a1one

here we are in this
advanced age where
we are more connected than ever

yet many sit so alone.

the warmth of human interaction is
boiled
down into the
cool digitality
of a text message or facebook status.

i feel like i might blow away from up there...

from that height he blew away
he flew away into the day
tumbled loudly through the clouds
through the damp fluffiness
the sun a lamp through nothingness
humbling him
an earth's worth of people laughing
his gaffe, himself, projected through the sky
o, to be firmly rooted like trees and truths
to have foundation and a roof covering no more than four or five stories
than be here in this naked whirlwind glory

or on the bottom gory
as this no doubt would end
to be picked up by passing airplane
would be nice
or to have god's hand stretched out to help him
yelping
the wretch

he cried there in those worldly heavens

instead the ground rose soft beneath his head
he was in bed

(no subject)

there's so much static in the universe, it's hard to tell sometimes if we've made a connection or we're just shouting at the stars.

diner poem

“A clean, well-lighted place”

A place to hang my face for a while

To hang my fake smile with my coat and hat

Keep the coffee coming and

Running to my shattered nerve

Scrambled mind with toast

Buttered

Battered with home fries and missed connections

At this counter's confessional

Say two sausage links and more coffee and some

Juice

Sour orange liquid stinging the scars

Acerbic and ascorbic in discourse

Until the conversation is over

The plate empty with crumpled napkins and bits of truth

Time to leave this place

To take back up my coat with my up-turned pretense and

Leave some tip

[march-april-may 2010]

photos from rehearsal

brought my camera to rehearsal yesterday. here are my favourite shots.

The Want child.

Scrooge at his desk, shot through the spiral staircase.

A child at Fezziwig's party.

One of the windows on set.

The Cratchit family at Christmas dinner.

Tiny Tim's crutch by the fireplace.

The young debtor on Christmas morning.

concord, aug 2010

photo credit April Trovillion

ballot measure

voice your vote in voting noting the devoted to their posts and past failures corrected some rejected and dejected we some toil

to change this age an alteration of mindset of headset the phones in stereo broadcasting the last thing and the next and the next overflowing with uselessness must silence to focus to progress

then there's violence the death around it surrounds and confounds

then there's poverty the poor outdoors and in unforgiving the bloated gloaters with gleaming golden gilding their gods

then there's ignorance the children behind the kids left bereft of rights to knowledge on the window ledge perched high above the bars and rubrics out of reach they're struck dumb and dumbstruck dumbly and thus the generations become dumber til the silence deafens

so many without and so few within

voice your vote - real change begin

biennial

overwhelmed

i'm overwhelmed
your poetry comes crashing on my shore
i beg for more

i tuck away emotion
but the motion of the sea
untucks me

i'm blinded gladly
your sunlight beams upon my soul
rays of gold

i'm overcome
with joy and love; it's harmony
it's you and me

i kiss your hand
you understand, i am amazed by you
my love is true

caught in your spell
i'm entranced by the words you weave
you are my eve

drawn by your wit
and my chords you resonate
queen to mate


kfs
7oct08
theatre three

excerpts from "The Actor"

Jacob Goldsmith was revered in the region, humble as he was, as one of the greatest dramatists in the area. His annual presentation of A Miser's Miracle was the social event of the year for many. They were drawn by the amazing scenes, the fabulous performances, and magical effects that they felt rivaled those of Broadway, a mere fifty miles away. For this was not a professional theatre by any stretch; the seats were held together with duct tape and old gauze, and the bare wall showed through where paint had chipped away. Here was a theatre that existed solely for the love of theatre and not the love of money.

For thirty years the master studied these characters, now firmly rooted, ubiquitous in his mind, though every year he discovered something new about each, and their relations to his own character might change as did his understanding.

He told the old American story of the miser who lives by himself and shuns society, refusing to make charity or embrace change. One evening he awakens to find his bed floating above the earth, transported to some foreign land. He meets people along the way who remind him of himself, and of his former youth; it opens his heart. When he returns to his bedchamber he is a new man, and he opens his coffers to help the poor and needy and throws his arms gratefully around his fellow man.

Jacob sneered and the beggar children approached him. “This is America,” he growled, pointing a gnarled finger. “Let them work for their own money.”

