Stolen Lives
The actors had no identity of their own.
They danced around, singing out
their stories. Their stories that were not
theirs. The colorful masks sparkled
under the stage lights. Almost blinding.
I held my breath. A man stood before me,
his beak almost puncturing my nose.
He gripped my arm and pulled me on stage.
The masked creatures backed out of the light
to give me room. I was frozen. Sweat
dripped down my skin. Pressure sunk
into my face. My Jell-O hands inched
towards it. A tear rolled down my cheek.
I, too, had a mask.
poem by Zoe Guillory
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
The Day Brushes It's Curtains Aside
to a dark stage.
I lie there awake in my prison bunk,
in the eye-catching silence
of prison night.
I study the moon out my grilled window.
I figure this and that,
not out, just figure, figuring more,
the inner I go, through illimitable tunnels,
roaring great, myself back back back.
I lie still, listening to water drops
clink and pap pap pap
in the shower stall next to my cell.
In that airy place we call the heart,
I move like a magician
in the colorful stage lights of my moods,
my bright dreams, and blue light
circles a tear on my cheek, and lips with her name.
>From flowers in my hands
her face appears. In cards
she is the queen. These are tricks
and I am the magician.
Tomorrow morning I will crawl out of bed
knowing I cannot escape the chains
they've wrapped around me.
I will crawl out of bed tomorrow,
as though I had stepped out of a box
on stage. It was no illusion,
when the sword plunged into the box,
I smiled at the crowd,
as it went deeper and deeper into my heart.
poem by Jimmy Santiago Baca
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We went on stage with the Jefferson Airplane, Jim started singing with Grace Slick and hugging her. Then he danced off the stage, went back into the dressing room and passed out cold.
quote by Ray Manzarek
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Undress me! ! ! ! !
Living under a cover
Hiding me.....
Undress my emotions
I want to break free
The inside clown
Long left the stage
Under his mask
A human disguised
Friend, foe or love
This human decides
Changes identity
Changes faces
Amidst the crowd
Masks to change
How do i select? ? ?
When i've lost the clown......
Humans are not unique
Indeed not
Carrying their masks along
Identical and fake
My lost identity
Glued with masks
Shed me off this burden
Undress me
Undress me............
poem by Royston Serrao
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Stories We Could Tell
By: john b. sebastian
1974
Talkin to myself again
Wonderin if this travellin is good
Is there somethin else a doin
Wed be doin if we could
Chorus:
But ah, the stories we could tell
And if it all blows up and goes to hell
I wish that we could sit upon a bed in some motel
Listen to the stories we could tell
Stared at that guitar in that museum in tennessee
Nameplate on the glass brought back twenty melodies
Scars upon the face told of all the times he fell
Singin all the stories he could tell
Chorus:
Ah, the stories he could tell
And Ill bet you it still rings like a bell
I wish that we could sit upon a bed in some motel
And listen to the stories it could tell
So if youre on the road trackin down your every night
Playin for a livin beneath brightly colored lights
And if you ever wonder why you ride the carousel
You do it for the stories you can tell
Ah, the stories we could tell
And if it all blows up and goes to hell
I wish that we could sit upon a bed in some motel
Just listen to the stories we could tell
Coda:
Yes, I wish that we could sit upon a bed in some motel
Listen to the stories it could tell
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Quiet Please, There's A Lady On Stage
(carole bayer-sager & peter allen)
Quiet please, there's a lady on stage
She may not be the latest rage
But she's singing and she means it
And she deserves a little silence
Quiet please, there's a woman up there
And she's been honest through her songs
Long before your consciousness was raised
Doesn't that deserve a little praise
So put your hands together and help her along
All that's left of the singer's
All that's left of the song
Stand for the ovation
And give her one last celebration
Quiet please, there's a person up there
And she's been singing of the things
That none of us could bear to hear for ourselves
Give her your respect if nothing else
Quiet please, there's a lady on stage
Conductor, turn the final page
And when it's over we can all go home
But she lives on -- on the stage alone.
