#plays
"Miss Washington, purchasing your agreement happens before your door is opened. Illustrated it takes 'The Practitioner's Performance'. A practitioner is indebted to you by your compliment to his tune."
"I made it out of the market with my purse Josey."
"Say to the south of so and so street you were going to need directions. Then it is priced at so and so time. Now thanking you is part of you being directed."
"The skyscrapers gather most of the fall. Parking a meter and the time you tackle getting back to fill me in."
"Dirty fleece men!"
"When you get inside Mr. Garter's windows take a look at his dance routine downstairs Josey."
"Who's hat is shopping competition Misses Washington?"
Feb 1
Feb 1, 2026 at 5:20 PM UTC
a whole sorrow ago
she held me
the talismans guide
bereft of speech, thieves in hand
offered to lend the body
and boy ran, vexed
crossed oft, learnt
wounds a whole sorrow
seven tales of prayer stilled
the mothers fix?
blackness of shelter
alcove of sickness
thieved inside the wars, young
learnig to speak with my tongue held,
dedication
what didn't we all notice, in the subways?
how eyes absolved, escape ironic
i am only as poems being discovered, in irish
behind a play writing unfamiliar and at war with itself
atone, ment in origin is parched is shame
to be just with my audience is to honest ones self
talled of accusation, only finding i am not knowing how to live
a world in turmoil, against dis-satisfaction attempts myself?
the improbable design of an ill conceived mind
Apr 26, 2025
Apr 26, 2025 at 1:29 PM UTC
The weather is important when writing a play,
Such is when Romeo and Juliet was shown,
It was a cold and raining day.
So the audience would forget about the heat,
Off in fair Verona had Shakespeare failed,
To keep mention of the begrudging summer.
Feb 10, 2025
Feb 10, 2025 at 2:00 PM UTC
Remember when you heard my name for the first time?
You thought it was a play on words;
I said it was just a play,
and you laughed like you knew the difference.
Remember the glittering forever you saw in my eyes?
I told you it was a trick of the light.
You said it was just a trick, but
we could make it real by wanting it—so I started wanting it.
You asked about my favorite lie, and I said, “I don’t know.”
You laughed, either because you got it,
or because you didn’t—and that was just as funny.
You didn't lift the weight of my words,
how they sank like stones in my stomach, obscuring my glitter,
waiting to see if you'd notice when they lost their shimmer.
Remember why we didn’t drive to the coast?
You thought I was scared of the ocean,
but I knew it had swallowed too many endings already.
The waves couldn’t wash away your ambiguity;
they would only drown my swell no salt could soften.
Remember that postcard I never sent?
You shouldn’t, but I feel like you would.
I wrote it one night in a knot of longing and spite:
“Wish you were here, but it might be better that you’re not.”
How many Dear John's sit sealed, unsent,
lost in transit between what was promised and what was kept?
Between what was enchanted, and what’s now dead?
Remember the night I asked what you'd save in a fire?
You said, “Everything.”
Like you could shove hearts and histories into pockets
without splitting seams. You can’t escape unscathed,
lock the door, and not stink of the charred bits you abandoned.
Meaning things and speaking things are not the same,
and if I wasn’t choking on smoke, I might try to tell you:
some things are meant to burn—
Some things are both the light and the trick
and the play goes on regardless.
Sep 19, 2024
Sep 19, 2024 at 6:59 PM UTC
Across the years, 400 plus, my stories endlessly play out their parts.
I played not on painted stage, but I knew the human heart -
I captured, with quill and scratch, the passions of laughter and tears.
I held up a mirror, in doublet and verse, to things unbound by years,
like the weight of grief, the lightness of love and the serpents of ambition.
The music of verse, the lilt and fall of words, hold a strange enchantment,
brief spells where fools, princes, witches and kings shared a selfsame planet.
Though my bones lay in hallowed ground, the stories I spun linger yet.
They've played out, in age after age, on a thousand, thousand stages.
It’s well done, if I say so myself, to live on, in millions of minds and bookshelves.
.
.
