM UTC
Near the waters edges hides the warehouses of paper, lenses and ink.
It's a used district in the city but not the outskirts. The businesses use the bay to reach out to the state lines. Across, on the next shore are all the transit hubs reaching the rest of the coast. Also the larger of two airports so the shift from one waters edge makes some dollars add right.
There are still many ties to the outskirts like all the boutique landmarks and historical building districts. Art like those buildings can't be found any other place. Some people are lucky and have their names atop the shops here. Over time you eventually do some business with one or at least became friends with some in school.
Feb 28
Feb 28, 2026 at 11:39 PM UTC
You may live under my mask hollowed creating madness
But why then the crying
As you dream of loving banter beneath the our breaths
Why also the contempt
What illness you concoct simply
People are used in your chagrin
Are we to be deceit
Twice posed in the opportune
I, forced in the gowns,
You oiled from the mines
In exchange of me there is always yourself, cold husk and overdone
Only once am I, never the compliment, confess of yourself
Feb 24
Feb 24, 2026 at 5:10 PM UTC
"Sue the officials stink to high heaven! Every single wave of the city pulse has crud trailing right to their collars. I've never seen hogs wash before, watching these folks swing ruins the whole business!"
"Joe, I've told myself the same when I sat through lunch. What gets me ruffled is the amount of them hitting the exit door by the day. Five to twenty new corporations it must be for that scale of swindling. One out of five lines up a Chief of this, Chief of that title while hanging their supporters and folks over the fire. Real crude oil in the blood."
Feb 22
Feb 22, 2026 at 9:34 PM UTC
No matter the line you count on your railways. Points of arrival stick about thick all line lengths, 'till the run of money spills thin. Fetching a calmed silver note crisp and issued, every attendant is on the payroll. Currency on the rails comes from departments made for the brunch routine.
Feb 22
Feb 22, 2026 at 4:04 PM UTC
"The city is hiding defeat John. It's being worn out in a trend. Each day a new number shelters the incoming, bleached surprise fashions the scent. Also the up and at 'em calls married the burgundy brunch club. Gotta watch that conversation. However they move they do it at a cost."
"I've noticed some flocks are dwindling Constance. Now you are on to a lead I have to get new lenses working on. Not my prescription. Haven't spotted the labor shifts just yet either, you?"
"Whoever came into the city isn't greased over front row, that lines set and getting ready to be weighed by Josey and Sue Ellen. They seem sure City Hall and the Municipal Affairs Building are maligned. Say soon the two accounts are ready for a deposit."
Feb 22
Feb 22, 2026 at 3:46 PM UTC
There's a landing in life, just for show. It lets you get back to the training wheels and coordinate with the tower chasing you to the thin end. Could be the reason we buy hats also.
"Theatrics and spoils Mr. Garter, it's the hottest new tin."
"Suppose wars weren't in the merchandise, where then the spoils?"
"Right here at home Chief."
"Sure as day Joe, the cahoots keep a watch ready, fine tuned as a yacht."
"Joe, you ever mistake your reflection for the print stumbling over a lunch rush? I dream some nights too, can't make a penny out of it."
"I gather I retreat from older seas more than most if I follow sir."
"You do. What about on chance our lady liberty or lady luck, whichever's your prime rib, goes in on an idea outside of your noodles. Do we abandon ship or study the art of the toss?"
"Can't be the bridesmaid boss, haven't called in the reserves yet."
Feb 20
Feb 20, 2026 at 3:14 PM UTC
On the stockroom floor at three a.m. handing coffee to the delivery guys who couldn't hide their distaste seeing the rejection letter professional scrambling eggs for a living.
"Another tough go this week Josey. You're not alone, that Misses Washington lady just left the executive elevator for the coffee shop."
"What topic's pass for civil hours from deadline Misses Washington?"
"You passing me or you got spare change for an old war buddy Josey?"
"Words aren't on discount lately ma'am. Forever and a day I'm not likely to wait around for in order to chew leftovers. However there is a lot of trumpet blaring the new elected will find in a frame today. Meaning they could actually get mugged."
"You tell the old harbor raft story another time Joe, I'm in love with hot soup for an hour."
Disposable rhetoric lines and neon expiration warnings walk the same minutes through the snow and rain as all of us.
The just part of a lunch break. Old familiar darts being tossed inside a whirlwind of loss. The barrels almost filled and we are only trying to roll with the punches.
Feb 20
Feb 20, 2026 at 1:34 PM UTC