...

oct 2008

this is a poem about a shirt, written for April nearly two years ago.
-----

my gift to you
wrapped in brown corduroy
sorry if it broke in shipping
it's taken time to arrive
there's only so much corduroy can defend
or contain

my gift to you
sometimes just brown corduroy
something soft and warm
to remind you what's inside
a symbol of something we share
its text, a fabric we've weaved
enduring ever on

my gift to you
within its brown corduroy
for which only you, it seems, can sign
only you can open it
and dance around inside

wear my gift, please
my joy is in giving
love me, please
and let's start living

Landscaping

Marco pushed his spreader up and down the hills around the buildings of the complex. The grass was green and a chilled wind tousled it as he walked, sweating. He had the areas around buildings 4 and 5 to do, then across the parking lot to building 14, where there were some patches of yellow grass from the dogs. The day was gorgeous, but Marco didn't care; it would get done either way.

The fertilizer was also a pesticide, something to get rid of the vermin before it went inside where it was warm and wet, before the chill set in for good and drove the insects to look for more hospitable places to burrow and gestate. Marco didn't care; it was something he had to do, and he'd make sure it was done, no matter what.

another short installment of Love Song

Read part 2 here.

-----

At the bar, he drank his bourbon rocks and ordered my gin and tonic. In his head he was working out some new song, perhaps, or mulling over a new way to play an old tune. I squeezed my lime and stirred slowly, looking around the bar. The young bartender was nice enough; she poured fast and heavy, and winked as she walked away. She wore a tight white top tied on with shoestrings, and a large cowboy hat with upturned sides on her straight dirty blonde hair. I stared at her a bit, but the great singer kept to his liquor and thoughts.

climate change

woe to you who think your minuscule lives could affect this world's destruction. and woe to you who think you could go on usurping the earth without severe consequences.

Jolly Bard's Tavern - "Chapter 1"

it looks like i started a novel based on my jolly bard's tavern world. this is the beginning of chapter 1...

-----

A dark figure rides upon a dark horse down the dark, dirt path in the dark. It is very unusual for anyone to see this figure, being it is quite well hidden in all the darkness. But, then again, this figure belongs to a very dark person. Not an evil dark, mind you, but a hidden, sketchy dark. No one really knows this dark rider of the plains of Gujoh. No one really cares, either. He doesn’t bother anyone, and no one bothers him. That’s how it goes.

Suddenly, the brown stallion stops at the apex of a hill, as if sensing unseen danger. The traveller dismounts his steed and has a look about. A small amount of dawn light pokes up from the eastern horizon, allowing for our mysterious friend to see a rank of soldiers marching in the distance. After examining each of the twenty-five soldiers, and noting their out-of-town colours, he decides to pay them a little visit.

“Come, Lightfoot! Kya!” the dark fellow commands his horse. With an agreeing whinny, horse and rider start toward the gang of infantry. Silent as the wind on their backs, galloping onward.

The Return from Lennok’s Town and the Taconican Dragons

The bard walks through the door to her house. He had just returned from his journey to Lennok’s Town in the land of Masa'tsu, where he met with the priests and the mayor, the fifth in the Lennok clan, to discuss a matter concerning the dragons of Taconica, in the mountains to the west. The priests needed a bard to learn the enchantment song of the Taconican dragons, and Tessal was renowned throughout the known world for his skill and talent. While in the process of attending to that matter, a messenger came to him from Airoti D’Azilé, his true love in Paixamour. Now, mind you, reader, that when the author writes “true love,” he does mean that these two were almost inseparable, and indeed were inches from engagement. However, the news borne to Tessal was not of the good sort. In fact, the message was disheartening. She had chosen to end the relationship, and would not have it any other way. Tessal, being in no position to respond or react, was distraught for the remainder of the moon cycle which he would spend in Lennok’s Town. His treatment of the dragons proving sufficient enough for the priests thereof, The not-so-Jolly Bard returned, as quickly as the winds would allow, to the Pleafwood Forest and his hometown.

Vithul’s Explanation of Numbers

The soup bubbles over, its readiness clearly shown in its willingness to escape the confines of the pot. Tessal turns to Vithul, the elf, and asks how much his portion should be.