A song for this:
Just Like Romeo and Juliet by The Reflections
Jun 11, 2024
Jun 11, 2024 at 8:55 PM UTC
Within the line of an actors voice
Heed the melting ear
A butterfly alights on each word
Silence transforms make up to a vivid glow
Mar 15, 2023
Mar 15, 2023 at 9:48 AM UTC
#
*
On the radio the other day
I heard that song, when it would play
We said it was “our song”
And even though try as I might
The lyrics just did not seem right
In fact, they were all wrong
My mind peered back into the past
'Eternal Flames' don't always last
Tides shift before too long
A smirk of sadness came to me
Best friend became my enemy
Lives built; Destroyed and gone
But fog erased; Think of today
and tell myself that it’s okay
Through pain I will be strong
Because the radio still plays
I hold out hope maybe someday
Again, I'll have ‘our song’
*
#
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 10:14 AM UTC
pretty boy get off the stage
the show is over
it's been done and played
take off that mask and be yourself
and stop trying to be like everybody else
nobody is waiting for an encore
so why are you?
step out of character and be the you we all desire
why are you refusing?
because the stage is comfortable?
well, pretty boy, the world is not a stage
the world is streets and aisles where the acting doesn't count
nobody wants to be around a facade
people want genuine emotions and reactions
and the character you chose is not you
so pretty boy its time
take off the costume
and step into your own shoes
don't let how you think you need to be seen
decide how you act
go with your instinct
and pretty boy just be you
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 11:52 PM UTC
Dearest Ophelia:
Daughter of the murdered man
Sister of the murdered man
Lover the man who murdered your men
This is an ode to your fictitious life
Ophelia, my love, you are divine
Oceanic and loving, you are the blessed petals
Of a plucked flower in hopes of a fortune
Irrational, eccentric,
Your whims
Become the whims of others
The ickle darling
Who needs help most
Dying a death so jarring
Sinking, sinking, thinking
Into the murky depths unknown
By the Queen’s words not shown
By rue,
By rosemary,
By fennel,
By *****
By columbine,
By regret,
By remembrance,
By foolishness, flattery, and adultery,
By love,
By faith and hope
Her judgement most bitter-hearted
Her judgement most secretive and dry
Her judgement most sweet-scented
Lost to a fit of laughter
By the maiden’s wit
Her act comes to a close
With mermaid-like prose
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 6:34 PM UTC
I think of him when its raining and the weather is gloomy and the clouds come in the surround me just like he did for a short, short while.
I imagine he is sitting somewhere in New York right now drinking some awful Gin and Tonic drink , writing something about some girl in a bar.
Or he's walking with his jacket high up over his neck day dreaming of his long lost Juliet or maybe he's scheming something more like Macbeth.
I like to think he thinks of me from time to time, the girl he sent poems to on Valentines Day, the girl he talked about loving the ocean more than life.
I know it's a bit narcissistic and a bit conceited but I like to think he know's I think of him from time to time.
When La Vie En Rose comes on and when I'm walking down the freshly rained on streets humming a tune.
When I am alone in my room contemplating how I couldn't make things work with good people or when I re read those poems I keep hidden away in my closet.
I imagine he's sitting in New York at some trendy, dive bar, making friends with the bartender telling stories about his life.
I imagine he's writing something about a girl he's currently in love with and the features that makes him swoon because one day he will give those poems to her for Valentines day as well.
I imagine that the day he finds the Juliet to his Romeo- he won't need to think of the girl whose too far away and in love with the ocean anymore.
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 11:15 AM UTC
From where do our morals spring?
Quite an intangible conditioning,
In society, a necessary thing,
What is your philosophy of life,
or creed? To live with no dull strife,
But who invented morality anyway?
In yet another societal day,
Who does write morality plays?
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 7:16 PM UTC
I love Mr Toby,
Miss Tibby says,
lying on her bed,
with her red and white
flowered two-piece
bed suit on,
with legs raised,
lifting him skywards
in her hands,
(she fresh showered).
Mr Tibby,
she calls,
kissing his paws,
a bluey-white,
where will you,
my darling,
sleep tonight?
He wags his tail,
either from fright
or trying his charms,
dangling from
her hands and arms,
and sexily meows
oft repeatedly.
She shakes her head,
pushing her black
haired head, into
the marshmallowy
pink pillow.
Where are you going
to lay your head, My Toby?
She says, sensing
his tail wag
between her thighs,
( a bit like Henry did,
but he told lies),
you can't sleep with me,
you naughty ****
can't nest your
furry head beside
my head,
in my soft
and snugly bed,
can't sleep here.
He purrs loudly;
she can sense the slight
vibrations along her arms.
Bad boy,
trying your charms,
she says, (just like Henry
did purring between
my thighs with those
drinkable eyes).
Mr Toby begins to wiggle,
either to be put
down and to lie,
or run away and play.
She smiles,
and kisses his nose,
and puts him on the bed
beside her head,
and he snuggles down
against her *******
purring mildly,
(just as Henry did,
but he more wildly).
