Hollow sounds of squeaky shoes and clacking heels, reverberant, washed out voices, movement everywhere – I am lost somewhere at the Charles de Gaulles Airport in Paris. Now where is the ticket booth for the RER train? A luminous sign ahead: “Billetterie” – and of course there is a seemingly never-ending line snaking in front of it. Great. My dinner date is at seven. “You can buy tickets at the machine, “ a nice French gentleman informs me and kindly points me to the direction. Relieved, I jog towards it, tugging my little suitcase behind. I punch my destination into the cold screen. The metallic box, churning and gnarling, mulls over my selection for a few seconds, then demands eight Euros and seventy cents in coins. As I frantically search for loose change, my robotic conversation partner impatiently beeps and threatens to cancel my reservation. Finally I discover the credit card slot, take a deep breath and feed the monster; very soon, the wicked slot mouth spits out a slender strip of paper.
An hour later, passing densely packed metro stations of Paris’ underground, picking up and dropping off people from all walks of life, I arrive at Gare du Nord. Here, in the middle of the platform, my friend – who I had not seen in years – and I decided to meet. Will I recognize him, I wonder. I wait for twenty minutes: several trains have arrived and departed by now, a group of police officers eye me suspiciously. There! Across from me, on the opposite platform, a man smiles and waves. Sandwiched between strangers, we are pushed up the escalator to the exiting gate. The ticket vanishes through the slot, the first gate opens, and I am in a glass cage. A small surveillance camera is pointed at me. The lash of my suitcase already in my hand, I prepare to exit. Suddenly the warning lamps flash red and the system’s alarms go off: I remain locked in. A second attempt fails likewise. Curious stares into my direction, for a brief moment, Paris’ buzzing underground has come to a halt.
Finally, a soothing hum, the gate doors in front of me click open, a dashing French officer waves me through. Vive la France!
Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Somewhere in the Attic
There is a box
With a lock
It took me awhile
But I found the key.
Looking inside
I found
Letters and letters
And pictures too
With him and you.
Happiness and sadness
Hellos and Goodbyes
A lifetime
Hidden -
Tucked away.
In a box with a lock
Up in the attic.
Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
With a lock
It took me awhile
But I found the key.
Looking inside
I found
Letters and letters
And pictures too
With him and you.
Happiness and sadness
Hellos and Goodbyes
A lifetime
Hidden -
Tucked away.
In a box with a lock
Up in the attic.
Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
No Train stops at Pi....
A circle fell in love
With a square.
They paired and created
A triangle with rounded corners.
A trapezoid fell
From a great height
Bending one of its sides.
It hitchhiked the country
As the only five-sided quadrilateral
In recorded history.
Two parallel lines
Had a grand passion
But could only meet
At the farthest horizon of time.
Even then,
It was illusory.
A crooked line found
A short cut
And got from one point
To the other
Before the straight line,
Breaking the rules of shapes
And achieving short-lived fame.
How sad it was
When it failed
To find its way back.
Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
With a square.
They paired and created
A triangle with rounded corners.
A trapezoid fell
From a great height
Bending one of its sides.
It hitchhiked the country
As the only five-sided quadrilateral
In recorded history.
Two parallel lines
Had a grand passion
But could only meet
At the farthest horizon of time.
Even then,
It was illusory.
A crooked line found
A short cut
And got from one point
To the other
Before the straight line,
Breaking the rules of shapes
And achieving short-lived fame.
How sad it was
When it failed
To find its way back.
Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
About my Writing
I much rather write for myself, allowing my thoughts to storm on the empty pages, conquering and battling each other for more space and an after-life.
The mundane routine of everyday become a wild ride through fantasyland, when you let words rock and roll your memories.
Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2015
The mundane routine of everyday become a wild ride through fantasyland, when you let words rock and roll your memories.
Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2015
Windows of the World
Published in the 2011 Anthology of Poems:
They wake up.
Windows open, doors unlock.
The first pajamas and slippers appear on the lawns.
The dogs begin the usual morning morsing
With the rest of the neighborhood.
Wake up, dawg, they seem to say.
A woman leans out.
Her hair is curling down her shoulders.
A pillow is shaken out.
Stray feathers sail onto the ground.
Every day, from a deep sleep, they wake up.
Even the dead.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2015
They wake up.
Windows open, doors unlock.
The first pajamas and slippers appear on the lawns.
The dogs begin the usual morning morsing
With the rest of the neighborhood.
Wake up, dawg, they seem to say.
A woman leans out.
Her hair is curling down her shoulders.
A pillow is shaken out.
Stray feathers sail onto the ground.
Every day, from a deep sleep, they wake up.
Even the dead.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2015
Déjà vu
"Take this gun, girl," he said, "or you won't stand a chance", when in reality a row of tanks wouldn't have made a difference, once he entered the room.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2015
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2015
Castaway
He likes driving the high grounds
Through Badlands and ghost towns
Holding fort up north –
Among the lost and found
Another battleground
Sticks and bones
And graves of unknowns.
Looking at sunrise and sunsets
Starry nights too.
Visions too good to be true.
Lost in a moment of you
Not keeping time.
When darkness aligns
He looks for scorpions he hasn’t met
Wearing boots and a flash light
He leaves no stone unturned,
But the pesky crawlers have all adjourned.
Not all those who wander are lost.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2015
Through Badlands and ghost towns
Holding fort up north –
Among the lost and found
Another battleground
Sticks and bones
And graves of unknowns.
Looking at sunrise and sunsets
Starry nights too.
Visions too good to be true.
Lost in a moment of you
Not keeping time.
When darkness aligns
He looks for scorpions he hasn’t met
Wearing boots and a flash light
He leaves no stone unturned,
But the pesky crawlers have all adjourned.
Not all those who wander are lost.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2015
Footprints in the Sand...
One step at a time,
She prints her tiny feet in the sand,
Fascinated by the mark they leave behind.
She is the first one this morning.
The waves will come in eventually.
Faster and faster she runs,
Her feet fly through the air
As she skips and jumps.
The marks in the sand
Stretch every time.
Soon they will disappear
But their owner will come back.
And the marks will be larger this time.
Years pass by, she becomes older.
But she will always come back.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2015
She prints her tiny feet in the sand,
Fascinated by the mark they leave behind.
She is the first one this morning.
The waves will come in eventually.
Faster and faster she runs,
Her feet fly through the air
As she skips and jumps.
The marks in the sand
Stretch every time.
Soon they will disappear
But their owner will come back.
And the marks will be larger this time.
Years pass by, she becomes older.
But she will always come back.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2015
Someone Else's Chair
When you go, remember, no matter where
You will always sit on someone else's chair.
Even if you dressed up until you look like them,
Even if you are ever granted a view around the den,
Even if you straightened out what you feel is askew,
You are always a guest on somebody else's seat.
The sooner you understand, the better off you'll be.
Travel all you want, marry a girl from a foreign land,
Even if your family doesn't understand.
Crows bite doves, sooner or later, alligator,
Things will get out of hand.
Wrong doesn't get wronger
And now or never, never becomes forever.
The world belongs to someone else,
You can look to understand her better
Or take her advice and find yourself, jet-setter,
But remember, when you go, no matter where
You will always sit on someone else's chair.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2015
You will always sit on someone else's chair.
