His rheumy eyes film over and he brushes away a tear
with the age-spotted back of his hand.
He watches himself as a young man –
handsome, vigorous, full of joie de vivre.
The members of his orchestra now arthritic.
Or ashes long since scattered into oblivion,
like the beautiful soprano in the film.
But for the duration of the archive footage
they are all young again.
The film ends and their philharmonic youth
is silent memory once more.
He struggles to press rewind but his gnarled finger
presses fast-forward by mistake.
He thinks that time has been on fast-forward
and wishes he could find the rewind control for his life.
With a sigh, he presses play and fades away,
watching his immortal youth.
Dedicated to my love: Leonardo DiCaprio
For how many years have I loved you
I think it has to be about eighteen
We were both so young in those days
But I still longed to be your queen
With each film I fell more in love
With each role you reminded
"This is what true talent is made of"
How keenly I feel
How much I love you
Probably too much, but still
You have shown true beauty
You have shown true grace
You're a perfect specimen
Of the human race
You are of the greatest actors
Of this generation and more
For there will never be another
That I so much adore
My Son Moon and Star ~
Approaching the celebration of his Birth
cherishing the gift I received
within weeks of conception I knew
something amazing was in Creation ~
the Stars held a party
sending me with one of their own
Gazing at 3 shooting stars twinkling crossing the sky
It was magic It was destiny taking its flight.
In love with an October full moon
drawing and painting I liked
thinking of Vincent Van Gogh ~
caught in a loss of time
Hours going by as choosing my color
a wittness to three falling stars
A clear night sky sparkle's
A once Famous Star was sent
inspiring the tiny child inside ~
Never a doubt in my mind at all
child bearing was worth any pain received
yours will be in a pursuit of a dream ~
one to cherish and hold
My Son was born the following August ~
working on the set of Grimm 3rd season this year
as the set of Leverage for 3 years .
Has done a Indie movie here
In Paris it was seen and honored
coming soon filmed in Portland ~
"The House of Last Things "
awaiting the credits , you will see
1st Assistant Director ~ production assistant
My Young Lion Mans dream ~
A proud mom I watch every show and the credits
as foretold in a whisper to me 25 years ago
My Son & Moon and Star
A name you will all know ~
Happy Birthday to my creative Son
you will exist in my heart forever~
The man on the porch looks out
over his property and towards his daughter.
Nervousness seeps through her plum-dark flesh.
Each eye contact signposts a wicked meditation.
Women are voiceless in those days, yielding to
males and manipulated Bible verses.
Poverty and childbirth loiters the screen.
White men protect segregation and Black men protect pride.
Are there no advocates or women’s lib
in that part of the South? Does anyone care about the mistreated?
Even the animals are sinister, and the young babes.
Horses burdened with stuff amble the pasture.
Fried ham wafts from kerosene stoves.
All the outspoken women are rebellious and prostitutes.
They wear thigh-high skirts, halters, and ruddy rouge.
Men swagger about in cut-price suits, wingtips, and thin-band ties.
They sweat into juke-joints or atop a squeaky bedframe
while records scratch against a dusty needle.
The girl in the front yard runs through hanging sheets
and swings bound books against Mister’s groin.
Her eyes are watery, her hair wild as those purple flowers.
She peers down at her attacker twisted on the red clay
and she shrieks.
Nobody shows up to save her.
She runs off into nothing.
Your brows are up. The Princess Cinema
is not your choice. C'mon, I don't fit here,
you snort. You, with all your charisma
and kindness, stand in a short line, fearing
boredom or worse ... pretense. Promise me,
that we aren't about to wallow through
subtitles, you sigh. Give me clarity,
a story, something that I can relate to.
But the charm catches you by surprise,
a star-struck atmosphere, the seats are new
and the popcorn is still warm. Friendly eyes
laugh, then amusement streams from you
for these Global TV spots simply delight
like each snippet that you joyfully write.
*The Princess Cinema in Waterloo shows mainly art films,
butevery year it shows the International Television Commercial
Awards and they are awesome. Some make you cry.
Some are stunningly beautiful. Some are thought-provoking.
And some are just very touching.
Blog to follow soon!
Dancing all around
Frolicking through fields
Just like you!
The old Overlook Hotel has a tradition of sin and devilment,
souvenirs of the rich. Lovely, yes, but its vista is farseeing,
its death grip far-reaching, and certain rooms stay secretive.
A caretaker axed his pretty daughters, now two changelings
prowl the opulent halls, somberly stare. Stale air is redolent
with slaughter. Something malevolent welcomes strangers.
Jack Torance, writer, is hired to loosen winter’s stranglehold
on the isolated, closed resort. Jack’s gifted son, Danny, reviles
his disturbing visions and he quakes at bloodbath predictions.
Wendy, Jack’s loyal wife, fights for family, for their welfare
Jack hurt Danny but is now sober. Promises were exchanged.
Kind Mr. Halloran, the chef, sits with the boy and secretly
tells him of the shining, how some detect the sorrow-secretions
of those departed, how the dead replay roles in the strangest
ways. Avoid room 237, he warns, what is there won’t change.
Danny pedals his big wheels fast down the halls of the devil
as his father somehow disappears, going faster and farther
than the river of blood only the boy sees, a flood of deep red.
Jack is cruel, unstable, and he frightens Wendy. With dread,
she reads his meaty manuscript, horrified by a revealed secret,
knowing they are miles from help, Oh, dear God, they are so far
from civilization and Jack has retyped duplicate words, strangely,
page after unhinged page. Jack returns, says things that are so evil
that she strikes him with a bat, shocked by this psychotic change.
