Ode to Life (poeTry)

***In honor of National Poetry Day

by amica paige


Uplift us to your heights
We'll ride the winds of time
upon your eager wings.

Take us to your depths
Adrift, we only kiss
your face when lost at sea.

Pull us past your dirt
deep within your hearth.
We'll fan your dying heart.

Then shoot us out of here
Spring us up with fire
into the open haze...

where the clouds will cradle us
if only for a moment,
as in our mothers' wombs...

And through a hundred cycles,
we'll tread the sea again
until the end of time

when Earth decides to hurl
our silent ashes up,
spent as offerings.

Did God have joyful tears?
We're glorious winged specks,
creation's golden dust.

We'll shine it, all the light
we muster from the heavens,
reflect it to each other.

Because even the spineless worms
can see the senselessness
in your rampant absurdities...

So fill us with thy breadth.
We'll ride your fickle wind
and spread our hidden wings.

Ode to Nature (poeTry)

***In honor of National Poetry Day.

by amica paige


Nature, nature
Pensive stature
Reds, yellows, and oranges
Blues, greens, and violets.

We marvel at thy breadth
Mountain heights and ocean's depths
Morning dew on summer leaves
Icicles on winter trees.

Nature, nature
Golden stature
Dirt...hydrogen...oxygen...burns
Air...water...fire...and earth...

We marvel at thy breadth
Glorious heights and cosmos' stars
Moonlight shades of autumn wind
Early buds of April spring.

Bestir. (poeTry)

by amica paige


Be still, my fear
we're fine, refined
our actions speak
their words that don't

Bestir, my dear
our spirit's free
the heart doth see
whose minds are blind

Be strong, dear one
though oceans rise
we, both, we'll ride
the tides of lies

Be well, dear friend
we'll strive and thrive
illuminate
the darkest nights

Be mine, beloved
we'll wine and dine
we'll sing and dance
they'll chant, who can't

Abide, let us
please stay, I pray
though kingdoms fall
we'll live it all.

A Bright New Day...Aneurysm.

by amica paige

This day was going to be his last. If he only knew some twilights ago, he would have tried harder to preserve on canvas the moments lavender kissed the evening sky. Next, he would have looked for artistic venues with more intent. What a delight this sudden change of air in him would bring to his family and friends, but he'd have to put off the news until later. An early morning run at the park, free of any encumbrance, his cell phone included, was exactly what he needed to mark this new beginning. His thoughts flitted past his dimming mind as he lay on the track by the river, his bright eyes reflecting the blue expanse above as his heartbeat slowed to a stop.

Beware, o youthful one. (poeTry)

by amica paige


Beware, o youthful mind.
Appease the test of time.
Gather a thought, a feather,
a page in an open book
a leaf, a stone
a twig, crossbones
a swig of might
a dose of delight
a pen, a cup
an overflow
a weathered friend
the light at the end
a spider's web
a strong desire
for the breadth of life,
through ice
and fire,
in ocean's depth
afloat on earth.
On earth.

Beware, o youthful one.
Withstand the test of time.
Gather a thought, a feather,
and ride the book of life.

A thousand suns. (poeTry)

by amica paige


a thousand suns
delighted days
the hands of youth
bid me away

my feet embarked
in cold dismay
impatient haste
the darkness raised

delinquent waste
my childish ways
disdain and pain
the magic, slain

no starry skies
no moonlit nights
in hunger, thirst
all joys refrain

stumbling through
an arid land
acridity
no sacred ground

my tongue was tied
in fiery haze
ill-fated man
had naught to claim

my breath was caught
my hearing gave
my sight was lost
my mind replayed

in dreams I lay
a field of hopes
a wishing well
a waterfall

my heart was stirred
my spirit saw
the life, inhaled
the soul, afloat

my feet were cleansed
when i awoke
my hunger, fed
my thirst was quenched

i bowed my head
she held my face
humility
was touched by grace

a thousand suns
delightful days
a warm embrace
bid me to stay.

Caterwaul. (poeTry)

by amica paige


Caterwaul.
Peter, Paul.
The two bobcats
quarrel like cats.
They howl and screech
and throw guitar riffs.
They make a shrill noise,
they wail and cry-
you'd think that The Beatles
hung out with the preachers.
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.
Ringo, where's George?-you're the star,
was he baptized?
Maybe the preachers
listen to the Beabeetles
as they chastise
the human mice.

Caterwaul,
Peter, Paul.
Nocturnal cats,
cool as bats.
No, Mr. Bale,
you can't join in.
Dark nights ascend.
We need Bruce Wayne
to save mankind,
and Alfred left.
But you just can't keep
a Christian down.
Put on the Beatles
as you watch the preachers.
Dark knights rise...
Caterwaul.
Peter, Paul.

