Bueller, Bueller, Bueller

I've never fancied myself a poet really, but every so often something hits me while I'm on the subway or sitting in a holding room for an audition or at some other random between awake and sleep and this is what happens from it.  Maybe they are good, maybe they are not, but they are here, and now they are for you.

Unfortunately, none of them have titles so....

This first one is about the mornings I wake up for auditions.

My marimba plays so close to my ear,
so early in the morning,
but so clear,
so soon after the escape where my mind meets my heart,
and they play the back and forth behind the shades
that if dared peered into could reveal a tell-all.

And as habit I find my train,
the sun up barely longer than I have,
and I sit among my movers and shakers,
my hustlers and goers,
the faces of my world,
though they are nameless they all have a part for me.

So I sit, tuning out my names, as songs of Fire and Rain,
and Carolina,
and Cooperline fill my ears,
dubbing a soundtrack for my morning warriors

And I do this because there's a door that begs to be opened,
And I do this because there's a window that sits slightly ajar,
letting in a draft of Thespis unanswered and untamed

And because I breathe
And because I eat
And because I sleep
And because I love
I need to do this.

And I will do it tomorrow and again.




Every Tuesday, I take a class at The Shakespeare Forum in Manhattan, and aside from finding my niche in this city with them, they have provided me with something that I had been lacking in my time before I met them: discovery.  They helped reveal a few things about me, through performances with them and performances watched, that was waiting to be dusted off.  This poem is about the first time I performed at one of their workshops and the feelings I had before and after.  So to Tyler, Sybille, Claire, and Whitney...I thank you.

What's inside,
sewn together by the loose threads of
composure
are destined to fray
to reveal the person of fear,
words,
thought,
and ideas
forcing us to embrace it,
feel them,
pursue it,
and use them.
But to let go and submit completely,
to swan dive off,
When do you trust?

So you resew,
only to break them again,
and again embracing,
feeling,
pursuing,
and using.

But one day we jump.



And finally, as some of you may know, I am also pursuing a career in play-/screenwriting.  Recently I have hit a spell of writer's block and, anyone that is a writer knows, it is damn right down frustrating.  But then I wrote a poem about writers's block...kind of ironic, don't you think, Alanis?

Trying to rack my brain
for the words that come next.
But it depends on their behavior
and if my pen is willing to share.

Somedays it is kind and willing and open,
looking for a curious ear or a friendly eye,
always scribbing the thoughts
that otherwise stay inside.

But other times it is as if,
even new,
the cartridge runs empty with every stroke.
Too shy to share,
or as simple as not wanting to burden.

But today it seems there is something to say,
so I will let it go.



Again, I have no idea if these are any good, but they are here now.  So thanks again for reading and I will see you all next time.

Abide and ramble on.
Stish

Soundtrack:  "Something in the Air" by Thunderclap Newman, "Shambala" by Three Dog Night and "Rich Girl" by Hall & Oates