Poignant
Poignant is not a word
but theater every day.
It's the sweetest act most hidden
from the one who wrote the play.
Packaged in small to medium
it often goes unseen; never
tedium to the driven
who would rather climb than dream.
In speeches, books and interviews
of noted women and men,
Poignant never comes to mind
until they reach the end.
Can you hear whispers and murmurs?
Puppet collection, those furry squirmers -
puppies yip and kitties purr,
asking for a puppet theater.
Now, it is your sacred duty
to satisfy each puppet cutie.
An old shoe box will hit the mark,
bring down the house, knock it out of the park.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
O crooked architect of thrones,
who stacked your realm on children’s bones~
How shall I curse thee?
Not with fire, nor with plague’s black breath,
nor with the slow unspooling of your death
(though history grants you that).
No. Let the curse be this:
that every mirror cracks before your face,
that every hound you feed still wears York’s scent,
that every victory tastes of Hastings’ blood
that your crown grows thorns.
that your prayers be answered,
that the ghosts arrive punctually~
no missed entrances, no skipped lines
and let them stand just so,
in perfect blocking,
downstage of your guilt.
And when at last the horses fail,
and the crown is traded for a nail,
may you hear,
beneath the drumbeat’s battle royal,
the same question, endlessly rehearsed:
Was it worth the play?
Went to a concert last night, across town,
To see an old favorite of mine, Jackson Browne.
We slogged through a downpour of thunder and rain,
Where the opening song had a “deluge” refrain.*
The show was amazing; the singing so fine
That years fell away with each lyrical line.
The fans were enamored; we clapped and we cheered
As our younger selves, as if by magic, appeared.
For more than three hours, the music fulfilled
The crowd’s expectations, with most of us thrilled.
Yet still, there was texting on cell phones a’light
From various seats, which just didn’t seem right.
It put a slight damper on what was, to me,
An evening as special as any could be,
For certain performers tap into the past
With a power that, over the years, seems to last.
*”Before the Deluge” by Jackson Browne
Living in New York, I see
A lot of Broadway shows
And most of them have stars on stage
That everybody knows.
Yet often in the lesser roles
Are actors out to make
The audience acknowledge them –
To earn that hoped-for break.
In local theaters, all the cast
Performs from that same place,
While dreaming that the world will know
Their name or voice or face.
And thanks to that, they try their best
And give it all they’ve got,
Providing all who watch them
With a show they’ll like a lot.
Theater Of Life
We met as strangers stranded in the park,
Lonely as the night -
Wandering in wonder, will the train surface?
1:35am she thought to provide me warmth
Open arms, I drowned beneath her chest.
We sang, imitating the birds in the far away forest,
The wind sang along in uniformity, blended we thought!
Utopia was now newly found home, surely us alone existed -
My queen and I King made our wishes under the stars
And everything seemed alright.
Sometime in March 2023, queen relinquished the King -
Anointed he a wolf,vampire,demon...
Slain he for merely loving she, unconditionally to hold on forever
She never looked back, to see the hell of a life
Acidic to the lungs, suffocate he to death -
A walking dead in the open, such is the theater of life!
cities bubbling with their stories
life playing out with all its drama
characters come and go
behind every curtain falls a hero
at other times a villain
the city recycles bit parts for show biz
in one continuous stage production
AP: 3rd place 2025
Submitted on June 19, 2025 for contest 1391 sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - Honorable Mention
The velvety red curtains lift
The sun is the first player out
“I quit” the words bounce loudly across the room
Darkness ensues in this ancient theatre
The last place there is
We sit watching the plot unfold
Tall buildings kneel outside
Fires hiss and growl
But we safe here inside someone’s imagination
Summer Dawn Theatre
6/8/2025
The soft, sleeping, turquoise curtains do part,
Choir of chirpping robins, give this day a start.
God’s own dawn theatre, blesses my grateful heart.
Of all the types of dance there are
Across a world-wide map,
My very favorite one, by far,
Is any type of tap.
There’s something ‘bout those quick short moves
With that staccato sound
That gets me into happy grooves
When tap shoes are around.
Today we saw the final show
Of a two week tap dance run.
The joy on stage produced a glow
Which covered everyone.
I wore a ninety-minute grin
And didn’t have my fill.
I couldn’t keep my feelings in;
My feet would not stay still.
It was a privilege being there,
My husband by my side,
To soak up such delight (so rare!)
That tap dance can provide.
she be...
my mona lisa
center of real-at-tea...
as the core in my cup...
the space-time
i see...
len
The curtains drawn the room very gloomy
the stage free of debris and finally the
music plays at first it seems like I'm
dreaming my spouse his lover the mouse
I'm conducting this play as the velvet day
moves the shadowy figures about for I am
the mistro the ushers are a no show the crowd
began to beg for the director to open the
show soon the notes all off the pages are
torn my legs bleed my nerves right out of my
body the theme song so simple as a teen with
a pimple that burst right in me before the dance
silence please I must conduct from my knees for
they are sore my fingers tremble at deaths doors
as I open them for I am sure that the gods move in
full circle and right on cue the cello so broad so firm
takes my soul as the violins began to cry my mind sigh
for the crowd has stopped and followed the pitch
as the Bella screamed death to the poet
for my souls an empty theater
Written by Yolanda Nicholsen May 14 2004 Fort Myers Florida my sons graduation day from high school so many emotions that day i must have written 10 poems that day
Dreary grey coats my senses
I cant sense where the end is
Among lofty masks and feeble tries
The roaring applause of the crowd is among the highs
Thats sunk so low into stone
I feel it can carve my grievances into bone
For the roar of cheer is best reserved
For someone who well deserves
The colour i pretend lights my eyes
When i weave the lies
That make me up
Into who i am
Nothing, but a scam.
They are like two beam lights that claim the stage
on a hot summer eve in the middle of a makeshift
floor parkette made of wood, varnish, and lights that aim
They are more than two American dollies dressed
in French lace and boudoir lipsticks
They are idols of the theater talking through
cables and conductive material.
The imagination of the viewers soar as they lose themselves
in the dark curtained stage, where reality has gone dormant
The only sound they hear is the tingly sounds
of unfolding fans made of feather and paper,
by the old vintage theater Madammes who cluck and gossip
in hushed tones when the first dolly gives the other dolly,
a soft kiss.
The End.
They dress for theater with gloves up to their elbows
The Roosevelts, Thomases, Rockafellers, and Shelbows.
They wear their glitziest tiaras, while carrying their fans.
On their arms they show off their tuxedo-wearing mans.
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