I once had this foolish idea that I could write poetry. Here's proof of that foolishness:

With Eyes Close, Visions Come

by

Earl T. Roske

With eyes closed, visions come

The day, the week, the month

Angry seas that rise up

Crashing like mighty waves

Upon the stoic cliffs;

The bulwarks of my mind.

Thoughts, twisted, swish and slap

Like torn and battered sails

No longer able to contain the wind.

Through the dark curdling clouds

Calming light comes upon me

And burst upon my mind

I am directed then

To a vision of you.

Calm winds and seas begin.

Thoughts point like a compass

Directing me clearly

And my eyes open to calm and to you.

A life of solitude on the web. It's like camping out with no one around. (Until someone finds me. Like an explorer, lost and alone, chopping their way through the undergrowth when suddenly ....)

So for the 31 plays in 31 days I thought I'd really just go ahead and shove a splinter under my fingernail. I did this by trying to write a play in iambic pentameter. Fool that I am. I did it. Sort of. But took hours. Lots more time than I should have wasted. But, in secret, I wish to write a one-act play in iambic pentameter. Well, I did until I wrote this short play. Hm. Here it is:

---

If I Were To Repeat Myself                                                                         by Earl T. Roske

(Lights up on Acacius, a dying gunslinger. He is alone)

                                                                        ACACIUS

                                                                        (Death enters halfway through sonnet and stops to listen.)

My life has gone down a path I'd not sought

Bushes of thorns I've often forced my way

Through at risk of penalties I have wrought

Reluctant yet knowing I'd see this day

Yet as the chill begins to creep from skin

To bone and the light dims on this bright day

If there had been another way to spin

The tale I've lived to turn a different way

Then perhaps my hands would be free from stain

Of powder and blood and the grime of death

I would not then be here my heart in pain

For all the hurt I carry on my breast

What I would do if life I could repeat

Things so different my ending would be sweet.

                                                                        DEATH

The choices you've made you bear to the end

Wishing and dreaming will change not a thing

                                                                        ACACIUS

I see that death has come to make amend

For making a puppet of my sad being

Keep your apology for someone more worthy

                                                                        DEATH

There's no apology from me made to you

You made all your choices made them clearly

So I have come to collect what is due

                                                                        ACACIUS

I have worked like the scythe there in your hand

Slicing a path marked with tears stained with blood

An unwitting tool reaping 'cross the land

Weeds of tombstones grow now where once men stood

                                                                        DEATH

If you thought your actions would earn reward

Truly little you know of who you are

Inside you are things you have yet explored

                                                                        ACACIUS

Explored I have done and picked at each scar

This is not the man I'd chosen to be

                                                                        DEATH

Yet here you are with your last sun setting

You're choices were yours they don't rest with me

I am not your fate, I am what's waiting

Within you lays choice the fork of each path

That which is in you guides your direction

It is the pen which scribes your last paragraph

I am the result of all people's action

Concern yourself not where blame is to rest

                                                                        ACACIUS

But my life is wasted, what might have been

Torments my last like some unwanted guest

                                                                        DEATH

You would have chose different if you'd foreseen

                                                                        ACACIUS

I would have I know it that I am sure

Violence is no life it brings only pain

Better to be those who strive and endure

                                                                        DEATH

But those ways were not the ways that you chose

                                                                        ACACIUS

They were not. I wish that things were different

                                                                        DEATH

And you would not be you if you'd become those

                                                                        ACACIUS

I'd be living if my life that way went.