Even if you dressed up until you look like them,
Even if you are ever granted a view around the den,
Even if you straightened out what you feel is askew,
You are always a guest on somebody else's seat.
The sooner you understand, the better off you'll be.
Travel all you want, marry a girl from a foreign land,
Even if your family doesn't understand.
Crows bite doves, sooner or later, alligator,
Things will get out of hand.
Wrong doesn't get wronger
And now or never, never becomes forever.
The world belongs to someone else,
You can look to understand her better
Or take her advice and find yourself, jet-setter,
But remember, when you go, no matter where
You will always sit on someone else's chair.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2015
Shooting Star
Have you ever watched a shooting star?
They are smaller than a grain of dust.
And yet, people place wishes on them
Sometimes so high -
That they light up the entire universe.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2015
They are smaller than a grain of dust.
And yet, people place wishes on them
Sometimes so high -
That they light up the entire universe.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2015
Eye AM
..We rush about, doing what we do. We have a routine, a plan. We arrange our lives in some order, and we have our goals straight ahead of us. But sometimes life catches us off-guard. We halt in our tracks. And we find ourselves in a situation where we are touched. A stranger enters our life, a fleeting golden moment - and suddenly, we find ourselves in a magical Amelie-like world.
Today, as I burst out the subway station to rush to the theater, someone calls out behind me: "Wait!" Surprised, and maybe a little bit annoyed, I turn around. An excuse is already hanging on my lips. The words stop in the middle of my throat as I stare in pure astonishment at the appearance before me. A slender woman with long sand-blond hair, fair skin is standing there. She is most likely the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She smiles at me shyly- but, somehow she seems to be somewhere else. I can't really put my finger on it, why. She is not really looking at me. "Do you know where Schildergasse is?" she asks. I hastily wave my arm to show her, when it suddenly hits me:
She is blind.
A smile curls on the corners of her lips, a slender, small hand stretches out and lightly touches my arm. As I lead her to Cologne's busiest street, I attempt to describe what I see and I realize just how hard that is. The entire time I am thinking: How does she see her world? How does she feel the beauty? What is beauty to her? The cold winter air? The chatter of voices? The vibrations of many feet touching the ground? Wow. What an ecstatic moment.
Thanks for unforseen circumstances.
Eye am.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2015
Today, as I burst out the subway station to rush to the theater, someone calls out behind me: "Wait!" Surprised, and maybe a little bit annoyed, I turn around. An excuse is already hanging on my lips. The words stop in the middle of my throat as I stare in pure astonishment at the appearance before me. A slender woman with long sand-blond hair, fair skin is standing there. She is most likely the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She smiles at me shyly- but, somehow she seems to be somewhere else. I can't really put my finger on it, why. She is not really looking at me. "Do you know where Schildergasse is?" she asks. I hastily wave my arm to show her, when it suddenly hits me:
She is blind.
A smile curls on the corners of her lips, a slender, small hand stretches out and lightly touches my arm. As I lead her to Cologne's busiest street, I attempt to describe what I see and I realize just how hard that is. The entire time I am thinking: How does she see her world? How does she feel the beauty? What is beauty to her? The cold winter air? The chatter of voices? The vibrations of many feet touching the ground? Wow. What an ecstatic moment.
Thanks for unforseen circumstances.
Eye am.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2015
Upside Down
Published in the 2011 Anthology of Poems:
They throw her childhood
Over her head,
Like some paint bucket
Upside down,
Only later she gets to see
What is inside.
A life time –
Where it all runs down
No matter how often we change
Our costumes and clothes.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2015
They throw her childhood
Over her head,
Like some paint bucket
Upside down,
Only later she gets to see
What is inside.
A life time –
Where it all runs down
No matter how often we change
Our costumes and clothes.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2015
Unsettled
Published in the 2011 Anthology of Poems:
Unsettled, plenty of roots,
People of all walks of life,
Several suits,
Even more windows and doors,
The occasional 'hellos'
And the difficult 'goodbyes'.
Living life,
As free as one can possibly be,
Doesn't come without a price.
I wish I was you, she said.
I wish I could just go and be
All that I wanted to be.
How often have I nodded my head,
Pretending to agree?
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2020
Unsettled, plenty of roots,
People of all walks of life,
Several suits,
Even more windows and doors,
The occasional 'hellos'
And the difficult 'goodbyes'.
Living life,
As free as one can possibly be,
Doesn't come without a price.
I wish I was you, she said.
I wish I could just go and be
All that I wanted to be.
How often have I nodded my head,
Pretending to agree?
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2020
Departed Ways
Winter air
Cold as ice
The frozen sea within
The only way out is in.
Encased, scattered days
Pictures holding lost ways.
There he goes
It’s only the wind
Mein Kind.
She knew him then,
As she knows him now.
A bird sits in a tree,
A bear goes to sleep.
The truth lies underneath.
Crushed feathers in the snow.
There he goes.
A door forever closed
It’s only the wind, my dear.
Leaving her out cold.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2016.
Cold as ice
The frozen sea within
The only way out is in.
Encased, scattered days
Pictures holding lost ways.
There he goes
It’s only the wind
Mein Kind.
She knew him then,
As she knows him now.
A bird sits in a tree,
A bear goes to sleep.
The truth lies underneath.
Crushed feathers in the snow.
There he goes.
A door forever closed
It’s only the wind, my dear.
Leaving her out cold.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2016.
The Memory of You
Saying Goodbye never seemed so unreal
Finding the right words to say
To describe what I feel
Just doesn’t seem to grasp
All these years of time
Shared dreams, tall buckets of hope -
And memories painted in color.
Your bright smile, your wonderful dark hair
Your spirit and love for life
You always saw the glass half-full
Building, renovating, perfecting a home
You gave me a house key
Made me feel like a queen on her throne
After school, there was the pool
And of course buttery soft cookies and milk
Sometimes Blockbuster nights
And pillow fights -
There isn’t a memory of Santa Cruz
That doesn’t include you.
I am sitting here
Day and night,
Trying to write,
Trying to describe you and your life.
But nothing sounds right,
When you come to mind.
It is because
You are more than a poem to me.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2015
Finding the right words to say
To describe what I feel
Just doesn’t seem to grasp
All these years of time
Shared dreams, tall buckets of hope -
And memories painted in color.
Your bright smile, your wonderful dark hair
Your spirit and love for life
You always saw the glass half-full
Building, renovating, perfecting a home
You gave me a house key
Made me feel like a queen on her throne
After school, there was the pool
And of course buttery soft cookies and milk
Sometimes Blockbuster nights
And pillow fights -
There isn’t a memory of Santa Cruz
That doesn’t include you.
I am sitting here
Day and night,
Trying to write,
Trying to describe you and your life.
But nothing sounds right,
When you come to mind.
It is because
You are more than a poem to me.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2015
Words
People tell me there is
A word for everything.
Like air
The stuff that makes you alive
Or life.
A journey we can only experience once.
God and faith
A belief in an idea higher than us.
There is a word for everything.
But how do you define love?
It is something that can not quite be put
Into words.
It must be felt within the heart.
It is a bond between two people
Who meet for the first time
And make a promise
That lasts a lifetime.
