(In a vacant church Little Girl and Big Man sit on a parish
a few feet apart, in between them lies a book titled"My Feelings".)
(The curtain opens. Little Girl sits staring at Big Man. Big Man gets up and goes to the statue of himself in front of them for a closer look.)
Big Man: Will talking in person really make a difference?
Little Girl: I like to think it does.
Big Man: (turns to look at her incredulously.) What wishful thinking, you're so naïve.
(Little Girl opens her book and starts to read aloud.)
(Big Man cuts her off with a noise every time she starts to say something until she falls silent.)
Big Man: Just as I thought, it doesn't change anything.
Little Girl: But you don't-
Big Man: (cuts her off again.) You just can't let things go, that's your problem. I told you I didn't want to do this, yet you dragged me out here. It didn't accomplish anything!
Little Girl: That's because you don't even want to listen or try to talk, you just want to yell and blame me!
Big Man: That's enough, this conversation is over. (Walks off stage right.)
(Little Girl screams in anger and throws "My Feelings" at the Big Man Statue.)
(The Curtain closes.)
I wanted to try something a little different! I've never written stage directions or a play before but I thought this would be a nice change. I didn't really convey the raw anger or passion, nor was it the scene what I originally wanted but maybe it's a step in the right direction. Trying out different styles is neat. Not happy with this piece though but... oh well.
If I gave you my soul,
would you read each page?
Scribble notes of interest
and know me.
Would you take the time,
to help tape the seams?
Would you mend,
the fragility of my soul?
It tears and rips,
Legs tucked up under you
Hair up and contacts out glasses on
Favourite mug off coffee
Hard cover balanced in the other hand
Your world projects into print
What is most needed is a story
Literature for you creates its own visual
No technology is needed
The act of reading more important than what you read
By reading you hold a dream in your hand you told me
The slight sound of pages turning only broken by slow sips of black gold
An aura of calm exudes all around you as you get deeper into it
What you see every day is replaced by what you've never seen
And books take my lover there
National Book Day
That workaholic lady who's always on call
& keep up with the market cells,
That newly married lady with chunky "red bangles"
talking to her husband with both earphones and blush on.
That man with a big fat stomach filled with his wife's love;
That teen who is on the edge of being deaf
because he can't do without the earphones.
That struggler who always stands at the back door;
That dreamer who's lost looking outside the window;
That person who's scared to get lost so stay active on the maps;
That disturbed mind who is coping up listening to George Michael;
That overworked soul who can crash anywhere.
That lady who choose to sit and freeze to death under a broken A/C unit, rather than stand with a five kilo backpack in a crowded jungle.
That girl who eats like a thief by hiding her food in the bag;
That tall enthusiastic freak who swings
and does gymnastics in a moving bus.
That granny who spot more trends than teens and follows them;
That old man who still can't keep up with the uneven roads
and the confused climate of Bombay.
That teen who lives with/on an Ipod,
instead of the 90s kids who survived on colouring books;
Those kids who believe their job is to fill the voids in the still crowd by surpassing like electrons to the magnetic field.
That man who is inspired by Raju Rastogi from 3 Idiots,
chanting to death and can't stop stressing on his responsibilities;
That entrepreneur with a head held high and red lipstick,
who never believes in a 9 to 5 corporate "mistake",
That blogger who can't think offline and is born to shine on the Gram,
That man who switches from Linkedln to South Indian action movie when the masses exit.
toward the unconditioned priceless jems
puts Them on top of A-social rank
and You are just a napkin, for Me
I, is always a one word sentence.
I passed a small boy named Solomon Woods
deep in thought with a book
He licked a finger, turned a page
too engrossed to give me a look
I met a young lad named Solomon Woods
humming a gentle tune
He smiled and waved, shook my hand
and wished me a good afternoon
I danced with a friend named Solomon Woods
while he sang me one of his songs
What he lacked in skill he offset with zeal
and insisted I sang along
I sat with a man named Solomon Woods
glad of his still, gentle manner
His reliable smile and kind wise words
drowned out the usual clamour
I walked with a gent named Solomon Woods
glad of his confident stride
I knew for sure he faced the world
trusting God as his strength and guide
If you meet a man named Solomon Woods
he'll certainly stop for a while
If you have the time, he'll sing you a song
and leave you with a smile
Another song for Solomon. An anti-Solomon grundy.
Well I wrote a silly book
And filled it with solemn words.
And put the cantos in.
But wrote them in reverse.
There was a haiku,
I put on some page.
But instead of seven syllables.
I thought it was the seventh page.
Picture poetry is fun
But I couldn't paint, only write.
I put a poem in,
But it's hard to understand,
Cause when I thought I wrote it,
I wrote on my hand.
Its a goofy book of things,
That you never knew could be.
Why don't you come and see
This goofy book of things,
That You never thought should be.
This is kind of what I would think shel sliverstein writes like.
I love the warm smell more than baked bread.
I love the old stories flooding back through my head.
I love the middle-age chatter, with child like mutters,
finding old favorites in old familiar covers.
I love the personalised fountain-penned message,
carefully scribed and meticulously dated.
I don't care about the number of dog eared pages,
or the tell-tale signs of well worn aging.
Tea stains and small tears - they don't bother me,
each tell a new tale beyond what I can see.
I love the weight of the years sitting in my hand,
I love the tether to past lives multi-second-hand.
With memories of libraries with warm worn carpets,
wall to wall adventures and sun faded artists,
battered yellow seats, shooshed conversations,
quietly spoken protests at the books being rationed.
I stayed past closing, riding trains of free thought
with Tin Tin, Asterix and old Mrs Pepperpot.
I'm still drawn to the pages and the feeling inside
second-hand stories where memories reside.
My dad taught me to love reading. My kids learnt it for me.
My jealousy is not a thing of beauty.
I don't wear my envy
daintily on my sleeves,
I scribble it on my hands and face with a
cheap green crayon.
Looking at you feels like my heart
is microwaving aluminum foil on high.
Not because I'm jealous of what you have but because
I'm jealous of what we could've been together,
had circumstances been different.
If one day you had sat here
instead of there and maybe we would've been friends and
I'm jealous because apparently
there are people in the world who don't spend every minute
who don't feel the need to
analyze every little detail and wouldn't it be nice to breathe,
to breathe and not
a poem on anxiety
if, while on the other side of the world,
you buy me a book
and post it to me
along with the words
'i read this and i thought of you
and i knew you had to read it too'
then what else is left for me to do
Sun bounces off leaves,
hopping from branch to branch,
reflecting across the whole world.
Flowers bloom - red, blue, and green,
sending succulent scents to you and to me.
This soft breeze
floating from the bay
blows all my troubles away.
Book in lap,
Coffee in hand,
Please understand -
if I always felt this way,
life would walk with a much sweeter sway.
The flight is
at the right
time and space.
to be dead.
Well I'm like a weird book,
With pages unnumberd
And stories not told.
With a cover that's bended and not carefully folded.
Sent this to a friend a while ago..
Maybe one day we’ll wake up
And all these will be a prologue
Then the real story begins