Best Playbill Poems
An innocence we used to know
As morning dourly turns to night
Entombed beneath an ashen snow
A cell phone yearning for hello
With hopes of answer growing slight
An innocence we used to know
Within a stampede’s torrid flow
Bifocals lost in jostled fright
Entombed beneath an ashen snow
A playbill from three days ago
Once read with wonder and delight
An innocence we used to know
Pillars raised in commerce glow
Now broken pencils thrown in spite
Entombed beneath an ashen snow
So many hearts in fervent throes
So many souls in heaven’s sight
An innocence we used to know
Entombed beneath an ashen snow
Chopped - Poetry Contest
Including:
Playbill dated 08 Sep 2001
Cell Phone
Broken Pencil
Bifocals
-23 Oct 2014-
I stepped in for my first colonoscopy. I was nervous everyone could see
I had a choice to be awake or put out if I was skittish...but no not me
I chose the former so I could watch my own ass on TV
They go right up your canal with a camera like an RV
Imagine my surprise when up my butt they found my phone
The tiny ones they use to make before the smart cell phone
But here's the clincher it was set on vibrate. The doc was suspicious
"My wife insisted" I told him "she bribed me with cake. It was delicious"
Then the doctor red faced handed me something, said "what's this"
I borrowed his bifocals. It was a rolled up playbill. He looked pissed.
"I can explain. It's dated Sep. 8, 2001. That's my wife's 40th birthday
We were drinking. We lost it, got a fancy room right after the play"
He handed me one more thing, a broken pencil if you will
"I'm a mathematician. I was constipated I took a special pill
Then I used math to work it out with a pencil. This one I suppose
It broke. I thought I got it all. I guess I didn't. I mean who knows?"
The good news is the test went well my colon was clear
They found nothing threatening just stuff that was *****
I must admit however ever since that very day I live in absolute fear
That doctor knows my wife's father. I tell you this, in case I disappear
10/02/2014
The Playbill for the 9/8/01 show at Godspeed Opera House falls from my palm to the floor. Here I sit, with a drugged hangover but alive. The last thing I remember is a suicide note in the Underwood typewriter on my desk, beside an ashtray of Blanche's lipstick smeared butts. Putting back on, the bifocals that had been dangling from one ear; I frown. I can't remember arriving? A phone's ringing; I stumble toward the tone. Odd looking thing, I think, as I bend over. The note taped to it says; it's a cell phone? "What the hell?" As I flip it open, I'm tackled. My heel slips on a broken pencil; I'm down. "What did you do? You bastard," he bawls, waving an airline ticket in my face. Looking toward him, I notice the stage still lit. He grabs the cell phone, "What the hell is this? You a commie spy?"- The 'phone? screen?' says 'Fred go to the opera house by midnight or you're both dead.' The curtain parts revealing a pool of blood: a chord is struck.
It's midnight accordin' to the ticker. I have a moment's relief before my arm's wrenched behind me. I'm cuffed. There's a shout from the lobby and the sound of sirens. Lifting me, he shoves me to the wall; locks me to the door pull. The theater hall appears empty except for us. Through a door, he charges. "Back here guys." The SWAT team arrives. "Smells like the dead in here Marco's, where's the body?"
"Ask him. Take him out and open some damned windows will ya." Two of the gorillas toss me on the porch under the moth laden lights. Just when the cop was about to kick me in the head; a woman screams. The coppers run inside. I hear a crash and a half dozen clod hoppers trompin', then through the door rolls a single gold earring. I scream "Blanche!!!!!!"
The crew hollers CUT-PRINT-It's a WRAP. I smile as Blanche saunters out.
items in my container of memories
playbill for "Les Miserables" that Dad enjoyed
reminder of ignoble government
Jean Val Jean’s quest for justice
fugitive from the merciless Javert
outdated cell phone that’s priceless
forever I’ll carry it; this cannot be lost
inbox carries my father’s last message to me
“Happy New Year, Baby,” were his words
just 30 minutes before his fatal stroke
publication of Dad’s obituary
green light for thieves to trash his house
tearfully driving 250 miles, hoping to erase their indignity
televisions, heirlooms and appliances stolen
but Dad’s desk held items of greater value
many awards for the Senior Olympics five-mile race
pencil my CPA father chewed and broke
dreaded bifocals that caused Dad consternation
the only items thieves left behind
were those that bring Dad closer to me
*June 20, 2019
Contest: More to Me
Sponsor: William Kekaula
I’m tapping my feet to the music escaping an old man’s saxophone
On main street
I can feel the raindrops hit my hand
I roll them in my palms like marbles
From my childhood
They apologize to me
And I ask for what?