It is a tiny four letter word
And yet it lights up our universe.
It is a word
With no definition,
No beginning
And no end.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017.
A word for everything.
Like air
The stuff that makes you alive
Or life.
A journey we can only experience once.
God and faith
A belief in an idea higher than us.
There is a word for everything.
But how do you define love?
It is something that can not quite be put
Into words.
It must be felt within the heart.
It is a bond between two people
Who meet for the first time
And make a promise
That lasts a lifetime.
It is a tiny four letter word
And yet it lights up our universe.
It is a word
With no definition,
No beginning
And no end.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017.
Our lives at a crossroad in time
Living life as a moment in time
Where east and west meet
Traveling with ease,
I couldn’t resist
Neither could you.
Over the glistening skyline
There is a pocket somewhere
Hidden in the dark
Holding your voice.
We were there.
I have a snapshot
Blurry as fog.
We sat on the roof top
And watched the city
Fall asleep.
This moment in time
Is ours to keep.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2015
Where east and west meet
Traveling with ease,
I couldn’t resist
Neither could you.
Over the glistening skyline
There is a pocket somewhere
Hidden in the dark
Holding your voice.
We were there.
I have a snapshot
Blurry as fog.
We sat on the roof top
And watched the city
Fall asleep.
This moment in time
Is ours to keep.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2015
A Thousand Miles More
A thousand miles more
Ever since you walked out that door
I sure did not understand it before
A thousand miles more
Leaving a locked door
I could not thank you more
I see you now as I never saw you before
I could not thank you more
Walking out an open door.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2016.
Ever since you walked out that door
I sure did not understand it before
A thousand miles more
Leaving a locked door
I could not thank you more
I see you now as I never saw you before
I could not thank you more
Walking out an open door.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2016.
Wheelchair- Bound
Tight silicone pants, skin-clinging shirts, some glittering, very expensive shoes, here they are: Berliners biking to work, roller skating home and running through the park. Or they bungee-jump from the Park Inn at the Alexanderplatz and practice flips at the skate parks. Special sports events, such as the traditional city marathons held several times throughout the year, shut down some of the capital’s busiest streets. Hundreds of spectators, volunteers, police officers and the media are involved; athletes compete on foot, on bike or on skates. My favorite is the Midnight Marathon. Nothing, but pounding feet and blinking lights.
A few days ago, on my way home, I noticed an elderly man with no legs in an old wheelchair. With his hands pulling on the wheels, the little man kept his eyes on the ground, silently conquering the sidewalk by very small distances. Meanwhile, people hastened by, ignoring the frail creature in their midst. I offered him my help, which he accepted by nodding his head graciously.
Off we were: I was pushing him, the chairs’ inflexible wheels twisting in all directions. Ahead of us: cobblestones, holes, bumps and obscurely angled ramps up and down, some high, not wheelchair-equipped sidewalks. Within seconds, I was soaked in sweat.
Over the course of the next few days, I observed people with different kinds of handicaps. Mastering their daily routine with patience, determination and skill: past cobblestones, stairs, train tracks and grapes of people everywhere. A man in a wheelchair wanting to get on the Sbahn informed the station assistant beforehand, another needed a lift for the train, a third, getting off the let-down ramp of a bus, slipped his hands into leather gloves before rolling along his way. I watched two girls, around 7 or 8 years old, deeply engrossed in conversation. One was in an electric wheelchair, weaving in and out of stumbling holes and bumps on the sidewalk, using its navigation stick craftily, the other girl walked speedily besides her, carrying a large McDonalds paper bag. They took a detour, after the little wheelchair driver spotted a construction site ahead.
For the blind Berlin presents a very different kind of maze to conquer. Construction noise, jaywalkers, malfunctioning traffic signals and inconsiderate drivers confuse the otherwise sharp ears. The blind man crossing Warschauer Strasse, attempting to make the pass to Grünberger Strasse, lost his orientation briefly after a traffic light signal stopped playing the sounds so familiar to him and a cable car crossed his path, but with a little direction from me, he trotted along.
Berlin has a lot to offer for all of us. We are good in organizing roadblocks for marathon runners, skaters and bikers – why can’t we make the daily detours for the wheelchair bounds and cane-needy a little bit easier?
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
A few days ago, on my way home, I noticed an elderly man with no legs in an old wheelchair. With his hands pulling on the wheels, the little man kept his eyes on the ground, silently conquering the sidewalk by very small distances. Meanwhile, people hastened by, ignoring the frail creature in their midst. I offered him my help, which he accepted by nodding his head graciously.
Off we were: I was pushing him, the chairs’ inflexible wheels twisting in all directions. Ahead of us: cobblestones, holes, bumps and obscurely angled ramps up and down, some high, not wheelchair-equipped sidewalks. Within seconds, I was soaked in sweat.
Over the course of the next few days, I observed people with different kinds of handicaps. Mastering their daily routine with patience, determination and skill: past cobblestones, stairs, train tracks and grapes of people everywhere. A man in a wheelchair wanting to get on the Sbahn informed the station assistant beforehand, another needed a lift for the train, a third, getting off the let-down ramp of a bus, slipped his hands into leather gloves before rolling along his way. I watched two girls, around 7 or 8 years old, deeply engrossed in conversation. One was in an electric wheelchair, weaving in and out of stumbling holes and bumps on the sidewalk, using its navigation stick craftily, the other girl walked speedily besides her, carrying a large McDonalds paper bag. They took a detour, after the little wheelchair driver spotted a construction site ahead.
For the blind Berlin presents a very different kind of maze to conquer. Construction noise, jaywalkers, malfunctioning traffic signals and inconsiderate drivers confuse the otherwise sharp ears. The blind man crossing Warschauer Strasse, attempting to make the pass to Grünberger Strasse, lost his orientation briefly after a traffic light signal stopped playing the sounds so familiar to him and a cable car crossed his path, but with a little direction from me, he trotted along.
Berlin has a lot to offer for all of us. We are good in organizing roadblocks for marathon runners, skaters and bikers – why can’t we make the daily detours for the wheelchair bounds and cane-needy a little bit easier?
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
With the blink of an Eye
With the blink of an eye
Life goes by
And we sit astounded
Again asking why.
No one can deny
Feeling lost at times.
But should we go with the flow?
Write what you know
When, where, why, how
Later, tomorrow, now
Life goes by
With the blink of an eye.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2015
Life goes by
And we sit astounded
Again asking why.
No one can deny
Feeling lost at times.
But should we go with the flow?
Write what you know
When, where, why, how
Later, tomorrow, now
Life goes by
With the blink of an eye.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2015
Showdown
At a bookstore, skipping to the last pages of a bestseller, with a concentrated frown on her face, my mother reads the ending before deciding whether or not to buy the book. “You can’t do that. You destroy the build up of a suspenseful storyline,” I protest.
What if you knew the ending of a World Cup soccer match? In a 1500 liters water tank in Oberhausen, a brown creature with eight long, slender arms, suction cups and three hearts is driving the world nuts. Paul, the two and a half year old octopus has been right about the results of six world cup soccer games. Yesterday, before Germany played Uruguay for the third place in the World Cup championship, the mollusk floated around the two flags with the feeding trays underneath for nine minutes, finally settling for the mussels on the German side. And as it turns out: Paul was right again. Experts in statistics are impressed, after the sixth game the probability was at 1/64. Even a renowned professor in probability theory is baffled: “This octopus contradicts everything I know, there is no way, someone can get this lucky!