                                                                        DEATH

Again, we speak of what is and what isn't

A past that's not and a present that is

This is the path the forks down which you went

Regret is just an anti-catharsis

Look upon your life as an adventure

Each human constructs their own direction

And at the end must find their own closure

Look and find a point of celebration

Embrace the bright embrace that which shines

                                                                        ACACIUS

Not all that I have done burns ugly black

That there has been some light and good at times

Perhaps my regret can be soothed and slacked

I die alone with no one to see me on

To remember my name and what I've done

                                                                        DEATH

I am here as my duty does beckon

In your last moment you are not alone

The faces of those you've treasured the most

Are there in your skull to ease the passing

Let them serve to you as if like a host

                                                                        ACACIUS

I die then knowing nothing is lasting

                                                                        (Dies)

                                                                        DEATH

All men are nothing but a blink to time

A blink and the world you knew is quick gone

The dreams and the hopes pass with each chime

All fades away, the good and the wrong

Through the passage of time remains only I

For Death you all learn is the true constant

From the first until the end I'll stand by

For all through all time a passing I grant

I remember each that passes my way

Your stories I know and never forget

Till the last one has past, then on that day

I believe I'll know how it is to regret

For I'll be the last as death becomes death

None will stand beside me for my last breath

                                                                        (Exits)

                                                                        (Lights down)

Alone on the page, I speak to silence because nobody knows that I am here, writing this. Someday people may come and see this relic. Or not.

I wrote a play based on a prompt. Not my normal preference. But it got a bit twisted and that worked for me. The prompt was a tennis racquet. It could have been written with the racquet being some sort of minor artifact in the play that didn't have a connection to the story line but served as a simple prop. I didn't want to go there. I wanted it to be relevant. But what? A tennis play? I don't think so. But, what if the tennis racquet wasn't a tennis racquet at all, but an antennae, disguised as a racquet, and what if that racquet belonged to an alien, who was your neighbor of 16+ years. And what if that racquet improved your game? (And why when I write "racquet" do I get the squiggly red underline? I've checked the spelling, it's right, but the computer wants "croquet" instead. Silly computer.)

Anyway, I wrote the play, my 24 of the 31 days project about two neighbors "not" talking about aliens on earth using disguised antennae to communicate with their home-world. I wrote it to ten pages because there's a play festival that I want to submit to. I just hope it's not to subtle for the readers.

Dear Diary,
Today is the 22nd of this month of plays. The horizon is still to far away for me to feel safe. Is anyone safe.
Playwright.

Is anyone safe? As long as they don't read today's play. I floundered for an idea and not sure how that worked out. But it does have a beginning-middle-end. Not much change in the characters. Amusing. But only four pages. Others have been longer, and better to read. But, I completed the task. Here it is: (Though I know no one knows this blog exists!)

"Brown Paper Packages Tied Up With String"                                            by Earl T. Roske

(Lights up on a yard. Upstage a front door with an obvious package on the step. Clive is downstage, near one of the wings. He's watching the door and the package.)

                                                                        HERB

                                                                        (Entering behind Clive.)

Hey -- 

                                                                        CLIVE

Ah!

                                                                        HERB

--  Clive.

                                                                        (Beat)

Everything okay?

                                                                        CLIVE

No. No, it is definitely not okay.

                                                                        HERB

What's going on?

                                                                        CLIVE

I think someone is trying to kill me.

                                                                        HERB

Kill you? Kill Clive. Retired civil engineer Clive. You.

                                                                        CLIVE

Yes!

                                                                        HERB

What could possibly give you that idea?

                                                                        CLIVE

That!

                                                                        HERB

That? That's a package. Packages get delivered all the time.

                                                                        CLIVE

With anthrax, bubonic plague, nerve gases, bombs!

                                                                        HERB

Who would send you something like that? You've never done anything even remotely controversial in your entire life.

                                                                        CLIVE

Remember that editorial I responded to in the newspaper. It was pretty scathing.

                                                                        HERB

No one reads those.

                                                                        CLIVE

Someone must have. Why else the package.

                                                                        HERB

Did you think to check the label.

                                                                        CLIVE

Oh, yeah.

                                                                        HERB

And?

                                                                        CLIVE

No. Label. Period.

                                                                        HERB

Nothing?

                                                                        CLIVE

Just the brown wrapper and the string.

                                                                        HERB

Hm. That is weird.

                                                                        CLIVE

You see.

                                                                        HERB

In our neighborhood. What's the world coming to.

                                                                        CLIVE

No where is safe any more. Extremists know no bounds. No political, racial, religious, or team affiliation. People are taken offense with hand grenades. It's crazy.

