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Nat Lipstadt Jul 2013
Mashup

Part I (and there is a Part II & III)

I mashup me, myself, and perhaps thee too.


Excerpts from my poems about poets, poetry and the process of compositions. In chronological order, earliest to latest.
---------------------------------------------------------­------------------

With words we paint,
With syllables we embrace,
Tasked and ennobled,
We are forever fully employed,
Missionaries to all,
You too, are one as well,
Your fate can't be renounced,

when the rusted unborn poem notion is almost done,
but remains unpublished,
for no beginning, no title, can be found,

Then I recall the cornucopia days,
when poems spilled forth like
there would never be a when they wouldn't,

I revisit my old friends, couplets, twins and triplets,
seeded inside every tear, happy or sad,
sweetly and freely,

my old friends, reread,
words rearranged in new combinations,
old poems, plants bearing new fruits,
re-titled all of them, one name,
a collection entitled,
My Solace.


My eyes, my eyes, see only the
Totality of this moment.
When mastery of multi-tasking
Is the single best poem this man ever
Penned with his entirety,
Of which not word survived
For its unspoken silence was its glory.

My compact with you is to
remind us all, through
music, dance, words (poetry) and love,
This is the only compact
with the power of human law.


Color me flesh ****,
Color me blue bottled,
Red ripped asunder,
The sweetness ascribed to my love poetry,
A subtraction of the bitterness of a failed life.
Colorist of my seams, my woven words,
I am white now, my canvas completed,
Waiting for another poet to write over it,
And chaining new words to what was prior writ.

Al,  what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.


You ask me how I find the time,
(To write)
But time is not the issue,
For they, are all prepared, needing only recognition,
For they, are all in readiness, needing only composition.

For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.

When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
tastes his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
and becomes one who was, yet is,
because of you, in poetry.

Awful poetry, some good, you will write.
But write and write till your heart be calmed,
For even ancient kings felt the anguish  of the soul,
And we profit even today by King David's psalms.


This wizened fool has his hands full,
Mouths to feed, bread to earn and bake,
As midnight is almost nigh,
He rests prone and adds a verse to this old poem
He long ago scribbled down, grimace-smiles now,
Realizing there is little difference tween him and the
Sad Eyed Teenagers of the Lowland.

For poetry salves his wounds still, even now,
Unashamedly, he thinks, hallelujah!

The poem is the afterbirth,
A conflicts resolution, an outcome,
Battlefield debris, the residue of
An exacting vision, a sentiment surging,
And your army of words, inadequate to the task,
Fighting to capture that insight flashed,
Each word a soldier, disheveled,
Crying, let me live, let me be saved,
Let me make a poem,
Let it be inscribed upon my victorious flag.

The poem is the sweat left upon the brow,
Having exercised the five senses,
The salt of struggle and debate,
It's completion, each word,
Both a victory and a defeat.

To write but a single line,
That uplifts the heart,
Eases pain, gives delight to strangers,
And makes you laugh out loud
With shivery pleasure,
That usurps a whole day and night,
That is a poet's true measure.

Mastery of the poetic,
Measured not in quantity,
But in tears of satisfaction
When others love the taste
Of newly born stanzas
Upon their lips,
couplets born and transcribed
In the wee hours of the morn.


You can have my love, my soul,
But leave to me the labor of poetry.
Loving you with words is my domain,
The speciality of my terrain,
So no more hasta la pasta if you please,
And by the bye, I would love some
Tonight, say around eight,
At a restaurant where the moon is
The only light illuminating our faces.

Until you have bent your ear to Shakespeare's sonnets,
Till you have laughed with Ogden Nash,
Wept with Frost, visited Byron's ghost,
Read the songs of King Solomon,
And once you
Despair of being their equal,
Shed your winter coat of worry,
***** your courage to the sticking point,
Begin to write then with reckless courage,
Unfettered abandon, make a fool of yourself!

Scout the competition.
Weep, for you and I will never surpass
The giants who preceeded us, and yet,
Laugh, cause they thought the same thing as well...


All I can say is
En Garde!
I will be coming back soon enough.
because you are my best poem,
and the there will always be another stanza needed...

I am no Houdini, it's quite simple,
After 5 years, I read her like a book,
A book of my poems that she has inspired,
Entitled the Mysteries of True Love.


Each letter, a morsel in your mouth,
Each phrase, a fork full of pleasure,
Each stanza, a full fledged member in a tasting menu,
Perfect only in conjunction with the preceding flavor,
and the one that follows,  and the one that follows.

Taste each poem upon thy tongue and then pass it on,
you know how....

Each word, whether chewed thoroughly,
or lightly placed upon a bud for flavor,
needs the careful consideration of your mouth.

When I hear Shakespeare
My own voice is stilled, it's poverty exposed,
I am ashamed of every word I ever wrote.
Hush me not, for t'is true,
Yet I write on for an audience of one, on but one subject,
A subject, a life, mine,
yet, still unmastered, even after decades of trying.

My poverty exposed, unmasked
for what it is worth, or not.


Lest you think this is paean to men
Another grand male boast,
Be advised this ditty be writty
By a man who, while no longer gritty,
Just put jelly on his scrambled eggs
And ketchup on his toast!

Mmmmmmm there might be a poem
Lurking in that too...

So baby,
shut it down,
turn me on,
make me warm for real,
glide your now practiced fingertips on my grizzled cheek,
whisper a phony "ugh,"
cause I know, you will read
this iPad love poem
and cherish us for evermore.


Soul of brevity, poetically,
I'll never be, this insightful critique,
("Your poems are too long")
I've received in multiplicity, from sources internationally,
perhaps, lucky me, you've read this far?

Surely still a chance that an angel will touch my lips,
my internal parts sign a final treaty, inside an armistice,
night sweats sighs a thing fully forgot,
poetry writing can now be dispatched,
maybe that will be my Act III,
if I can stay awake for it.

Walk a Single Word.
To write a poem, a single word select,
embrace it with a fullness that lovers, family and friends
and the *** who cut you off in the middle lane
do daily provide

Grasp said word, walk it onto a yellow, blue lined, legal pad,
touch said word with the whisper of a single tear, a single curse,
like a pebble in a pond,
said word will miracle expand
hugging you with concentric circles of lines of poetry,
visionary words and stanzas that almost complete themselves
and you

The rhymes you will require, the meter you will select,
no need to struggle, hug your child and as Abraham told Isaac,
God and Google will provide

The simple trickster, a wordsmiths, even your average poet laureate,
got nothing on you that you don't already possess, to offer them
Plenty stiff competition.


