two poems, both alike in…theater.

“To Maria,” online in the spring issue of Foothill.

“An Actor’s Life For Me,” in the winter paper issue of the Hopkins Review, which you can read by clicking here. The word “sounds” in the second stanza should not be on its own line, but rather, appended to the one above it. But who’s counting?

Most of you have seen most of this before, but it is nice to have these out in the world; both of them, especially the second one, have been too long a time in the braincubator.

ON TIME

Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race;
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy plummet’s pace;
And glut thyself with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more then what is false and vain,
And merely mortal dross;
So little is our loss,
So little is thy gain…

– John Milton

(Those are just the opening lines; the whole thing is here.)