But Octopus Paul has competition. In Singapore a colorful parrot has picked the winning card every time. So far. Just before the final game, the two animals are in disagreement. Spain is going to win, of this Paul is certain. But Mani, the feathered oracle, sees it differently: The Netherlands will be World Cup Champs. So far the visions of Oberhausen and Singapore have come true, tonight all bets are off: Only one of the two will win.
To kidnap a parrot would be easier, wrapping up Paul more difficult. Nevertheless, the winning animal has to come to Los Angeles. After the exciting and nerve-wrecking last season of the Lakers, having a psychic animal foresee the results of the basketball games might not be a bad idea. We hand over the winning trophy to Phil Jackson and concentrate on Kobe Bryant’s dribbling tactics and scoring.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2015
What if you knew the ending of a World Cup soccer match? In a 1500 liters water tank in Oberhausen, a brown creature with eight long, slender arms, suction cups and three hearts is driving the world nuts. Paul, the two and a half year old octopus has been right about the results of six world cup soccer games. Yesterday, before Germany played Uruguay for the third place in the World Cup championship, the mollusk floated around the two flags with the feeding trays underneath for nine minutes, finally settling for the mussels on the German side. And as it turns out: Paul was right again. Experts in statistics are impressed, after the sixth game the probability was at 1/64. Even a renowned professor in probability theory is baffled: “This octopus contradicts everything I know, there is no way, someone can get this lucky!
But Octopus Paul has competition. In Singapore a colorful parrot has picked the winning card every time. So far. Just before the final game, the two animals are in disagreement. Spain is going to win, of this Paul is certain. But Mani, the feathered oracle, sees it differently: The Netherlands will be World Cup Champs. So far the visions of Oberhausen and Singapore have come true, tonight all bets are off: Only one of the two will win.
To kidnap a parrot would be easier, wrapping up Paul more difficult. Nevertheless, the winning animal has to come to Los Angeles. After the exciting and nerve-wrecking last season of the Lakers, having a psychic animal foresee the results of the basketball games might not be a bad idea. We hand over the winning trophy to Phil Jackson and concentrate on Kobe Bryant’s dribbling tactics and scoring.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2015
A Hot Affair
I am at the airport and in a good mood. It is a sunny day in Berlin, and my mom is arriving from Los Angeles. There, she is walking through the exit! Immediately wrapped up in conversation, we head for the bus station, tagging along a heavy suitcase. From afar, we spot the large crowd, at four pm in the afternoon, in the middle of the summer break, we are not the only travelers.
Determined to get on the very next bus, we plant ourselves right before the bus stop sign devising a clever plan to snatch front seats. Shortly upon the bus’ arrival, we are in our seats, the suitcase between us. Under a built-in window, in leveled up seats, we hover over tired, pressed together fellow passengers, who are clutching the handrails and bars - relieved for a brief moment to be sitting and somewhat separated from the crowd. Ten minutes later, trapped in a bus with no air-conditioning nor open windows, crawling through rush hour traffic by seemingly inches, with far apart stops, and more and more passengers squeezing themselves into the bus, glued to seats directly in the sun, melting away in the basking heat, we begin to regret our choice. Around us other passengers raise their voices: “Can you open the doors while we are locked down in non-moving traffic,” they call out to the driver. But the chauffeur is strictly following instructions, in between the stops, the doors remain closed.
Bumper to bumper, we continue dawdling along a dusty, never-ending construction site. Some people are wiping their foreheads, a child is wailing, a man pinched to the frame of our seat is wringing uncomfortably: Unable to take off his black suit jacket, his white shirt is soaked through with sweat. Finally, with a twenty minutes’ delay, we arrive at the Central train station. Hastily the large majority snatches up their belongings, edging and pushing through the cluttered crowd to the nearest exit, and jogs toward the Hauptbahnhof. My mom is thinking aloud: “Perhaps we should take the Sbahn instead?” – “Goodness, no”, I reply, “the platform will be packed.”
Closing the door, our driver is preparing to leave the station. Suddenly someone shouts: “Wait! Whose backpack is this?” Dead silence. Questioningly, a man is holding up a red backpack. Great. Now that would be just what we needed: To have to exit the bus because of unclaimed piece of baggage! This time the doors open almost immediately. The attentive traveler takes this opportunity. Leaning out of the bus, dangling the backpack over his head, he calls out: “Is someone missing his backpack?” Calmly the sun-tanned owner on a cell phone raises his hand. The backpack is dropped onto the ground, the doors close, ten more minutes until our destination.
Stepping out of the bus, we feel sorry for the bus driver. Exhausted he wipes his forehead. By taxi, our journey could not have not been any faster and of course not cheaper. The city owns seven air-conditioned buses. Maybe next time we conquer one. But then again, there are over 1.300 buses in Berlin.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Determined to get on the very next bus, we plant ourselves right before the bus stop sign devising a clever plan to snatch front seats. Shortly upon the bus’ arrival, we are in our seats, the suitcase between us. Under a built-in window, in leveled up seats, we hover over tired, pressed together fellow passengers, who are clutching the handrails and bars - relieved for a brief moment to be sitting and somewhat separated from the crowd. Ten minutes later, trapped in a bus with no air-conditioning nor open windows, crawling through rush hour traffic by seemingly inches, with far apart stops, and more and more passengers squeezing themselves into the bus, glued to seats directly in the sun, melting away in the basking heat, we begin to regret our choice. Around us other passengers raise their voices: “Can you open the doors while we are locked down in non-moving traffic,” they call out to the driver. But the chauffeur is strictly following instructions, in between the stops, the doors remain closed.
Bumper to bumper, we continue dawdling along a dusty, never-ending construction site. Some people are wiping their foreheads, a child is wailing, a man pinched to the frame of our seat is wringing uncomfortably: Unable to take off his black suit jacket, his white shirt is soaked through with sweat. Finally, with a twenty minutes’ delay, we arrive at the Central train station. Hastily the large majority snatches up their belongings, edging and pushing through the cluttered crowd to the nearest exit, and jogs toward the Hauptbahnhof. My mom is thinking aloud: “Perhaps we should take the Sbahn instead?” – “Goodness, no”, I reply, “the platform will be packed.”
Closing the door, our driver is preparing to leave the station. Suddenly someone shouts: “Wait! Whose backpack is this?” Dead silence. Questioningly, a man is holding up a red backpack. Great. Now that would be just what we needed: To have to exit the bus because of unclaimed piece of baggage! This time the doors open almost immediately. The attentive traveler takes this opportunity. Leaning out of the bus, dangling the backpack over his head, he calls out: “Is someone missing his backpack?” Calmly the sun-tanned owner on a cell phone raises his hand. The backpack is dropped onto the ground, the doors close, ten more minutes until our destination.
