the theatre

How like a mouth this wooden closure stands. The walls? Its cheeks. Its tongue? The actors play. But what for teeth? Why curtains cut the strands That 'tween each act does chew the scene away. At night it gapes, its dreamings fills the halls. At day, 'tis full of feuding argument. At evening, then the practiced word slow crawls Along the lines the playwright's pen has bent. The mind's potential does the Queue ignite Enunciating Havoc or Control. Those witnessing do burn a brighter light Than singly possible, alone and small. How like a mouth, this place, potential breeds.

Yea! Speech does grow our thoughts with words as seeds.

Liam, a loyalist spy, speaks to a Confidant of

betrayal without breath

"Quick, the door shuts, the gate lowers to close. There is not a flicker of time to pause. Give now the secret which you now hold. Chose You this time and place `tween guards; for what cause? You are silent. Think you the dripping on The dungeon walls ceases for you? Caught, Death Meets us quickly. Suspected, we must run. Only tell what news begs your tardy breath. I have no wish to linger twixt this fear And the most dire need to work for her To whom we are sworn. Speak, you. Damn your ears, What short word can move thee. What threat murmured...

[Confidant falls over, dead] Gods, how like life you looked. Now I see, Death.

Fate worked thee to speak betrayal, without breath."   

    An experienced Tudor courtier speaks to a newly arrived member of

the court of kings

The Court of Kings is a place of power And those who play must execute their moves Well, or be well executed themselves. Dodging the swaying vines and ill flowers Of deceit through this garden-politic Keeps one agile, (since the slow become dead). But though there are many who play this dread Game with spoiling hearts, there are delicate Numbers whose skill and doing are both clean And good. Here, the power of a pure heart And a conscientious mind may yet part This company and do good work and seem Like Medicine thriving in a snake pit.

Aid them well in this task. Think well on it.

  (Cymbric, a bereaved new-widow, speaks:)

on death

"Stay away, You vile and foul-stenched monster! Hie thee from this place for quite a while more! No cold and bloodless hand shall clasp, nor stir This form of peaceful beauty though my door! By spells, signs, amulets, dances and chants, I shall beat You back, bloody Your knuckles! Bring to force any mass I can incant From Heaven to most ambivalent Hell!

Spring thee? I shall put Thee down. Clamor Thee? I shall rouse even louder; Raving rant I shall banshee Thy ears and senses, free Of mortal bounds, till Thy power is spent! He'll not be taken from me! By my oath.

I'll fight Thee 'til my death... then take Ye both."

 feaste of fooles:

O' What an odd cacophony of sound Did break upon these boards as ill spent wind. What dance did stumble stupor like around.

What words were mangled from the start to end. Who was this man whose clothing bore no thread? And threadless, who the Author of this plot?

No "Plot" did this 'grave' venture. Lay it Dead! 'twere better if this labored act had not. But since this act has 'wondered' by our minds And cut its meat from living sources hacked, Be pleased by blessings given by this Bind

That grants you mem'ry that you'ld've* else wise lacked. If better walls were built and less torn down Then you have taught, and learned. So be you proud.

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*yes, "you'ld've" is a contraction of "you would have" into one slurred syllable, said as if you are having a hard time acknowledging the point you're making;-)

The future of the world we call A Stage is young with racing talent. So my fears are gone, replaced with wonder at the age they match their beats to, ages old as tears. They have so briefly seen The Coastline dance. So little known the Colours of the Soil. What Harvest of the World have they perchance withstood? Yet Truth rings true and they are loyal. They, holding up their mirrors, light our shrouds. We see within the caverns that do wait. Become they Waters-Still, and gift us clouds since we are all too busy at the gate. A giving time was had for all this Cause. And we repay with little noise,

Applause.

  what's a Norse girl like you doing in a place like this?

Your fathers and your brothers have stolen Many things (and from my folk more than most) But this son of the Emerald Isle, in Meeting you, daughter of the Northern hosts, Had only lost crops and cattle before... Now what was I to do with one less heart? I had never seen such a gaze as yours. And your eyes... well, I'm no bard. but apart From my home, nothing has ever looked so... good! At the faire, I was lulled by partial peace And forgot my anger towards those who took From us and gave my heart to you with ease. So, Northern Lass, this 'robbed' man stands to tell: I love you - not too wisely, but.

