.
.
Russian Doll
She answered an ad, one calling for a mail order bride.
The trades, in the sixties, replied by postal mail sent.
He strolls onto the set as both of their arrivals coincide.
She was to be a Russian counterpart to this Italian gent.
She'd plied her trade, for grade, at Oberlin, in Norwalk,
That liberal arts college in Ohio, on the honor system;
A bilingual brunette, who could walk the walk, talk the talk;
Ideal counterpart for this "next Valentino," an unknown gem.
Their play opened in Duluth, Minnesota, ran for but a day.
The troupe packed and was bused to the next scheduled venue.
This afforded the actors time to practice lines along the way.
They left town so fast, no one had a chance to read a review.
The plot, one of intrigue, taking place during the cold war,
A time of uncertainty across political and social terrain;
The leading man recited his line, "My name is Rappaport."
Zarya presented her credentials to be his new ball and chain.
Plot called for him to be wed, in order to receive inheritance;
This was all for show, to collect, just an elaborate ruse.
The mail order scheme was a risk, but well worth the chance;
A desperate girl might respond, one having little to lose.
Those in the know, kept to themselves, Rappaport's secret.
Zarya, made head of household, played and dressed the part.
So happy to escape Federation, she'd be forever in his debt,
He envisioned a time they might explore matters of the heart.
By the time the curtain closed, after the second act of three,
The audience was made aware, Zarya came on wings of portent.
Who knew that espionage was her intent, not a desire to flee?
Crowd squirming, confirmed, never trust one with that accent.
Patrons witnessed, as his secrets became Zarya's to reveal.
Rappaport was oblivious to her scheming ways and her intent.
As the final act closed, Rappaport's impending demise was real,
Proof positive, theater goers' time and money was well spent.
As was custom, actors lined the lobby to meet each patron.
Rappaport was deluged with "well done" and even "great show."
Zarya received minimal accolades, as she was revered by none.
Eventually, when time for pass and review, she would not go.
The play, from every angle, in the Northeast, was a success.
Plans were made to take it south of the Mason Dixon Line.
Why they chose such an ambitious move was anyone's guess,
Their current tour, making bank, showed no signs of decline.
After a two weeks hiatus, a vacation well earned and overdo,
The troupe found themselves on stage, in action, in Tennessee,
Two weeks booked, nights and matinees; after that, who knew?
They took Music City by storm, their names blazoned Marquee.
No one in the cast saw it coming, when word came down to all,
The performance about to commence, would be the final fling.
As to why the production was short on funds, was anyone's call.
That everyone would be paid in full, helped to ease the sting.
Emotions in the lobby, running high, after final curtain call.
A man petitioned Rappaport, asking if he would discuss a deal.
They would talk later, if Rappaport could bring the Russian Doll.
That is what the man called her. To him, Zarya was all too real.
The following day, Christine and Rodney signed up for service;
No reason to delay, so for them it was sooner rather than later.
From all indications, the acting business here was hit or miss.
The man with a plan, touted, "Both of you were born to cater."
To appear in stage character, was stipulated in their deal,
He would keep his Rappaport regal air and Zarya, her accent;
With the money promised, neither felt put out, to make it real.
Their employer sold it well, that every night would be an event.
Nashville is chock full of singers and writers who entertain.
For our party host and hostess, the success door opened wide.
Rodney's unscripted performances came off lethargic and plain;
While Christine's stock was rising, his was in steep decline.
Rodney was called into the office, offered a chance to redeem;
He and the girl would make a killing, just for one petty theft.
An audio tape was the object of desire; the want of that stream
was essential to a future success. Rodney took the bait and left.
It seems, a Nashville tradition, is to try for an answer song.
Ever since Kitty followed Hank as a honky tonk angel with heart,
First one gets if right, the other caught up, seemingly wrong.
A successful answer song can be a career milestone, or a start.
Rodney pitched the idea to Christine. "We are better than this,"
Was her stern reply. "Just this one time, Baby, I'm on my way,"
was Rodney's response. Their decision, ultimately, was his.
She said, "Just this once, I'm done, and you're on your way."
The event, a major record release party, held the next night;
Christine's task, to sneak into the mansion's basement studio,
Procure a demo tape with new album songs, and exit stage right,
Before the artist got wise. Spying the drawer, wouldn't you know,
A stiff wind blew through an open window, then a power surge
Brought the lights down. She found herself alone in the dark.
She froze in silence, sure she heard breathing. On the verge
Of panic, Christine's inherent fear, that she was now the mark.
One door opens, as another drawer is closed, heard in stereo,
Christine was busted. Gazing around the room, following a beam,
A man holding a flashlight said, "Where did your partner go?"
She wanted to ask the same, but instead, just listened to him.
He locked the door, just as the lights came back on, to view
his intruder, telling her these walls were lined to hold sound.