Wendy drags him into the pantry, locks it, praying he’ll change
back. She rests, but Danny screams and he has scrawled REDRUM
on the door. The mirror deciphers the word, MURDER, as evil
arrives withan ax. What awful things the heart can keep secret,
He has sabotaged the Snowcat; they are powerless and stranded.
Wendy helps Danny escape through a small window, run far,
she weeps as Jack makes kindling of brittle wood, a plot farfetched
yet one she must face. The mouse she has been for years changes
and she stabs his hand. Heaven knows, the soul is omnifarious,
Halloran comes, Jack leaves to plant the ax, a hero’s chest blooms red.
Danny watches what is left of his father die, cries out from his secret
hiding place, a chase ensues in a frozen maze; good outlives evil.
So beware all wayfarers, avoid that next interchange
for secrets fly in the dead of night, traveling the red-eye
and evil can call home the lost, the touched and the very strange.
*This is the a very contemporary sestina. It follows a free verse format with plenty of enjambment. The six end words are manipulated to such a point that the 'core' word is often barely recognizable.
I decided to challenge myself, show a sweet poet here that a sestina is only as dull as a scribe ALLOWS it to be, that we can stretch the limits of a form, retain most of its nerve system, but give it as much muscle as we wish! Another lovely poet here said to me recently, we write outside the box because there is NO box!
I like to keep the box. The box is useful. It's a base. I cut windows in it. I paint the box and add a door. I put things I like in the box. I can happily sit in the box and dream or leave the box whenever I choose because it is MY box. The box is not a bad thing, but it IS only a thing...
I will be posting a blog about contemporary sestinas and the development of this one.
So, this is not the best poem I've ever written. LOL. It is actually a B MOVIE. But, I do think that I at least have written a sestina that is not boring and overly-repetitive!
Hugs to you, Andrea... so, you likey? Or not so likey?
Once was a gal who felt so alone
Tornato came up rooted farms home
Landed on wicked witch
Munchkins came out of ditch
Gave dog lollypops instead of bone
To be in a young America ~
visions of a ship upcoming statue of Liberty
the young lad holding tightly to his Mothers leg
in all excitement of a new Land to call their own
celebrations of apple pie and fireworks on the 4th of July
thoughts of the old Hollywood on screen
films without 3-D costing less then a dollar
Greta , Monroe , Betty Davis eyes tantalizing blue glare
The Wizard of Oz or books written by Steinbach, Capote, Mark Twain
exciting new visions of creating new concepts
before Capitalism bought all little ones to bigger
songs came from the hills of Virginia to the black Mountains
surfacing in Tennessee for all to hear and wish to see
The day when one travelled by car on the road travelled
every town a story told , learning history we once shed blood
American Indian tears to the British man whom choose freedom of taxes
Boston held a tea party , now wishing they threw out marmite instead
The day when we knew our neighbors and bought homes with a paystub
Everyone had a chance to make their own with pride , even through wars
When Martin Luther King stood proudly as did President Lincoln for Freedom
How many streets have been named after the man whom had a dream ?
When milk was delivered on doorsteps in Glass bottles
Babies wanting the very first of the top being cream
leaving doors open , watching news with your family at 6pm
cartoons were shut down and it was now grown up time
Cereal being a cheap snack for after school
school supplies costing twenty dollars
Grandma school clothes shopping for fifty
before the internet , cell phones , and text for hello ~
2 week Vacations not afraid to put up Camp
Christmas sold in December with the sentiment of Love not money
a day when if one were sick , you could actually get penicillin without question
The Doctor treated everything calling it General Practice no fear of Malpractice
Never forgetting our Motor city
Old Ford Trucks Chevrolets and Dodge
The city that brought Ottis Reding and Marvin Gaye
What happened to us ? Where did America Go ?
I just want five minutes, just to pitch
My killer screenplay for a killer film.
The hunt for a serial killer
By glamorous profilers, nothing grubby
Or exploitive. Some partial nudity,
(Only if required). There’ll be a sexy
Enigmatic hero. First a, er, sexy
Sombre saxophone sighs; on a soccer pitch
Lies the first victim. Tasteful nudity
Reveals one poignant nipple. Open eyes film
Over, dead as moon craters, her grubby
Legs disposed like spoons. She was our killer’s
Anonymous mouse. Our glamorous killer’s
Eyes showed her useless terror. Our sexy
Hero runs a slow hand through his grubby
Hair (Cares too much to wash.) Things touch fever pitch
When the next is abducted. We will film
Her wide eyed writhings. Classy nudity
Perhaps. Some brief tenderness; nudity
Of course; our hero and his wife. (While killer
Stalks a frail, thinly sketched female. We film
From his point of view her private sexy
Underwear clad body.) I want this pitch
To emphasize our Fincheresque grubby
Vision is totally unique. Grubby
Walls connote moral decay. Nudity
Is not exploitive. Our hero pitches
An unorthodox solution. The killer
Is secretly his cross-dressing sexy
Partner. Twisty eh? Never seen on film.
Dressed to Kill? No. Nobody’s heard of that film!
(Who remembers the 80s?) In a grubby
Climax, the mousy cross-dressing, sexy
Basement stalks saxophone solos. Nudity
Washes its private underthings. Killer
Underwear is arrested. That’s the pitch!
Contains grubby scenes of sexy violence.
Contains killer nudity and mild scenes of extreme peril.
Contains high pitched screams and discarded spoons.