song performed by by Dusty Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stories We Could Tell
Talkin to myself again
Wondering if this travelin is good
Is there something better wed be doing if we could
And oh the stories we could tell
And if this all blows up and goes to hell
I can still see us sittin on the bed in some motel
Listenin to the stories we could tell
Remember that guitar in a museum in tennessee
And the nameplate on the glass brought back twenty melodies
And the scratches on the face
Told of all the times he fell
Singin every story he could tell
And oh the stories it could tell
And I bet you it still rings like a bell
And I wish we could sit back on the bed in some motel
And listen to the stories we could tell
So if youre on the road tracking down here every night
And youre singin for a livin neath the brightly colored lights
And if you ever wonder why you ride this carousel
You did it for the stories you could tell
And oh the stories we could tell
And if this all blows up and goes to hell
I can still see us sittin on the bed in some motel
Listenin to the stories we could tell
I can still see us sittin on the bed in some motel
Listenin to the stories we could tell
song performed by by Tom Petty
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Warrior's Pledge...
well, i've been to the mountain,
and i've walked through the valleys.
i've stood neath the cross
awaiting my turn.
i've heard the stories of children,
and the stories of old men.
there's not enough difference
for me to discern.
i've been to the battle,
and i've taken it to the streets.
i've been to the place,
where truth and dignity meet.
i've stood naked and alone,
and faced my sins.
i've felt the wrath of god,
known the ignorance of men.
i've worn boots of flesh,
and fought with my hands.
went back into the fire,
to save the last man.
slept with angels and demons alike,
drank the darkness, walked in the light.
found the right in wrong,
and the wrong in right....
as the storm clouds rage
on this face cut by age,
the mountains tremble,
and the rivers rage.
i'll stay to the end,
i'll turn the last page,
then catch a ride to the funeral
on the last stage....
i'll write the words of my heart,
with a pen dripping blood.
i'll cross the last river,
and stomp through the mud.
with the prayers of the children,
and the eyes of the hawk.
to the place of closeness,
where spirits can talk.
and stare deep and unashamed
into God's eyes.
and lay down my journey,
where the soul never dies.
where names be forgotten,
but hands clasp as one.
in the valley of darkness,
at the feet of the sun.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Quiet Pleaseres A Lady On Stage
(carole bayer-sager & peter allen)
Quiet please, theres a lady on stage
She may not be the latest rage
But shes singing and she means it
And she deserves a little silence
Quiet please, theres a woman up there
And shes been honest through her songs
Long before your consciousness was raised
Doesnt that deserve a little praise
So put your hands together and help her along
All thats left of the singers
All thats left of the song
Stand for the ovation
And give her one last celebration
Quiet please, theres a person up there
And shes been singing of the things
That none of us could bear to hear for ourselves
Give her your respect if nothing else
Quiet please, theres a lady on stage
Conductor, turn the final page
And when its over we can all go home
But she lives on -- on the stage alone.
song performed by by Dusty Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Looking At You I Shall Tell Some Stories
looking at you
i make stories about your face
lovely stories (though there were betrayals
of the skin, i decide not to include it there)
for a person like you shies away from pain
from that which burns
all these you try to evade and so you keep running away
from everything that signifies
heat and fire)
but so much so for that
my stories travel to your hands
(i have this theme about tenderness
caress, affection, love and love
and holding one on top of the other
fingers intertwining) i
do not want to stop in there
my stories shall travel to your feet
and i shall remember
(those stamping of the feet
on the ground
not the dance in bed
but the leaving of footsteps
the closing of the door
and the final sound of the
thuds)
the ending will be sad
there was someone who left without saying goodbye
while the other
was still in bed soundly sleeping.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Stories
Through every window, we look out
what we see on the other side
holds many stories waiting to unfold.
Stories of great achievements
within someone’s life.
Stories of gathering love
found with in open arms.
Stories of perusing heartaches
where someone has gone away.
Stories a million fold
that surround every living thing.
Stories we are not aware of,
but happen before our eyes.
Stories to share with all
from those who can see them unfold.
The next time you look out a window
try and see what is really there,
the stories that are everywhere.
26 July 2009
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Right Mask
One night a poem came up to a poet
From now on, it said, you must wear a mask.