Looking about, she saw walls lined with gold records, strewn
next to awards and decrees, documenting success he had found.
What, or who possessed her next, an unanswerable question,
As she went into character, that of Zarya, the Russian Doll.
She spoke with her accent, as the the country legend quizzed on,
As to who sent her, though he knew the answer. He knew all.
"I got a tip. He talks too much when drinking. I understand
why he bears me ill will. Simple truth is, he has that right.
Years ago, I stole an answer song from him, just as we planned.
My accomplice, believe it or not, was his wife, on that night."
"She is gone now. For what it's worth, I want my conscious clear.
My solution to remedy this transgression is to give you the tape.
No strings attached, you just act like you stole. It is here."
She read the label, took it in hand, and made her mock escape.
Christine had no way of knowing, the man had already switched,
so the tape she held would be of no use, when she passed it on.
The singer had no way to know, his perfect plan was bewitched.
The sounds had already been swapped, by another, who was gone.
Her employer and his staff of writers worked through the night.
By noon the next day, the lyrics to a dozen songs were complete.
Chistine told him she could sing; turns out, the girl was right.
She had them all recorded in record time, which was quite a feat.
By the next day, radio stations were spinning the advance track.
This single would take the industry by storm, revive a career.
Before it could make top ten, an answer song played back to back;
Juke boxes and disc jockeys featured both, the rest of the year.
The height of a career is to play the awards show, on the screen.
Television cameras fucused on the legend, sitting on his stool,
While beside him, stood the next big thing, future country queen,
Following his act to a standing ovation. She took him to school.
The following week, a small group of fans rolled up in a tour bus.
The Legend's home was the second stop, according to the guide.
Tourists come, to see the stars, who live better than than us.
Studio door was ajar, inviting curious onlookers to step inside.
They found him in there, sitting at his desk, stone cold still.
An empty bottle of tequila, cap off; seems the worm had turned.
An enthusiastic camera bug snapped a shot, as they often will.
Guide said, "No more pictures! That one will have to be burned."
The Nashville police were called, in event there was foul play.
Coroner closed his eyes, said it appeared his heart played out.
The man with the camera, slipped out, making a clean get away,
Thinking about a week's worth of pictures, they'd take, no doubt.
Call for a shroud misconstrued; florist showed up with a bouquet.
When the news came across the radio, his street filled, a parade
of thrill seekers and sentimental sorts, who always make their way
to toss accolades toward a perfect stranger; a simple charade.
His funeral, celebrity laden, for the former star, casket closed;
A who's who list of stars attended, those who wrangled a pass.
It was a one sided mix of spotlight hounds and friends supposed.
"Amazing Grace" sung, as sunlight streamed through stained glass.
It might come as a surprise, but he had real friends left behind.
Several gathered for a remembrance affair, over on Music Row.
After a night of drinking, conscious clearing, only to find,
one burning question. What of the girl, and where did she go?
The girl in question, Christine, was now touring the midwest,
in a renovated Eagle bus, provided by an exec from her label.
Fleeing the confines of music city struggles, she thought it best
to take her road show north; no desire to be part of their stable.
She played state fairs and rodeos, always ending a tour in Ohio.
Christine and the Russian Dolls, two back up singers for stage.
"Russian Doll" on the inlays of her guitar, so all would know;
Christine, though forgotten in Nashville, was a heartland rage.
She and her bass player found themselves romantically inclined,
Up to and including real love, the lasting kind, not about lust.
At first break from the road, each signed a marriage license.
They stepped away from touring, seeing need for time to adjust.
With a baby on the way, Christine thought it best to retire.
As to where they would live, her choice, where to settle down.
Only one clear choice, she enthusiastically voiced her desire,
and with decision made, she was heading back to Norwalk Town.
This Saturday past, Christine was digging through artifacts;
A local charity had come calling, for an auction impending.
She discovered a box, filled with fan letters, loose stacks.
In the mix, mail unopened, a six cent stamp paid for sending.
She opened and read a personal message for her, in deep detail,
where this guy had taken a picture, then decided to conceal,
but a still voice came to him in the night, telling him to mail
the image to her, which he did, decades earlier, to reveal...
A picture of the country singer, sitting silent graveyard dead,
and just behind him, a familiar girl, striking yet subtle figure.
Christine recalled a picture on the wall, when her employer said
the image was of his former wife. This was her, she was sure.
Christine never knew of the double tape switch, so irony eludes.
She went through life thinking the iconic figure played fair.
Having no question at hand, resolve is a ghost. That concludes
this chapter in the life of the answer girl. We'll leave it there.
Michael Todd (2014)
Note: Many thanks to Christine Gabriel for her inspiration. Christine is a writer, currently in the process of writing "The Crimson Chronicles Series." The first book in the series has been released... Please visit Christine at her website... http://thecrimsonforest.com/
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Sunday, September 7, 2014
Quiet Time
.
