Best Performance Poems
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.
in performance
whether I stay or leave -
the northern lights
NOTE: I didn't make it in time for the contest, but I wanted to write it nonetheless.
Pain
brings a
momentous
performance by
the introduction
of excruciating
dancing between nerve endings
followed by tourniquet twisting
when muscles scream out a crescendo
and the mind closes the curtain on pain.
A small desire like a spark, I do not know lit from where,
Frenzy of becoming an orator in me did flair;
I watched often, like blackbirds, seldom shutting my eye-lids,
Each speech of great orators, staying solid like lipids...!
It's time to perform - said well-wishers, relatives and friends,
Good-time was what all waited for anxieties to cleanse;
I was then a little boy just reaching adolescence,
Emotions and feelings had invaded my common-sense...!
There came, as though the final judgment, the appointed day,
I was ready, on our school stage, to perform my best way;
All applauded, as I entered the stage very happy,
Why this tremor? Why blankness of mind? Why heart goes flabby...?
Many laughed, howled and hooted; my kith and kin stood perplexed;
I left the dais, like a lunatic, humbled and vexed;
Pain of shame, like bark scorpion, my internals did sting,
Despair and frustration within, like eagles, did spread wing...!
I went dumbstruck and plunged into a cave of silence,
Knowing, my people left me to my inner violence;
That I come out, like a lion, courageous and robust,
Excel in performance, full of self-confidence and trust...!
What clicked, then, exactly, I still verily do not know,
Was it the resolve within that like flood of lava, flow?
My oration out-poured like a cloudburst, thunderously,
In this art, now, I shine like Sirius star, wondrously...!
31 May 2022
The Greatest Performance of My Life Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: JCB Brul
Playing music of magical mythological sound
As if meditating to mesmerize those around,
Lion and tiger bow down being spellbound,
Legendary painting depicts myths profound.
Hands hold the lyre, strings echo the singer,
Mythical lyrics reverberate and aurally linger.
Shoulder muscles restrain his leaning stance,
Animals hypnotized, intently stare in trance.
Silent posture manifests solitude in his eyes,
Naked features divulge feelings they surmise.
Mystical potent image seeks union with God,
Intellectual persona leaves everyone awed.
He could tame the beasts and calm the rivers,
He could charm a snake without any shivers,
Guide and write of artistic human endeavors,
Create and sing musical themes lasting forever.
His bold naked appearance may reveal a strife,
A delicate mannerism makes it abundantly rife.
Engrossed in quest of music he perfected lyre,
Rhythm and lyrics conspired to artfully inspire.
Look beyond curiously to unveil the mortal,
Greek myths venerate him like an immortal.
A poet, musician, and a wizard of distinction,
Small group of doubters caused his extinction.
First Place
October 9, 2017
Painting: Orpheus by Franz Stuck
Poems that paint a picture 4
Sponsor: Silent One
This evening hurts
I've grown rusty
quick wits groan
as curtains hide footlight
that makes its way
to stage
That voice - is it mine? -
grumpy, in need of... what....
and the audience standing around
stares confused...
fake popcorn smiles
in hot buttered nervousness
Wish they would give me one
to ease into fog
make them all go away
Wish I could play my violin
so no one would hear my
smoky rasp in the microphone
I burn up concessions
create wistful sunsets
at the very break of day
Fix me a strong one
for tonight and
one stronger for the morning
Did you hear about the time the Doc was on the clock?
Apparently an actor took a shot
At the President who was enjoying the theater in a special spot
Being popular knowing the right team had won
Waiting for revenge carrying a smoking gun
This stage performer
Made the country stop everything to be mourners
Got his way when the civil war leader was in the corner
Unlike the President who took it in the head
Theatrically this toy fled
Since he was not dead
A farmhouse destination he did run
Looking desperately for a fan to help him after what he had done
And the Doc let him in
To tend to his sin
With a scream and shout
His trained vocals let it out
Biting the bullet once again
Due to anger he could not defend
Today honest Abe sits in a marble cast
Reminding us of our checkered past
Next time when you are sitting in a diner’s booth
Feeling like you want to hit the roof
Remember hitting and running is the way of the game
While scoring a goal brings fame not shame
Playing fair
Makes people care
And they will come back to be there
Nice partners clapping the activity production they both share
A choreographed athletic entertaining love affair
Midnight envelops the pillow
where her head rests sleeping
as each shaft of moon light glows,
umber and ocher traces,
through the satin nimbus of her hair,
gently caressing her soft cheek.
