Best Performer Poems
Echo world behind the glass,
I make the same faces I did at twelve.
The grinning Cheshire Cat
with teeth like piano keys,
mendacious and coy
because viewing my portrait with sobriety
forces me to march with familiar frailties.
I’m certain my gravitas is a forgery.
I am sure my laments and torments are
playacted animation.
Their drama is loathsome.
Instead, I turn my left eye toward my nose
while keeping the right straight.
This contortion masks multiple blemishes.
I summon my childhood buffoon, making
self-mockery hide all my impairments.
Concealing them by exposing them,
I become the object of my own joke.
What guise can be greater?
I am Charlie Chaplin getting kicked in the rear.
I am Soupy Sales hit by a sloppy pie.
With this impression, I never need to try.
Flashbacks on the wall.
They all die like Curly Howard.
Laughter is short-lived glee,
after which the spirit secretly craves.
My life is made of printed images
on a carnival tent.
Memory fragments are all I hold,
each enlisting some particle of my journey.
Yet with this, I find another way to fit into
a clown car,
another way to do my pratfalls,
another way to get my pants pulled down.
Accepted for publication: The Opiate, Spring 2024
A silent stage ignored by the crowd, their murmured voices building loud.
As dust flakes meanders the dimmed light, witnesses to forthcoming delight
This silent rain that glints the scene, as it falls from above to land between
Artist and pundit, the real and magic. Masking the twins comedy and tragic.
The lights fade down a spotlight appears, delight is released, pent up for years.
Orchestra applauded they set the tone, the heartfelt drum a brassy trombone.
Wind section, brass, drums and strings, a wizards touch the conductor brings.
Actors, dancers enhance the scenes, through tears, songs and laughter’s screams.
The finale call the deserved bows are won, with memories flared as songs re sung.
Writers, directors relive their work reborn, while awaiting the critic’s chilly morn.
The front of house crews clear and prepare, like shadows you forget they are always there
Setting the theatre to rally the cause, all served with a smile but never applause.
And the back stage warriors in the wings and flies that run the show dressed in disguise.
Each and all a performer in all they do and appear, rarely rewarded with a, “thank you dear.”
“It's gettin' hard to please 'em
You start to feel the rub
You know it isn't easy
Well, welcome to the club
Come on and join us in the club.”
– Joe Walsh
The marquee glares with brilliant light.
A talent takes stage to delight.
Too many hours, too long the show
Painful pressure in too hot glow.
How much more can they surely take
before they crumble and then break?
They are ever pressured for more
and always seem stressed to the core.
What more is left after they give
memories for fans to relive?
Choking on their artistic fame,
each breath becomes a burning flame.
Fraught with fear of losing the edge.
closer and closer they get to the ledge,
Woefully, they bend, twist, and crack;
pushed too far to ever come back.
Might 27 be given
to those depressively driven?
Another club’s members alive;
the ones who struggle, yet survive.
for the third class life is surrounded by, not a single affirmative element but utter negativity, it may be a condemned one, yet is still worthwhile living the life because in the total negativity one can disavow everything just like an absolute authority
for the third-rater is always treated by those around one with contempt, the life may be miserable, yet is enjoyable because the anger i swallowed in every moment of my life and kept in the depth of my heart with tears can be spewed out at any time, in anywhere, just like a most powerful tyrant
to impress others, may be impossible, i flapped the wings that actually i didn’t possess; the beauty of life was then however, it doesn’t matter if i was a performer of first class theatre or of third. even with those inexistent wings, i was able to fly boastfully in the spotlight dazzling colorful air though for a little while
although i searched for a way to wonderland and went after a good and ripened time for harvest, the soul rent with grief and mortified, alas, i was always wound-up to standing in the damned same starting point because no matter
how hard i searched, the way to wonderland was nowhere on earth it never
existed for me, no matter how eagerly i went after it, the ripened good time was never there for me to harvest; nonetheless, even with deeply wounded heart, i was able to find the moment of peace at the point where i started off was, may be my numbed sensitivity, caused from the debt too great for me to pay off, caused from the destitution never be filled to flee from it
“why don’t you laugh at this ludicrous fool’s tears?” the fool being ousted from even this filthy third class theatre which was filled with rowdy audiences! “why don’t you cry for this helpless buffoon’s laughter?” mimicking Caesar with antic,
‘et tu, Brute!’*
even in this crucial moment
of losing my one and only vocation the buffoon ever had
*William Shakespeare. Julius Caesar, Act III, Scene 1. ‘You too, Brutus!’