Vithul’s reply comes as such: “You know, numbers as you know them are purely a human invention. Their perfection, as the humans profess, is what drives this creation. However, when they find a series of calculations with an imperfect answer, they simply dismiss that one for being ‘irrational’ or ‘imaginary,’ never once questioning the perfection of numbers. You see, humans think that the power of numbers lies in their relationship to each other. But, the elves came up with the truth behind numbers. Quick. What is two greater two?”

The half-elf gives a half smile. “Four.”

The Forest Abode of Sir Albahn of Tollin

Albahn’s dwelling consists of a series of levitated rooms which hang from the boughs of the ever-sturdy oaks which litter the forest. Connected by a series of covered bridges of straight plank and rope are four rooms altogether: a sitting room, a kitchen, a bedroom, and another room needing description in more detail. This room serves as a storage for the vast amount of military supply and writings as well as detailed charts of every land between the outer reaches and the sea abyss, which Albahn has spent many years and many coppers accumulating. It is breathtaking, not only to see the huge collection, but to see Albahn move about it with such ease and familiarity; he can tell if one quill is only inches out of place from the previous day. And he is proud for the fact.

As Albahn and Tessal sit, appropriately, in the sitting room, mulling over some black beer, they discuss, as all do over any alcohol, philosophy. It is whilst discussing such a topic that Albahn shares:

“You know, I know the trees.”

Tessal, blankly, replies, “How so?”

Weary Travellers Discover Paixamour and the Jolly Bard’s Tavern

these stories i wrote quite a while ago. i haven't done much to edit them. here is the first.

-----

“Welcome, adventurers, to the town of peace and love, Paixamour. I am elder Stephan le Sage.”

It is truth, as well, that Paixamour looks peaceful and lovely. The sun illuminates a gorgeous scene of a greener-than-green forest that surrounds a well-planned town. A river trickles off in the distance, just to the west. The soldiers’ hearts fill with gladness as they take in the scenery, and calmness quickly comes over them. One man speaks on behalf the group.

“Thank you, sir. I am Geoffrey de Lifdonne, and these are my friends. We would like a room in your inn, if you please.”

“Of course, you must have been travelling all night. Come this way.”

r. f. c.

relax.

focus.

create.

the car

He got in the car.

Something inside the car got him going, the motor turning. He backed up out of the drive way and sped down the dark street, feeling the wind rushing over his hood and through his open sunroof. Green light reflected in the asphalt and he sped more, pushing and pulling himself around curves and over hills. At the red light he stopped and hummed lightly, some monotonous tune. Green again, he lurched forward and hummed higher and higher until he was back to speed again. He saw another car coming up from behind, its headlamps bright against his rear windshield. It was very close now, and from somewhere within him an angry human finger was raised out his sunroof. The other car backed off.

written by the pond

a few days ago

-----

Give me a place where no one abides,
And I will drink to it;
Drink to the glorious sky,
The earth below it;
Wash my face with reflections,
Facing the wind in the trees.
The swans who bicker
In the flickering light
Join the song.
Flicker thoughts in rays of smoke,
Rings from the sun:
A life rebegun.

remember, remember: a Story, a swan, and a pilferer

After being shocked by a minor explosion in my development (which apparently was no big deal, since the few people outside didn't seem to react to it even though five car alarms did) and rehearsal for DRACULA and giving a voice lesson, this wanderer decided to go for a walk in the woods. Not easy, since I live in the armpit between the Long Island Expressway and Vets' Highway. But in consulting my charts and maps, I found that the Greenbelt trail runs right around these parts. So I went off to find Blydenburgh Park, where everything culminates. But... I parked in the wrong parking lot and found myself instead in Bill Richards Park.

Love Song, pt 2

Read part 1 here (it's only 3 paragraphs).

-----

He asked how the show went. I was surprised, but I answered that it went great, that the crowd loved it—especially the girls in front. He said something that sounded like “naww” and leaned back into the sofa, but not before scooping a handful of almonds. He flicked one into his mouth and chewed slowly as his mind chewed and ticked and thought and processed. After chewing for a bit he sighed staring at the ceiling and said, “Missed a few changes here and there.”

why do the french eat only one egg?