His was a shrill and ill tuned instrument For his god. That horn did brassily prick With thin and needling notes what was meant To be a faultless parchment and too quick Did turn an exercise of love into An exorcism for his own devil. Love's sermon was tortured there and those two Bridal bound voyagers had no revel. The blessing that needed to be spoken Should have come from a kinder man than this. Now, what was poorly fired has been broken. Shards, instead of vessels, line the abyss Between this once happily joined couple.

What good came from this minister's trouble?

overactingus melodramatica (et lingua in kake est.)

`tis no fault of man, but that thing called "Age"

one copper coin:

May it at least my thanks for beauty tell.

if Puck loved Titania:

Within these walls, such as they are, we're lost!

No time have we to spend. So, send our hearts To other when's and where's and, once apart, They'll wind together and well-cheat the cost Of love. For those walls be tall and shadowed, And ill lit. Old are those walls that hold deep Secrets whispered, and cold are keeps that keep Dark truths told. There, our two bound hearts, though owed To other's ears, may there make bold and speak Aloud the treasures therein and relieve The pain felt herein. Holding close the sheaves Of heaven, and before the morn's star peeks Out, we'll be gone, like lazy mists at dawn...

Lear, the King. from rhyme to rupture

based upon Shakespeare's "King Lear" from the point of view of his officer, an angry (yet loyal) Kent.

When present anger mars Lear's recent face.

unto the Bard:

Now, here a man of many letters lies. Well spoken of, though years have known his death. What plays, what thoughts, expressions all alive Still guide as beacons to the new born breath. How brief but true his sounds yet ring us. Hear! They give direction to us, wand'ring still. How pure he knew us, getlings countless years His junior, changed so little in our soul.

His bones be dusty, nothing binded found But bound and bound again his tombs to read. And players, shallow fellows (like a pond) Reflective on his arguments, proceed. There lies he not, in truth he stands here now.

Still giving wit to answer what we'd know.

the savage feaste:

What sword... of Truth? of Law?... can cleanse this hall?

monk's cell:

O', When your gaze is mine to see, I feel near unto a candle its light onto my darkness its warmth into my heart. I wish to hold your form and let it light my cell. I wish its warmth, but I turn... for it's not mine to send away my shadows nor is it mine to send away my cold. For mine are shadows, mine the cell. Mine, and that is all that I can know.

the arm of darkness:

The arm of darkness is born with and in us. We find and gather more on our way and yet more clings to us unbidden as we walk. The arm of darkness has one constant face: When it falls upon us for the final time, our voice is never again new from our throat. What shall your echo be? A melody picked up in chorus by those who continue or a cry unanswered because you cannot/will not hear us sing?

the architect:

We know not what we weave. But that we do affect all life, believe.

andrew:

From darkness, there your spark warms out the fright And guides our shadowed children to the light.

A Knight gives greeting to a new made member of the Order in

the welcoming:

We all are of a cloth, we're woven here. For life does beat its rhythm on this loom of days. The weft are the realities of life. The warp? The interactions and the accidents of each our lives. It is a strong weave, usually. It is a complex weave, always. And there are those who, by their very nature, add a strength unto it all. Those who regard each opportunity as time to help the whole, who pick up things of beauty and of possibility, improve them and then give away their work. Who charm and warm these "chances" with their goodness and then give away those gifts so they may then help others grow. There are those who learn simply so they then may teach, who grow strong simply so they may lend strength, who sing so they might give a better praise and who observe so they may see what needs the doing, and then see it done. There are yet those who build so others may build even more. Such is this person, such is this good friend to Land and People, we need give our recognition now.

Now, welcome this true servant of the Realm, this noble Peer.

the Argument 

Here, a man alone on stage, finishes a conversation with the woman who has just left. He said nothing to her (of course) and all we know of her is from her slamming the door as she leaves. Remember, "Argument" is either a disagreement OR a presentation of a case. It is the latter this character does.