They say, for making you feel smaller than you are
I look up at the sky, water like whites from an egg
Sizzling on my skin
The sun breaking like the yolk
Like me
The old man’s sax is drowning
Filling up with storm
I decide the rain is too much and disappear
Into a coffee shop
I’m at the counter waiting when
The man in front says
“What’s a pretty girl like you doing all alone?”
It ends in a question but not the one he said
Out loud.
Blink 182 cuts like static through the silence
I try to force my mind to the song but
I can only hear the lyrics
“Friday night and” “Nobody likes you”
My smile is already frozen from the cold
But he makes it shatter like a mirror and
Gather itself on the floor.
The server asks my order, slowly
My face rewinds like a VCR and
My smile puts itself back together
“Caramel Macchiato, please.”
I trudge to my home smelling of cardiac arrest
Brush my teeth
Spit out the coffee and distaste on my breath
At night I dream of bowing in front of red gold curtains
Costume only on my lips
A playbill
With my name an elipseys from the heaviest role
Happiness
People throw roses for fake smiles.
If we were a beach
then you would be the sand, diamond warmth,
and I the shingle underfoot.
If we were a pen
then I would be invisible ink,
and you a permanent marker, fluorescent.
If we were wine
you would be the vineyard, the grape, the wine list itself;
I a bottle unopened, left corked.
If we were a theatre
I am the playbill of a show cancelled and unseen;
you, the stage in spotlight: golden, applauded.
I the tile and you the whole mosaic
for us as a Roman floor;
I a shattered pane and you the handle
with us in the shape of a door.
As clothing – you a shiny button, me a thread to be snipped.
As hair – you a photographed trend, I a ponytail clipped.
If we were a couple,
Then you would be blind.
If our love was a tape,
I’d forever record, pause and rewind.
If we were a cake
you would be the fingertip licked icing
and I a batter filled lump.
If we were a body
then you would be the heart
and I the blood you pump.
It was one of those days…not great!
I went to the mailbox, there to find
A playbill dated September 8.
I could not tell for sure, half blind.
It seemed like a bill for raking the leaves.
Perhaps, written by my second grandson.
Or it could have been for sweeping the eves.
He asked that I pay him for work he had done.
The night before, “Dog” chewed my trifocals.
Shattering my precarious vision.
Fortunately, I found my old bifocals.
It was time; I was about to have some fun!
But first, I must read the chronicles
And finish an ongoing word puzzle.
It is amazing what thoughts the mind mulls:
Pranks for the kid, a muzzle for the dog.
Just three more words until completion,
My doggone pencil broke; life can be funny.
I took out my cell phone and called my grandson.
He laughed when I thanked him a million … in play money!
October 29, 2014
Just like you to make a last minute date,
leaving me a quickly scribbled note,
before tossing aside that broken campaign pencil from last year's election--
I remember you snapping it apart
when you found out your man lost.
I laughed at you peering through your old bifocal glasses,
frame twisted awkwardly,
making you look somewhat frog-eyed.
"Let's see that production you mentioned.
Meet you at 7:30, the Lyric; dinner afterward."
I did an "Oh, goodie!" and left for work.
You never arrived; cell phone going straight to voicemail.
I stared at the playbill, September 8, 2001,
gave up and drove home, worried . . .
The police found me here,
telling me the details in their flat, official way;
three days later, your funeral . . .
a whole world grieves with me
for today American changed,
today, everything changed . . .
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, October 3, 2014
There they sit, those mocking reminders, on my nightstand table.
I wish I could just throw them out, but I find that I am unable.
There they sit, reminding me, of the life that we once shared,
Before the tragic, life-changing attack, on towers no longer there.
The playbill dated, September 8, in the year 2001;
The last time we went on a date and enjoyed a life of fun.
Three days before he started work in the Trade Center Towers;
If only I had known that day, my life would change in hours.
The cell phone with his last voice mail, which I will never erase;
His calming message, I can replay, next to a picture of his face.
I wasn’t there to answer it when he said his last “good-bye”
It still sits beside my bed always there to make me cry.
A pair of his bifocal glasses that he used to read at night,
Completes the set of memories when my life was still alright.
I know it’s been almost 15 years, and people say I should let go
But I don’t want to forget this man, who I used to love to know.
There they sit, those mocking reminders, on my nightstand table.
I wish I could just throw them out, but I find that I am unable.
Locked
within
memories
of happy times.
Fun we had that night
Bought a new cell phone, hate
wearing new pair bi focals.
broke a pencil signing name on
a playbill for" Tarzan of the Apes"
Dated Eighth September Twenty 0 One
"Used Cell Phone, Pair bi focals,broken pencil,a playbill dated 8 Sept 2001."