Stepping out of the bus, we feel sorry for the bus driver. Exhausted he wipes his forehead. By taxi, our journey could not have not been any faster and of course not cheaper. The city owns seven air-conditioned buses. Maybe next time we conquer one. But then again, there are over 1.300 buses in Berlin.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Keylock
According to a Russian proverb, the key is stronger than the lock. And for a problem the key is the solution. But today neither fortune cookie wisdom nor key were much of help with our stubborn front door.
The day had begun so innocently. My mother and I - shopping, despite the blasting heat. Two hours later, packed with shopping bags, we headed home. Laughing, in a bubbly dialogue exchange, we envisioned the next hours on the balcony with a cold rosé and a wonderful rich salad. Hopping on the elevator, leaning against its cold metallic walls, we were relieved to be home: to rid ourselves of the heavy bags, kick off our shoes, shower, change and relax in the shade.
In front of our door, my mother takes my possessions, while I finger for our key. One of the two locks clicks open, and I head for the second one, the security lock. Aligning the blade of our key with the wards in the keyway, I wait for the rotating cylinder inside the lock on the other side to snap into position. My key is stuck. It won’t budge. Blood boiling into my face, soon drenched in sweat, my mother irritated, pushing my weight against the lock, back and forth I am rocking the key, with skill and craft I try to turn the knobs, listening for any movement behind the door. But the lock remains unmoved. My mother is already seeing us calling the locksmith and spending hundreds of euros, destroying and replacing the lock and key.
Finally, the door snaps open. Relaxing and letting out a big sigh of relief, we push our bags into the hallway. Closing the door behind us, I am inspecting the lock. What the world had happened? I am twisting the small knob on the security lock, a click, and we are successfully ‘locked in’. Now my mother is frustrated, what was I thinking, she scolds. I am embarrassed. After a fast ping-pong of words, we decide to call the custodian. “Don’t worry, he reassures us, throw the key out of the window, I’ll be in position.” Soon enough, I am leaning over the balcony, the house key wrapped in a small ball of aluminum foil, the custodian lined up underneath. 95 degrees of heat heighten the suspense. “In which direction do I turn”, he calls up. My hands draw circles in the air. He blinks: “Counter-clockwise?”
I race to the door. Through the keyhole, I can see him; we take turns rotating the locks, trying to communicate through a closed, patted door and hope for a happy ending. Suddenly the door cracks open, still held in a locked position by the security chain. Two screwdrivers from outside and inside finally crack the bugger.
Unharmed key in one hand, a picked lock in the other: So were the Russians right? You bet they were.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017.
The day had begun so innocently. My mother and I - shopping, despite the blasting heat. Two hours later, packed with shopping bags, we headed home. Laughing, in a bubbly dialogue exchange, we envisioned the next hours on the balcony with a cold rosé and a wonderful rich salad. Hopping on the elevator, leaning against its cold metallic walls, we were relieved to be home: to rid ourselves of the heavy bags, kick off our shoes, shower, change and relax in the shade.
In front of our door, my mother takes my possessions, while I finger for our key. One of the two locks clicks open, and I head for the second one, the security lock. Aligning the blade of our key with the wards in the keyway, I wait for the rotating cylinder inside the lock on the other side to snap into position. My key is stuck. It won’t budge. Blood boiling into my face, soon drenched in sweat, my mother irritated, pushing my weight against the lock, back and forth I am rocking the key, with skill and craft I try to turn the knobs, listening for any movement behind the door. But the lock remains unmoved. My mother is already seeing us calling the locksmith and spending hundreds of euros, destroying and replacing the lock and key.
Finally, the door snaps open. Relaxing and letting out a big sigh of relief, we push our bags into the hallway. Closing the door behind us, I am inspecting the lock. What the world had happened? I am twisting the small knob on the security lock, a click, and we are successfully ‘locked in’. Now my mother is frustrated, what was I thinking, she scolds. I am embarrassed. After a fast ping-pong of words, we decide to call the custodian. “Don’t worry, he reassures us, throw the key out of the window, I’ll be in position.” Soon enough, I am leaning over the balcony, the house key wrapped in a small ball of aluminum foil, the custodian lined up underneath. 95 degrees of heat heighten the suspense. “In which direction do I turn”, he calls up. My hands draw circles in the air. He blinks: “Counter-clockwise?”
I race to the door. Through the keyhole, I can see him; we take turns rotating the locks, trying to communicate through a closed, patted door and hope for a happy ending. Suddenly the door cracks open, still held in a locked position by the security chain. Two screwdrivers from outside and inside finally crack the bugger.
Unharmed key in one hand, a picked lock in the other: So were the Russians right? You bet they were.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017.
On fire
I wish I could prevent words from leaping
Out of my mouth,
Stop thinking aloud.
He steals all the stories-
They trickle down,
Drop by drop.
Every word has a different taste,
Every word has a different base.
I am not an expert in cooking and blending.
Sometimes I am afraid to try,
But I keep dreaming of shaping and bending.
Last month the kettle exploded and
The kitchen was on fire.
I am still cleaning up but the hole never fills.
I think about the mess every day.
The things I was supposed to say.
He looks at me
Sitting down, he says:
"I love poetry."
He takes everyone's stories.
The miseries and the glories.
But there is nothing I can do about it.
I am too fascinated with his own.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017.
Out of my mouth,
Stop thinking aloud.
He steals all the stories-
They trickle down,
Drop by drop.
Every word has a different taste,
Every word has a different base.
I am not an expert in cooking and blending.
Sometimes I am afraid to try,
But I keep dreaming of shaping and bending.
Last month the kettle exploded and
The kitchen was on fire.
I am still cleaning up but the hole never fills.
I think about the mess every day.
The things I was supposed to say.
He looks at me
Sitting down, he says:
"I love poetry."
He takes everyone's stories.
The miseries and the glories.
But there is nothing I can do about it.
I am too fascinated with his own.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017.
You and Me
I still recall
The day he walked into my life.
The way he locked his eyes with mine.
I had heard about him before
But that was before he walked into this door.
He prefers traveling alone
And he hates talking on the phone
He has seen everything.
He craves more,
But he never met someone like me before.
East and west,
Loose at its best
Order and chaos
Fights and ties
Brother and sister,
Two people,
So different, so complete
That would be you and me.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017.
The day he walked into my life.
The way he locked his eyes with mine.
I had heard about him before
But that was before he walked into this door.
He prefers traveling alone
And he hates talking on the phone
He has seen everything.
He craves more,
But he never met someone like me before.
East and west,
Loose at its best
Order and chaos
Fights and ties
Brother and sister,
Two people,
So different, so complete
That would be you and me.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017.
Does What You Say Outdo What You Do?
So apparently now we live in a world
Where what you say outdoes what you do
So someone speaks out
And the media turns it all around
Is this what it is all about?
Sometimes I just want to shout
Share my doubts
Since when does the word outdo you?
We live from one headline to another
Most of us don’t even bother
To stop and to think
Is this really true?
Since when does the word outdo
What we believe and what we do?
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017.
Where what you say outdoes what you do
So someone speaks out
And the media turns it all around
Is this what it is all about?
Sometimes I just want to shout
Share my doubts
Since when does the word outdo you?
We live from one headline to another
Most of us don’t even bother
To stop and to think
Is this really true?
Since when does the word outdo
What we believe and what we do?
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017.