Therefore,
My life is mine to take,
Should I wish to choose the
Place, date, the time
To let the poetry cease,
I will announce it mostly gladly
with a blessing of
Shehecheyanu* and a
Smiling "by your leave."

Sometimes the pen, unnecessary.
The poem, fully formed, in his mouth, born.

Silent back labor, unbeknownst the existence
Of such a thing, yet knowing now
His contractions, coming fast and furious,
Eyes many centimeters dilated,
The sac's fluid breaks upon the poet's tongue,
He pronounces in a single breath his
Immaculate Completion

When his hand to mouth, goes,
Like Moses, when he touched the burning coals,
The words are signaled, freedom!
The words announce:
We are now created, conceived and
This new oxgenated atmosphere is now our
final resting place.

This child, the poem, this exhalation,
Once freed, is lost to him,
It's been renamed, retitled,
by hundreds of newly adopted parents as
Ours.


Words needed to create another love poem for my beloved,
Nose and toes, ******* and eyes all regularly poetically,
Cherished,
Now I have knuckled under
And competed a full poetic body scan
And have paid tribute to each n'every part of you,
Even your knuckles...which I am busy kissing
While writing this poem in my distracted mind.

The next time it be for the morning meal,
I will eat it in bed,
far from their kitchen hiding places,
And celebrate my heroics with original
Frosted Flakes and milk,
And extra sugar just for spite!
The bedroom fairies, living under the pillow,
Emerge to beg in iambic pentameter,
Won't get nary a bite,
Until they they return the poems they stole
From my midnight dreams.


I am exhausted. So many gems to decorate
My body, my soul. I must stop here,
So many of you have reached out, none of you overlooked.

Overwhelmed, let us sit together now
And celebrate the silence that comes after the
Gasp, the sigh, that the words have taken from
Our selves, from within.


On and on thru the night,
Riffing, rapping, rambling, and spitting,
Ditties and darts, couplets and barbs,
Single words and elegies,
Free verse and a lot of fking curse words,
It was a moment, a time
that deserved
to be preserved,
and so this poem got writ

You may think this story apocryphal
Which is another way of saying untrue,
But I got his boarding pass and it is signed,
To this crazy poetry dude, long may you rasp,
And it is signed by Mr. P. Simon, a big fan,
And it has never since that day,
Left my grasp


Some poems never end,
Nor meant too.
Alliterative phrases, invitations,
Add a verse, a word, even a sound,
An exclamation of delight,
A stanza in its own right.

Unfinished work, forever additive, collaborative.
Modify mine, pass it on.

Read somewhere some poems never end,
Now I understand that better,
Cause there are no bandages, stitches that can close,
Cause there are no pills, switches that can shut off,
The ripping sound, the cutting noise, the raging inside
Heard blocks away, almost reaching a house where you live,
And dying in the same **** place that
Poems come from after midnight.


And even if I am stranger now,
I'll prove useful to have around,
Giving you poetry precisely couture designed by command,
So I fully expect to be hugging you happy
Soon enough.
You'll see.

No matter combo or organized, a good nights sleep
Elusive
So poetry is my default rest position,
My screen savior.

**So when I warn,
All my poems are copywrighted,
My meaning simple, words crystal,
They belong to us, but mostly to you
Who are reading these words
Mashup Part II  Is now posted.

It appears that I write a lot on this topic.   Anyway all theses are indeed snippets from poems  I wrote  and have posted here.  Started with the oldest poems May 18 and working my way thru 'em
Robert C Howard Aug 2013
A graceful water weaving dolphin
swirls wakes of gentle waves -
a white, silver blue phantom
shimmering in the noonday sun.

Piercing the surface,
she dances an aquatic ballet
of corkscrew pirouettes
and majestic somersaults.

Diving beneath the spray
she churns her engine upward -
soaring through the flaming hoop
to the "oohs" and applause
of a throng of short-sleeved hominids
bleachered beyond the rails.

Plunging into quiet depths,
she lingers for a moment
perhaps to recall the fresh sea air
and the borderless waters
in the golden days before the ships came.

*January, 2007
This poem is included in my book, Unity Tree available at Amazon.com and will be included in a textbook in the International Primary English series published by HarperCollins
Kiss tingle whizz fizz
Fireworks shooting hot stars
Lots of 'oohs' and 'aaahs'!
Dorothy A Jul 2010
Look upon all my beauty
I'm a traditional rhyme
Written so elegantly
Perfect in every line!

No, look at my free verse style!
I'm not prissy or fussy
I'm free as a bird with a free spirit
That flies within the realm
Of so many possibilities and directions!
Much less inhibited than you!

Nonsense! The camera flashes!
They are taking pictures of me!
Lovely, poetic form of old
Style, as pure as can be!

You're out of your mind!
You traditional snob!
All the oohs and aahs
Are really all for my poetic genius!
Move aside!

And so they soon got into a tussle, words flying everywhere....that is according to Free Verse

Traditional Rhyme felt so robbed
Free Verse, you trouble maker!
You may be the rage of the day!
But to me you are a faker!

Free Verse had such a harsh choke hold
On the throat of Traditional Rhyme
I can rhyme too... but not like you!
Perfectly? No! Not all of the time!

Traditional Rhyme called a truce
Finally accepting both ways
Sure, she had grace and she had style
But Free Verse would not go away
Nat Lipstadt May 2013
Hello Poetry


Yearned.
Ached.
For so long, for a community,
That values the ineffable wonder
Of a wordsmith's creations, intended to
Repair himself and the world with bullets of
Verses.

And here you are.

Like/Dislike, matters not,
So long as we value each others work,
And the the heart echoes within
What the eyes read and the mouth whispers.

The array and disparity of your names,
A delight,
Each name a poem
In its own right.

So I resubmit a question for your consideration,
The answer is now known,
The answer is all of us.
May 2013
---------------------------------------------------------


­Who's Who In Poetry  



T'is a curious thing,
these verbal peddlers, tribal members,
famously well known to no one,
perhaps at best,
a kindred few, fellow-travelers.

