THE GLOBE THEATRE
by: Chris Beauvais

My penny paid,
I gape at the Pillars of Hercules,
holding up stars and gods of heaven.
A rope falls from cobalt sky,
awaits an ascent of mortals
or perhaps the hanging of villains.
A trap door barely visible opens,
a portal for apparitions,
or a step down to hell.

I am a Roman citizen
weeping with Marc Antony,
voyeur to Hamlet's soul baring,
tree in the moving forest haunting Macbeth.
I am the roar of the mob,
moan of the battle wounded,
whispered conspiracy of Richard III.

Act 5, scene III, the Capulets' tomb;
my feet hurt,
I am cold and wet,
my heart is broken.
I am part of the thing.

STOLEN WORDS
by: Chris Beauvais

Wraiths gather in the east,
brandish dark speech,
fill minds with twisted truths.
Those under their spell
want to fillet my tongue,
empty my mouth of all words,
fill it with clotted blood of others.

But if words are taken from me,
I will walk the black wastelands.
If my feet melt into the molten ground,
I will stand defiant, hands raised
against the backward winds;
push hard against the baseness,
illumine shadows that lurk
behind the dark lords;
seize back my words.

CELESTIAL
by: Chris Beauvais

I drive down the summit into the Valley,
heading home.
Parchment disk engulfs the vista,
a cardboard cutout on black felt.
Lunar seas appear as grey smudges
spherical border fuzzed soft like dust on moth wings.

I pull into the drive as the moon brightens to platinum,
mountain ridges pop against lampblack shadows.
Light shines dappled through ancient elms
onto cold cement walks.

I watch the ascension, entranced;fend off shivers,
stand naked, howl silver accolades to eventide.

THE GRASSHOPPER
by: Chris Beauvais

Barefoot in newly cut grass,
I smell the green.
A grasshopper lands at my feet;
gently I grasp him in my hand.
Feeling his bent feet dance on my palm,
spines of his legs scratching my fingers,
I open my hand,
chat with him as he chews his tobacco.
We discuss the weather, sweet grass,
the colony of ants climbing my big toe.
We ask about each other's family:
my brother annoys me,
his children dismiss him.
I tell him crickets are all the rage,
he says they are show offs.
Dusk approaches, he needs to be going;
I ask to come along.
As wings rattle, he flies
over the farthest corner of the field;
carries me with him,
into the valley beyond what I see.

SEARCHING
by: Chris Beauvais

"The rose...
was searching for something else."
Federico Garcia Lorca
I thought it was you:
my companion, lover.
In the beginning,
we talked into twilight,
content to share
spirits' affection, until
the physical became comfort.

I was unable, perhaps unwilling
to see blackened petals tighten
as you closed in upon yourself,
leaving me only stem and thorn.

Perhaps the rose seeks truth,
but you could not be my truth.
Nor I yours. Whatever you are,
I search for something else.