I have forgot what it means to be dry
Because I have lived in this rain too long.
I hope my personal weather will sigh,
Allowing the time with the sun the time to be strong.
Until then I will sit under this cloud
With my drenched clothes clinging to my body.
A fool in the rain can never be proud,
Punishment for never being naughty.
I will continue to wear my smile
‘Cause others depend on the attitude.
Dripping laughter will become my style,
Never expecting any platitude.
Will any ever understand my pain,
Just a wet man, standing in his own rain?
Category: poetry reading
Watch the AUGUST 2018 Poetry Readings
Poetry Reading: i want my body burned by short-prose-fiction
Performed by Elizabeth Rose Morriss
*****
Producer: Matthew Toffolo http://www.matthewtoffolo.com
Director: Kierston Drier
Casting Director: Sean Ballantyne
Editor: Kimberly Villarruel
Camera Op: Mary Cox
Poetry Reading: SHATTERED by Annie M
Performed by Elizabeth Rose Morriss
*****
Producer: Matthew Toffolo http://www.matthewtoffolo.com
Director: Kierston Drier
Casting Director: Sean Ballantyne
Editor: Kimberly Villarruel
Camera Op: Mary Cox
Poetry Reading: Testimony, by Michelle Owusu
Performed by Elizabeth Rose Morriss
*****
Producer: Matthew Toffolo http://www.matthewtoffolo.com
Director: Kierston Drier
Casting Director: Sean Ballantyne
Editor: Kimberly Villarruel
Camera Op: Mary Cox
Read Poetry: JUNE 26, 2015 by Felice Picano
Had he lived
would we be celebrating
our momentous today
or simply let it go
having had it, lived it
for ourselves so long?
Not ever requiring
The officious,
official authentication.
Would the sidewalk
revelers we do not stop
to embellish, recall
that evening’s evening star
kiss a crescent moon
and splashily silver the plaza?:
the Chilean pianist’s final,
near-silent, pianissimo —
in c minor: astonished
to hear our wild applause
–so deep in meditation?
Had he lived
would palm and frond and fern and cedar
be spiny pine and elder alder
rimed icy tight?
And night’s aromas not be
soft Hollywood honeysuckle
but copper nasal hot
as sunsets on the Hudson
still stupefy and hurt?
Had he lived
would his photo’s face be replaced
by one that’s less familiar?
like that infrequent, five a.m.
r.e.m image
that makes me wake up in wonder
and feel blessed all day long?
No mirage — I swear —
but across that Wild Divide,
a kind of true communication . . .
Had he lived?
© 2018, Felice Picano
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Read Poem: An Adult Fable for the Modern Day by Cindi Walton
Way up high on the seventeenth floor lived a selfish young princess dressed in Dior.
“My nail is chipped and my hair is a mess.” Where is that maid, I need to get dressed!”
“Bring me my dog, now take him to pee. Run me a bath and bring me my tea!”
She clamored and bellowed, bullied and such that her maid up and quit, she’d had just too much.
Now alone and frightened on the seventeenth floor, there came a knock on the Princess’s door.
Not sure what to do without hired help, the knocking kept knocking, her little dog yelped.
Knocking and yelping the neighbors could hear, so they called the cops and one was quite near.
“I think she’s in danger, I think she is dead,” “I really don’t care” one neighbor said.
So the cop took the stairs to the seventeenth floor, stopping in front of the Princess’s door.
And there in plain sight was the Princess’s maid, knocking because she forgot to get paid.
“Why did you quit? What did she do?” asked the cop of the maid who was stomping her shoe.
“She’s a witch and a tyrant, a bully that’s why…she never says thank you, I really do try.”
“I come when she beckons which often than not. Wash all her undies and hankies with snot.”
“I am a person and she treats me so bad, I’ve just had enough and I really got mad.”
“I see, said the cop as he saw the door crack. She treated you badly so you’re not coming back.”
“Aye, a please and a thank you never received, I totally get it, your thoroughly peeved.”
Now a light went on in the Princess’s head, nobody liked her, some wanted her dead.
Was she a bully as the maid had proclaimed? “Oh my, I am selfish and totally ashamed!”
So she opened the door and let the cop in, offered him tea, admitted her sins.
The maid got a raise and a miracle you see, she even took the dog out to pee.
She cleaned up her act and acquired some class, became a lady and not a spoiled ass
So the moral is as morals go, be ye a princess or be ye a maid, the fact of the matter you never can trade
For kindness and class goes hand in hand, spreading good will throughout the whole land.
A Footnote to Shelley’s ‘Ozymandias’ By Parveen Talpur
The Desert Woman
I remember,
Within the loose circle of a veil
A face strong, striking and pale
Bearing a Sphinx-like riddle
Its expression stoic, features intriguing
Chiseled sharply by piercing winds
Tanned darkly by the blazing sun
It called for a poet to feel its solidity
A historian to read the history engraved on it
In isolation it stood, in distance it was lost
Leaving its imprint on my memory
All these years after it keeps haunting
The only feature in the vast monotony of that desert
A rare ore amidst the grains of sand
Unread, unnoticed, unnamed
Insignificant and opposite of Ozymandias’ fame
Poetry Reading: MORONIC MOTORISTS, BY JOHN ROSS HARVEY
Performed by Val Cole
*****
Producer: Matthew Toffolo http://www.matthewtoffolo.com
Director: Kierston Drier
Casting Director: Sean Ballantyne
Editor: Kimberly Villarruel
Camera Op: Mary Cox
Poetry Reading: Poetry of Mind, by Joy Genauer
Performed by Matt Barnes
******
Producer: Matthew Toffolo http://www.matthewtoffolo.com
Director: Kierston Drier
Casting Director: Sean Ballantyne
Editor: Kimberly Villarruel
Camera Op: Mary Cox