Decrepitate.

Decrepitate. Define it, you say, being a person of youth. Well, may I say that I've trodden the sands of time, marching through my childhood years-hopping, skipping, dashing, involving some fists at times, sometimes sobbing...all the way to manhood, braving its tides, to taste and savor all of life's nectars, including matters of the heart, which can prick one's soul with a thousand needles, and that's just for starters, an endless appetizer, if you will. Because should you delve into the heart's affairs more deeply, you'd soon find out that the heart has swords for teeth; it cuts and grinds as sharply as it exalts in exceeding and inexplicable ways one can hardly believe sometimes. And if you fear a thing called love, as others may call it, which I rather refer to by its very act—of care, compassion, or affection—you might not want to go there, that is if you expect your beneficiaries to reciprocate all that you extend. But you might miss something so simple, yet so profoundly significant at once, should you skip over it.

I, however, am in my third act, traipsing on this stage called life. I've seen a thousand moons and witnessed stars shine and recede into oblivion, if not first immediately ushered out by the depths of time, which spares no one, like stars that merely fizzle right after birth. I've climbed the highest peaks, each attempt maims so severely at times, one falls in the deepest valleys with such dismemberments unheard of in still callow, incubated minds, and you ask me to define decrepitate. I've bathed in the sun's radiance and roasted in it all the same; its luminance stings, like salt to a worm in a slow burn. If I crackle when I roast in fire, I can't possibly hear the sound of my anguish, as I languish inside, can I? So, you tell me—do I crackle and pop when you see me roast in fire? I've seen and heard of unnumbered souls, both young and old, suffer unspeakable torment. Deprived of any means of protection, they are powerless, and their lives are all they have until their blood is shed by savages. By the way, did you see it too—the endangered species on the news last week? The harmless rhinos do naught but roam the fields in peace, unsuspecting of predators, and still, they're poached and bled to death for their quaint horns. Such horror reminds me of the pink dolphins and human nature, and makes me wonder which animal is the real beast on earth.

You ask a decrepit man to define 'decrepitate'. I say, stop searching too hard for meaning in mere words. Look and observe around you instead. Perhaps you'd discover something, if there be any road worth traversing, a wave worth riding, or a meaning to derive from life at all. Then tell me what you find. Hear me now, go on. Live.

Of Seminar on Broadway

To quote the memorable lines in the play, Seminar, is to copy almost the entire script.  But Theresa Rebeck wouldn’t like that.  And when dialogue starts to invade one’s mind like a phantom, perhaps it's time to apply occlumency against Snape’s cunning.  Except Snape isn’t the villain messing with people’s heads this time.  It's quite good, really, and reminds me of some indie films that I’ve watched over the years, such as Party Girl, Anything Else, and She’s the One, where the more contrived aspects of the story mesh well with the whole substance, if taken well.

@Seminar with Alan Rickman

You’d think that writing seminars, even when not really all that grand, however expensive, would still be at least useful to those seeking to enter the tortuous literary profession.  Well, this private seminar exposes the little insidious corners writers may find themselves in, if only for two hours in the stinging spotlight, under the direction of Sam Gold.


When four aspiring fiction writers employ the tutelage, or mental mutilation rather, of an embittered ex-novelist turned editor/journalist, they’ve not only hired a mentor with a penchant for dismissing their writing aspirations, forget about any potentials they might have, but they also unknowingly called on board a literary Lucifer who does not hesitate to  scourge them regularly with insults in their meetings.  So Leonard calls Martin a 'pussy' for his insecurities and refers to Douglas’ writing as a kind of 'whoring' for the Hollywood limelight.  What makes it worse for these guys is that they’re really pretty tame and aren’t at all interested in bedding their teacher for a mere chance of breaking into the writing profession, though their female counterparts might have been all along.  And the ever gracious fear goes around to befriend all and hand out shame...and one doesn’t have to be a writer to know it, even brutes and bullies aren’t impervious to it...not even Leonard.

Seminar could get you all punched up and thirsty for another round of quips.  You’d want to imbibe this seemingly understated show again...and again.  At least, I do.  Its stripped-off production is just a clever disguise to rouse the audience’ reception for increased penetration, figuratively speaking.  Its set design and music is striking, alluring, cozy…anything but plain.  Neither Izzy need lift her shirt nor Kate bend over for you to see the moonlight and take pleasure in the show.  By the way, I know we’re dealing with fiction here, but come on.  Who gets to have nice body parts while they are glued to their seats, hardly sweating except in a figurative sense, as they try to churn out well-cooked words in the real world, really?  I must be missing something.  But them fine folks have just begun to learn the business, so you say.  Okay, I get it.  I get that they get to consume half a gallon ice cream, a bag of potatoes, and a bowl of cookie batter while moping over their scourged hearts and flayed minds due to Leonard’s relentless slayings, lest I forget that art and the stage allow for a wide berth and a license to keep bodies firm and aesthetics intact, especially in the Upper West Side.  I so get it.