French Wise

When morning is broken
And breakfast is token,
Some question if they've had enough;
The French in their cuisine
Have made this one easy,
For one egg is always un œuf.

The Play

On the stage the pages play the day to night till frightfully its righteous theme is seen in the scenes and the beans are tossed and lost in the seats 'tween feets and bits of spit slitting befittingly the whit from the wep its whet and get the lashes from the actress so she's fresh for the flash, it doesn't last it's past the pastor the bastard who beat her on meeting her challenge the chance for chess mates to checkmate to heck fate of late deflates the flats door mats where patrons in rating their ration of fashionable theatre a heater with the beater and the brother who smothers with affections and afflictions her addictions predictions of the predisturbed perturbed mind can't find the grind it winds and blows sowing to and fro the flow a river divers and wider a glider touching down rushing frowns and sigs the size of the crowd to loud it pounds and wounds the wounds at noon in the light of the moon a night at the crooner's den when friends and lovers uncover the mystery of the play's history it says nought of the dots and matrix cereal entrance surreal the royal queen in green is dead in bed unwed and unwashed unfloshed unfettered unflattered proposed the girl enrosed by this world she acts this part across the wall where they all sit in wait of it hating it some not dumb enthralled others feel tall and the ball is thrown for the prince's throne he stands to marry hands to Harry our dashing man ravishing fan who yells for her the heroine kvells the bedouin and fawn she's gone the falling curtain makes certain the end is the end.

[T3 - 29aug10]

the fang gang

wrote this while sitting around during a DRACULA rehearsal on sunday. DRACULA (the musical) opens Sept 11th at Theatre Three.

nosferatu

teeth
bare them
blood barren
night-tremor stalk
walking lonely teeth
sharp to stab its victim

random thoughts

we should not worry about getting into heaven; that is for the future. if we live a good, reverent life now, what need have we for worry?

-----

such friendliness and good feelings cannot be replicated anywhere but at a hippie concert, and it is here optimistic ideas about a utopian world are born: such acceptance, such fellowship, such commonality.

to nothing

where are we going showing the slowing of the tides the rides the sides of the barn are torn are tarnished silvered in the gold light of the sun gleaming seemingly incessantly a mess of photons and protons and turn-ons and shut-offs and switches the witches of the valley into the barley barely battered in the beach blankets of the west wind.

midnight blues

i don't live in rocky point anymore, but tonight this poem i wrote back in january popped into my head. thought i'd share.
 
A Night in Rocky Point

Couched in suburban anonymity
Through the night's chill
A cooler cat honks his way
Through Parker's land of birds
Feathery music tripping against the stars
Bars of melody
          of soul
A human wind
Briskly blowing into the ears
Hearing blues and reds and greens
Medicine much needed
to warm this aching heart

Far off in France the
Melody sways
Chassés in the ev'ning
But here it's free
It's dance unmetered
          unrhymed
But the rhythm's there
In the freezing air
An aire on the heir of the blues
Thrills to fill this night
Music lifting sunken souls
to flight


31 Jan 10

something new i'm working on

these are the introductory paragraphs to a short story i'm working on. right now it's called "Love Song."

-----

He was a singer of great renown, and when he sang the women sank into their sighs and longing. Long into the night, he'd sing for them his songs of love and loss, but mostly love. Of all the singers of love songs in the world, he was most assuredly the best as I watched him there, and the girls all around, sighing and longing and waiting for him to look their way, which he never did, since his eyes were usually closed or looking at the neck of his guitar or staring far off into another world. Even when he thanked them, he closed his eyes and said it with a small bow of his head, then walked off to rest in whatever room was provided for his resting.

old friend

took a trip to West Hills the other day to show April a spot in the woods. reminded me of this poem i'd written about walking near there, and near where Walt Whitman was born. thoughts?

Walking in Walt Whitman’s Wood on a Warm Winter Day

I.
Standing gazing at the island below
The shopping mall that glitters in his name
Cars that care not on what sacred ground they drive
Above all that
Kissing the sky
Thanking God for the air
Standing tall as giants
Glancing to the west
Viewing taller hills
A world away
At once small again
The roar of traffic in the distance
Reminders of a sick civilisation
Plagued with inequity to divinity
Seemingly striving for serpentine ways