Only Passing Through
Published in the 2011 Anthology of Poems:
Once you knew
You had nothing to lose
You were only passing through
It took you a day or two
You sat there with a frown
In a very expensive wedding gown
After all, life you had known was falling down
You stood there in a wisp of air
And with a sigh
You looked onto this image for a last time.
You met me later that afternoon.
You had quit your job and your school
I thought you for a fool.
And I asked you why.
Girl, you said with a sad smile,
Foolish is, to die.
They had said, you had five.
But as it turned out -
Cancer took you at two.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017.
Once you knew
You had nothing to lose
You were only passing through
It took you a day or two
You sat there with a frown
In a very expensive wedding gown
After all, life you had known was falling down
You stood there in a wisp of air
And with a sigh
You looked onto this image for a last time.
You met me later that afternoon.
You had quit your job and your school
I thought you for a fool.
And I asked you why.
Girl, you said with a sad smile,
Foolish is, to die.
They had said, you had five.
But as it turned out -
Cancer took you at two.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017.
Sailor of the Sea
Searched for something true
Too much, too soon
Got lost in your cocoon
Couldn't see it through
To the ruins of time
The autumn of your life.
Sailor of the sea
Our waters are deep
But, the heart you stole
Was not yours to keep.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017.
Too much, too soon
Got lost in your cocoon
Couldn't see it through
To the ruins of time
The autumn of your life.
Sailor of the sea
Our waters are deep
But, the heart you stole
Was not yours to keep.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017.
When the Going Gets Personal.
Friendships are requested, accepted and broken within seconds. Links tag you to the „in“ club and comments make you popular. Of course, I am talking about facebook. The social network site is directory, picture album, business card, advertising outlet, communication tool and dating guide all in one.
No other ebook has been as effective and as widespread in linking strangers across continents. Co-workers, childhood friends, family members, celebrities, your ex, your crush, even your boss have access to your iLife and iWorld. And for the majority of us this is perfectly normal. People no longer ask us for a card or our number, they discreetly add us on Facebook. I too am guilty of this: almost every day I stalk certain pages, check out pictures and the new comments “mutual friends” have left.
So, out of the blue I decided to cut the cord and quit my online presence. Myspace and studivz were easy, hardly anyone noticed I was a goner. But Facebook? The minute I clicked on the confirmation button that nullified all e-connections and links I had built up over the course of four years, hell broke lose. Astonished, I watched as GoogleNotifier pinged me with emails. Messages along the lines of “What happened with your profile?” “You deleted me AGAIN?” “Colleen, are you alright?” flooded my inbox within the next two hours. The world was freaking out. My global neighborhood was in panic. What was happening? My leaving a social network suddenly left a void that became personal to many, and they weren’t letting me off the hook.
To make this story a short one, I am back on facebook. My friends are single, in a relationship, engaged or married. My ex added his ex-girlfriend. Two of my friends are on a diet. Christoph thanks T-mobile for its 20 dollars refund. Lutz's train is late again. Dave is on the east coast. Julia is screening her film at the Lincoln Center in New York. Josh is watching Entourage, Anna is on her way to Switzerland. And Erin thinks there should be more male Gogo dancers. Ah. The world has turned back to normal. Next time I just need to remember to cancel my email account as well…..
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
No other ebook has been as effective and as widespread in linking strangers across continents. Co-workers, childhood friends, family members, celebrities, your ex, your crush, even your boss have access to your iLife and iWorld. And for the majority of us this is perfectly normal. People no longer ask us for a card or our number, they discreetly add us on Facebook. I too am guilty of this: almost every day I stalk certain pages, check out pictures and the new comments “mutual friends” have left.
So, out of the blue I decided to cut the cord and quit my online presence. Myspace and studivz were easy, hardly anyone noticed I was a goner. But Facebook? The minute I clicked on the confirmation button that nullified all e-connections and links I had built up over the course of four years, hell broke lose. Astonished, I watched as GoogleNotifier pinged me with emails. Messages along the lines of “What happened with your profile?” “You deleted me AGAIN?” “Colleen, are you alright?” flooded my inbox within the next two hours. The world was freaking out. My global neighborhood was in panic. What was happening? My leaving a social network suddenly left a void that became personal to many, and they weren’t letting me off the hook.
To make this story a short one, I am back on facebook. My friends are single, in a relationship, engaged or married. My ex added his ex-girlfriend. Two of my friends are on a diet. Christoph thanks T-mobile for its 20 dollars refund. Lutz's train is late again. Dave is on the east coast. Julia is screening her film at the Lincoln Center in New York. Josh is watching Entourage, Anna is on her way to Switzerland. And Erin thinks there should be more male Gogo dancers. Ah. The world has turned back to normal. Next time I just need to remember to cancel my email account as well…..
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.
Crossroads
On this strange, strange night
Amidst a crowd they were
Fumbling for words -
Two people
Desperately trying to meet.
On the dance floor
Out on the railing
On the balcony
On Istanbul’s streets-
Ripened rhythms
Dark wine
Wave beats pounding
Through the room
Sweat and perfume -
Two broken hearts
Wanting nothing more
Than to get close.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017.
Amidst a crowd they were
Fumbling for words -
Two people
Desperately trying to meet.
On the dance floor
Out on the railing
On the balcony
On Istanbul’s streets-
Ripened rhythms
Dark wine
Wave beats pounding
Through the room
Sweat and perfume -
Two broken hearts
Wanting nothing more
Than to get close.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017.
The word called 'love'
A few days ago Google announced the word "love" among the most searched words this year. Type in the four letter word and you will get over 2,130,000,000 hits. You will come across definitions, concepts, even scientific models of chemical or psychological basis - lust, sex, intimacy, commitment, passion respectively. You will find listings of cultural, even religious views.
When you search for love on the internet, it seems easy, quite simple - you hit the 'enter' button on your keyboard and in 0.8 seconds you get a vast number of choices of what you are looking for. Browse through some thousand love quotes, poems, lyrics - line after line, love is all spelled out for you. Or flip through a children book. Watch some Hollywood classics or visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art and see its exhibit "Art and Love in Renaissance Italy" - the word love is everywhere to be found, whether spoken by Humphrey Bogart or written in paint across a canvas.
You know love, when you see it. Like the day I watched a little girl with curly hair and big eyes flung herself into the arms of her mother, crying out: "Mom! I missed you. I missed you so much!" You feel it. Like the day I was lying on a park bench in Berlin and rested my head in my dad's lap, while he gently stroked my hair.
In Denver, Colorado, I had the chance to read a poem I wrote. Realizing that there were no words left for me to use, to describe that feeling I took for love, I settled for an abstraction instead. Love does not need an explanation. It is either there or not. Some of us have to learn this the hard way. Like my friend who learned that someone he loved, loved someone else. Yes, you know love, when you see it. Enticing. At times brutal.
No matter how much it hurts, we find ourselves grateful for the love we were able to give and to receive. And for the moments yet to come, when we are able to love again. We will just have to sit down once more and google it again. After all, we have 2, 130, 000,000 choices.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017.