Each a troop,
bloodied, purple hearted,
word-wounded,
anonymous unto each other,
yet all bonded intimates,
in solitary struggle united,
yet sea-parted by the very nature
of the solitude of composition.

All poets are Cain scar-marked,
purposed for everyone to see,
a warning to rabbled boors,
imagination suppressors!

World:

cherish these flawed ones,
gentle these frail but gritty,
the Lord has tasked them
to be prophets in one tongue untied,
undo the strife of Babel's division.

Poets!

Be the harpooners
of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody,
comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy
to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders
into crinkly eye-lined smilers.

With clinical observation,
dense and demanding,
make us laugh at
the comedy of our situation,
teach us our free-to-see peep show,
reveal, unseal us
with **** empathy!

For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.

When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
tastes his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
and becomes one who was,
yet is,
because of you,
in poetry.
---------------
Postscript (1/25/17)

Even more true today, than four years ago.
Thank You.
a revised, minor modestly different, version was published in Feb 2016 as
Orphans and Poets, Peddlers & Members https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1564122/orphans-and-poets-peddlers-members/


and then finally another different variant, more personal was published in
Aug 2016 as
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1734088/the-harpooner-of-the-unexamined-life


the harpooner of the unexamined life

"Be the harpooner of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody, comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders into crinkly eye-lined smilers."

writ many years past, just another dusted off phrasing,
composed from life's lecture notes, collected by eyes tired
from the hazing,
eyes wearied by the addict-strong,
incessant observational needing,
of celebrating the loopy,
they who make this planet
capable of laughing at itself,
a helping habit for mutual survival...

should you spot a man ungainly wrought,
weighted down by a harpoon cross
cursed  'pon his Cain-marked back,
you need not move to the other side,
'tis only a make-believe poet,
with his recording device,
seizing your rhapsodies to rhyme,
his collected artifacts, your crinkly smiles,
his meat, his metier, his chosen career,
a comfort caresser of your illusions into
a shapely sculpture of words for you to keep,
a token of your now examined worth,
a celebration for the keeping...
___________-

special thanks to those who rediscovered these poems recently and brought them back to me for refreshing cherishing these old word friends.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2015
How Many Calories in a Poem?


visualizing the invisible,
we deconstruct the content,
the in-titled label reviewed,
querying,
is this one worth the cost?

looking for true fiber,
then further inquire,
perchance,
are there grams of
kick-starting emotive proteins,
stored and lurking within,
homes for the cells
that will inspire, transform,
mere readers into mountainous writers

lean on those scripts,
injected with just hints,
resting ribbons of flavorful fat equipped,
for there will always be
the tyranny
of the those of the sparse faith,
those writers of haiku brevity,
believers that
fat free,
is the only,
but lonely,
bene of beauty

death from ignorance to those
who would poison the fruit
of the alphabet tree,
coat produce, with glossy chemicals,
that preserve the shiny exteriors,
cooking up false feasts interior,
saturating us with the trans-fats of trite,
oily verbosity and labels of organic,
that conceal the risks of
hyper-pretensivity

an every poem, seasoned for taste,
a dash of diamond sea salts,
scatter on pinches of pearls
of Caribbean cane sugar,
sprinkle human sins and cinnamon
for zest and tang,
for inspiration and flavoring,
for the souls tonguing tastebuds,
needy for reasons
to celebrate  commissioning
the enticing exhalations of appreciative
oohs and ahs!

Warning!
this poem was processed
in a old, out-of-date factory,
that is most assuredly not,
nat-nut free*

but even if allergic,
be unafraid to taste the acerbic,
for there are
poems
suited for everyones, even your
peculiarities

you want your essayed poems
to brim healthy caloric,
grow them as offshoots
of your very own organs

you need not seek anothers certification,
if filled they are
with the mettle of iron,
built to be
calcium-fortified structures,
with the perpetual strong bones
of rhyme and sonnet

let each worded edifice
be the food,
stored to be gifted
to our progeny,
by their ever living on,
marking us,
marking them

omit the trite,
we ken no need,
for it is the false emptiness of
misleading carbohydrates,
that only fatten,
for the briefest satisfaction,
purposed for the killing of fulfilling,
dulling that which only
a well prepared
dish poetic,
can bring to healthy enliven
the human spirit




Nov. 12, 2015
Aboard Delta #2499
5:10 pm
when you are trying to lose weight, you obsess about bad calories
in everything...
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2016
T'is a curious thing,
these verbal peddlers,
these tribal members,
famously well known to no one,
perhaps at best,
a kindred few, fellow-travelers.

Each a troop,
in the army of orphans,
bloodied, purple hearted,
word-wounded,
anonymous unto each other,
yet all bonded intimates,
in solitary struggle united,
yet sea-parted by the very nature
of the solitude of composition.

All poets are Cain scar-marked,
purposed for everyone to see,
a warning to the rabbled boors,
the imagination suppressors!

World:

cherish these flawed ones,
gentle these frail but gritty,
the Lord has tasked them
to be prophets in one tongue untied,
undo the strife of Babel's division.

Poets!

Be the harpooners
of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody,
comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy
to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders
into crinkly eye-lined smilers.

With clinical observation,
dense and demanding,
make us laugh at
the comedy of our situation,
teach us our free-to-see peep show,
reveal, unseal us
with **** empathy!

For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.

When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
taste his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
becoming one who was, yet still is,
because of you,

because of poetry.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
For Emma Ottinger “I put out (my stories) just because”

“just because”
that’s the best excuse you got girl?

cause be-ing
just
is a **** good one

way back in March
wrote a declaration^ to all those just
beginning with an iota of courage and
a good story telling
way of seeing and the
secret sauce-way
to spin my imagination in
my eye sockets
with their well words,
for I am a drinker of
the beaujolais firsts of the new grapes
of young poets

words welling springing from between
the oohs and ahs and the damns -
I wish I had wrote that...

so here’s a hero push - so many kinds of bread to
fill our baskets, please girl may I have some more?
so here’s to you - and the Great Plains that birthed you,
and the breadbasket of four poem/stories you poured out
that were so far from plain, how could you know of seas and sea foam and cobalt and mahogany human body parts?

and the speech patterns of waves that took me decades to learn?

use those “Jacob’s ladders between your fingers,”
“whistle me like a stray dog following,”
for that’s what “the kingpin of my flighty wits”
requires, for this old scribbler is now:

“firmly rooted for a girl who's bold enough
to crack the whip over her head if
ever went to war with myself.
A confidant that won't run,
won't offer half truth when
the whole of it
is all that actually matters.”

so write with that window light on and
wheat fields that can be reenvisioned as the gray-blue sea
from which I crawled out of croaking...
to read you rightly

6/25/18
10:25PM
yasmin miranda May 2011
Barbie screams for help in her dream house
as you rush to the scene, a towel tied loosely over your shoulders,
a pillow beneath your shirt in place of a Kevlar vest,
and only oversized sunglasses covering your identity.


