Long Comedies Poems
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She sat on the dark stage, where long ago
She played the part of Juliet to his Romeo.
She clutched a bouquet of red roses, now dried
Lost in her memories, and once more she cried.
I am no stranger to the cause of her sorrow.
I know I'll find her here again tomorrow.
My misty lady gives me leave to tell her story
of days when acting brought fame and glory.
ACT I ~ SCENE I The curtain opens ~
Enter Juliet Capulet; a young and lovely miss.
Then Romeo Montague, who craved her kiss.
A romantic interlude between lover's hearts.
This is when the romance of misty lady starts.
As actress and actor, they played many roles.
Being happily married was their highest goal.
Their lives were like plays, but of what kind?
The lady could never be sure of or define.
Sometimes a drama with unwritten script,
those times when the stage was dimly lit.
But those were never her favorite parts,
She loved ones with the actor of her heart
If they could've starred only in the comedies,
her world wouldn't hold such tragedies.
Her tears would not still be falling like rain,
And her love would not have been all in vain
The lady cries, but she can no longer sing,
No role of queen for she's lost her king.
No more bows to take or curtains raised
No standing ovations or fans who praise.
She was never an actress with him, I know
For the misty lady has often told me so.
She cries now because of his acting skill,
and for the love scenes he chose to kill.
He found a new leading lady, on another stage,
but the misty lady was not filled with rage.
Only with sadness does she reveal her emotions.
He fooled her when speaking of his heart's devotion.
So now you know why she mourns and grieves,
Why her tears still fall like golden autumn leaves.
The bouquet of roses, she takes with her each day ~
Romeo gave them to Juliet at the end of their play.
~ The final curtain falls ~
Born of Sicilian, Italian parents he was an only child.
His parents split up and his mother never let him run wild.
In a poor area of New York, he was made to stay inside.
His mother would take him to the movies. He was her pride.
Eventually they moved to live in his grandparent’s home.
Before they came to USA his grandparents were from Rome.
Movies enticed him to be an actor. He was in plays at school.
In acting classes he had parts in comedies acting the fool.
Soon he was on his way to being a great actor.
Good directors liked him and to his success, this was a factor.
Some of his movies were The Devil’s Advocate, Carlito’s Way,
And in the Scent of a Woman, a blind man he had to play.
He played a part in The Godfather One- Two and Three.
Still acting at the age of 83. Many times an award nominee.
Oscars and Golden Globe awards he has won,
Given a Lifetime Achievement Award He was number one.
He played a football coach in Any Given Sunday which wasn’t ignored.
Obama presented him The National Medal of Great Actors Award.
His role at nearly eighty in The Irishmen proved he was a hero.
The movie had a bevy of stars including his old mate Bob De Nero.
There are many good people from Hollywood. Hollywood is a working class district of L.A. (1 of 42 districts). Celebs don't live there which includes the Epstein ilk. Bad people are all over the place, especially the Red States and their people who voted for the bad leaders. There are bad dictators all over the world, repressing the women, not just in America. I've never heard of KKK members in Hollywood, I have in the Maga States. Let's not bundle all people in Hollywood, that is ignorance!
A good Ambassador Hollywood, to the world along with Jazz music, Hollywood movies, with their dazzling musicals, bright comedies, and intense dramas, and Si Fi, has been the dream maker for the world! Even those working in the movie industry were by and large hard working Americans. Glamorous actors just a tip of the ice berg. For those conservatives, they should remember Regan was a product of Hollywood. Thank you very much.
what is wrong with thee?
o, plenty.
The non verbal,
repetitor.