                                                                        HERB

So what are you going to do about that?

                                                                        CLIVE

I was thinking about calling the police, but they might be in on it.

                                                                        HERB

I've heard of stuff like that happening.

                                                                        (Phone rings in the house)

                                                                        CLIVE

But I remember reading somewhere that you can neutralize most stuff with water. So if I soak it with the garden hose long enough….

                                                                        NICOLE

                                                                        (Answering phone in the house)

Hello?

                                                                        HERB
You think it'll work?

                                                                        NICOLE

                                                                        (On phone in the house)

Maxine! How are you?

                                                                        CLIVE

I'm hoping it does. All we have are our own wits.

                                                                        NICOLE

                                                                        (On phone in the house)

I haven't seen it. I'll check outside.

                                                                        HERB

Nicole's coming.

                                                                        (Nicole opens door)

                                                                        NICOLE

Oh, here it is -- 

                                                                        CLIVE

STOP! Don't touch it!

                                                                        NICOLE

                                                                        (To phone)

What? Oh, Clive and Herb are doing something. But the box is right here. Brown paper? String?

                                                                        CLIVE

Sweetheart! It's a bomb!

                                                                        NICOLE

                                                                        (To phone as she waves off Clive)

Well it's very thoughtful. I'll be sure to tell him.

                                                                        (Hangs up the phone. To Clive)

It's from your sister, Maxine? She dropped them off on the way to some pinochle tournament. They're your favorite: chocolate dipped macadamia nut cookies. Homemade. I'll put the coffee on.

                                                                        (Exits into the house)

                                                                        (Pause)

                                                                        HERB

Bomb, eh?

                                                                        CLIVE

Not this time.

                                                                        (Beat)

Cookies and coffee?

                                                                        HERB

Sure. Love 'em.

                                                                        CLIVE

Come on in.

                                                                        HERB

You sure they won't explode when we bit them?

                                                                        CLIVE

Ha. Ha. Herb. Ha. Ha.

                                                                        (They exit into house.)

                                                                        (Lights down)

No one can hear me scream. Because no one knows the blog is out there. :)

I'm in the midst of a 31 plays in 31 days project. They are here. This was day 21 and I wrote a monologue.
Like all the plays I've written for this project I've sat down and started typing. Sometimes I've had a vague idea of what I was going to write, sometimes I had no clue what I was going to write. Several times it started with me typing: (Lights up on ...
Occasionally I had to go take a way part way through the play.
This is not my normal way of writing plays. I prefer to think about them, plan them, have way-markers to guide me as I go, and to know the final destination.
This experience has not changed my opinion on that. But it has shown me that as a brainstorming exercise to kick-start ideas, it's not bad; as an exercise.
So what follows is the monologue as I wrote it:

---

My Kingdom                                                                                                by Earl T. Roske

(Lights up on a roadside construction worker with his stop/slow sign, reflective vest, yellow hard hat, walkie-talkie, lunch box by his feet.)

                                                                        WORKER

Loot at ‘em. Lined up, waiting for my permission to proceed.

Stop. Go. Stop. Go.

It’s as if they have come to me, supplicants, seeking permission to enter the kingdom. And I as the gate keeper make the determination of who and who shall not pass. They’re they wait, eagerly watching – some of them with pleading eyes, especially those with small, crying children – for me to grant them passage.

Mine is a heavy burden, shouldered with modesty.

                                                                        RADIO

Yo! What’s going on? Send ‘em through! Send ‘em through!

                                                                        WORKER

                                                                        (Slowly turning the sign)

I see their eyes brighten with anticipation. Are they finally to be allowed permission to enter the land previously forbidden? Will the soon be continued on their harrowing journey?

Aye, in my benevolence I see fit to grant 42 of you passage. You may enter, continuing on with your journey.

                                                                        (Pause as he watches)

Look at them, sojourners in passage to new, adventurous places. Are there dragon slayers amongst them? Healer priests?

                                                                        (Flinches)

Apparently there are children with squirt guns.

Have a good day!

I hope he pees his pants.