What kind of mask? asked the poet.
A rose mask, said the poem.
I've used it already, said the poet,
I've exhausted it.
Then wear the mask that's made out of
a nightingale's song, use that mask.
Oh, it's an old mask, said the poet,
it's all used up.
Nonsense, said the poem, it's the perfect mask,
still, try on the god mask,
now that mask illuminates heaven.
It's a tight mask, said the poet,
and the stars crawl about in it like ants.
Then try on the troubador's mask, or the singer's mask,
try on all the popular masks.
I have, said the poet, but they fit so easily.
The poem was getting impatient,
it stamped its feet like a child,
it screamed. Then try on your own face,
try the one mask that terrifies,
the mask only you could possibly use,
the mask only you could wear out.
The poet tore at his face til it bled,
this mask? he yelled, this mask?
Yes, said the poem, yes.
But the poet was tired of masks,
he had lived too long with them,
he snatched at the poem and stuck it in his face.
Its screams were muffled, it wept, it tried to be lyrical,
it wriggled into his eyes and mouth.
Next day his friends were afraid of him,
he looked so distorted.
Now it's the right mask, said the poem, the right mask.
It clung to him lovingly and never let go again.
poem by Brian Patten
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Maskers
Everybody on this stage
do a different role.
It's prohibited to remove one's mask
and see the real face.
The given role you have to perform
whether you like it or not.
The director too masked
and you cannot protest the dictator
either good or bad.
Be quiet until the curtain close.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Liberty
The law of liberty is around you and,
I will come to you my love;
For the footsteps of your stories are left behind,
And your photos are all hanging in my room.
The yare about the stories of life and the stories of your love,
And i will follow you alway with your liberty;
Because you do have the law with you.
The meagre understanding of mankind on this earth,
I will come to understand you better with your liberty;
For the rain last night held me on a standstill and,
I want to be home soon to learn more from you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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O those colorful old days - Original by Rabindranath Tagore
Those days have left my gold cage
O those colorful old days
They have untied knots of
Pain and joy in so many ways
O those colorful old days!
They will learn the craft of
Writing songs from my soul –
It was their intention
I know it was their goal!
Without saying a word at this stage
They all have flown away in their ways!
O those colorful old days!
I dream, they are roaming
Around my broken cage
For someone of those days
For someone I can guess.
O those colorful old days!
Is this pain for nothing!
Are they birds of shadow?
Haven’t they flapped their wings?
I have heard sound, I know!
Without saying a word at this stage
They all have flown away in their ways!
O those colorful old days!
poem by Asif Andalib
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Get Off The Stage
Oh, you silly old man
You silly old man
Youre making a fool of yourself
So get off the stage
You silly old man
In your misguided trousers
With your mascara and your fender guitar
And you think you can arouse us ?
But the song that you just sang
It sounds exactly like the last one
And the next one
I bet you it will sound
Like this one
Downstage, and offstage
Dont you feel all run in ?
And do you wonder when they will take it away ?
This is your final fling
But then applause ran high
But for the patience of the ones behind you
As a verse drags on like a month drags on
Its very short, but it seems very long
And the song that you just sang
It sounds exactly like the last one
And the next one
I bet you it will sound
Like this one
So, get off the stage
Oh, get off the stage
And when we get down off of the stage
Please stay off the stage - all day !
Get off the stage
Oh, get off the stage
And when weve had our money back
Then Id like your back in plaster
Oh, I know that you say
How age has no meaning
Oh, but here is your audience now
And theyre screaming :
Get off the stage
Oh, get off the stage
Because Ive given you enough of my time
And the money that wasnt even mine
Have you seen yourself recently ?
Oh, get off the stage
Oh, get off the stage
For whom, oh ...
For whom, oh ...
For whom, oh ...
For whom, oh ...