.
Quiet Time
When I was a youngster, I was at a friend's house, on a Saturday afternoon. We had just watched the Dick Clark show, American Bandstand, and were left with not much else on the tube except for a Shirley Temple movie or snow skiers tumbling down a hillside.
I spied an old picture book on the coffee table, and asked my friend if I could look at it. She said I could, but there was not much to see in it. It belonged to her grandmother, who was living with the family now that her husband had passed away. The grandmother still owned her house in East Tennessee, so most of her belongings were there, but the picture book was among the possessions she brought to Memphis.
Most of the pictures were of her children and grand children. Only a dozen or so photos of she and her husband were to be seen. As I was looking through those a second time, after we had gone through the entire album, I remarked to my friend, that it was a shame the couple never went anywhere, as all the images were obviously from around their home.
Can you imagine my surprise, when a voice from behind me said, that was not the case at all? Neither my friend or I had heard her come into the room. We had no idea she was looking over our shoulder. I apologized for my remark. She said that was not needed. Then she sat between, cradled the picture album and told us some stories.
Quiet Time
Perhaps you can tell, he was camera shy;
He said "I would only do this for you,"
Never stood still, rather wiggly and spry;
I remain challenged to explain just why.
This is his best, in my humble review."
Taken on the night he chose to propose,
I can still see him there, on bended knee.
Dressed to impress in his finest of clothes.
How he stirred up nerve, only heaven knows;
Dreamed of the day he'd ask to marry me.
Life was quite hard in that small rural town.
See his heart's passion, plowed deep through that field;
A living carved out through green shares in brown
Sporting a Stetson, but held like a crown.
Unable to keep his love there concealed.
Here he is dressed for a game of baseball.
Traveling teams, came for barnstorming fun.
Cleats ripped his leg, an unfortunate fall;
Poured Coke over it, no fussing, that's all,
True healing magic, he hits a home run!
We're all smiles here at the sweet county fair.
My prize peaches turned blue-ribbon that day.
Look close, you can see me clutching a bear.
For years, we left it in sight without care
Our children welcomed to find it to play.
Bless his heart, he was born with two left-feet.
Here we are at a Saturday square-dance.
Refusing to give up and take a seat.
Got a mail-order lesson, set complete,
To learn how to Charleston, study his stance.
Here were are on our ride to meeting day.
Never missed a Sunday, not a time late;
I'd visit after, his patience at play.
Notice that porch swing, we'd sit there all day;
Each afternoon, like a wondrous new date.
You do not see, but he was in this scene.
He's the one doing the picture taking.
His hand was steady, his eyes were quite keen;
Said it was like viewing life on a screen;
Knowing well the memories he was making.
We never thought about leaving our home.
We had it all, never feeling alone,
Even when our kids went out on their own.
Neither felt burdened by an urge to roam.
I never knew quiet, 'til he was gone.
She closed the book, then set it on the stand;
Rose to her feet, giving a solemn stare.
There is not a place, I now understand,
Where they had not spent time, just as they planned,
Except that one place.... He was waiting there.
Michael Todd (2014)
Disclaimer: I wrote the draft for this, back in the Spring, as a poem to give to Lainey. She likes Robert Frost. I was trying to write with a rhyme scheme that was similar to a Frost piece. I have seen Lainey do those, in a challenge, and she owns them.... When I realized, I was so far off the mark, rather than shelve the poem, I sent it to Lainey, asking if she would help me with it. What you see here is the finished product she provided. Seriously, I probably averaged a major mistake per stanza... So, unlike that Frost poem, where he came to a fork in the road, and chose one over the other... in my case here, I chose to turn around and go back, to get my bearings, which in this case, was going back to Lainey, in order to get it right. Hey, if she could teach me how to write a sonnet (she did), surely, in time she can get me to where I can do one of these all by myself. But, in the event I cannot, if is always good to know she is there for me.
September 10 is Lainey's Birthday.
.
Quiet Time
When I was a youngster, I was at a friend's house, on a Saturday afternoon. We had just watched the Dick Clark show, American Bandstand, and were left with not much else on the tube except for a Shirley Temple movie or snow skiers tumbling down a hillside.
I spied an old picture book on the coffee table, and asked my friend if I could look at it. She said I could, but there was not much to see in it. It belonged to her grandmother, who was living with the family now that her husband had passed away. The grandmother still owned her house in East Tennessee, so most of her belongings were there, but the picture book was among the possessions she brought to Memphis.
Most of the pictures were of her children and grand children. Only a dozen or so photos of she and her husband were to be seen. As I was looking through those a second time, after we had gone through the entire album, I remarked to my friend, that it was a shame the couple never went anywhere, as all the images were obviously from around their home.