As you rush to save her, Elmo – your first rescue –
clings tightly beneath your underarm, bobbing gently
as you scale the ottoman and jump from couch to couch.


To the unseeing world you are Batman,
Wolverine, the Flash, and all of the Avengers –
ordinary men made heroic through radiation and tragedy.


But I see beyond the alter ego, past the acrobatics
and death-defying maneuvers that merit the oohs
and aahs within our general definition of heroic.


I see a boy truly worth admiring, the boy I’d call for help
if needed, because in you I see all boys, In you
I see the beauty of biology, the lovely product of a number
of atoms I will never have enough lifetimes to count.


If you could only see the splendid hue of your wide-eyed
innocence as you tie your teddy bear villain to the chair leg,
unaware that the seemingly simple steps of your chubby fingers
require a million more steps within you.


The sheer energy coursing from nerve to nerve
with each dip of your head and bow of your lashes
is more incredible than any power
induced by gamma rays or infected spiders.


When you place your hands at your waist in glorious victory
and lift each rain-booted foot over entire civilizations
of Lego people, I am made aware of the social circles
present within you, the cliques of tissues and cells
moving uniformly inside, carpooling toward their respective jobs,
their kinetic messages traveling faster than
the water-cooler gossip of any terrestrial worker.


And while you separate your plastic dinosaur army
by rank – in this case color, shape, size, and title –
you show the world that the truths you contain
in your four year old brain could rival
any super computer or evil mastermind.


A Pomerian named Lucy yips at your feet,
making me keenly impressed by the relatively few genetic signals
that separated you from her in creation, the same genes
that invented the stormy gray novelty of your eyes.


In truth, being superhuman is only a lofty dream
because the awe of being human
is our most overlooked achievement.

But we do not realize this truth until
we’re older – If we ever do – once we’re past
the age of dress-up, too old to announce this fact
by wearing tights in our favorite colors
and a cape with our own initials.
This is about the beauty of humanity (inspired by my favorite four year old).
EssEss Dec 2022
A tropical paradise island is Hawaii that conjures a feeling of sheer joy,
It’s very mention evokes thoughts of vacationing one can really enjoy,
Location-wise one can state that it is “ far from the madding crowd”,
It is like heaven on earth, meant for visitors to be wowed

Waikiki in Honolulu is the hub for most hotels with proximity to the beach,
It’s just a 16-minute cab ride from the airport and thus quick to reach,
That the closest State to Hawaii is California - a 2500-mile sector,
Just shows how travel time from elsewhere, involves jet lag to factor

Located in the Pacific Ocean, Hawaii is quintessential if one may say so,
It is the only U.S. state outside North America that is an archipelago,
As the only state geographically located in the tropics,
It is a tourist haven, with always an abundance of optics

The word "Aloha" is commonplace in signages and on everyone's lips,
As a form of greeting it implies hello and welcome - a very useful tip,
The locals are very effusive when they greet visitors with Aloha,
One cannot but express delight by silently exclaiming, Aha!

"Mahalo" is another word that visitors get used to hearing frequently,
It means "thank you" - a gracious acceptance of the locals' hospitality,
The infectious warm welcome to visitors has an air of spontaneity,
Syncing with the embracing pervasive Hawaiian culture in it's entirety

The inevitable fresh flower "lei" welcome awaits visitors checking into hotels,
Lei is a symbol of hospitality, love, respect and aloha in which Hawaii excels,
A lei made from sea shells is an alternative option that one can have by choice,
Irrespective of the form of lei offered, wearing it is surely a matter to rejoice

Honolulu is the capital of Hawaii on the island of Oahu's south shore,
It is the largest city and gateway to the U.S. island chain and much more,
As one of the main eight islands in Hawaii, Oahu is the most populous,
It is also the business hub of the Aloha State and hence very famous

Also known as "The Gathering Place", Oahu aptly lives up to it's name,
As home to the majority of Hawaii's diverse population, it has a lot to gain,
There's the fusion of East and West cultures resulting in a delicate balance,
Rooted in the value and cultures of Native Hawaiian people, with no imbalance

The popular bustling and vibrant Waikiki neighborhood within Honolulu city is unique,
It is the epicenter for eclectic restaurants, nightlife and designer fashion boutiques,
Waikiki is also reputed for its white sandy beach that is a whole 2-mile stretch,
Where visitors throng throughout the day, as if there's little else the mind can fetch

Waikiki in Hawaiin means "spouting waters" and is replete with a gamut of water activities,
Surfing, snorkeling, swimming, canoe paddling and boogie boarding are typical beach proclivities,
With matching stunning views of the landscape, visitors can be seen lazing in total relaxation,
It is little wonder that the beach is always crowded and a famed getaway vacation destination

Friday night fireworks by Hilton Hawaiian Village along Waikiki Beach is a must-watch attraction,
The colorful display evoking delightful oohs and aahs from onlookers though, is of short duration,
The razzle-dazzle of the show skillfully transmits joy & happiness through the art of pyrotechniqes,
A feeling of bliss envelops one and all, on witnessing the sound-and-light show marvel mystique

Dole Whip is a popular non-dairy pineapple ice cream and, in Hawaii, is a cult-status confection,
A key ingredient is unsweetened coconut milk that adds creaminess and flavor to the selection,
Fresh lime bumps up the flavor and adds extra zing to the taste of the final Dole Soft Serve swirl,
Savoring the heavenly refreshing unique taste allows the hedonist's squeal of delight to unfurl

A visit to Oahu or any other Hawaii island is never complete without attending a traditional luau,
Luau represents a gathering meal of food, music and dance and is integral with Polynesian milieu,
It is a party like no other with continuous foot-tapping live music accompanied by Hawaiin dancing acts,
While the compere regales guests with anecdotes of Polynesian traditions laced with interesting facts

