Dear J Doe

Dear unknown, my John or Jane doe

So it’s been a short while since I wrote, 

Anything.

A poem, a micro poem or even a rhyming couplet. 

I’ve been back under a cloud, sad to say it’s been a dark week or so, 
I want to get back out of the rut. So I’m writing this. 

A letter into the abyss 

Of online semantical depths of a potential echo. 
They say to write what you know, 

What’s true to you, say it as so. 

But sometimes that’s not something anyone would want to read. 

I always try to write for ‘another me’ to pay it forward 

To those who may take comfort that they are not alone,

Or just because I see, feel or hear something poetical. 

Self indulgent really, to a point. 
I hope to be back in my stride soon 

But to write what I know 

Write and feel what I feel 

Can sometimes feel 

More 

More precarious 

Than keeping it bottled up inside. 

So, dear John, the John Doe – or Jane, 

What’s in a name? 
I hope you’ll take my silence as read. 

I want to believe it’s a strength, 

Protecting those to whom some of my demons are tethered, 

In some vein hope I can retain a sense of hope. 
Hope, my current endeavour. 
I’ll be back on scribbles, 

I’ll be drawing and sketching again.
But for now my heart and mind need protection 

From my passionate desire and dark passengers

Who haunt me

Taunt me.
This letter is a declaration of hope. 

A shout to those on the edge of despair, 

Join me on the brink of somethingness, 

A defiant gesture to the ghosts and apprehension 

That haunt. 

And taunt.

So… I –

I thank you for reading, 

Dear John and/or Jane,

And I hope to be with you, 

Be back, 

Living.

Again.

Sincerely,

Doe

Thanks for your ongoing support folks, much appreciated,

Be well and stay strong, 

Josie xx

The Shrew

A soliloquy for Katerina in Taming Of The Shrew; how she feels about her father’s lack of understanding & his devotion to her sister

Katerina:

O’he knows not how I need not to love,
How I need not no man to take my heart in his.
They lack the tact and empathetic sentiment
To truly care for or woo such a tender soul that of a woman,
Their hearts and minds are all but rough in their thinking,
looking to prove and impress, to compete and to win
They fight and duel for love, they do not relish and enjoy it.
I will enjoy, I will relish, I will exploit my empathetic soul
And I will fight to meet my match, may no man derive any other means
Nor challenge me, for though I love like a woman
I can fight like a man for that love.
My bitterness is but a veil to infuriate the subjective nature of my father’s love,
He, above all men, proves that beauty is more to a man than spirit,
My spirit is as much-mellow as he desires but shall not appear so
Until one worthy of such vulnerability is near to my heart.
My father loves my sister for her simplicity, her beauty and her flirtatious manner,
She draws in money, attention and bewilderments
Which can only benefit him and his purpose,
I on the other hand… disappoint. But soft, here comes my sister.

Reflections

A monologue; one of a Grand Guignol style production ‘Cabaret of Confessions’

Imagine this… to begin… Arson. Murder. Destruction. A child. Alone.
The empty shell of her home reflected in the tears in her eyes, we watch as they fall. The smell, the dry smell of the cinders as they dissolve into ash around her. Choking her… as she crouches. Half lit by the remaining flames. Flickering.
She reaches to her mother. Her body barely visible through the half-lit smoke. Motionless. The child fumbles forwards, hugging the corpse. Rocking. Sobbing. Her sister’s body lies near by, her father is no where to be seen.
Suddenly a near by mirror smashes in the heat… sending glass flying towards her. She screams in pain. We see her scream in pain… but her screams are silenced… drowned even, by the remaining flames as they destroy what is left.

Continue reading

The Faceless

An excerpt from my initial draft of ‘The Faceless’, a short story about three characters; their journey through masking their fears and desires.