Can you imagine my surprise, when a voice from behind me said, that was not the case at all? Neither my friend or I had heard her come into the room. We had no idea she was looking over our shoulder. I apologized for my remark. She said that was not needed. Then she sat between, cradled the picture album and told us some stories.
Quiet Time
Perhaps you can tell, he was camera shy;
He said "I would only do this for you,"
Never stood still, rather wiggly and spry;
I remain challenged to explain just why.
This is his best, in my humble review."
Taken on the night he chose to propose,
I can still see him there, on bended knee.
Dressed to impress in his finest of clothes.
How he stirred up nerve, only heaven knows;
Dreamed of the day he'd ask to marry me.
Life was quite hard in that small rural town.
See his heart's passion, plowed deep through that field;
A living carved out through green shares in brown
Sporting a Stetson, but held like a crown.
Unable to keep his love there concealed.
Here he is dressed for a game of baseball.
Traveling teams, came for barnstorming fun.
Cleats ripped his leg, an unfortunate fall;
Poured Coke over it, no fussing, that's all,
True healing magic, he hits a home run!
We're all smiles here at the sweet county fair.
My prize peaches turned blue-ribbon that day.
Look close, you can see me clutching a bear.
For years, we left it in sight without care
Our children welcomed to find it to play.
Bless his heart, he was born with two left-feet.
Here we are at a Saturday square-dance.
Refusing to give up and take a seat.
Got a mail-order lesson, set complete,
To learn how to Charleston, study his stance.
Here were are on our ride to meeting day.
Never missed a Sunday, not a time late;
I'd visit after, his patience at play.
Notice that porch swing, we'd sit there all day;
Each afternoon, like a wondrous new date.
You do not see, but he was in this scene.
He's the one doing the picture taking.
His hand was steady, his eyes were quite keen;
Said it was like viewing life on a screen;
Knowing well the memories he was making.
We never thought about leaving our home.
We had it all, never feeling alone,
Even when our kids went out on their own.
Neither felt burdened by an urge to roam.
I never knew quiet, 'til he was gone.
She closed the book, then set it on the stand;
Rose to her feet, giving a solemn stare.
There is not a place, I now understand,
Where they had not spent time, just as they planned,
Except that one place.... He was waiting there.
Michael Todd (2014)
Disclaimer: I wrote the draft for this, back in the Spring, as a poem to give to Lainey. She likes Robert Frost. I was trying to write with a rhyme scheme that was similar to a Frost piece. I have seen Lainey do those, in a challenge, and she owns them.... When I realized, I was so far off the mark, rather than shelve the poem, I sent it to Lainey, asking if she would help me with it. What you see here is the finished product she provided. Seriously, I probably averaged a major mistake per stanza... So, unlike that Frost poem, where he came to a fork in the road, and chose one over the other... in my case here, I chose to turn around and go back, to get my bearings, which in this case, was going back to Lainey, in order to get it right. Hey, if she could teach me how to write a sonnet (she did), surely, in time she can get me to where I can do one of these all by myself. But, in the event I cannot, if is always good to know she is there for me.
September 10 is Lainey's Birthday.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Free Wally Peppers
.
Free Wally Peppers
Sitting in a sports bar with fellow weekend warriors,
from a long time ago, reliving past glories and such;
Anniversary of winning the industrial softball wars,
We hoisted the trophy with the ball, each cut a stitch;
Closing with a toast, a somber moment to mar the event,
By this time, our terrific ten had been reduced to nine.
For all it is worth, for us, this night is time well spent,
A weeknight on a work week, designated driver duty was mine.
As we stood to depart, bestowing a series of long goodbyes,
A young girl approached, handing out coupons to all the team.
With a passing glance, I saw no weekend specials on the flyers,
I suppose, on the surface, not everything is all it seems.
"Free Wally Peppers" was displayed in bold type at the header.
Intent of the document was to invite, or should I say compel?
All the others took a pass. I took an interest in the matter,
Telling the girl I'd be there; she, nodding in her approval.
On the date assigned, as scheduled, I made a token appearance.
My curiosity matched theirs toward me, new kid on the block.
Seems the court system had failed, requiring their interference,
Over an unfortunate situation involving a corpse and a glock.
You would have thought these folks were out to free a royal,
Whose stated objective was to free country, flag and crown.
Enthusiasm was high, delusion running rampant, one and all;
When anyone tried to make eye contact, I just looked down.
When the meeting closed, I left with the girl, who I came for.
Feeling like the fox in the hen house, an unlikely plot twist;
We found ourselves in each other's company at a late night diner.
She asked if I wanted to know more about him. I said, "I insist."
She gave me an overview of a guy in the wrong place, wrong time,
High on drugs, slipped by a stranger, a victim of circumstance.