Hawaii is also famous for it's sensuous mimetic hula dance - traditionally, a form of communication,
Ancient hula, or "kahiko" with undulating gestures to instruments and chant was an original creation,
Transformed under Western influence to "auana", it now involves sinuous movement of limbs and hips,
The accompanying peppy music involves storytelling or place description well in tune with the scripts

The fitting finale to Hawaii luauas is generally the famed Samoan fire knife ceremonial dance,
A knife, partially exposed & wrapped in oil-soaked cloth is set alight for the performer's stance,
Incredible acrobatic stunts involve twirling, tossing and catching the knife to the fast beat of music,
The appreciative response of the audience builds up the momentum, reaching a crescendo almost seismic

Sauntering in the beach, one can watch people meandering about with gay abandon,
The inescapable feeling of blissful relaxation is typical of a destination-Hawaii vacation,
The days fly by, making you wish at the end that the stay could have been a tad longer,
While treasuring joyful memories in the interim, your thoughts go to similar places yonder
Terry Collett Dec 2013
Geraldine
riding home

on the bus
after work

sitting there
in the crowd

thinking of
her lover

sweet Holly
lying there

in the ****
all the night

her small globes
kiss ready

legs parted
hotly moist

waiting for
Geraldine's

snake like tongue
spider like

*******
between thighs

watery
sea blue eyes

uttering words
I love you

between the
oohs and ahs

whispered sighs
of just there

gets me hot
just that spot

she sways slow
to bus's swerve

a bell's pressed
at the front

but all that
Geraldine

can think of
is Holly

and Holly's
moistful ****.
Scottie Green Sep 2012
I pressed my left heel down to get it into the strap of my sparkled sandal--bought from the cheap version of the rich girl store; I got them more than half off.
I'm a fraud.

Sliding my foot into the shoe,
the way I've done so many times before,
I lose my balance.

And there goes the first one.
I knew the nails were coming off;
I'm not all that wealthy.

I have to wait until the last minute to cough up fifteen bucks to get these things re-done.
I thought it just popped the nail straight off,
but it throbs and is begging for me to pay it some attention.

I peer down at where the once perfectly manicured nail (baby blue tips and all) had sat upon my index finger.
It has left a ****** mess--jagged and imperfect.

I can see my real nail drawn up next to my cuticle like a smile.
Placed on top is a half moon of hardened acrylic until it breaks off near the soft doughy point of my freshly exposed fingertip.
Edgy.
Almost.

The blood lines the rim and trickles it's way down
curving its way around the smile;
highlighting the crescent of my own fingernail.
It throbs.

“****.”
I say wanting someone to hear me.
“****.”
a little louder.

I just want to complain lately.
I want a little attention for the suffering I put my own self through.
As I wait it throbs more.

I wipe the blood away just to watch it refill.
I walk down the stairs,
and they take care of me.
They give me my oohs and ahhs and owes,
put some ointment on a paper towel because we don't have bandaids,
wrap it with tape,
and I'm off to sew my dress back together for dinner.

My sister's dress;
my sister's dress that she got from a nearby neighbor
who stuffed it in a trash bag and left it there for us to take.

Maybe I will get a discount.
Steven Hutchison Apr 2012
When I speak,
It is not so much for you
As it is for me.
Every word,
Echoing in the ballroom
Between my teeth,
Sets my jaw to dancing.
Sibilant whispers
Tickle the tip of my tongue,
Kissing the hiss
Of sunlight on daisies.
The hum drum of mountains
Growling at the ceiling,
Like a kitten purring
Against my nose.
Oohs and Ahs,
Medicine for my cheekbones.
Such ointment as vowels
No doctor has seen.
When I speak,
At times when no ear is listening,
It is not so much for what
As it is for how.
Every word
Stretching time,
Composite peace.
Day 16
Anna Zagerson Oct 2012
If I loved lustily like a man,
I'd strip it all down.
I'd take away her oohs and ahhs until only her yeses were left.
If I loved her like a man,
I'd remove her woman's mystery.
I'd tell her she was doing it wrong and show her someone who did me right instead.
I'm glad I don't love quite like a man
Some days, it's easier being a woman.
Carolyne McNabb Jul 2016
Back into the circus,
Back into the ring.
Just another spectacle,
Another freak they can make sing.
I'll do my flips and tricks,
I'll sing, dance, juggle flaming sticks.
The audience laughs and cheers.
If one jeers, boos- no one can hear.
The thunderous applause,
Whistles of approval,
All of the oohs and ahhs
Please me and tickle my ears.
Welcome to my carnival.
Here in this tent I put on a show.
It is a mirage to please all who go.
It is the most convincing act-
A performance no one can look past.
They can't see the real me
Past the freak they want me to be.
Here in my circus,
Here in the ring.
Ring around the rosy,
Throw the ashes around like sickness.
Welcome to my carnival
Where I'm just another freak who can sing.
Ring around the rosy circus tent
Until in ashes it all falls down.
Mike Hauser May 2013
A cosmic parade today fell from the starry sky
As nations lined up to watch it all pass by

Beauty to behold, a bit hard to believe
Paraded down all the worlds cities streets

Chrystal spears of every color and size
Filled with wonder all the hearts and the minds*

Never before has there been such a day
As this day of the cosmic parade

Exotic flowers dancing in a magical mood
Bright colors flashing in a rainbow of hue

Nothing of this sort has ever been seen
Like being awake in the strangest of dreams

The oddest of creatures whistling planetary tunes
With banners held high of universal moons

All you hear from the crowd are oohs, aahs, and sighs
As the cosmic parade goes floating by

7 foot tall aliens with 7 bells in each of their 7 hands
Lined up 2 by 2 in the parades space time marching band

Polka dot animals with heads like big bass drums
Being ridden and played by purple hands with 13 thumbs

In place of all the floats, spaceships were in flight
Spelling out peace and love in brightly colored lights

That must be the reason for this wonderful parade
To bring joy and peace to a world in need on this day of special days

A machine like none ever seen scattered stardust confetti to the wind
Causing all the world as one to turn and call each other friend

As anger and hatred melted from the heart of man
At that precise instant throughout all the land

Just as fast as this cosmic wonder fell out of the sky
At the end of the street is where they waved goodbye

Off to spread the message of serenity and peace
*To other solar systems like ours that desperately have that need
SøułSurvivør Jul 2016
Every year as a child
We'd go down to the mall
Spread blankets on the new mown grass
And watch the fires fall
The display was not a large one
For Tucson was quite small
But on my father's shoulders
And I felt Ten Feet Tall!

