Tag Archives: play



(a found poem from Micheal Frayn’s play by the same title)

run down the road
in the sunlight
where the railway arches.

twilight is a garden.

you were barefoot on the street,
you were not a road for coffins.

I am an empty sky.

love used to fly
and overflow.
(some people kiss on in the bus.)

you’re all cold and dark.

the day light is facing the gardens.
the world is magical.

the emptiness came down like a pack of cards,
screaming with hunger.
Daisy eyes gaze at you.
(I always wanted you.)

in the real train station,
you wanted

we just sit and laugh, wide-eyed
(I’m sorry. I don’t know how laugh).

that woman is electricity.

cry and take a deep breath.

(I’m frightened of love)
I hold love letters.
that woman: you’ll see her.
(I’d touch you.)

you’re a beast.
(Daisy’s in love.)
I look at you,
you with the round eyes.
you are daylight.

I was in the woods.

(funny to see you on a walk
in silence
in the rain.)

I laugh about falling in love
in the rain.

he looked at you and forgot
love is just
a simple equation.

we laughed and couldn’t stop.
then she just left
and I don’t know why.

suddenly she opened the door and he was alive in his eyes.
the blood rose to her cheeks
and I can laugh again.
I should marry her
(oh yes I like you).
I see you cry in trees of green, walking in the night, still laughing.
I’m going to start a bonfire and break the dark
the appetite is monumental
and they move round each other
could you stop sprouting up in the garden,
standing in the rain?

You must be starving…I know you’re worrying about me.

I have been waiting for you.

things of changed.

get out of here.

you don’t know how to love.

HE left.
SHE left.

he held out a flower, wanting to be loved.
it was too late.

but it’s a beautiful day
and it’s summer,
I was happy!

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry 


The B-10 Mystery– a short story


Just before we begin–

this is a piece of fiction that I wrote, and I know  it seems a bit out of character, considering the fact that I usually  just write poetry. However, I was very interested to write this, so I hope you all enjoy!





Nobody lives on on the fourth floor anymore-at least, not after what happened to Mrs. Winters. No, everyone stays an arms length from that thin dusty blue carpet and the doormat in front of apartment B-10 that once bore the strange and unfamiliar word “welcome.” It’s funny people even speak of it now. Most people would just label it as a “convenient superstition”.


Molly strode up The narrow staircase nonchalantly, carrying a rather large and unmarked cardboard box. She was dressed in an out of style Calvin Klein tee shirt, a taupe, knee-length overcoat and perfectly washed, but faded and slightly ripped, designer blue jeans, suggesting that she had once been wealthy but recently lost all of her money.Molly Plunked Down the Package outside of apartment B-10, smiled briefly, then ran down the staircase to the lobby and was gone.

A man at the end of the fourth floor hallway had arrived there accidentally, just as the old building elevator, which often malfunctioned, carried him one floor above his desired destination. He observed Molly walking along the fourth floor with purpose, carrying the box, and suspected her of doing something she ought not to do.
The next morning, the man tiptoed up to the apartment B-10 and realized that the box, and whatever lay inside it, was gone. The man shuddered. He dragged his feet back to his residence, then sauntered through the door, unlocked his desk drawer, picked up a shiny revolver and shot himself. If anyone were to have asked him who took the box before he went back to his apartment, he would never have disclosed what he knew: people have a way of constructing detailed and vivid stories on their own, and have such wild imaginations that it would spoil the fun of explaining it.



A small portion of a conversation between a Ms. Hewitt and a  Mrs. Cooke, at seven thirty eastern standard time, Monday, June seventeenth, 1996.

Ms. Hewitt: You know he had a bad day, Maggie! It was bound to be a rash decision!

Mrs. Cooke: No, not the way I saw it. He was pacing around the kitchen table giving me that look. I got so freaking scared,  I–

H: Well don’t you dare blame me, I was the one to get nearly 50 letters from the man,while you sat there at home doing nothing to stop him.

C: Don’t exaggerate.

H: What?

C: I said don’t exaggerate. It’s called a Hyperbole.

H: Yes, we all know you went to grad school, Margaret.

C: He only sent you five letters.

H: More like 20.

C: The point is, I know he hid it from us.

H: So… he had it brought back for…safekeeping?

C: Bingo!

(there is a long pause. Ms. Hewitt breathes heavily)

H: Let me get this straight. Are you telling me that Bas***d had the balls to do PLAN G?!?! Of all the–

C: Nobody has to know!

H: Oh, but they will know, they will Maggie, the second it gets there someone’s gonna go bananas. And if it gets out, It’s gonna be–wait, who did he hire?!

C: Molly

H: Ah Shit! you’ve got to be kidding me!

C: I can always have her let go–

H: No, No! It’s all ruined! she knows too many people…

C: We have it under control.

H: That’s highly doubtful.