An accidental shooting occurred, in the act of a petty crime;
Had he known the gun was loaded, he'd never have taken the chance.
The more I heard, the more I had to cringe, as she made mention
As to my feelings on the matter, but I had no response to give.
When she told me the guy was up for parole for what he'd done,
I just nodded, wondering why I was there, questioning my motive.
We ended up at her place that night, not a word of him spoken;
Driving home that night, I wondered what I'd gotten myself into.
As we became an item, my apprehensions faded of a trust broken;
When you fall for a certain someone, who thinks things through?
Months later, all was roses and red wine; a chance worth taking
Had blossomed into the best romance I ever could ever hope for.
She dropped a bomb on me; a welcome home party was in the making;
Due to prison over crowding, her boy about to walk out the door.
I spent the next several days looking for reasons to leave her.
She was so happy with the impending release, she did not notice.
I bit the bullet, went to the gathering, then I saw him enter.
I can't put into words what I felt as he hugged our accomplice.
She backed away, proudly turned, so that she could introduce me;
To say he and I shared a moment, would be a major understatement.
I bet I was the last person in this world he expected to see.
The best day of his life was not turning out to be this event.
When she went to mingle in the mixer, I thought he'd duck and run,
But he surprised me, standing his ground, looking me in the eye.
"I spent the first year living in fear of you, second to none,
Something happened to turn my life around. I can't explain why."
"From that day on, I've just given thanks that chamber was empty,
And your life was spared. I know you hate me now, but I do not.
I still live with seeing your face, never a day it leaves me.
I know you've never forgiven me, rightfully, nor have you forgot."
After hearing him out, I said not a word, excused myself and left,
Thinking on that night after the game, when we stopped for a six,
My team mate, work partner, who died that night in a failed theft
At the hand of the man I had just seen for the first time since.
Wally Pepper's first shot found flesh, in a moment of surprise,
When we walked in on a convenience store robbery, our bad luck;
Second pull on the trigger went click, as I looked in his eyes.
I took him down that night in a blind rage, each blow struck...
Left me feeling he was closer to end up laying still, in chalk.
My attention diverted by the parting words of a dying friend,
I told him to hang on, help was on the way, try not to talk...
When the ambulance arrived, there was no life left to attend.
After years of guilt and remorse, therapy could not prepare
Me for what went down, and what did not, in the meeting place,
Or, maybe it did, as I chose to take his remorse as sincere;
But try though I might, I could no longer conjure up his face.
That night, she and I shared a quiet moment, laying on her bed.
I thought, in detail, about life and death and fault and fate.
If he had told her who I was, I don't know. She never said.
I knew then, what led me to her, could never be tied to hate.
Michael Todd (2014)
***
Free Wally Peppers
Sitting in a sports bar with fellow weekend warriors,
from a long time ago, reliving past glories and such;
Anniversary of winning the industrial softball wars,
We hoisted the trophy with the ball, each cut a stitch;
Closing with a toast, a somber moment to mar the event,
By this time, our terrific ten had been reduced to nine.
For all it is worth, for us, this night is time well spent,
A weeknight on a work week, designated driver duty was mine.
As we stood to depart, bestowing a series of long goodbyes,
A young girl approached, handing out coupons to all the team.
With a passing glance, I saw no weekend specials on the flyers,
I suppose, on the surface, not everything is all it seems.
"Free Wally Peppers" was displayed in bold type at the header.
Intent of the document was to invite, or should I say compel?
All the others took a pass. I took an interest in the matter,
Telling the girl I'd be there; she, nodding in her approval.
On the date assigned, as scheduled, I made a token appearance.
My curiosity matched theirs toward me, new kid on the block.
Seems the court system had failed, requiring their interference,
Over an unfortunate situation involving a corpse and a glock.
You would have thought these folks were out to free a royal,
Whose stated objective was to free country, flag and crown.
Enthusiasm was high, delusion running rampant, one and all;
When anyone tried to make eye contact, I just looked down.
When the meeting closed, I left with the girl, who I came for.
Feeling like the fox in the hen house, an unlikely plot twist;
We found ourselves in each other's company at a late night diner.
She asked if I wanted to know more about him. I said, "I insist."
She gave me an overview of a guy in the wrong place, wrong time,
High on drugs, slipped by a stranger, a victim of circumstance.
An accidental shooting occurred, in the act of a petty crime;
Had he known the gun was loaded, he'd never have taken the chance.
The more I heard, the more I had to cringe, as she made mention
As to my feelings on the matter, but I had no response to give.
When she told me the guy was up for parole for what he'd done,
I just nodded, wondering why I was there, questioning my motive.
We ended up at her place that night, not a word of him spoken;
Driving home that night, I wondered what I'd gotten myself into.
As we became an item, my apprehensions faded of a trust broken;
When you fall for a certain someone, who thinks things through?
