#playhouse
_For as the curtain rises,
So too the curtain falls,
No accolades, no entourage,
No 'Brava!', no applause.
An unrehearsed performance,
By a monodramatist,
A solo show, a pantomime,
An improvised burlesque.
Critics stand in groups debating,
The value of my work,
They gossip in the aisles,
The playhouse now a kirk.
My eulogy their invention,
My obituary the prize,
The best review I've ever had,
A mix of humour and soft lies.
I have played the loving daughter,
The honest aunt *****
The independent sister,
The true and loyal friend.
The sympathetic neighbour,
I have played the errant niece,
The mentor, guide, and confidant,
The ***** and the tease.
In truth, I am a diva,
Living mostly in her head,
But this remains unmentioned,
In a tribute to the dead.
Once rose bouquets beribboned,
From the greatest and the good,
Now a solitary arrangement,
On a coffin made of wood.
For as the curtain rises,
So too the curtain falls,
No accolades, no entourage,
No garlands, no applause.
But wait, I see my error,
As indeed these things exist,
But not for me to comment on,
Nor as I would have wished.
For my aspect is fair frozen,
I cannot turn the page,
My performance has now ended,
And I have left the stage._
Sep 14, 2020
Sep 14, 2020 at 3:51 AM UTC
it's been a while since I've been up here
at least a year
sitting on the textured, plastic roof
of a child's playhouse
it resides permanently in my yard
despite having been outgrown long ago
outgrown like the flowers and weeds
that surround it
the flowers and weeds that are unkempt
like one's hair on a windy day
they blow in the wind now
and hit my feet
to my surprise,
when the flowers touch my toes
tiny white petals
drift into the air
showering my bare feet
with small snow-like specks
slowly, I shake my feet
and then kick the flowers
I laugh as the Ivory petals
descend into the air
and kick again
and again
and again
the flowers are almost bare now
and my time here is spent
I look out over the long grass of my lawn
it too is uncared for,
in the summer the owners of it
are never there to tend it
and in the winter
it dies anyway
a jungle of a backyard
swept by a summer breeze
leaves me feeling just a bit freer
Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 10:53 PM UTC