Candles

What affliction is desire?

     Of waiting

          Knowing in the end

      That you are not wanted.

It is the inklings of another's

      Seeming affection

That baits us ever forward

      And yet,

           In reflection

      There's

          There.

The ache you feel is self-inflicted

     Slow torture

     Of seeing more

          Than what is there.

Rationally, we know why.

     Know what other priorities

     Lay indelicately

          Affection to the side.

We know what Fears

     A sweet caress

     Can command.

          We know what hidden

          Woe

     Would prefer to hide

          Never venturing forth

               Into the rain.

We're tired of wanting to be wanted

     Of hoping for

          Affection's sound

     Offered not as a response

          But as a desire:

     Of warmth stirred

          From a warm heart

     That pretends to play it cool.

What do we get out of this

     Pointless longing?

Why would our heart persist

     Against the silent wall

          Forged of self-preservation

That brings isolation

     To the heart that would

     Rather not be lonely

     If not for the past

          And the echoes of fear

Bouncing off those self-same

          Walls.

It should be us who flees,

     But there are

          Cracks

               In

     The

          Wall

And the occasional light

          That spills from them

     Ignites a new wick

          Though the silence would snuff

     Each candle that marks the

          Time.

Now the candle burns low

     And I fear that the wind

          Will blow

     And that I'm running

          Out of

               Candles.

The White Whale

How impossible it is to purge
    A love once it has found
    A hole in the heart to serve
    As anchor.
Hard when that harpoon, and the
    Knowledge of it's fearful strike
    Is known, truly, and yet
        Kept at a

            Distance

O'er the uncertainty of action
    Of feeling, even when the
    Feeling is recognized and known.

Am I Ahab hunting out of love?
    Honestly I seek its culmination
    Or its demise
        Either would be a blessing
Though I'd far rather
    Love made Manifest

Than the death and disenchantment
    Of a pull so strong
        So constant
    And then gone.

But it is not gone

    And fresh sightings
        And earnest hints of promise
            From a heart that
        Cannot hide
            And a mind that would.

And I am wishing I could prove
        Myself as worthy
    To the mind that
        Reigns such heart
    As cast that first harpoon.
        So, I am Moby,
            Then,
        And Ahab.

And is she, too,
    Ahab and Moby?

Yet it is a battle of love
    On a sea of pain
        And fear
    And the deep
        Unknown.

Storms of hope
        And hope becalmed
    That white whale
        That albatross
            That captain

That white hope
    Would wave the
        White flag,

But surrendering hope of
    Love
        Only birthed
    Itself in surrender.
And hope yielded, but hid
    A passion that would not die

And a yearning stronger than
    The sea
Whose absence
    Renders the tale
    Ahab and Moby
        To metaphors
        Mundane.

And this is anything but mundane
    And trying to accept what
        Is
    And what will be
    That hope and love
        Unburdened by truth
        Would become the truth
            And
        Ahab and Moby
    Would end a battle
        That was love
    To become love.

That the harpoon
        Which is love
    Might be reeled in
        That the white whale
            Might become the ship
                And that together they might
                    Sail and
                        Perhaps
                            Fly.

Scholarship essay 2.0

After careful consideration, and many thanks to the commentaries offered, I took the time to look once more at the prompts and realized I didn't fully answer either of the two I kinda-sorta addressed. Here's round two. I like it more. Also included are the prompts, cause that's rather useful.

1. Tell us about the moment that you knew you were a dramatist and what unique contribution you knew you could make to both your community and the theatre community.
 
AND/OR
 
2. What would your participation in DG’s national conference mean to you as a dramatist? How would it take you to another level in your craft and/or career?
 
AND/OR
 
3. What is the role of the dramatist in the community? What responsibility does a dramatist have? What responsibility does the community have towards a dramatist?

Scholarship Essay, 600 word limit

So the Dramatists Guild is having their annual Conference in La Jolla in July and I have every intention of going. So much so that I've already paid for it. However, they just announced through the Dramatists Guild Fund scholarship opportunities for said Conference. All one has to do is write a brief essay on one of the prompts offered, and this is my submission. Any feedback would be great.