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 2:15 AM UTC
If you're my girl
You'll know
Fighting for my attention was the expectation but I brought the actual reality
They still owe me a check
But they gave some to Beck
And I'm cool with that
The rain is just here because I told it to be
Just for you
No gimmicks, just intentions with a little background
I do love a good play though
When I'm not feeling a movie
I'd rather watch a more downed to earth one
That is more artistic than Shakespeare's way with words
Even he had a difficult time explaining the beauty of plays
Hell if I can, he was the pioneer
I'm just trying to enjoy this whole idea now
But you know what I'm all about
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 3:27 AM UTC
I act
So I can release my pain
Without anyone knowing its mine
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 9:00 PM UTC
O if I could only write
Poetry worthy of your
Reading!
Find clarity in
Complexities.
Make Art and rhyme
of the unspoken.
Offer up my words
As tokens of my
Vulnerability.
Then, then you would see.
If only I could write a book
worth reading past the first few pages.
Not the type for school that
you read in stages in order to maintain
your vitality.
A book you can drown yourself in
without glancing at a screen.
Words you can devour
rather than glean.
An idyllic scene.
Far from the person you know best.
If only I could write myself
in a play.
My life mapped out from day to day
with instructions on my whereabouts
and actions.
Our conversations would be succint, artful
and with purpose.
I would have long, coherently structured
speeches and
always have the right things to say,
expressed in the wittiest way.
My life would be dictated by
Your entrances and exits.
All my plot lines resolved in
Act 3;
That would suit me.
O if only I could write those words;
The ones worth saying.
Those words different from our
Daily utterances.
Those words you have been
meaning to say but have not
yet had time to shape them round
your lips.
If I could write those words, I would.
Unfortunately it's just me.
But I will try, I promise.
Just you see-
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 10:47 PM UTC
Let me set a boundary.
Setting a line between what is and what is seen;
Shading a curtain behind the scenes.
Little do you know that you've forgotten-
Internal eternal moments have always been.
Cast out like a net.
Disguising this world like a play.
If the world was the word,
It would be the ecstatic vibration of what they say.
But meaning gets lost
and it slips the tongue.
Surrounded by whispering lies, the truth is sung.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 8:28 AM UTC
I breathe in this silence that is not
Silenced,
Air alive with heartbeats and
Clocks ticking too slow,
Eyes meeting over
Sticky plastic tables,
Snapping away like an awkward blind date,
Fingertips drumming impatiently.
Wait.
Calm.
Be patient.
Tick...tock........tick...............tock
I can't, I won't, my son laying
One floor, 3 hallways, 12 rooms away,
But we are relegated to the hospital cafeteria as if my husband and I are naughty schoolchildren,
Interfering.
My red shirt crumples beneath
Nervous fingers,
The same shade as the blood given
To my son, not knowing it contained
Death.
Why can't I fight with my son,
My son,
Shining brightly and boldly as the sun,
Infected with a blood-borne killer we were never warned about.
Hemophilia is a tough diagnosis,
But my careful worrying wasn't enough to save him from a
Diagnosis of ostracism and certain death.
AIDS.
Oh God.
Breathe.
Can't breathe.
Time moves too fast, my son racing towards eternity
Alone.
White sheets and sterile beds rob
My son of all his sunshine,
Lips blue and pale like my husband's jacket,
Nothing but incessant beeping and bustling nurses who can't fix him,
Clock going tick, tock, tick, tock.
I see red.
Red dripping into and out of his arms through silver needles,
How do I know that this is safe,
No one knows if this is safe,
This is our only hope.
Tick..tock.....tick........tock.
White coat of the doctor moving too quickly towards us,
We run.
My heart thumping red and my stomach yellow bile and my eyes leaking blue.
Hospital room not room enough for all my emotions,
All of my tears,
All of my grief,
All his last breaths.
My son.
No longer my sunshine,
Just a pale winter afternoon,
No sun beneath cold sheets of snow.
My son.
Time moves too slow when everyone wears black,
Like molasses dripping from a jar into
Metallic air and earthy graves.
Like ash clouding out the sun.
My son.
No more my sun.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
They say the world's a stage,
But what role do i want to play?
Shall i be a king until i age?
Or should i be a cowboy playing in the dirt and hay?
Should i be someone big or small?
Would i even care at all?
Maybe I'd be bad for once,
I'd lead a gang and make my own rules,
Guns and knives would be my tools
I'd take what i want
And you'd do what i say
My power I'd flaunt,
In this role I'd play...
But in the end we'll all take hand,
And take a bow,
On this stage so grand
The time to act is now
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 8:44 AM UTC