Unsurprisingly, Alan Rickman is in character once again and madly entertaining as the imperious, pitiless, slick tongued Leonard who lacerates his inferiors’ insides, but not to kill their bodies.  But who else could inflict wounds and infect the mind as severely as he?  Still, his cast mates shine no less in their roles that are conversely steeped in raw, pitiful naiveté:

Hamish Linklater idealizes the quixotic soul of a brooding, insecure, tortured writer in Martin.
Hetienne Park embodies Izzy’s blithe attitude through sex and, if possible, through writing and sex.
Lily Rabe cultivates the well-oiled yet inexperienced feminist-socialist in Kate by devising a fictionalized memoir, whatever that means, and fabricating a cross-dressing Cuban character to impress Leonard.
Jerry O’Connell dresses up the disillusioned, yet hip and endearing, cluelessness in Douglas.

@Seminar with Jerry O'Connell

How the characters navigate through their personal lives and if they survive their class sessions and learn anything at all, you’d have to see the play.  Seminar would be a nice requisite for aspiring writers, even professionals, to bring in the "exteriority" and fresh air into the dank "interiority" of the literary world, to use Douglas' words.  When prickly repartees fire off as soon as the curtains are drawn, it’s definitely a show not to miss if you can help it, even when there is no intermission, for some mental stimulation and laughs, and did I mention that I went to see it in January as a birthday present?

A few memorable lines I took home with me:
"You'd always be a talented nobody."
"After I write, I feel like evaporating..."
"Do you want to write, or not?"
"The problem with writers is their audience are humanbeings."
"It’s hollow. The work is hollow. I’d think about Hollywood."

Wonder...wander... What's your story?

I'm a not a fatalist. I do believe in willpower and magic and hope...for a better place and justice. I just can't smile with happy people all the time and think positive away the demons at play...while we try to survive the best way we can—some of us in yachts and castles, and others beneath bridges...in tunnels...or on benches, and still others stuck between walls in the middle. And still others...the helpless ones imprisoned in silent rooms...who are silenced by those who are drunk and deluded with power, like God...

Hunger...

I just cannot think positive away the demons at play. But I can help keep human garbage at bay and pick up my share the best way I can, and maybe tune in and lend an ear to see the inaudible, invisible cries...that I, too, might understand their pain...that I might extend a hand or walk a mile...perhaps. And when that still isn't enough, I hope for a better place.

Will power's persistence in this befuddling existence—that is magic. And only because of love, without which what other means must we employ our ultimate will? Where did we get it from—this love?—who instilled it in us humans? I used to think I knew so well, but the wind changes course... Now I only think about it too, sometimes. But I, like you, won't know the end of the story until I get there. Until then, I must keep going and live this thing...this role...this play...on this stage, and not waste so much time thinking about the director...since the time given us is short.

Yet I just can't smile with happy people all the time and think positive away the demons at play. But don't hate me. I'm just a realist, not an enemy. I am not against you, just maybe your ideals sometimes. Meanwhile, I still smile and look up at the sky, whenever I'm not tripping on and picking up garbage.

J.R.R. Tolkien said: "Those who wander are not always lost".

And so, I wonder sometimes.

Organic nocturne: Cool world.

by: amica paige

She heard the radio play Spacehog's 'Space is the place', which took her down the memory lane of her underground days. Cool World was the place to be then.
At least if you chose not to jiggy with it elsewhere or retire early at home with the remote control or a tome, or hang out at a friend's rat hole after the last coffee shop had closed past ten, and should you have chosen to delay your trip at a 7-eleven beside the gas station for warm nachos yellowed by melted cheese from the pump. It was where you danced the remainder of the night away freely and someone else began to sway beside you without smug imposition, and you two ended up organic...dancing together through dawn's wee hours, with neither a strategy nor an agenda. It was where you met both cool and ugly people, and those that made you want to sleep with the bears, if they let you, rather than suffer another drab company; and those that perpetually slumbered, literally, on the stained couches leaning against the adjacent walls in the corner: perhaps the last three characters slept with each other there, though she couldn't say for sure. She never even saw their true colors—the couches—since the only source of light in the scant place were the few moody spotlights in the ceiling that casted shades onto its nocturnal floor and occasionally flashed hints of the fetid, sullied sofas defiled by butts, smokes, beer, puke, armpits, and sweat.