At dusk the fireworks began
With blasts... staccato pops!
We'd watch with awe the sparklers
That would, as fat sparks, drop!
It would get brighter and brighter still!
It never seemed to stop!

The oohs and aahs of the crowd!
The smell of grass fresh cut!
Looking up! Exploding embers!
My eyes never shut!

At last! The finale!
What a fireworks display!
We were tired at the end...

.... but it was a PERFECT DAY!


SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/4/2016
I have nothing but happy memories the 4th of July. The state of the nation now saddens me. But for me this will always be a wonderful day!

Happy Fourth of July everyone!
Erin RH Mahoney Feb 2013
The ineffable ignites the sky,
As words unspoken
Crackle and combust
Into the raining fire
That lights our eyes.
Oohs and ahhs gasp
As the ashes disappear into the night,
The very fabric of heaven  
We dream of each slumber,
That one day when we too will see the light.
Two lovers kiss beneath God's gates,
Believing that they will ascend into the stars as saints.
When the twilight has passed and dark is upon us,
We too may take that firecracker to the heart,
Life's deepest and cruelest form of art.
Marlo Jul 2014
How am I supposed to celebrate Americas freedom
While I'm not free myself?
My mind strangled by metaphors
And thoughts of him
The fireworks making the sky
Shine and glow
As he used to do
By placing a smile upon my face...
The oohs and ahhs of excitement;
Barely equivalent to the burst and sizzle
Of each shared kiss...
Happy people in love
Suffocating me,
His scent is pushed past me,
Carried by the wind.
My heart sinks a little more
With each vibrant spiral in the air.
Fire is raining in the sky
As I'm slowly sinking through the ground
And into the fire below.
Ugh
. *** .
Nat Lipstadt May 10
happened upon an extravaganza of spring’s hallmark,
the cherry blossoms outing their munificence of color,
I happened to position myself direct below a tree,
the thicket
of blossoms so, well, thick, that sky was obliterated ‘cept
for pointillistic spots of blue sun, yellow sky that poked
through the
few de minimus interstitial spaces permitted, and was
struck silent, by-for-before shimmering eyes that uttered the
requisite oohs and ahhs,

and

words came to me weeks later,
when the memory, now fully decanted,
reappears
courtesy of a giant tech company’s code tinkering,
merging and splurging the combined images in the
photographic memory
of my devices,
as if to say:
your life is
points of light and color and scent
as you write now
amidst the hubbub of jackhammers, raucous horns a blaring,
the homeless screaming on the street at god,
the fatalistic headlines of hate and
the pallor of a low level haze of perp~gray
between you and your true elfin self,
and you are not surprised,
but sadly, but not entirely,
bemused
that the photo’s true utility was to
remind weeks later
that all that my eyes utter
is not just
woe, double trouble and toil, toil,
but to Hey Jude and George,
step out and see the park on a Sunday
in its entirety and to glory in
your being
by being
a point in that tapestry spectacular
of ingestion, digestion and final comprehension and
a happy

exhalation
across the course of
May 2024
Erin Haas Jul 2010
I want to scream or shout,
anything to help get me out of here.
I can't even seem to leave mentally
a moment never lost in song or dance.

Instead everywhere I look
I find constant reminders
of how I feel.
Books- covered in dust,
longing to be picked up and read.
The old  red bike in the shed,
hoping someone will share a beautiful summer day with it.
The little black dress in the back of my closet,
crying for night filled with oohs and aahs
while making heads turn.

But the books they are on my shelf,
the bike-- in my shed
and the dress in my size.
For I am the only one to blame
for leaving these once so prized possessions behind.
Forgetting them, leaving them in the past.
Although never used now,
they serve as the reminders
I dread to face each day.
KingOmar69 Sep 2013
Fade in: Ext. Theater - Day
Cue clouds: gray shrouds
blanket the sky
and the sun's last remaining rays
Cut to: Ext. Theater - Noon
Cue crowd: no sound,
no song comprise
the mise en scene
of this somber scene
Fade in: Int. Theater - Night
Cue sound: few gasps,
some oohs and ahhs,
some cries comprise
the mise en scene
of this joyous scene
Cut to: extreme close up
Their eyes reflect the faces on the screen:
Newman, Hoffman, Brando, Ledger
Pacino, De Niro
Penn, Caine, Dean
Fade out
Samuel Mar 2012
It's right you know, really
spot on when someone throws that
phrase out, there being "no words for this
moment, no suitable avenue for a memory"

see
all they forget is the part with "no
dreams like these living in that beautiful head of
yours, no mixed laughter quite as musical"

but each is
always to finish with a soft fizzle, a hot shower
of sparks and touches,

it's no
fireworks show these minutes in the dark, even as
my heart "oohs" and "aahs" all the
same in the kaleidoscope that
surrounds you
Francie Lynch Apr 2016
Like a meteor at night,
The stages of life,
Come from darkness
No one could know.
There's the flash,
          (and a fire)
The Oohs and desires,
Then
Pooof,
There goes the show.
Not with a bang but a whimper (Tips of the cap to T.S.)
Jordan Frances Nov 2014
"Hi, my name is Sarah, and I haven't purged in almost four months."
That's what I tell group therapy sessions
Or online support groups
When it comes to my eating disorder.
Even better is when I talk about my cutting
How it's been two years since I gave way to the knife
Plenty of "oohs" and "ahs" and, my personal favorite,
"You're so strong"
Even though I still think about the sensation
Almost every day.

What I really am told
And sometimes even think myself
More frequently than not is
"My name is Sarah
The lying, conniving resident **** of my house"
Or
"My name is Sarah
Fat girl, so pretty if she'd just lose the weight
No longer ******, disappointing her family one day at a time"
"My name is Sarah
Just another basket case, pregnancy scare
One, two, maybe three times
How stupid can she be?"
"My name is Sarah
Child abuse survivor
Or is the appropriate terminology 'victim'?
Isn't she over it yet?"