Months later, all was roses and red wine; a chance worth taking
Had blossomed into the best romance I ever could ever hope for.
She dropped a bomb on me; a welcome home party was in the making;
Due to prison over crowding, her boy about to walk out the door.
I spent the next several days looking for reasons to leave her.
She was so happy with the impending release, she did not notice.
I bit the bullet, went to the gathering, then I saw him enter.
I can't put into words what I felt as he hugged our accomplice.
She backed away, proudly turned, so that she could introduce me;
To say he and I shared a moment, would be a major understatement.
I bet I was the last person in this world he expected to see.
The best day of his life was not turning out to be this event.
When she went to mingle in the mixer, I thought he'd duck and run,
But he surprised me, standing his ground, looking me in the eye.
"I spent the first year living in fear of you, second to none,
Something happened to turn my life around. I can't explain why."
"From that day on, I've just given thanks that chamber was empty,
And your life was spared. I know you hate me now, but I do not.
I still live with seeing your face, never a day it leaves me.
I know you've never forgiven me, rightfully, nor have you forgot."
After hearing him out, I said not a word, excused myself and left,
Thinking on that night after the game, when we stopped for a six,
My team mate, work partner, who died that night in a failed theft
At the hand of the man I had just seen for the first time since.
Wally Pepper's first shot found flesh, in a moment of surprise,
When we walked in on a convenience store robbery, our bad luck;
Second pull on the trigger went click, as I looked in his eyes.
I took him down that night in a blind rage, each blow struck...
Left me feeling he was closer to end up laying still, in chalk.
My attention diverted by the parting words of a dying friend,
I told him to hang on, help was on the way, try not to talk...
When the ambulance arrived, there was no life left to attend.
After years of guilt and remorse, therapy could not prepare
Me for what went down, and what did not, in the meeting place,
Or, maybe it did, as I chose to take his remorse as sincere;
But try though I might, I could no longer conjure up his face.
That night, she and I shared a quiet moment, laying on her bed.
I thought, in detail, about life and death and fault and fate.
If he had told her who I was, I don't know. She never said.
I knew then, what led me to her, could never be tied to hate.
Michael Todd (2014)
***
Sunday, December 29, 2013
Elegy
.
.
.
Elegy
Holding on to what is real, rather than elusion,
Alluding to my narrow, if noble, perspective;
Presenting a pattern of objective confusion,
Perhaps it really is time for new directive.
Yearning for a moment frozen in time and space,
Never taking into account, potential consequence;
Each dawn has its day, then vanishes without a trace.
While I know it was there, I haven't seen it since,
You took it, laying rightful claim to what you own.
Eventually, life lines fade and become thread bare,
All too apparent when I look to find you are gone;
Reminders, like clues, are strewn about, everywhere.
Reckoning is a task I find altogether foreboding.
Of all advances taken, two steps forward and wait;
Seeing the final vestiges colliding, imploding,
Every step taken leads one to this certain fate.
For all I imagine, and that which I know to be true,
Running in place, from past, is all that makes sense.
Obstacles only impede if I choose to allow them to,
Much to my benefit, at present, I am easy to convince.
Moving forward requires us all to turn and gaze back,
Yet this lesson must be reminded, and learned again;
Keeping with the ancient order, staying on track,
Even a final dawn has its day to claim. What then?
Michael Todd (2013)
Disclaimer: If I have ever written a poem about the turning of a page on a calendar, as a new year commences, I don't recall. Maybe I am running out of things to write about. Possibly, I just overlooked the topic. Or maybe, a part of me hates to put the old year to rest, at best, passed and gone. Just call me sentimental.
While I adore the concept of a happy new year, and wish that, sincerely, for any and everyone I know... there are few things that make me happy. But, the upside to that is that what does make me happy has a great impact. And, more importantly, who can make me happy can do so with minimal effort. I do not require a detailed directive. Just point me in the right direction. That is all I need.
.
.
Elegy
Holding on to what is real, rather than elusion,
Alluding to my narrow, if noble, perspective;
Presenting a pattern of objective confusion,
Perhaps it really is time for new directive.
Yearning for a moment frozen in time and space,
Never taking into account, potential consequence;
Each dawn has its day, then vanishes without a trace.
While I know it was there, I haven't seen it since,
You took it, laying rightful claim to what you own.
Eventually, life lines fade and become thread bare,
All too apparent when I look to find you are gone;
Reminders, like clues, are strewn about, everywhere.
Reckoning is a task I find altogether foreboding.
Of all advances taken, two steps forward and wait;
Seeing the final vestiges colliding, imploding,
Every step taken leads one to this certain fate.
For all I imagine, and that which I know to be true,
Running in place, from past, is all that makes sense.
Obstacles only impede if I choose to allow them to,
Much to my benefit, at present, I am easy to convince.