You are angst poetry
played on the strings
of an untuned guitar
A smokers cough cord
that grinds like grit in a turbine
Clumsy fingers that slip
ungracefully on the flimsy stretched nylon
A coffee percolating flow
of words I do not know
A language of sophisticated agony
the core of your existence
is wretched from your gut
through the microphone
when my sense are filled with the crudity of your song,
I can feel the pain,
more than words,
you are the poetry that you perform
constant performer
made life her permanent stage
show has been cancelled
©260320122215
I believe in futures,
God's miracles guest.
The friendship with relatives and friends,
Sometimes I dream of having a boyfriend and husband again.
I used to dream of becoming a performer,
Singing a solo, I sang the song "Wiseman Say".
The seniors in the dinning-hall all clapped,
We are having an Elvis Social for Valentine"s Day.
I have had a very successful retirement,
Accomplished as an artist and poet.
I used to cook for my father Dr. Wolf,
Invited my parents to lunch and dinner.
They really liked that,
I like thinking about these times .
My younger sister and her children come to visit with their father.
I enjoy these times very much.
I used to think about the sisters performing together,
Father taught us a love for music.
We are very blessed to have these friendships,
I thank God for guesting.
Author:Gwen von Erlach Schutz
There was a ranger
Keen in spotting danger
Dealing with a hurricane
Violent storm giving a stage name
Bringing weather notoriety and fame
In the meteorological game
With an assistant
Being persistent
One time sung the Broadway blues
Trying to live a life honest and true
Before blowing a fuse
Had everything including a private jet
Her dreams were met
And set
Until things went down in flames
Lightning struck her capital financial gains
Landed in Vegas to be a comeback star
Contributed to society dancing on the bar
When a golden knight appeared
Looking good carrying a lance and spear
Pushing back an emotional tear
She watched him put up a fight
Using his physical might
Since money was very tight
And knowing he was in the right
When the issue was done
And entertaining was no longer fun
She took the glamour situation on the chin
Knowing this card dealt would make her win
“I am a ranger
I protect campers from danger”
This blonde God started stating
When they were mating
Ready to be a Canadian
Living in a wilderness stadium
While enjoying the outdoor enchanting view
Where romantic black hawks flew
It was then she confirm striking oil
A match truly royal
Despite her red carpet dreams foiled
“This storm
Is the norm
For me
I do see
It will pass
Like bad dinner gas”
In two love bird tradition
Came to a decision
Preparing for the worst
This was their first
Thunderous roll
After a performing life ever so cold
"Limerick - Syllables 12,12,8,8,12" ~By Poet~
Stevie Wonder.
Blinded after birth by a hospital blunder.
At three he played music with pots and pans.
Self taught piano, at nine he played to young fans.
Stevie Wonder decided to bet Tiger Woods
To play golf at a golf club in their neighborhoods
Tiger, he chose where they would play.
Stevie would choose the time of day.
Stevie chose midnight. He won and went home with the goods.
At 13 he was the youngest solo artist ever to top the charts.
Being inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, warmed hearts.
He won a Grammy for "That's What Friends Are For"
Stevie Wonder, an incredible performer has fans galore.
What a handsome actor you are,
You have very beautiful eyes.
Your slim good-looking stature,
The many roles you caressed with excellence.
The leading women that were blessed to act with you,
I wished to be an actress at one time.
Happily married with children,
How nice to see you act on screen.
And to become one of the great performers of the century,
I would wish to be the Marlene Dietrich of your life.
Just discovered you one day,
The magic of acting exists.
God blesses us with good role models,
I wish I could stand in line for your autograph and shake your strong hands.
I like you in your cowboy suit and hat,
May God bless you and yours.
Author:Gwen von Erlach Schutz
I arrived at the garden of peace,
Typical day...mundane routine.
He arrives with a drink in hand
Laying his guitar case down on the curb.
He takes the guitar out slowly,
And begins strumming it...into tune.
He leaves the guitar case open,
And asks a passerby for any requests.
The passerby says, “No, thank you.”
He suddenly begins to play Jimi’s ‘Hey Joe’
The passerby pauses...slowly turning around,
Walking back to listen to him play.
I see the performer clutching the guitars neck,
As if Jimi...was the one performing.
The passerby astonished...began to cry,
I thought he enjoyed the song for what it was.
The song ended with a good finale,
The passerby dropped his change in the case.
I couldn’t help but to hear him ask,
How he knew what to play.
The performer said that it was his job,
To study his clients real well.
The passerby responded, “today’s my sons
Death anniversary and he loved Jimi to death.
I went through his closet this morning,
And grabbed one of his many shirts.”