That voice and the one that calls me
Strong, when the other calls me fat
Passionate, when the other calls me obnoxious
Potential, when the other calls me hopeless
Are constantly at war
Bloodshed is the goal.
Devil versus angel
Compete to be the main influence in my life

While really,
The only thing that I can say for certain is
"My name is Sarah
The human being."
And that is perfectly fine with me.
Fish The Pig Oct 2014
Two heads
rest upon the bed
where genetics went haywire.
A simple mistake
with a complicated result
often too much for some to take.
Little cat, tumbling to life
two faces morphed and mewing
stumbling right to eternal sleep.
But it's not a life lost-no
it's a spectacle,
tiny monster,
floating in a jar
for nothing but "oohs", "aahs", and study.
Nobody mourns the little cat,
a second face deeming it unworthy
of concern.
Did mama cat know
her precious baby wasn't called a "kitten"?
but a Janus Monster,
a freak of nature,
a prime scientific diamond.
Little monster cat won't get a coffin,
it'll be jarred-catalogued-and stored,
burried in dust instead of dirt.
The kitten that was born and then quickly died, suffers from Diprosopus, which is associated with a protein, called Sonic hedgehog homolog (I **** you not) and is thus, born with two faces. they will stuff him in a jar of preserve and refer to him as a "Janus Monster".
and that is all he will ever be.
Raw words Dec 2013
I'm just as scared of you 
I see you in the mirror too
Grace the nation 
With your presence and patience 
Grace is your key to success my baby 
You see my father speaks to me through music and this I'm blessed with 
Something strong and I'm at rest with 
How long does it take for you to write 
When all this loves from a strike 
Speaking through music 
I won't abuse this 
I wont Leave this or lose this 
My double ended breast formed from a test 
Out of love 
out of sympathy 
My test continues to aw and oohs me 
Cheering for my success and pleased that I'm the best 
My god has made a blessing from the days to help you raise 
Your self 
Your being 
Your everything 
You're lies
You're everything 
You're everything
Momma gets a few hits and I'll admit the shoe always fits 
The mans always ******
At my content and bliss 
My smiles he can't dismiss 
I'm at my prime 
Watch me rhyme 
Watch me grind 
Your ears regarding your fears
Hundreds of pairs of eyes are on you
As you rip the air right out of their lungs
While you dance slowly and masterfully
Beaming with passion and confidence

You merge to become one with the music
And gain 'oohs' and 'aahs' from beguiled girls
Daydreaming and wishing you were theirs
While your girlfriend spectates from a distance

The spell is broken as soon as you stop
To take a breath and take your bow
You sent the coliseum into a stormy applause
I found myself clapping along too

Backstage, you take your girlfriend into your arms
While I sit across you several feet away
You being taken doesn't matter, it never will
I'm too mesmerized by your dancing to even care
I guess we're friends now, John. I just don't know how to feel about it.
Brandon Jul 2014
Fireworks go off.
Boom. Bang.  Fizzle.

I'm inside reading a book.
Some drunk writer rambling about work.
I hear the oohs and the ahhs of civility outside these four walls
and I look at the bottle of scotch nearest me and grab it.
It goes down and warms my stomach.
I stand up,
walk to the window,
move the curtains out of the way,
and watch outside.
I see people
and their families
standing on front porches,
chaired up in their driveways,
some ***** standing in the streets.
All have their gazes pointed to the sky.
I look.
I wait.

Boom.
Bang.

Fizzle.

Blasts of color and noise
then the dark grey smoke
staining the night sky.
I take another drink from the bottle.
I sit down.
Close my eyes.
I see fireworks
exploding in the sky.
wordvango Nov 2016
love her oohs and ahs
music to my ears
her vociferousness
we parlayed and drank several hours away
laughed and smoked a blunt
and her hand was right there
I was expecting her to pull it away
when I reached out and touched it
she was a lady but
let me grasp her
and she was quite a lady
my ears are ringing
sir humbug Jul 2023
five years ago, June 2018,
I, poet Sir Humbug,
wrote:that the job of the artist was to be
luminous and dangerous

<>

the job of the artist
is to be
luminous and dangerous

luminous to others
by being
dangerous to themselves

when the words are ripped from the chest,
atmosphere disbursed by the body’s projectile messes,
starburst fireworks,
luminous and dangerous,
luminating the shared night,
laminating your truths,
in poems disguised

and so the job,
our work,
begins


<>

five years on,
somethings have changed,
indeed, the dangers of
being luminous,
clarifying and exposing,
the requisite badge of courage,
need-be more desperately earned

the work is more risky,
as the rules of now are none,
and the risk of good taste,
thoughtful caring,
exposing you innards outwardly,
so easy to demean
and sadly
that titillates the iliterati

like a fire-working fireflies flashing,
their in-concert of ligh attracts the
oohs and aahs
but too,
the restless for glory,
opinionated blowhard,
whose critical boundaries of ill will
are
boundless

yet,
write on, right on
to be where courage be the
sticking point!

your verbs must be pointy,
your direction true,
adjectives of modest innovation,
craft harder, then harder again,
for the work must be honest
in a manner most delicate

now is the time of
subtlety -
if one must bang pots to be heard,
that you to are but a noisemaker, a loser,
an addition to those
lost in the din

quiet passion,
thoughtful insight
to inside, to the tender parts,
will rule the day

and the blow smokers
will rue the day,
as their pretenses chafe and flail wayside,
and your words,
be like sightings of new lands
where you take us utterly beholden,
willing explorers to places most wonderfully

luminous and dangerous!
David Montgomery Jul 2016
I wonder if you're lonely,
Somewhere out beneath the vibrant colors,
The oohs and the awes,
Always make my heart ache,
I wonder if you feel it like I do,
Or if you hold another's hand,
Long washed passed,
Like oceans and sand,
These days I've nearly given up it seems,
On romance and dreams,
The distance between us,
Like the echoes of sound after the crackle and boom,
I remember when you were lonely,
A girl trapped in her world,
Trapped in her room.
I wish darling flower,
That I could be the heart
That  makes you ooh and awe,
I wish perhaps one more moment,
that for a moment you saw,
how special you are to me,
That I could make you bloom.
Tonight I ache.
Keertana Sep 2015
Theirs, to me, is the most scintillating language
The one without words
Without voices or verse, just
Meaning- a cosmos of it, I can see
In their naïve smiling eyes, their baby fingers, their
Ebullient “oohs” and “mmphs” and gurgles,
Their springy laughter that leaves echoing
In my ears, an intricate array of reminiscences
On the unexplained enigma of
A lost childhood; of the complex beings
They’re fated to reduce to,
Of the most familiar language I once knew
But never learnt - stupid me -
The unparalleled beauty of simplicity, sans
The scholarly sense and sensibility that men worship
And of the tacit expressions they conduct so robustly
Without speech or learning,
Filling me with their contagious emotions
Immediately as I come in its contact.