C: Beth, we have it under control, okay? I love you but–

H: Yeah, love you too.

C:  What I mean is,  sometimes things don’t  turn out how you want them to. And, I know it’s never getting any better for us, but–

H: You want me to order flowers?

(Long pause)

C: You’d do that for me?

H: Of course.

C: Thank you darling.

H: Not a problem. Call me if anything else goes wrong in the next 24 hours, which I’m sure it will.

C: That I will do.

H: well, so long for now.

C: so long.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry




Talking To the Mirror/A Boy without a face


The girl paces her bedroom. The sunlight from the picture window hits her bed, and the light is soft and hazy. She is daydreaming, and she wishes somebody would call her. That’s the idea, call him now, perhaps he’s there..no, well, he’s always so selfish, why bother? What a nice boy to talk to I always get a kick out of that voice that manner you know he’s always been after you, don’t you? Not the way he’s ben so distant, always in such a hurry to go. No, the bedroom is pink like bubblegum, look at the ceiling, look at the window, the larkspur, the mocking bird, the jay, the bluejay, the pine, cone firs, the brisling branches meeting her eye, she will spy-the phone is waiting, expect nothing, not the voice, not that manner, he will not be there, don’t expect a thing, but- is, a jolt- that voice, that manner, you know he’s always been after you, hasn’t he? He’s on the other line.

And he says hello.

Me: I like you

Him: I know

Me: you bastard!

Him: *smirks*

M: you know I love you

H: *stares awkwardly, unsure of what to make of my statement*

M: I do.

H: I know


M: so, why haven’t you said hi lately?

H: they took away my phone, and, as you know, I have a bit of short-term memory loss

M: no you don’t, you’re just lazy dear

H: the two go hand in hand actually.

M: mm hmm. So are you going to call me?

H: no.

M: I hate you

H: no you don’t

M: no, you’re right, I don’t.

H: *smiles*

M: I really do love you

H: so you say

M: You’re talking, you’re always talking. Why do we always have to talk?

H: because we enjoy having meaningful conversations and discussing prevalent topics in our current society.

M: stop using such big words, they don’t fit you.

H: yes, they do

M: no they don’t.

H: so anyway, how is your life going?

M: I don’t know, it’s been hectic, and I mostly need some sleep. I slept twelve hours yesterday, it was epic.

H: *laughs* you silly girl, you.

M: (trying to ask questions) and how is your life dear?

H: Well, my family is being stupid, and I hate them. I also have to finish this project for science later. I have to go in like two minutes.

M: why?

H: because I’m going to get picked up really soon.

M: (sadly) okay, fine. Well, I’l miss you…

H: I’ll miss you too.

M: Goodbye dear.

H: Bye.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

Monolouge-Bad Influence


I felt like writing a monologue today. Don’t ask me why.


You wanna hear about it? Ok. So basically we had this big barn in the backyard when we were little and Emma would always pretend to be a chicken in there. And she would flap her arms out like an idiot and say things that chickens might say if they had brain cells. But she would scream. When we went into kindergarten it was the same torture all over again, only she wouldn’t let me speak. It was her game, she said. Eventually she just didn’t want us to be friends.  It was weird, you know, cause most of us would play in our little groups, and we didn’t, so it kind of made me feel special. But then she turned out to be some brat from the valley who had no clue on how to get by in school. She was like that all through Junior High even, I remember her getting three D’s and she didn’t even know it was a bad thing. She ended up going to Juvie or something. Wait, no, Sarah told me about that. Sorry,  that was a rumor. Anyway, I guess I’ve been used like that most of my life. And I never get any wiser after,  And then came the whole problem of relationships, which, on the whole, do make me want to gag. But Paul was different at first, you know? He loved me so much it was almost Ethereal. Well, that’s what Amy and Daisy and Leah all said about him. So that’s that one. And the rest of my girlfriends have all gone to become waitresses at some dump restaurant at I don’t even know where, and they’re just making minimum wage on the side so that they can even afford college. It’s sad, you know? My friends. I was the only one who ended up with a A in any of the classes they failed last year. No, actually, It’s pathetic. I can’t make friends with one  good person, and it’s really itching me to know why. Can you get the hell out of here?

The smell of rain


Bernard, a free spirited man in his forties is with his wife, Amy, a close- minded woman in her mid-thirties. On their balcony. It’s about to rain.

Bernard: doesn’t it feel like rain?

Amy: looks like it, yeah

B: I was just wondering, do you, maybe…like, can you SMELL it?

A: rain has a scent?

B I don’t know, it gets kind of moist…sorta invigorating, but i don’t know how to put a finger on the smell…

A: its the smell of imagination. I have no clue what you are talking about, Berny.

B: neither do you, apparently.

A: oh really?