Moving forward requires us all to turn and gaze back,
Yet this lesson must be reminded, and learned again;
Keeping with the ancient order, staying on track,
Even a final dawn has its day to claim. What then?
Michael Todd (2013)
Disclaimer: If I have ever written a poem about the turning of a page on a calendar, as a new year commences, I don't recall. Maybe I am running out of things to write about. Possibly, I just overlooked the topic. Or maybe, a part of me hates to put the old year to rest, at best, passed and gone. Just call me sentimental.
While I adore the concept of a happy new year, and wish that, sincerely, for any and everyone I know... there are few things that make me happy. But, the upside to that is that what does make me happy has a great impact. And, more importantly, who can make me happy can do so with minimal effort. I do not require a detailed directive. Just point me in the right direction. That is all I need.
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Ice Cream Letters (for Lainey)
.
.
.
Ice Cream Letters (for Lainey)
Send me ice cream letters, post marked no later than a Tuesday,
to afford me something special to look forward to on a weekend.
If I get in a rush to open one up, to review and see what you say,
A potential paper cut, small price to pay, to read what you send.
Send me ice cream letters, covering any subject matter of your choosing,
Be it anecdotal in nature, or dwell on random whimsy of your design.
Touch on your dark side if it makes you feel better, although amusing
is preferred. If you're happy, I'm happy, so I'd rather you enlighten.
Send me ice cream letters, to warm my heart, at your discretion,
I have seven empty picture frames, hanging in tandem on my North wall;
Their spots reserved until such time, you send a rendered interpretation;
Once the letters are framed, I'll seal them with adhesive, to never fall.
Send me ice cream letters, seemingly insignificant to you, "Just a note..."
from your perspective, but to me, they are the ultimate ever end all:
Sprinkled with epiphanies, infatuations, intuitions... so much to quote;
Sent from your heart to your hand, on to me, your deemed port of call.
Send me ice cream letters, should you be inclined, towards me proffer,
Or make a request, you'll find me altogether amenable at point of contact,
and thanking you sincerely for the opportunity, your more than kind offer.
Or, if you open with "I don't need a thing," you will still make an impact.
Send me ice cream letters, with the envelope exterior displaying SWAK,
and maybe a heart and arrow combo, you know how I love your illustration.
Still, getting down to the heart of the matter, not on the front or back,
But what's inside, when I fold back the flap, that makes an impression.
Send me ice cream letters, if you've the time and it goes well with you.
You don't know how they raise my spirits and help to pass time, or delay.
I revel in your success, despair in you failings, in all you say and do;
Thanks in advance for your correspondence; hurry soon and send one my way.
Michael Todd (2013)
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
A Work In Progress (Sonnet for Charlotte)
.
A Work In Progress (Sonnet for Charlotte)
I think I like someone. What should I do?
Agnizing, her bearing has caught off guard.
Pause, reflect... enough data to review;
A simple survey... why make this so hard?
First steps are subtle, to shared envisions,
Endowing part of a sudden, not all...
How does one weigh in random provisions,
When sample sizes, in hand, are so small?
Knowing, emotion is driving this team,
Running rampant from cause to consequence;
If my first impressions are as they seem,
Nothing more is required here, to convince.
Count me, all in; nothing more to address;
She is far more than a work in progress.
Michael Todd (2013)
NOTE: I got the idea for this poem from Charlotte Blackwell.
You can find her here... http://charlotteblackwell.blogspot.com/
...
A Work In Progress (Sonnet for Charlotte)
I think I like someone. What should I do?
Agnizing, her bearing has caught off guard.
Pause, reflect... enough data to review;
A simple survey... why make this so hard?
First steps are subtle, to shared envisions,
Endowing part of a sudden, not all...
How does one weigh in random provisions,
When sample sizes, in hand, are so small?
Knowing, emotion is driving this team,
Running rampant from cause to consequence;
If my first impressions are as they seem,
Nothing more is required here, to convince.
Count me, all in; nothing more to address;
She is far more than a work in progress.
Michael Todd (2013)
NOTE: I got the idea for this poem from Charlotte Blackwell.
You can find her here... http://charlotteblackwell.blogspot.com/
...
Monday, October 21, 2013
The Greatest Story (for Lainey)
.
.
The Greatest Story (for Lainey)
She has passed and reviewed pyramids, in the City Of The Dead,
Saw a time of order, where the sun never set on British soil;
She shook her head sadly at the The Seven Years War, it is said,
At the folly of those who proclaim "Sovereign" as nations toil.
It is spoken, she views through a globe of glass on a base of gold,
Centuries past, present and future, as seen through her Stoic eyes:
Reciprocity as sleight of hand, alliances and treaties are sold,
With no esteem or regard, for life and death, birth and demise.