The billowing gossamer of sheer veils,
like phantasms, take flight
with morning's sigh
through the open window,
while the shadows dance playfully
through each beam of light.
She stirs but a moment when the cool murmur
tickles the lashes that smile across her eyes.
Smiles of the wonder of life once lived
of friends once known,
now, mere dreams that taunt her
in early morning slumber.
She, once the consummate ingénue,
naive of life's sorrows,
innocent of the pain of affairs
lived and loved and broken,
lies like a babe in mother's arms
cradled in the bosom of her warm haven.
As the sun scales the scaffold of early dawn,
its light scalds her eyes
and harsh reality again awakens her.
With painted face and perfumed breast
she is no longer the innocent,
for life demands tribute and she pays her debt.
Act II, playing the part comes easy now,
the soubrette, her new role,
her transformation complete in the light of morning.
Hiding her doubts behind coquettish trifles
She makes it through another day,
only to await her midnight dreams.
11/18/2018
Poet don’t feel right
Poet struggles sleeping at night
POETS NEVER SLEEP
At least…that’s what other poets keep telling me
But this lackluster slumbering just might be
From the unwavering weight of all responsibility
Poet only seems awake while walking through daydreams
Only wants to live life lavished in imagination
Painting alternate universes in which the stars guide me
An alternate universe in which i am happy
The moon and its tides constantly aligned
An alternate universe in which my artistry arrives unagonized
An alternate universe already constructed by someone else
An alternate universe in which contains an atmosphere in which I can breathe in which should be the one I’m in now
But my nervous system glitches,
Spine tinges spitting gibberish
Jittering shaky legs racing while staying stationary
Amazed at the way
A stage shakes me
In vibrations
At least its safe to say I said something today
Shared a story shoved, cornered in a junk drawer
At least I keep poetry in motion
only productive when my mind’s flowing
But I know my audience
I know they’re only hearing my poet voice
They only see my tragedies rehashed in romantics
There's only so many ways to manipulate the pain staked
in my chest in my throat in my head
So I choke on my raw truth
so it’s more digestible
for everybody else in the room
If not on the page,
Where is a tortured artists’ pain safe?
Paper scrapes
Psalms
Poems
Cutting deep enough
For me to bleed enough
For you to envision the misery
I’m in
Some alternate universe in which I am not a poet
Instead,
I am illiterate at the expense of my own pen and tongue
Instead, I await the unarriving;
Bleeding out without any sign of rescue
Instead, I plagiarize my inhabitance to a world
constructed by everyone except myself
Instead,
I am here
Earth rotates
Everything else still
I am still
Here.
Autumn is a graceful ballerina.
Artfully displaying her charm, wisdom and colours.
Embracing the dance of death.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 1st place 2025, 3rd place 2026
One of the secrets in life
Maximum heart rate, maximum pleasure
Ready for a week's enjoyment
16.01.2017
- Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
(\__/)
(>'.'<)
(")_(")
THE PERFORMANCE
She’s a dancer ready to chronograph her next move.
The chair is her boogie down stool.
Her hand synthesis the groove.
She looks as if her depths are being used.
Her arm is amalgamated to the symphony sounds in the room.
She squats in a hunker down pose to expose her sensual core.
Yes, she desires to be an instrumental part of the performance.
_______________________________________________________|
Written February 27, 2016!
Enter a town,
Circa 1938.
Where money was scarce,
but dreams were great.
Men of color,
and the people in their midst.
Surrounded by hate,
yet still determined to persist.
A chance at real baseball,
this game they lived and breathed.
The only way out of oppression,
to play in those ***** Leagues.
Their dreams were quite simple,
not much different from any other man.
A house, a family... Just to be equal where they stand.
As we look back in time,
unfair as it may seem.
This story must be told,
to preserve the essence of a dream.
So in an effort to keep such ignorance,
again from it's ugly head to be seen.
Ladies and Gentlemen!
We now present to you...
"The Making Of A Team".
double reverse pike
red flash twisting in free fall
autumn leaves last dance
Great men,
ten out of ten.