Furrowed Brow

The furrowed brow is not
    quite unlike the unfurrowed
        ground
    Waiting now
        for the planting.

The furrowed brow belies a thought
    which is not so much a seed
    than the manure
        turned
            into the soil.
Fertilizer but no genius
    no muse to summon forth
    the true spirit of the pen
and birther of the fruits
    of thought and feeling.

Furrowed but fallowed
    no truth has been writ
        and no measure has been
            found
to avail oneself of what's
        around.

Where has the seed gone?
        Whither the muse
    who has withered
        ripe for whatever is to come.

And yet plenty does come,
    by the wind, by the wing
        by the hoof...
            we just call them
                weeds

Cultivated by nature, and not
    the green thumb of man
    who would seek to tame
    that which nature makes unruly
    til the furrowed land lies
    hidden and only
        accidental
crops
    by nature chosen
        are given leave to grow.

And do we harvest this bounty
    this wolf among the weeds
    which is, in fact, a puppy,
        untrained, domestic
That we ourselves would call a wolf
    because we've already killed
        them all
        and no longer know
what the wolf is.

So we burn it all down,
    plow it under
        furrow the brow
and plant our wolves
    which will never see a
        harvest
for the wolf is neither fruit
        nor seed
    but the brow furrowed
    turning thoughts
        into manure
turning the soil
    hoping to find gold in
    the ground
        so that we might plow no
            more.
    But that apple is spoiled,
        and the gilding stripped
            from the bough.
        just ask Midas
    the value of gold,
that skeleton in
    El Dorado:
All that remains in the land of
    wolves.

So unfurrow the brow
    unfurl the sails
        and leave behind the plow
and let the wind
    natures genius carry you
        the seed
and behold that you are
the weed that bears true fruit
    to those who know the
        difference
    and plough the mistletoe.

Baci n. 20 (version two... I think)

Baci n. 20
Love is a spontaneous grass, not a garden plant.
I. Neivo

How very like the common grass ,is love;
Hearty, yet tender and resilient
In the face of trials and obstacles.
Even when the earth has been scorched by war,
Drought parched, trampled and ev'ry blade broken,
The Gentle Shoot yet rises to the sun.

And we mortals rise as if to the sun
As the softest caresses of some love
Would heal a heart that time itself has broken.
Man is a beast, ever resilient
And e'en though often with himself at war
Love still overcomes all such obstacles.

Yet no matter how many obstacles
May lie under the ever-arcing sun,
The drought itself will also lose the war.
Water is the object that bestows love;
The object that waxes resilient
Offering itself to the heart-broken.

The truth is, no one is e'er so broken
That grass may not cover such obstacles
That against love, seemed so resilient.
It is e'en as obvious as the sun
That the spontaneity of true love
Was there even before the mind found war.

Tis the mind that hides itself behind war
Ever conscious of a heart once broken
From such woe as is only found through love.
Not drought, not flame, nor snow are obstacles
To the wild grass, persistent as the sun,
Hidden now, but ever resilient.

And it will prove itself resilient
As the water washes away the war:
Grass breaking forth from ground baked by the sun.
Only the outward visage seems broken,
For even the toughest of obstacles
But become the foundations for true love.

Love, like grass, is the most resilient
Of all obstacles.  Tis ourselves that war
Fearful, thought broken; pining for the sun.

Streams Of Whisky

A modern twist of mine on the old water nymph love story. It's a little longish... (2000+ words) Enjoy!


In olden days the spriteful babe
Frolicked in forest, field and fen,
But times have changed and fields have changed,
Til even mighty Zeus has fled.
Yet his licentious progeny
Born and birthed of his same seed
Survives beside the quiet stream.
But times have changed and streams have changed
And while still flowing to the sea,
The Nymphs who once had called them home
No longer frolic to the sea.