                                                                        (Beat)

                                                                        (Waves)

Greatings pilgrims! Hello. Continue on your journey knowing that I have made this passage safe for your continuance. New places.

                                                                        (Beat)

Further adventures.

                                                                        (Beat)

As I remain standing here. Going nowhere.

                                                                        (Beat)

How I would like to journey afar. Distant lands, new places. Adventure!

Yet I am staid by my duties. Slave to this responsibility. Girded only by the commands from above – and my PB and J sandwich. Potato chips on the side because if you put them in too early they get stale and moist. No crunch – anyway!

                                                                        WORKER (Cont.)

Girded only by what nourishment this bleak land provides while others proceed into the land of milk and honey.

Good journey to you all! Yes, yes, salutation.

                                                                        (Beat)

I should abandon this responsibility. I should set out on my own quest. Broaden my horizons! There are people that need meeting, great sights that need seeing, road-side dinners with pies that need eating!

There’s a great wide world beyond this passage and yet here I stand, guardian. Alone. With only a brief glimpse of those who pass, eager for the journey ahead.

                                                                        (Beat)

And I am left behind. Left to guard the passage.

                                                                        (Beat)

Who am I to be fooled! They don’t seek me or my permission. They probably loath me and my staff. We slow them down, we impede progress. Adventure!

I am … a monster to them. I am Cerberus – minus two heads. Now, I am unworthy of such a moniker.

                                                                        (Beat)

I am merely Charon with a free shuttle. Everyone aboard, just walk on my back there. Two at a time, why not. I am of no importance.

                                                                        RADIO

Yo! How many cars you sending through! We got a line over hear!

                                                                        WORKER

                                                                        (Swiftly turning sign)

Stop! You do not have permission to pass.

                                                                        (Beat)

Yeah, I see the glares. “Why not me?” “What’s one more car!” “It’s always my bad luck.”

Bad luck is to serve the gods and not to be recognized for your efforts. You will be able to remove yourself from this land while I … I am planted here like some destitute tree of fate, forced to serve out eternity as a marker to this passage.

And what for? What importance could there possibly be that justifies this eternal damnation!

                                                                        (Cell phone rings. Something cheery.)

                                                                        WORKER

Hold on.

                                                                        (Fumbles with sign while freeing cell phone.)

                                                                        WORKER

                                                                        (Each line that does not follow a pause ends with him listening to short responses from his wife.)

Hello?

Oh, hi sweetheart.

No. No. Things are good. No rain today.

Saw the cupcake, yes. Thank you.

                                                                        (Pause)

When did that happen?

Did someone tell -- 

Right. Right. Uh huh.

                                                                        (Pause)

The emergency room!?

But he’ll be okay?

Oh good.

                                                                        (Pause)

Wait. So I get that at the drug store with the prescription?

Okay.

Right. Wow. That’s not going to be cheap.

                                                                        (Pause)

I know, I know.

They’re just kids, true.

Okay. Gotta go.

Love you, too.

                                                                        (Puts phone away. Stands tall and firm.)

                                                                        WORKER

The guardians duties are never for the weak!

We must protect the passage at all costs. Providing safety and guidance to the travelers that seek to go beyond this point. It is a difficult but noble duty bestowed upon few worthy men and women.

You are all my worthy flock, fallen to me to protect until such time -- 

                                                                        (turns sign around to let cars pass)

--  as I determine that it is safe for you to pass.

So continue, dear souls. Proceed through the kingdom and on to your destinies.

                                                                        RADIO

Yo! Where’s the --  never mind.

                                                                        WORKER

That’s right. Uh huh. That’s right.

                                                                        (Beat)

Good journey to you dear travelers. Good journey.

                                                                        (Lights down)

(Lights up on a blog. Playwright stands, center, downstage. He is ... nervous, fidgeting.)

PLAYWRIGHT

I'm here to share my stories.

(Clears throat.)

Excuse me.

(Beat)

I'm here to share my stories, prose and drama. Along with my thoughts about the self-inflicting torture that is writing.

(Holds out some sweat stained sheets of paper.)

Here. Have a look.

(Lights down.)