When you search for love on the internet, it seems easy, quite simple - you hit the 'enter' button on your keyboard and in 0.8 seconds you get a vast number of choices of what you are looking for. Browse through some thousand love quotes, poems, lyrics - line after line, love is all spelled out for you. Or flip through a children book. Watch some Hollywood classics or visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art and see its exhibit "Art and Love in Renaissance Italy" - the word love is everywhere to be found, whether spoken by Humphrey Bogart or written in paint across a canvas.
You know love, when you see it. Like the day I watched a little girl with curly hair and big eyes flung herself into the arms of her mother, crying out: "Mom! I missed you. I missed you so much!" You feel it. Like the day I was lying on a park bench in Berlin and rested my head in my dad's lap, while he gently stroked my hair.
In Denver, Colorado, I had the chance to read a poem I wrote. Realizing that there were no words left for me to use, to describe that feeling I took for love, I settled for an abstraction instead. Love does not need an explanation. It is either there or not. Some of us have to learn this the hard way. Like my friend who learned that someone he loved, loved someone else. Yes, you know love, when you see it. Enticing. At times brutal.
No matter how much it hurts, we find ourselves grateful for the love we were able to give and to receive. And for the moments yet to come, when we are able to love again. We will just have to sit down once more and google it again. After all, we have 2, 130, 000,000 choices.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017.
LA Story
This story isn't really mine to tell. It is a story of a city I love and despise. A city with too many highways and cars, overpriced houses, closed shutters and doors, roll-out carpet grass and dandelions out on the front lawn, and nobody home. A city crowded with angels and imaginary friends. Not to mention the unhappy campers living in tents by Ontario... This story is about a city divided by class and race, religion and politics.
When I arrived here in February, I was treated with quite some welcome. The flight I was on included a few foreign Oscar-prominent characters. Limousine drivers and nervous first or second assistants were standing at the gates, holding up signs. Several gazes were on me, when I walked through in a brown-striped business suit and golden strands of curls resting on my shoulders. The very next day I attended the Oscars foreign language panel in the Old Academy theater, sitting in a VIP reserved seat as a guest, squeezed in between two very tall and imitating-looking Oscar statues. The entertainment business has a way to sweep you off your feet, people are incredibly nice and sweet, and everything from the food, the make-over and the conversations is perfect: It scares me.
My folks picked me up at 2 pm. I had a funeral to attend. The houses became smaller, the roads turned into dirt and gravel, we reached the modest areas of Los Angeles. The ceremony was held outside in the rain. Surrounded by estranged cousins and distanced relatives, I read a poem and spoke about a memorable life lived, a life I hardly knew: An incredibly bright woman, who was raised on a farm. My grandmother was a woman, who knew her cards: Not only would she become a Grandmaster in Bridge, but she had a way with words too. She would solve the New York Times crossword puzzles over her first cup of coffee at breakfast.
The next day, as I was waiting for the metro, a man approached me. He was dressed in black from head to toe. His face was concealed with a black mask, only his eye balls were seen, he was carrying a rather large duffel bag with all sort of equipment (a rope, a vacuum cleaner, a metal frame) sticking out. A look on my surprised face, he hastily quipped: "Don't be scared, lady. I'm dressed for work." I nod curtly. LA is filled with bizarre characters, but frankly, I'd like to be back in one piece. Someone apparently called the police, and loud words were exchanged between the invisible man and two officers. Shining hand cuffs settled the discussion. Apparently the line of work of that black-faced man was questionable.
I am meeting a friend for lunch, and I am feeling watched. My friend, a regular face on a number of TV shows, is recognized despite his gruffy, unshaved look. While we are at lunch, my friend gets a call from his agent. It is about a gig. My friend tells his agent: "I can’t. I am busy right now. (pause) No, I am not nuts." Fifteen minutes later, his agent calls again, cutting our lunch short. Hollywood buys souls, every day this city puts its sticky thumb on fresh, beautiful, new faces.
How can I possibly tell a story that puts to justice this rare, mysterious and obvious city? This city of dreams and of nightmares? This city of fame and money, and of broken hearts and minds?
Well, in the end, the story isn’t really mine to tell.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017.
When I arrived here in February, I was treated with quite some welcome. The flight I was on included a few foreign Oscar-prominent characters. Limousine drivers and nervous first or second assistants were standing at the gates, holding up signs. Several gazes were on me, when I walked through in a brown-striped business suit and golden strands of curls resting on my shoulders. The very next day I attended the Oscars foreign language panel in the Old Academy theater, sitting in a VIP reserved seat as a guest, squeezed in between two very tall and imitating-looking Oscar statues. The entertainment business has a way to sweep you off your feet, people are incredibly nice and sweet, and everything from the food, the make-over and the conversations is perfect: It scares me.
My folks picked me up at 2 pm. I had a funeral to attend. The houses became smaller, the roads turned into dirt and gravel, we reached the modest areas of Los Angeles. The ceremony was held outside in the rain. Surrounded by estranged cousins and distanced relatives, I read a poem and spoke about a memorable life lived, a life I hardly knew: An incredibly bright woman, who was raised on a farm. My grandmother was a woman, who knew her cards: Not only would she become a Grandmaster in Bridge, but she had a way with words too. She would solve the New York Times crossword puzzles over her first cup of coffee at breakfast.
The next day, as I was waiting for the metro, a man approached me. He was dressed in black from head to toe. His face was concealed with a black mask, only his eye balls were seen, he was carrying a rather large duffel bag with all sort of equipment (a rope, a vacuum cleaner, a metal frame) sticking out. A look on my surprised face, he hastily quipped: "Don't be scared, lady. I'm dressed for work." I nod curtly. LA is filled with bizarre characters, but frankly, I'd like to be back in one piece. Someone apparently called the police, and loud words were exchanged between the invisible man and two officers. Shining hand cuffs settled the discussion. Apparently the line of work of that black-faced man was questionable.
I am meeting a friend for lunch, and I am feeling watched. My friend, a regular face on a number of TV shows, is recognized despite his gruffy, unshaved look. While we are at lunch, my friend gets a call from his agent. It is about a gig. My friend tells his agent: "I can’t. I am busy right now. (pause) No, I am not nuts." Fifteen minutes later, his agent calls again, cutting our lunch short. Hollywood buys souls, every day this city puts its sticky thumb on fresh, beautiful, new faces.
How can I possibly tell a story that puts to justice this rare, mysterious and obvious city? This city of dreams and of nightmares? This city of fame and money, and of broken hearts and minds?
Well, in the end, the story isn’t really mine to tell.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017.
You are more than a poem to me
Write me a poem, he said to me.
Day and night, I sat at my desk.
I tried. I tried to write.
I tried to express what I could never define.
I tried to describe.
But, then I realize,
Why I can’t write
When you are on my mind.
It is because
You are more than a poem to me.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017.
Day and night, I sat at my desk.
I tried. I tried to write.
I tried to express what I could never define.
I tried to describe.
But, then I realize,
Why I can’t write
When you are on my mind.
It is because
You are more than a poem to me.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017.
One Way Ticket and Salsa
I turned my room upside down to find a receipt for a book I wanted to return. I didn't find it. I found something else instead. A plane ticket. Marked for December 11th. Berlin-NY-LAX. Wow. I forgot all about that. That little flat, rectangular devil. Seriously, this is killing me. A ticket home. To family, to friends. A ticket I can not redeem. While I stared at the ticket in utterly disbelief, someone knocked on my door. At 9 pm? Who could possibly be knocking on my door? It is a girl I met briefly two days ago: "Let's go salsa dancing!"