She listens to wandering
ghostly attempts at
remembering
the past
to perserve
her future
to maintain
a quo.
ta.
of whom she laid eyes on,
upon the day
when her heart spoke
the language
of the unknown monk
whom the captain watts
often quoted,
the bible.s
the jesuses.
the buddhas.
the alahs.
the gods of gods and gods.
the lonely man,
from a distant universe.
sat in the house, on a cliff,
looked out his window to the desolate rocky ocean.
he grayed over time.
over worries
over creations
over complications and simplicities.
he, like us, also laughed and weeped.
with a pen in his hand,
direction from which is irrelevant,
wrote the play of life.
took his time,
might i add.
detailed.
spotted.
dotted.
zags.
his wife never nagged.
he had none.
he wrote.
dramas. mysteries.
but mostly comedies.
once his plays came to act,
suddenly he felt no responsibility.
it was his creation.
his ejaculation.
his ****.
his piss.
it was his external provocation.
the grand master of them all.
as we *****out daily nutrients.
and contemplate the paths of desires and dreams.
question reality. non reality.
the non creative.
the non god.
the non art.
rain drops fall.
as if nothing happened.
or perhaps a response to whatever had happened.
she thinks.
she also worries.
how ever miniscule.
grandiose.
sub-turbulous the design.
a hike to the Himalayas and back.
not a journey for the weak hearted.
my life isn't over as far as i know
there's no enemy chasing me
or disease that have shown
as far as i know i have another fifty years
to march through life and many more tears
i have a wisdom that comes with time
i have a learning that taught me to rhyme
one of the tricks i play with words
a game i play with other boys and girls
i play with emotion when it's my turn
sometimes i play fairly or so i have learned
it's time to pass on what i have been given
help the younger understand their living
for some there is worship a type of praise
and others a picture in which they gaze
periods of life or particular days
some described clearly others in a haze
love our chosen vanity filled many a page
never ending are our stories
but there are only two plays
i the same actor played a few leading parts
modern, Shakespearean, and musical art
comedies and tragedies are the stuff of life
yet only once was i given
that thing i called a wife
but deep runs the river that flows through time
heading for an ocean where it is no more
when it's time to go through it
we don't knock at the door
the game is over, time to tally the score
with words our written testimonies
telling the deeds of souls and hearts
some with solemnity and some with art
asking unanswerable questions
seeking something in the dark
giving unacceptable explanations
for that which was torn apart
we love god, we love each other
but we mostly love ourselves
our hurt that we share with others
our pen at paper yells
our preaching and our pleading
pretending to be spells
repeated down through history
after every love there is a hell
whether warning, prophecy or story
we cannot help but tell
those wondrous things that befell us
while in heaven before we fell
our writing is not for fame or fortune
we don't care if it sells
but it's our turn at ringing
the same old emotional bell
(Dedicated to the memory of Linda-Marie the Sweet heart. )
What's my point?
I often ask
too seldom
Where's my circle?
Good days are right
as bad feel wrong dark night
And what's our peak communication point?
Where were we when I last remembered?
you Here
me Now
positively co-invested relationship
bilaterally unnumbered
Light shines in cooperative circles
I quickly exclaim
with delight
too seldom
more forgetfully relents
my dark descends
Past points
not worthy of epic warm melodies
yet unworthy of cryptic cold antitheses
Of tipping points
to purge Yang divisive causes
against resiliently brilliant
Yintegral effects
unbounded round
Unstuck spiraling in-between
celebrating cooperative approaching peak comedies
avoiding trauma speaking narratives,
decelerating uncompelling
disappointing unpointed tragedies,
disjointed lack of co-relational sense
desecrating reproductive round
continuous romance,
encircling warm lights
empowering eager tipping points
Repeat again,
What's my point?
I often say
too seldom
Where's our highest
and widest
and deepest
unconditionally warm circle?
Why do knowledge
and information
always have at least one unquestioned point?
While wisdom
unfolds in muse mysterious
warm
and win/win welcoming
round wombed circles
of integrity's most sacred
deepest sensory
healthy wealth potential.
For years I'd written myself notes
with names of some I can't remember.
Those I've cheered; stood and applauded.
Protagonists who played Romeo
to my Juliet. Shakespeare would've lauded.
Scribbles that should've been love letters
that would've made me a better person.
There were more than a few endearing roles,
romantic ones, comedies and life's dramas.
Names that have faded on the playbills.
Sometimes I struggle to remember them all
as I recall tears of both joy and sorrow.
There were times when love was undeserved.
Times when I swerved off the virtuous road,
and followed the wrong path that led to heartache...
Regretful am I for having played around
and like a fool, I broke hearts, including my own.
I realized that I had to love myself to be worthy
of love from others. Not the kind that smothers,
but the type that gives free rein to roam and return
instead of burning bridges on paths I'd walked.