It began as a lovely September, 2001, at least, it should have been.....
somewhere lost in the crossfire, between summer and fall
days growing short, and evenings long
But, things now warped into a sense of surreal. What was seen, could not be real
As if bifocals were mixed in a bin, out of focus, rim to rim
I've asked to borrow a broken pencil, I find paper blowing in the acrid wind
my fingers shake with tensile fear....and, I write a goodbye.. I don't know why......
An edifice of a city, shades of gray, smoke, and ash,
stony faces, and rubble, of ruin and glass
littered streets, silent people, crying people in shock
A playbill, lost and frayed, blowing into my face
It began as a lovely September, 200l, or it should have been.....
Sirens, shattered concrete, sidewalks, shepherding the living into
the arms of someone, or maybe, .... into the arms of no one
Someone is borrowing a cell phone, ... there is smell of burnt sulfer
Bridges, crosswalks, that will take them back into calamity, .. our new reality
Someone lends me a broken pencil, I find paper blowing in the acrid wind
I write a goodbye... I don't know why......
It began as a lovely September, 2001, or it should have been....
_____________________
10/3/14
For The Challenge "Chopped"
Sponsored By Craig Cornish
YACKETY-YACK
This broken pencil was just a nub – no longer usable.
I wanted to jot down the amount of this playbill dated September 08, 2001.
However, I decided to save the amount in my contacts of my cell phone.
These bifocal glasses are working to well.
I am observing a pigeon dropper slight of hands.
I am now walking down the street of angst.
Somebody had deliberately ticked me off.
Muscle spasms occurred.
I call my husband for him to come pick me up.
Disgusted by my lack of control, I begin to analyze my reasons.
Via conclusion, I derived that I am not going to be cheated out of a good life.
__________________________________________|
PENNED SEPTEMBER 30, 2014!
The New York skyline glimmered in the sun
Saw September 8th 2001
was printed on the playbill in her hand
Happily she sought her name written there
At long last she had achieved top billing
Singing an aria she twirled around
Her costume spread in a circular swish
Then picking up a broken pencil stub
She marked a misspelling in the address
Cell phone buzzed, reverberating loudly
Spurring Joanna out of her bubble
It was the director of the opera
Heard, "Hi Jo, reviews predict a long run!"
Donning her new bifocal sunglasses
She appraised her mirrored "star" reflection
Imagining a brilliant future.
Contest: Chopped Updated
Sponsored by: Craig Cornish
Evil’s Bookends
Sept 8, 2001, 7:30PM
The limo arrives
the concierge opens the doors
to a clear cool night in the city,
a first Broadway Play.
A cell phone call, a Playbill
tucked between a broken pencil
and a pair of bifocals.
Sept 12, 2001, 10:35AM
Sirens blare
amid grey-white ash.
A cell phone rings,
torn Playbill flaps.
Broken pencil,
sightless glasses,
crushed in the grip
of mindless madness.
9/30/2014
Submitted for Craig Cornish
Chopped – Poetry Contest
December.
My coldest winter ever.
My slow descent
into destruction,
my epic battle with the devil.
Thought I’d never meet her.
Wondered
if I would make it out.
Got so used to being cold,
the warmth I start to flout.
Stifling.
12 months
have slipped between
my fingers.
Lived every day
buried,
but never pulled the trigger.
The irony’s simple.
And I’m still not living.
All the days
seem the same,
they blend into
each other.
Didn’t see the
silver lining,
stop putting
forth effort.
I thought I was better.
Until my vision clears
and I see the
same four walls.
The amount of pills
gone the night before
getting harder to recall.
December.
The end of the year
that has faded so quickly,
I don’t know where I’ve been.
Close to dying,
running off,
the truth will make you cringe.
With the facts
in your face,
it gets hard to pretend.
The year’s
not the only thing
coming to the end.
December.
Couldn’t take it
any longer,
no more hurt to remit.
Think,
“At least I made it.”
Barely.
Feelings still heavy.
Dropped everything else,
left no luggage to carry.
Still wishing
I was faded.
Wake up
each morning,
count down to evening.
Dread the time
in between.
December.
Hate to see ya.
You’re my confirmation
that this is
reality.
My life,
three acts
stageplay tragedy.
Just a square
of blackness
on the cheap playbill.
The opening’s subpar
so it’s all downhill.
Casting was crummy,
the director’s an addict,
on paper
the parallels would
have been perfect.
December.
How soon
til it’s over?
But at least
I made the choice
to live.
December.
I get it.
The sign to
get this life together.
That I have to
wrap it up
to start fresh,
oh December
you’re so clever.
I have no choice
but to get ready.
The future’s creeping,
life is waiting,
depression’s pleading
to be buried.
Hello December.
Let’s redo
our introduction.