The passerby slowly turned to walk away,
And unbeknownst to him...I saw his tears.
The performer accomplished what he came to do,
And like him...without asking a question,
I too...observed the faded...Jimi Hindrix,
Printed in psychedelic colors on the passerby's shirt.
And I am dying for your applause.
spinning round
day by day
I prance for you.
forged smiles
mimicking glances
in sickening masquerade.
I charm my best
dragging laughter
coaxing confidence.
And if you'd look close you'd see.
I'm sick of waiting
for fairytales to suffice
stardust won't solve anything.
my mask is suffocating
too thick to compete
rip it off, the horror of it all
sunspots pattern my nose
my insecurities, you wouldn't admit
faults the makeup cannot hide
And I'll steal the show.
I come forth freely
as you sulk behind curtains
open wide, you cower defeated
my heart is open
alone I give forth my all
sing the song love gave me
stepping into light
I am vulnerable at last
newborn I take my first breath
And I know this how it is meant to be.
If everything is all right
Then there is not going to be a fight
Thoughts from those wearing tights
And arms showing might
A huge net down there
Going through the air
Grabbing a swinging bar
Being cool acting like a star
Everything seems so simple
Just smile show the dimple
It is only a trick put on
An illusion, an innocent con
With feats not having a room for erring
Entertaining audiences by scaring
Based on trust
No room for fuss
It is a spectacle that is cool
Wondering who’s a fool
Under the big top
Where the action never is supposed to stop
A wild and crazy thing
Fascinating Presidents and Kings
Under the spot light
No one can fight
If done right
Then the thrill is ‘out of sight’
Take this advice
At any price
Comradely is not throwing dice
It is the warm trusting feeling that is nice
Next time when requested to do a dare
Make sure it is done not only with flair
But enough care
Giving a reason for the patron’s amazement stare
Enjoying their time attending the amusement fair
megalomaniac
wakes up one early morn
with a brand new personal plausible
excuse &
this will be the answer of all
answers for
her/him, so that s/he may
beat upon the drum
a new web of madness &
stir the masses like a
*****covered stick in a bowl of
porridge.
religion & religion alone
lets the madwo/man find their
way, endeavoring to take on
the cause of others with more
gusto, bathing in the fictions,
taking her/his place in line behind
the millions of maniacs
who have come before them &
who will unfortunately
continue to conjure up the crowds
with the whipping hands,
with the “speaking in tongues” &
with the lavish getups abound---
all in the course of a
performance,
all the in the course of
events laid out to fit a plan
which has no meaning outside the
meaning invented
to illuminate a lie---
the biggest lie of all.
with this lie in hand,
s/he walks among those who have
had a *****deal in life,
whose life continues to be *****&
who in desperation,
have made themselves susceptible to
the trappings of wo/men like these
magical performers
armed with a lie &
all the time in the world to
further weave it into
the collective human
strivings.
when the performer is observed
by a rational wo/man,
who walks untouched by the
futile dreams of “gods” & “heavens,”
“angels” & “demons,”
there is a want to extinguish
the performance
which makes so many give up on
trying to pull themselves from the
sludge &
instead, pump all their energy, money &
time
into the furthering of the fictional
cause---
but where one fire is put out
another one sparks from the kindling of
the last,
building up the highest structure of
false hope
for another generation.
What breed is this?
Sage or Lunatic,
Chess-Piece or Bard.
Do they see silver in the bloodstream,
hearts pumping hard.
Turning lead to gold.
Re-frabricating a life lived hard.
Pieces of eight, to pay for a life of piracy?
Or innocense stolen, seeking equilibrium and sanity?
Do they have knowledge to pass on,
an altruism
of animal, magnetism,
a charged badge of honor, crested in heart,
emboldened home-sheath, sleeve to cry,
then hone your metal upon.
What propels them on?
Is it the real Olympus, clear,_- Mountain Dew?
Atlantis estranged in Camelot, pouring rivers by the light of the moon?
What propels,
which witch is the spark?
Is it one of Union and Love.
Or did they lose the game
and menace for vengeant troves, of the dark.
Do they Familiar the con of silver,
alchemy,
mesmerism for the greedy?
I want to believe they are rivulets caroming
among the needy.
So I wonder.
Do they speak in a different tongue?
One that reaches out like a serpent,
feeling for the vermilion colored heat under the Son.
It is true, one is the saddest thing.
Reach out, it is the Festival Season
starring a Carnival of Souls.
Stars, not so far out.
North shining to a ship of fools.
Saints and Angels,
under the sleeve of the Triune One.
Of this I have no doubt.