Learning to love myself allowed me to see
that there was no need to give up the stage
and wage war in a rage at the time-stealing thief...
the makeup artist who painted wrinkles on my face,
and silver hair that causes a thespian grief.
Age... that sordid bandit who addled my memory.
No standing ovation for comedy that's not divine,
nor for refusing to recite my farewell lines.
My scribbled notes have become love letters
that I should've boldly written to myself long ago.
My emotions are still engaging, for I mourn
the absence of loved ones who are gone
but often appear in reveries and dreams.
I walked in their footsteps but not the light
that gleamed in their eyes on opening night.
Stars still glimmer and shine in mine
but I'm no longer star struck with delusion,
for I stopped wearing the veil of illusion.
It's not what I've done or the words I've said
that I should love about myself. No...
the One I thank and love the most is God above.
My wasted heart
Growing older, with memories on my mind;
Wishing I could have had more time to share,
With the women I have loved.
Laughing at love with open eyes, now I am no longer blind;
Romantic comedies are my painful addiction
And my love life is so unjust.
Sing me a song and I will take it to my heart;
Let the backing singers sing along and let their voices be heard!
My wasted heart has forever been lost in the dark;
Will you become my guiding light
And let me see clearly through the blur?
I want to find love, so inside a film I look.
Can you help me find the love I seek?
There are too many books on love.
All I want is you; let me into your life for a while.
Dance with me under a disco ball and I will try to make you smile.
Raise the trumpets, bang the drums;
Clap those hands and sing about love!
Let my wasted heart find those three words it wishes to hear.
Surely I deserve a little piece of happiness too;
Am I ever going to find a real and true love that will never disappear?
Before you depart and vanish from my life,
Let me leave a thought inside your mind…
Could you fall hopelessly head over heels with me?
And could I be someone you could be with?
I would like to know, how do you feel and what do you see?
When you have come to your decision, could you give me a hint?
If we had never met and you had never known of my existence,
Would you have missed out on something that you could desire?
If you were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar
And I had never asked for your assistance;
Would I have made a mistake if I had never told you,
You are what I require?
Would my love have been wasted, without you to love?
Or would you make the first declaration inside a crowded café?
You can leave and forget me, but I would never give up on love;
So before you walk away and waste my heart once again,
Please remember how you felt when we first met…
Before I become a stranger and I sadly walk away.
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
Best of tragic-comedies I have read so far,
Is Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice, fineness par?
Antonio fails to pay his heavy loan taken,
Shy-lark's immense pride is too terribly shaken...!
Each little movement, like final chess, did all play.
None, though, moving naughty coins each step, could not stay.
Shakespeare knew how to start and end his whole story,
It's, hence, his each story has its gorgeous glory...!
Who could, days such old, think of flesh away from blood?
He did. This is hence his stories seem flower-bud.
Skylark had to be dragged within the plot he hatched.
Antonio's judge (you know who) did get things well-patched...!
Love ultimately wins. Each in this cosmos knows.
Despising love, I do not know, where a soul goes...!
04 September 2022
Tragi comedy Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joe Maverick
Surfing, morphing
Through amorous tidal waves
Thou Babylonian scoundrels
Poisoned, ordained
By the blues-begging rasps
Smelting Earth
Caching together as one
By force and virtue
Yielding life's battalions
Seeking solace, fame or gentle ears
What captures me most
About this glazed nuthouse
Riffs and thieves
Throwing down as NYC
The brackish drama
The ink-still-wet climax
Each protagonist
Twitching, bleeding
Their calligraphy carved from
Medieval, spiteful bent
Their tragedies, comedies
Levitating into series finales
Bubbling, screaming
The concrete-clicking pounce
Propelled by the fear of instant death
Each a Willie
Scribes scratching, staggering
Desperate for terminal legacy
Actors drowning, emitting spasms
Powered by flames and sunshine
You don't get here by mistake
Unless leaving is the answer
The acts, verses and curses
Vary by the levels of lunacy
You're willing to consume
So bark and hark
Who goes there
The parade inside you looms
As the audience
Hush, attentive, sardonic
Mouths gaping
Tongues wagging
To taste your wasted drop.
(10/13/16)