Rising
by sin
falling
by virtue
Caught in the
blind spot
of destiny’s
rhyme
Words
overweight
in consonant
sorrow
Vowels
deftly stolen
inverting
— the time
(Cooke City Montana: August, 2025)
The owner's ten-story building
Rises up, whooshing, growing vast.
While the worker's humble two-sloped roof
Erodes and wastes in the wind's fierce blast.
there was a young lass named Mame
who thought she was headed for fame
she wanted to be a mime
but ran out of time
she talked too much and had only herself to blame
Writing this poem was an uphill climb
I wanted it to be rather sublime
Did not expect to make a slim dime
Took a second to cut up my lime
It was tasty, straight from the brime
What do you have? Asked a friendly mime
Nothing much I lied, just a little slime
Time to rhyme said the mime; time to rhyme
In a room stitched with silence,
she stands—face painted, lips sealed—
mirroring worlds with invisible walls,
a language of gestures no one translates.
Here, speech is a fragile rebellion.
Her fingers sculpt stories midair,
but the crowd wants laughter without edges,
pantomime without questions.
She remembers classrooms—
words trapped in chalk dust,
voices pressing her into corners
too tight for dreams to unfold.
But tonight, her throat hums with risk.
A single word—listen—
spills into the hush,
breaking the rhythm of practiced quiet.
They stare. The room inhales.
And she, unmasked, speaks again—
a voice cracking through the glass of stillness,
rewriting the script they gave her.
Now the walls dissolve.
The stage blooms wide with sound and breath.
A mime no more, she claims her noise,
filling the silence with her own story.
A clown with a frown was talking to a king with a crown, when a mime happened by, and mimed to them, “What’s the quickest way out of town?”
The king said to the mime “To catch a train, be on time.” And the clown laughed at the king, and it began to rain
The mime grabbed his bags and looked at the king, and the clown, and mimed “Thanks, I’ve got to run.”
“Was the mime on time to catch the train?” said the king to the clown. “I don’t know.” Said the clown, and again says, “Do we really need all this rain?”
He wanted to be
around clowns
but never wanted
to be happy
He wanted to write
great melodies
never wanting
to sing
He wanted to stand
on the mountaintop
but never wanted
to fly
He wanted to read
every book
never wanting
to speak
He walked in
the twilight
of tragedy’s
sunset
He loved several
women
only after
they were gone
He called to
his dog
who was stuffed
in the parlor
He answered
every question
that couldn’t
— be asked
(Dreamsleep: August, 2024)
I knew a mime who was ever silent
One of the many who were licensed
Hit his toe doing his act
Felt so much pain that he quacked
The city took away his mime license
Yes! knew this mime who was ever silent
He boarded a plane that had no toilet
Sat on seat, squirmed very pressed
Passed out gas was quite distressed!
Airline took away his season ticket
Then Bob wanted to be an astronaut
Wanted so bad that NASA he sought
He was a part time mime
Mimed the astronaut climb
To the panel his effort was for naught
Time there’s I can’t sleep,
Or not want to at odd times,
If I dwell nigh deep,
I’d find that it all well rhymes,
The duo in pantomimes!
Pain lets me not sleep,
In pleasure I wish not to
In hope more to reap,
From me is taken a clue
If it shows red or green hue.
Take a friend or foe,
Both may rob my sleep away—
Friend when parts to go,
Foe when confronts in a fray,
Both robbing sleep in a way.
________________________________
Tanka |09.01.2024| pain, pleasure
Let me my audience a bit corrupt,
My peaceful society dare disrupt,
Protests by The Righteous erupt
From fears one might The Taught adopt!
If the itch is to bring off crime,
Then feel this other itch of Time;
I tell you vital 'timing crime'
You become slippery like slime
And doubly able to peaks climb,
Never at the mercy of clime...
Rogues who time crimes reach one's last dime,
One leaves with vexed lips of sipped lime;
A bathtub one thinks has packed grime.
Gosh! I'd been trying to Smart Crooks prime
For heists that are sure with mere mime
Of faster actions that should rhyme.
silence befalls the play in winter's hall
birds stalled, stage-struck, do not call
trees with naked branches mime their lines
with no clothes their nakedness much maligns
dawn's curtain call has lights subdued
the scene is shrouded in dark hues, grey imbued
all is dank, cold and clammy with frowning faces
on the play's cast, struck dumb in their places.
the birds and animals dare not be called
for winter has all life frozen spellbound enthralled
hung up like coats and hats on hall racks, iced comatose
all things hibernating awaiting winter's curtain call close
A mime is supersensitive
He hears things others miss
He observes subtle nuances
I watched this one
He seemed to be on our wavelength
He communicated with us better than speakers often do
I watched him turn his face slightly
Whatever he seemed to be hearing was apparently a clue
We were happy to meet him and thanked him.
He had a genuine smile.
I felt his heart was true.
Mimetic mimicry mimicked the mime.
More than furlong, the entire belonging day long.
Prophet, the proper property, pope prophecy.
Hardhearted harshness tied a fair harness.
Shepherd herding sheep, harder in a herder way.
The moon and the stars bide their time
Mute mimics in Mother Nature's mime
The sun shines brighter as they watch
Hoping their light will go up a notch
The woods look inviting, shaded and green
Birds twitter happily behind the scene
Animals prowl about in a hunter's game
Near the roaring river in a picturesque frame
Weeping willow waves in weary wistfulness
As shaggy shadows shift into shapelessness
The sun has set, now time has arrived
For the moon and the stars to get revived
They cast their glow on a sleepy world
Brightening the black blanketed dreamworld
10.18.2020
For "Collaboration with the Silent One" contest
Marceau leans on air.
His ethereal stage, a muse.
Walls and limits come and go.
Rubber, his body
knowing what it wants.
His muscle’s tale born
in luster under polished light.
Each spectator becomes a believer,
each observer willingly accepts,
how hands make intangible dimensions,
how legs scale vaporous stairways.
You should never ask what they saw.
This myth maker made by
his allegory.
This illusion maker made by
his parable.
The converts so silent in
their seats.
The stage of rollick,
while viewers undergo the idyllic.
He ends
knowing each convert summoned their
symbolic order.
He ends
relying on collective unconsciousness.
He finishes
aware his act exists
only in the mind
of each beholder.
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