B: Yeah, I know plenty of people who can smell rain. its like another sense, Amy. Hey, have some fun, will you? you’re so uptight all of the time. Maybe it’s limiting you’re sense of imagination. Maybe you’re forgetting what freedom’s like. Come on, it’s rain! Have some fun!

A: Bernard James Patrickson, just because you earned a degree in psychology fifteen years ago does not mean you can try to be my shrink.

B: I’m not trying to be anything, Amy,I”m trying to be alive!

A: (looking away. Long pause.) do you want to go back inside and watch tv?

B: What?

A: Never mind. Do you want some ice-cream? some toast? I have Bryers ice cream in the fridge.

B: What are you talking about? Ames. I don’t want ice cream. I want you.

A: no, bern-

B: I want you, amy, I want you.

A: Stop saying that, berny, stop saying that!

B: But ames-

A: (shouting) stop saying that, just stop! ( lowering her voice). Can you just come back into the house, bern?

B: why- why are you always changing the subject?

AMY exits stage right.

B: Ames…

BERNARD burries his face in his hands.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

The Conversation


BEN: God, I’m livid. the house caught on fire,

GOD: I know-



BEN: As I was saying.

GOD: (crossing his arms) Continue.

BEN: The house caught on fire, Nancy has cancer, Amy is sick with whooping cough, James is broke, and Daniel still doesn’t have a girlfriend-

GOD: Figures

BEN: HEY! he was my friend, okay?

GOD: I’m just saying he could have asked for my help!

BEN: Well, you know he’s atheist, I’m sorry. I’m sorry he offended your compassionate little heart there, but uh, yeah, no use convincing him…(winces) ..like I said God, we’re not all that clear in our heads… I mean, I just really want some peace and quiet. Something that will let me know that this  string of horrors is going to be over and I can reassure myself that you exist.

GOD: but you never needed reassuring, Benjamin.

BEN: I know, I know. but I’m older now and…I mean..I think everyone gets doubtful once in a while.

GOD: What’s there to doubt?

BEN: I don’t think you’d understand it, God. it’s a…it’s a mortal thing. We- cling to our senses and what our mind tells us and nothing else. It’s why I’d still like it if you helped us out more…

GOD: Son, have you ever heard the phrase “everything happens for a reason” ?

BEN: (long pause) really?

GOD: I’m just saying, maybe you should start thinking about the divine purpose behind everything that goes on in your life.

BEN: Arrrgk, stop with all the philosophy! I just wanted to complain, just wanted some answers- I didn’t want a lecture. But, of course, I knew I wasn’t going to get it anyway, so what was I thinking?

GOD: (smiles) have a good day, Benjamin

BEN: Yeah, have a great one.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry


void of inspiration


having some minor writer’s block. hope you enjoy this semi-interesting attempt at a play script…
And its pretty unoriginal, but who cares?

a typewriter shop storefront.

Enter LORAINE, a short petite girl, who is a studious college student , wearing glasses, collard shirt, and a plaid skirt. LORAINE looks at the sign that says “hours of operation”. Enter WALLACE, a scruffy man in his mid- forties with a belly, a beard , and a good sense of humor.

LORAINE: huh. the store hours are eight to seven. Wait, they close at SEVEN?

WALLACE: it’s just a typewriter store, and nobody buys them. you’re going to be the first customer they’ve had in ages. I’m sure it won’t take you all day to find the one. I mean, it’s only mid afternoon….

LORAINE:but I have to speak to the manager for a few hours! I’m working on something called “save the store” and it’s going to be a research paper about dying businesses in the larger Detroit area!

WALLACE: listen, doll, ALL the businesses in Detroit are dying businesses!

LORAINE: but I have to write my term paper on something!

WALLACE: write about me. I’m a dying man.

LORAINE: no, just a lonesome one. And I’m not making a novel, just trying to live through college. Hold this (hands him her sweater).

WALLACE: Listen Loraine, you have enough experience already. Just write about something more interesting. There is plenty to write about, believe me!

LORAINE: I can use you for inspiration, maybe…


LORAINE: well, huh, let’s see…bingo! I can write about the impact that computers have on the tissue that covers the retina of our eyes!

WALLACE: and you came up with this just from looking at me.

LORAINE: if it worked last time, why shouldn’t it work this time?

WALLACE: that’s true. I have saved your butt quite a few times, now that I think about it….

LORAINE: well there. ya see?

WALLACE: huh. yeah….you know you’re dress is just fantastic?

LORAINE: oh, lay off!

WALLACE: (smiles) whatever you say, Loraine, whatever you say.

LORAINE starts to walk off stage right.

LORAINE: I’l have to meet you again next time, maybe soon…

WALLACE: fine, just do me a favor. next time, no typewriter stores, okay?

LORAINE: fine.

LORAINE exits stage right .WALLACE exits stage left. He turns around and waves her sweater in the air.


WALLACE looks down at the sweater, sighs and exits stage left.