Salsa? Now? I am curled up in my chair, legs on my desk, reading "Marx's Ghosts" by Derrida. That book by the way is already driving me crazy: Ghosts, phantasma, Plato's cave allegory, the lie of our minds, communism, it is all there. Compressed into allegorial terms no normal and sane person uses in his or her everyday speech. Derrida slaps "Metonymie", "Syntagma", "Iterabilität" (words I can hardly pronounce) into my face. I look at the next words "paradoxe Phänomenalität" and I decide I had it. Tonight Derrida can bewitch or spook someone else with ghosts, I am going dancing.
It is Friday and "Ladies Night" which means we get in for free. Guys have to pay. Lovely. Upstairs you can learn the salsa steps from the DJ, downstairs couples swirl across the floor. Mamma mia. These folks know how to shake it right. I drag my new friend into a corner, desperately trying to look "busy" and occupied. I hope no guy is asking me to dance, I hope no guy is asking me to DANCE. Well, no such luck. It seems I said the last word aloud. We are swarmed by very charming gentlemen, immediately, so it seems. And it gets worse. One man greets my friend enthusiastically, then he asks me to dance. Oh no! And off we go. My not-having-had-one-salsa-lesson shows off magnificently. We are hit by a spot light, literally. I look like a total idiot, of that I am sure. This nice man however is patient, he shows me the steps calmly and again and again. Somehow, I seem to catch on. Somehow we actually are dancing salsa.The twirling is my favorite, you spin around fast, and your whole world is turning. I don't even know where my feet are going but they seem to move right along. I am having a good time now. Shall we dance, Mister? Well, here is that little info I did not know yet. I went back to my new "friend" who does not stop staring at me.
"What?"
"Nothing. You danced good. You looked really good out there..."
"C'mon, cut it. I looked like an idiot."
"No, really, not at all. You caught on fast. Oh, and that was my professor you danced with."
"Yeah, nonchalantly, she dropped it into the conversation. I did not just dance with a nice, charming , handsome gentleman. I danced with her professor. Fantastic. Note, that I am being sarcastic here. Not that I am bothered by the fact that I danced with a smart, good-looking, middle-aged salsa dancer, but I could just foresee what was coming next.
"Did he talk to you about me?"
-"No."
"He didn't say anything at all?"
-"No."
"But he danced with you a long time."
-"Yes."
"You were talking."
-"Yes."
"Well, what were you talking about?"
And on and on it went. You get the idea. Favoritism. Smoozing. Tartuffery. Grades. A kinda big deal around here too.
To be continued...
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017
Salsa? Now? I am curled up in my chair, legs on my desk, reading "Marx's Ghosts" by Derrida. That book by the way is already driving me crazy: Ghosts, phantasma, Plato's cave allegory, the lie of our minds, communism, it is all there. Compressed into allegorial terms no normal and sane person uses in his or her everyday speech. Derrida slaps "Metonymie", "Syntagma", "Iterabilität" (words I can hardly pronounce) into my face. I look at the next words "paradoxe Phänomenalität" and I decide I had it. Tonight Derrida can bewitch or spook someone else with ghosts, I am going dancing.
It is Friday and "Ladies Night" which means we get in for free. Guys have to pay. Lovely. Upstairs you can learn the salsa steps from the DJ, downstairs couples swirl across the floor. Mamma mia. These folks know how to shake it right. I drag my new friend into a corner, desperately trying to look "busy" and occupied. I hope no guy is asking me to dance, I hope no guy is asking me to DANCE. Well, no such luck. It seems I said the last word aloud. We are swarmed by very charming gentlemen, immediately, so it seems. And it gets worse. One man greets my friend enthusiastically, then he asks me to dance. Oh no! And off we go. My not-having-had-one-salsa-lesson shows off magnificently. We are hit by a spot light, literally. I look like a total idiot, of that I am sure. This nice man however is patient, he shows me the steps calmly and again and again. Somehow, I seem to catch on. Somehow we actually are dancing salsa.The twirling is my favorite, you spin around fast, and your whole world is turning. I don't even know where my feet are going but they seem to move right along. I am having a good time now. Shall we dance, Mister? Well, here is that little info I did not know yet. I went back to my new "friend" who does not stop staring at me.
"What?"
"Nothing. You danced good. You looked really good out there..."
"C'mon, cut it. I looked like an idiot."
"No, really, not at all. You caught on fast. Oh, and that was my professor you danced with."
"Yeah, nonchalantly, she dropped it into the conversation. I did not just dance with a nice, charming , handsome gentleman. I danced with her professor. Fantastic. Note, that I am being sarcastic here. Not that I am bothered by the fact that I danced with a smart, good-looking, middle-aged salsa dancer, but I could just foresee what was coming next.
"Did he talk to you about me?"
-"No."
"He didn't say anything at all?"
-"No."
"But he danced with you a long time."
-"Yes."
"You were talking."
-"Yes."
"Well, what were you talking about?"
And on and on it went. You get the idea. Favoritism. Smoozing. Tartuffery. Grades. A kinda big deal around here too.
To be continued...
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017
Phantom
It’s Friday.
Running up the stairs.
The computer is mine.
Phantom is online!
Sometimes he chooses to remain
silent,
Sometimes he replies.
He plays with your heart,
If you don’t impress him from the
start.
He got the fastest hands,
And he supports elephants.
He got time and
Sometimes he’s in rush
and oh he loves to make you blush
Come on, geez, figure it out.
He is a Phantom.
That’s what his strategy is all
about.
He collects your number,
Calls you and makes you feel even
dumber
If you don’t remember his real name.
Forget the chase.
Introduce, leave no clues -
That is his game.
You can’t tame.
Either way he says, you’ll believe
him.
Phantom decides the act,
He will tell you fiction or fact.
He is sexy and bloody charming
It is quite disarming,
My god, it should have been
alarming.
Aside from being unreal,
He has zeal.
He got Nick Carter’s appeal, but
Phantom his name he will not reveal.
He wants it that way, he wants to
love you,
But no stress to stay.
But no stress to stay.
Phantom wants it quick,
He uses you up like a bubble gum stick.
He uses you up like a bubble gum stick.
Either way, he will take over- the
loafer.
If you are smart, you won’t even start.
You will move from his dart
And depart into modern art.
He is not the right prince card.
You won’t fall into Phantom’s trap,
You’re not a kitty on his lap.
Believe me, it is better to go.
Talking leads to stalking.
Believe me I know,
I met him not too long ago.
Phantom was originally published in ©2000. All rights reserved.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017
If you are smart, you won’t even start.
You will move from his dart
And depart into modern art.
He is not the right prince card.
You won’t fall into Phantom’s trap,
You’re not a kitty on his lap.
Believe me, it is better to go.
Talking leads to stalking.
Believe me I know,
I met him not too long ago.
Phantom was originally published in ©2000. All rights reserved.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017
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All names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this blog are fictitious. No identification with actual persons, places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred. © All rights reserved.