Jane’s story:

And so she waits. Contemplative. Performing the everyday to avoid an inner-consumption. Re-enacting the future, repeatedly in anticipation of the unknown, taking control in the only way left. Habitually her eyes scan the paper in that familiar rhythm of absence as her thoughts turn to herself. It was a trick she learned years ago; to imitate the mundane ticks of the people around her in naturally contemplative situations; in cafes, on the train, in a crowded waiting room. Her places of comfort. most notably in the moments when the faceless descended. It was best be alone with her thoughts in safety, for which she needed the crowds of the faceless. The safety of being surrounded by the natural pulses of the busy-folk with their exuberant need for distraction to get through the seconds between meetings, the minutes between their next meeting of others’ expectations. All the while, behind her mimics and imitations, the metronome of her thoughts would slow to catharsis as those around her seemed to buzz with anticipation; like white noise.

Her eyes dart around the cafe now as she resurfaces from her catharsis; a waiter jolting her back to heightened humanity as one of these faceless, timeless creatures drives through his shoulder — so desperate to get wherever was more important. The waiter looked flustered and his mouth and eyes formed the apology she never heard.

Continue reading

Courage

An excerpt from a monologue as part of my ‘Cabaret of Confessions’ suite.

Courage? What is courage?
It’s survival,  I guess.
I survived you.

Heartbreak.

Heartbreak can be full of emptiness.
So empty you’re full of it.
Overwhelming; energy in absence, anger, tears.
I used mine, did  you?

In a passion of bad timing and good intentions my life changed… I guess I just didn’t know it yet

Continue reading

Wordsmith

A monologue, the free writing poetical ramblings of a writer struggling with their relationship with their words; the tools of their survival.

Words, words, words;

Escaping the definition of interpretation of the everyday, the mundane and the monotonous,
Trying to break the multi-syllabic montage of the necessity to understand
Without words, actions would have little meaning,
So how can actions speak louder than words?

Words, words, words;
Semantic scribbling a with semantic hypnosis.
A desire.
A drive.
A need to know and to interpret,
And a loathing in anticipation of our failure to success.
The loathing is only so because it’s labelled this way,
The action which is t one loathed is only so because we are to fulfil this anthropomorphic scripture,
Which — once spoken — becomes a feeling or the need to feel.
If the written word is so powerful and the actions it defines, destroys and disembowelled, so terrible,
Then the spoken work seeks only to justify, to establish a balance and to nullify the impact.
Continue reading

Puck’s heart

A soliloquy written for puck; her love for oberon. Excerpt From an original play: ‘Cubed’

A soliloquy showing Puck’s love for Oberon. From an original play: ‘Cubed’

Our love is as a melody; once magical – now mundane.

If he could simply take his time to listen, truly listen to the words with his heart he should find what he fell for, what enchanted him about our song.

He loves me not, but my heart holds me to his will at least a while longer. I cannot work my charms upon him, he is immune to such trickery, and I could not live with myself, nor not with him neither if he were not to be authentic in his love.

Continue reading

Oberon’s lament

Oberon explains his influence over 3 catalytic characters from some of Shakespeare’s plays. An excerpt from an original play: ‘Cubed’

Prologue; Oberon’s lament

1…2…3.
1…2…3.
Look thou there, what dost thou see?
A Man, a Monster, a Wizard? Or a Whisp?
But in the blink of an eye, it could all be missed.
1…2…3. 1 – 2 – 3!

I beg of you all a spell, a moment in time;
And I’ll break your schemic rhythm of rhyme.
Wilt thou not listen and but observe a short while.
Ask I not for forgiveness, ‘tis indeed not my trial.
Nor not to forget, not a smile, not a tear,
Nor to learn more of me than you see here.

I mean only to take you on a journey. Wilt thou tarry?
Even in rags, ‘tis some fortune I carry.
Lend me your ears and we will transcend time,
Now to my story, I am done with this rhyme.

I was once a king – A King, a lover and husband and a good man.
Yet – you seem to trust me not – No matter. All will transpire with time.
I pray you, embrace my tale if only with a lighthearted eye.

Continue reading