July 15, 2008


Scene

I had most need of blessing, and Amen
Stuck in my throat.

(Macbeth. Act II. Scene 2.)

posted by Sheila Ryan in literature, poetry, theater 

comments

7 Responses to “Scene”

  1. Sheila Ryan on July 15th, 2008 at 8:07 pm

    “I think Kathy Jesus-Hilen-Smith can take care of that,” said Deron Bauman, and then everything went blank.

    We now return to our regularly scheduled programming, already in progress.

  2. Rick Neece on July 15th, 2008 at 8:14 pm

    …and cut. Gorgeous!

    Sheila, of any of us here, you are most surely blest.

    You just keep on, hear?

  3. Sheila Ryan on July 15th, 2008 at 8:22 pm

    Thank you, Rick. Feeling kindly cursed these days, but I imagine that’s just misplaced attention. I’m grateful for the re-direction.

  4. alek on July 16th, 2008 at 9:27 am

    ‘having your Ren burnt out is worse, much worse. the searing throbbing pain is always there, with no purpose to take your mind off it.’
    the western lands
    burroughs

  5. Sheila Ryan on July 16th, 2008 at 9:33 am

    Got my Ren inscribed on that cartouche I’m wearing. Not sure whether that’s wise or not.

  6. Cooper Renner on July 16th, 2008 at 11:17 am

    Perfect match of artwork and epigraph.

  7. jack on July 31st, 2008 at 1:49 am

    i think i might stay on th Cohen -joplin theme -as i spilt my morning coffee
    cool jacket -

    I saw you this morning.
    You were moving so fast.
    Can’t seem to loosen my grip
    On the past.
    And I miss you so much.
    There’s no one in sight.
    And we’re still making love
    In my secret life.

    I smile when I’m angry.
    I cheat and I lie.
    I do what I have to do
    To get by.
    But I know what is wrong,
    And I know what is right.
    And I’d die for the truth
    In my secret life.

    Hold on, hold on, my brother.
    My sister, hold on tight.
    I finally got my orders.
    I’ll be marching through the morning,
    Marching through the night,
    Moving cross the borders
    Of my secret life.

    Looked through the paper.
    Makes you want to cry.
    Nobody cares if the people
    Live or die.
    And the dealer wants you thinking
    That it’s either black or white.
    Thank g-d it’s not that simple
    In my secret life.

    I bite my lip.
    I buy what I’m told:
    From the latest hit,
    To the wisdom of old.
    But I’m always alone.
    And my heart is like ice.
    And it’s crowded and cold
    In my secret life.

Leave a Reply