Rooftop Poetry Club - Mark Lloyd

Mark Lloyd

Bio:
Mark was born in Lockport, NY and began his love of writing theatre from listening to radio mystery dramas. To date he has directed six of his own one-act plays locally.

In May of 2006 he won a Meritorious Achievement award from the Theatre Association of New York State for his work "Hollywood Dreams-A Monologue" that was produced by The Amherst Players, Inc.

After reading the works of Robert Lowell and e.e. cummings he found poetry and has had several of his poems published in Artvoice.

Mark is much taller and less furry in person.

Poems:

This Room Keeps Telling Me Your Not coming Back

(for Tracy)

It’s been three days since you died
and this room keeps telling me
You’re Not Coming Back
The lonely desk
and it’s uncomfortable
oversized chair
You felt like Alice
in her wonderland
My sweet poet
your old wonderland is now
forever
lost to me
But this room still speaks
sometimes too loud to want to listen
I can still smell your perfume
and Thursday nights wine and cigarettes
and hear yesterday’s voice
You speak in whispers
and in laughs
This room is too full of memories
and memories can be cruel
And at times your laugh
and poetic charms
can push away my fears
But this cruel room
still speaks
And it keeps telling me
You’re Not Coming back

Silent Movie Eyes

A cold night for a cigarette
as the gentle haze
of a passionate black and white smoke
fills the screen
With a tender smile
and Rose soft hands
Her silent movie eyes
and the highlighted tresses
glide about the shoulders
and baby gentle nape
With a curvy construction
she is a curvaceous film-noir damsel
far from distress
An oil and canvas
of class and culture
Elegant lady
with the silent movie eyes
black and white beauty
She stands before the theatre
and under her black heeled boot
crushes out the cigarette
Smiles a good bye
and steps past the stained glass
of darkness
of the Riviera

This Simple Act

The simple act
of a Dad
and his Daughter
walking their puppy
on a early frigid Saturday morning
The carefree pup
an over excited teen
She wishes she were prettier
and that the teacher would like her
The simple act
of this cold November walk
He listens
she speaks
and like the pup
she is easily distracted
She tells him of her week
And the cold air becomes clouds of steam
around her lips
They stop
watch a squirrel
as it climbs a tree
laugh at their animated puppy
She hold her Dad’s hand
calls the pups name
and they walk some more
And this simple act
of the mornings distractions
on this early frigid morning
continues
as they cross the street

She Sings the Standards in the Corner

The clatter of ice
in the glasses
with the whisper of top shelf
The kitchen’s specials
glide within
this room
and across the bar
Finds the singer in the corner
She sings the standards
The songs we know
But seldom hear
She sits on a bar stool
dressed in a black
form fitting sleeveless
dark sparkling dress
My Funny Valentine echoes from
her glossed over lips
Her Carole Lombard locks
droop over her brow
and settle across her shoulders
She crosses her black stocking legs
Bounces
and smiles out
a smooth Sunny Side of the Street
She sits in her corner
slips on her glasses
and hums out a watery
Cry Me a River
Patrons drink
some want to smoke
but can’t
They clap
They clatter
One more drink
after each
of Her songs
Are they listening
they are
They glance up
from their conversations
It’s her voice
the days end euphoria
that they don’t recognize
the need for
and are currently receiving
By a standard
being sung
by the lady
The singer in the corner