Get off the stage
Get off the stage
Get off the stage
For whom the bell tolls
song performed by by Morrissey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Most Visible Mask
you have loved the most visible mask i have
my face
everyday, this face, tomorrow this face, yesterday
this face
you are proud of my nose, and you tell all your friends about
it
aquiline, conquest of a nose, occupying almost all parts
of your territory
not even the hands but this face
the mouth that eats you
the eyes that close when
i kiss you
the tongue that maps out
what has to be found when lost
this face, the most visible mask
inside
is the real face, the face of my mind
it is thinking something else
all these years
the invisible mask is silent
tomorrow shall be the scorn
you must bear it,
you are fond of the most visible
though not really enduring.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Stage
If the world is just a stage
and we're the actors in it,
why do the same ones get to play
the lead roles every minute?
For once I'd like to see a change
take place upon this stage
where the lead characters are the poor
stepping out of their cage.
Where all the minor roles would be given out
to all the power players
who've controlled this drama from the start
having never said their prayers.
And as the curtain rose each day
we would look and see
the poor and needy in front row seats,
the rulers in standing room only.
If this is just a stage we're on
and life is just a play,
then wouldn't it be ingenious
to see them all portray
us.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Ballerina
She was the greatest ballerina I had ever seen
she commanded the stage, a real dancing Queen.
She danced so gracefully like a swaying flower
tiptoeing and pirouetting with effortless power.
The spot light shone down like the brightest sun
highlighting her gestures and missing none.
A pale glance of sadness was seen on her face
then as a tear fell she faded from grace.
In reality all had long since gone and so had she,
all that remained was the spotlight and me,
but I caught her ghost as she danced once more
and I heard again the applause and encore.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Running Towards The Fire!
we run towards the fire,
falling stars, sucking up the darkness.
what we want, what we need,
what we believe, who we are!
standing on the stage,
waiting on the curtain to rise.
i put my hands in my pockets,
and stare down at my feet.
the lights turned down,
waiting on the roar...
i realize without thinking,
'i just dont care! '
take destiny's stone statues,
and close forever's book.
there are no faces in the darkness
imposed by the self.
take my name from the page,
leave only blood and sweat!
take my face from the mirror,
and replace it with those....
who hunger and suffer,
who stink with need.
who are dying and homeless,
without freedom, or land.
stop the bombing, stop the killing,
stop the drilling, stop the hate.
let my voice be but a nail
in the walls that give shelter.
let my living be a bridge,
my passion a fire...
that warms and cooks,
and lights the weary night.
let my identity be this,
and nothing more...
the cry of the orphaned child,
the nipple that brings him home!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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My Heart Was Filled With Your Words
The curtain rose on the stage, and I saw you standing there.
The lights above were shining down upon your ink black hair.
My heart proudly skipped a beat when you looked into my eyes,
and I felt myself tremble then for what I felt arise.
The women all about me were whispering sweet and low
of how much you looked like a prince within the stage-light glow.
I secretly smiled to myself, warmed by their devotion,
unseen in the shadowed curve that circled like the ocean.
I gazed upon you as the host introduced you by name.
I felt my temperature rise as though a heated flame.
Walking over to the mike, you quick-coughed to clear your throat.
All the room was silent then as you spoke the words you wrote.
paris elegy
by larry jaffe
her reflection
forever imprinted
in the looking glass
despite her leaving
for pigalle
he missed her terribly
they skated on
the thin ice of decadence
for so long it seemed
like second nature
to seek danger
in his safe autocratic fashion
nevertheless he denied nothing
and faced her empty mirror
every day his face in his hands
cushioning the blow of her loss
the seine no longer romantic hideaway
they tell me they see through your gossamer wings
and you cannot fly
The crazy winds of cheer and applause filtered through the room.
I was lost inside of love, the lull of passion in bloom.
You gave a bow and thanked the crowd, then waved your hands good-night.
You stepped off the stage and came to me to my heart's delight.
My breath was held inside of me like quiet little bells,
like the leaves floating on the face of deep and silent wells.
You placed your hand under my chin and looked into my eyes,
and I felt myself tremble then for what I felt arise.
My love was reaching out to you like hands across the Seine;
and all at once, I knew my wings would lift to fly again.
The night, the world, and two bright stars glisten over the sea.
It is the secret passageway we find in poetry.
poem by Linda Marie Van Tassell
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