"theatricals" poems
whom do you trust
solider, sailor, tinker, tailor....
what eyes see the meaning of the blind
what tongues listen...which lies
in the picturesque morning
beauty spins its deceptions with golden hued sunlight
weaves its hand puppet theatricals made of
fleeting wisps of smiles
kissing gestures weakly delivered
solider, sailor, tinker, tailor...
they gather round the dead man
some come to mourn the lost
some come to rifle through his pockets
some come to silently wait for their own fate
he sits in his worn chair
in a pool of lamplight
with a small hammer in hand
his spectacles on bridge of his nose
tapping tapping ever so gently the thin metal mask
tinker...tailor...sailor...solider
the uniform of his mind shifts according to his lie
his tool is always the deceptions and misdirections
a sly smile...firm handshake...a signature style
'to whom do you trust' is a phrase that troubles him
her perfume lingers in the air
years have buried the cold war
but not its warriors
not their handiwork
they dress the dead man for his burial
with his decorations and platitudes
with his shiny sword and neat uniform
with honors they lay him
with truths his secret they bury him
why did he do thus....to whom did he answer
to the tomb with his truths and lies
to the tomb
he gathers the long coat
and the umbrella
walks out in london's chill spring night
to a bridge
and throws a small box into the river
long years after the cold war died
these men of shadows still play
these keepers of the gate still watch for hannibal and his horde
solider, sailor, tinker, tailor
whom do you trust
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 11:03 AM UTC
the hour slips by without a sound
and through the looking glass window
the days unfolding scene
gives life and motion
to the surreal stillness within
the silent theatricals of man and beast
strive and fail under the shifting skies
like the rise and fall of nameless empires
their brilliant banners swiftly stirred by
the storms and seas
i walk along the fresh laid carpet
with bare feet feeling the texture
and stand at the doorway
with its wooden contraptions ajar to allow breezes
to walk into the dark house
the heavy presence of paint on the air
and the devices of workmen underfoot
soon will fade to memory as our polished lives
are neatly adorned and trimmed
we have become what we dread
civilized
she walks from the bedroom
wearing nothing but her dreadlocks
as i finish making dinner
we have duck and wild rice
i teach her some ballroom dancing steps
we laugh and whisper
the night has come to its fading
and though we are restless
we trek to our bed
and wrestle eachother to sleep
this is evening with her
and our elegant love affair
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 9:27 AM UTC
This is a terrible romantic
and sadomasochistic narrative.
The artist's mind is clothed in fabrics.
Fashion is his vocabulary.
Grim-tales are often told with foreboding,
exacted further through sharp, perceiving lenses.
Collections of sharp silhouettes speak of
a masterful and sensitive touch.
A turbulence of emotions exploded in
delicate and mesmerising theatricals.
Taking delight in challenging popular notions,
Alexander left audience continually in a
lingering aftertaste of shock mixed with wonder.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 11:41 AM UTC
595
Like Mighty Foot Lights—burned the Red
At Bases of the Trees—
The far Theatricals of Day
Exhibiting—to These—
’Twas Universe—that did applaud—
While Chiefest—of the Crowd—
Enabled by his Royal Dress—
Myself distinguished God—
1.4k
I am just an onlooker
what makes them think I'm involved in their drama
They casted and gathered their actors
started their theatricals
So commence the Love Scene...Act One
You...join the Club, play the leading lady
If it was love, why didn't I jumped there when she moved
Why did I call my sister when she visited
Why did I go there with my sister the one time I visited
Why the long interval before the last contact
Why refuse to see the symbolic gift.
I know you like pink
or miss the essence of the pointed finger
placed near your groin.
I am not that slow, was I to hold your finger with my palm resting
on that warm soft place
I did not, I reached over for it avoiding any touch there.
I don't do sneaky touches or sneaky anything for that matter
what about those words spoken during the performance in the store
" my job is done, I can leave now "
I only ever wanted to reciprocate a debt of thanks I owed to a father
thought maybe I could in some way to a daughter
I tried in my own way to value people, be there if needed
I stopped
Nothing to do with respect, nothing to do with desires
Nothing to do with faked angry rudeness
or theatrical screams - a childish act for little minds
The hurt was from seeing an 'educated' contemporary sister
coming from oppression, an emancipated modern educated women
who I thought would easily see the dynamics of political oppression and the insidious ways we are manipulated
only to realize, even she couldn't see
and is unable to break free from mental **********
or even understand the mechanics of 'mental oppression'.
OR the unalienable truth that
'If one person is oppressed, we are all oppressed'
a concept too complex for the simple mind
Education is not intelligence, that hurts. c'est la vie
write your dirges, live your delusions, fantasize your love story
formulate your scenarios and talk of unrequited love
heartbreak, pain, loss, pink, rainbow
or whatever silly minds un-think up.
I am only an on looker, just a plain disinterested onlooker.
I am not part of you!!!
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 11:39 PM UTC
Drama dropping down . . .
Starlings squabble on the lawn,
Soon as here— they're gone.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
these synthetic lights are too loud
the microphone keeps
threatening to take off my head
i don’t want to be a part of this cast anymore
the script is grim, defected
infecting my nights as i fixate on the plot,
which
baffles
me
with its steady flow of crisis
the director keeps demanding dramatic theatricals from me
we rehearsed this particular scene a few dozen times
i’m in an airport terminal
a woman bears to me grave news of a man
who has drowned himself
screeches erupt from the mouth of a child
end scene
now the final production has been released
i’m sitting in the audience
my life is happening on the screen
there are
earthquakes
in my veins
i am the director of this film
roll the credits
but don’t give me credit for this
-k.p.-
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 11:47 AM UTC
Faith is but an interval,
A momentary interlude
During the tragic theatricals
Of life
While we don the mask
That conceals our sadness,
Wear the make-up
That hides our fatigue,
Dress up in our costumes
To cover what lies beneath,
We forget the inevitable
ending scene to this tragic tale.
So we bask in that small sliver of faith
Like the limelight,
and we shine until the final curtain falls.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 5:44 PM UTC
Drama play and then the act...
The real theatricals are such a tact.....
Lies and lies and lies and lies.....
Then tear rivulets to support the lies....
Then elaborate stories to cover the lies.....
Then stories are covered with elaborate lies....
A tale there a tale here......
A different tale for each ear. ....
Then lies again and glycerined tear. .....
With confidence and without fear......
Exceptional talents have earthlings got. ..
Creativity of the minds that plot...
I feel so vacuous, aloof and low......
I am a wasted insert in this show.....
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 3:54 PM UTC
you don't have a friend here -
no, you don't -
you think you have, but no,
you don't have a friend here -
they're always strong
when they have the riches of health -
but when they loose it,
they begrudge the natural
stem of things - mortality has never
been so ugly... and i mean ugly...
rotting apple core licked
akin to eating maggots;
friends sort of vanish when Everest crops up -
and for the better -
their families are ****** up enough
that they don't need friends to prop them
as either sane or sober -
i mean, who the **** needs friends
when you can have prejudices to make theatricals with?
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 9:49 PM UTC