Man’s emotions are complicated, that’s perhaps why
They’re so compatible with the simple sound of innocence.
Dada Olowo Eyo Apr 2013
Locked in a frenzy,
Pores dripping like crazy,
She burns me with oohs! and aahs!
Lifts me far, beyond, the twinkling stars.
Cat Caldwell Jan 2015
Consumed
That’s what I am
That’s what we all are

Engulfed
by the flaming desire to be that
special something

The special something that
shimmers and
sparkles
in the light
Creating ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’
at every turn of the page

It lives in the back of our minds.
That desire.
Crouching
Waiting for
yet another chance to look
for the
golden pedestal

So,
I am consumed by search
The search for that
special something

In people and places
I’ve looked in
books and
movies and
a few mirrors
here
    and there
But
no image seems to measure up

I just can’t figure it out

My life is laced
with reminders of
the golden pedestal
So,
I’ll let the flames continue
licking my skin
until I’m
nothing
more than burnt ashes
consumed
by the words on a page
happenstance collided, coincided, coagulated, et cetera
with hormonally graphic, dumbfounded circumstance
hence, only by a fluke did I manage
to worm winning trust
among Christmas elves and reindeer
vowing confidence
as a confidante sans this generic guy,

would never breach insidious, impious,
illustriously scandalous
tidbits, into a an underground impregnable
air-raid shelter, the motley crue
tied blindfold over my eyes, didst steer
me hermetically sealed
sound (cloud) proof coed bunker,

though escapades emanated noise asper a clunker
subsequently followed by wail of “just dunk her,”
while ensconced (security detail munchkins,
who just so happened tubby queer
minded entrance portal)
only after getting the thumb up signal,

whereat nose pies planted
espionage surveillance devices
the chief head honcho and attendents,
Smoky and the bandits respectively,
magically, andhandily did ap pear

and despite one hundred percent bug free,
a whispered stance opted just to make sure
no unwanted eavesdropper could overhear
plus every participant swore an oath, cuz

any leaked real or “FAKE” information,
would spell imminent demise to be near
the upshot, sans grave emergency
describing clandestine arraignment
involving some rogue elf
(most likely at least two),

and a misbehaving reindeer
(names withheld to avoid any spoiler alert,
plus this entire kit and caboodle
necessary to help Saint Nick

got wind, (and subsequently reined in)
a rave orgiastic party
with orgamsic oohs and aahs
***, drugs and rock and roll,

that a band aided elf(ves)
laced with Pepper Minstix
(anonymously hashtagged
***** and Gomorrah)
sullied pure as the driven snow repute,

when alias Sugarplum Mary (“FAKE NAME”)
detected snorting *******
code named Alabaster Snowball,
while additionally
besmirching her virginity

via ****** cavorting
amidst a Bushy Evergreen
shaking as if frenzied
with feverish boogie woogie flu

which seductive, prurient,
and master baiter friend zeed
(spunky gangnum style) Shinny Upatree
which could slay Wunorse Openslae reputation
as substance abusers,
and *** offenders if not worse.
Traveler Aug 2017
As a mere rhymer
I have nothing to prove
To the editorial readers
Nor even their muse
No need for their "ahs"
Nor even their "oohs"
My rhymes are aimed
At the poetical crew

Creativity is a savory drug
I get high on what you say
Aesthetics fill my restless heart
Colorful words paint my day
On and on I read and rhyme
With folks I've never met
Voice's of the kindred kind
Never a regret!
Traveler Tim
POETRY HELPS THIS GARDEN VARIETY HI BRED
   TO SUBLIMATE UNMET ****** NEEDS PER ME
WHETHER CASUAL OR INTIMATE -
   WORDS HELP RELEASE ANGST
   FOISTED UP UNWITTING READER
   TO SOW SEED CONNECTION
   PERHAPS EVOLVING INTO
   A PHYSICAL RAPPORT WITH NATURAL X2C.
------------------------------------------------------------­--
    homage to simple pleasures
   like health of body, mind n spirit at base
within fit ethereal, dye ****** corporeal being that doth encase
in tandem with unspoilt terrestrial grace
i decided to share three poetic endeavors
   for a change of pace
images thee can imagine and trace.
----------------------------------------------------------­----
MOTHER NATURE’S SUPREME DISPLAY ™

A strand of pearls clung to slender tree limbs
bejeweled woody flora prismatic orbs
tell tale sign recent cloudburst cleft darkened heavens
rained watery life source liquid
downpour laced branched canopy
awash with molecular droplets
requisite to feed burlesque Vaudeville bluster
exquisite gala performance unrehearsed

unscripted ubiquitous theatrical performance
received limitless encores toward Gaia screenwriter
whose infinite scope
(wrought upon the natural landscape palette)
exceeds the finite abilities of those bipedal *******
human organisms imbued, whose dilettante debut
(dawned these last seconds on clock face of geologic history)
might witness curtain call on their final act.
------------------------------------------------------------­--
MARQUEE MOTIF ™

Neon lights broadcast sold out show of one Matthew Scott
expert stage craft presents quotidian  shows without sound
sole audience  forcibly revisits this biography performance
private owner lifetime supply of entire stock season tickets

(to one smash box office hit after another improvisational)
lightning speed mime hologram flashes life capsule oeuvre
corpus trials and tribulations indelibly recorded upon spool
sibilant auditory oohs and ahs from vindictive ultimatum

only one take each scene despite personal abysmal reviews
and serious consideration to hire professional management
accompanying actor, director, producer, projectionist writer
kept preserved upon cranial medium - so called gray matter

extant within the guarded and private repository Fort Knox
until the eventual disintegration from cumulative memories
become totally obscured with the thickening fogs of old age
and the curtain comes down on the final act upon  mortality!

— The End —