Those who would seek a brave new world, she knows, can't go back;
"Villains in their lodges speak of repose but poison the watershed.
Loose associations with warrior societies... to run the same track,
Is as discordant as a call to order in a gold rush," so she said.
Those who might say, "We are unbreakable, beautiful and young,"
They don't talk to strangers, seeing their one life as perfect,
No thoughts of dying to live again, regret never on their tongue.
It is said when the word gets out, they will regret their neglect.
It is said, in prophecy, passed along in hushed tones, through ages,
There is one who will appear, and she will speak from her station,
As empires merge, canals surge, oft in the distance, from her pages,
With no regard for stratification, hierarchy, caste or affirmation.
Many forewarned along the way, saw this as a pocket full of dreams.
The enlightened, with open hearts and eyes, see dreaming's for sleeping;
A closed mind cannot fathom a concept of sink or swim; what seems
Conscription to one is convention to other, and worth keeping.
The time she will rise and step from her realm may well be at hand;
An epoch where the rainbows vibrant colors will fade and dissipate.
Discord demands, it is time for her to sentence, to display her brand,
When her gaze will turn from her snow globe, repairing to collate.
Some, granted audience, will be in the company of those they hold dear;
Others will be found, in the throng, as wanderers on the open road;
The faithful who seek her out, see her visage as shelter, to appear,
When she emerges from her hiding place of recompense, her humble abode.
Should all who witness, know in advance, I am not compelled to say,
But I believe, all things are revealed, especially in a last call;
Who it is that stands before them, holding steadfast in her sway,
Will be made apparent in the end, if not the outset, to one and all.
I hope to stand before her, when she shares the greatest story ever told;
Would, in the end, I be so fortunate as to be counted among her friends.
What was semblance and mirage will manifest, ours to see and hold.
Until this day dawns, even she does not know how the story ends.
Michael Todd (2013)
***
NOTE: As I was writing this poem, I was listening to Loreena McKennitt's "The Emigration Tunes." The cello player is Caroline Lavelle, who also performs as a solo act. She is my favorite cello player. If you want to get the full effect of the poem, from my humble perspective, listen along to this track, as you read.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cHXi2KNBhEY
***
.
The Greatest Story (for Lainey)
She has passed and reviewed pyramids, in the City Of The Dead,
Saw a time of order, where the sun never set on British soil;
She shook her head sadly at the The Seven Years War, it is said,
At the folly of those who proclaim "Sovereign" as nations toil.
It is spoken, she views through a globe of glass on a base of gold,
Centuries past, present and future, as seen through her Stoic eyes:
Reciprocity as sleight of hand, alliances and treaties are sold,
With no esteem or regard, for life and death, birth and demise.
Those who would seek a brave new world, she knows, can't go back;
"Villains in their lodges speak of repose but poison the watershed.
Loose associations with warrior societies... to run the same track,
Is as discordant as a call to order in a gold rush," so she said.
Those who might say, "We are unbreakable, beautiful and young,"
They don't talk to strangers, seeing their one life as perfect,
No thoughts of dying to live again, regret never on their tongue.
It is said when the word gets out, they will regret their neglect.
It is said, in prophecy, passed along in hushed tones, through ages,
There is one who will appear, and she will speak from her station,
As empires merge, canals surge, oft in the distance, from her pages,
With no regard for stratification, hierarchy, caste or affirmation.
Many forewarned along the way, saw this as a pocket full of dreams.
The enlightened, with open hearts and eyes, see dreaming's for sleeping;
A closed mind cannot fathom a concept of sink or swim; what seems
Conscription to one is convention to other, and worth keeping.
The time she will rise and step from her realm may well be at hand;
An epoch where the rainbows vibrant colors will fade and dissipate.
Discord demands, it is time for her to sentence, to display her brand,
When her gaze will turn from her snow globe, repairing to collate.
Some, granted audience, will be in the company of those they hold dear;
Others will be found, in the throng, as wanderers on the open road;
The faithful who seek her out, see her visage as shelter, to appear,
When she emerges from her hiding place of recompense, her humble abode.
Should all who witness, know in advance, I am not compelled to say,
But I believe, all things are revealed, especially in a last call;
Who it is that stands before them, holding steadfast in her sway,
Will be made apparent in the end, if not the outset, to one and all.
I hope to stand before her, when she shares the greatest story ever told;
Would, in the end, I be so fortunate as to be counted among her friends.
What was semblance and mirage will manifest, ours to see and hold.
Until this day dawns, even she does not know how the story ends.
Michael Todd (2013)
***
NOTE: As I was writing this poem, I was listening to Loreena McKennitt's "The Emigration Tunes." The cello player is Caroline Lavelle, who also performs as a solo act. She is my favorite cello player. If you want to get the full effect of the poem, from my humble perspective, listen along to this track, as you read.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cHXi2KNBhEY
***
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