Midnight in Paris and Cellos in KC

What would you choose - walking in rain in the streets of Paris or your marriage. That's pretty much the question asked in "Midnight in Paris." How can you be with someone who simply refuses to give in to your simple silly needs. Gil would compromise a lot to be with his smoking hot fiancee Inez, but would romanticize about living in a different era -- 1920s to be more precise. When a classic Peugeot taxi takes him back in time where he could spend time with the likes of Hemingway, Picasso, Dali, and such, he gradually realizes, it is not the time he lives in that's the source of his unhappiness. With right choices, he could be just as well happy in the 21st century. He could call his Hollywood writing quits, move to Paris like he always wanted, and give literary writing a real shot. And may be, just may be, find a partner who enjoys walking in the rain with him.

Hello By a Local Artist

Walking around in country club plaza, we sat down on a bench and enjoyed this artist perform several songs. Wanted to share one of the songs I took time to record on my iPhone. Enjoy ---

The Prodigal Poem

By Glen North

This poem is unwanted.

This poem is illegitimate.

This poem was an accident...

I didn't mean to write it!

Yes, I let my pen touch the pad

but I was just scribbling,

just doodling

just playing around with it

like so many other poets before me.

See, I thought the paper

was on the pill

so I didn't use any protection

no correction tape

no white out

no eraser...

I wanted to have it aborted

but by the time

I had saved up enough loot

it had already reached its 3rd stanza.

The paper won't consent

to an ink test

so I'm not claiming it...

However, I see it hanging out

in the hood sometimes...

This poem lets its words sag

so you can see its behind.

This poem wasn't raised right

so it can barely even rhyme.

This poem hangs out with weed papers

and it drinks too much wine.

This poem will be dead before it reaches its 21st line-

crumpled up in some waste basket

by a suicide letter

or tragically executed by

a heartless paper shredder.

At the very least,

it will end up locked behind the bars

of some legal pad

it will be too late then

to blame it on Dad (whoever that may be).

No, this poem won't end happily

it has already lost touch with reality

heavily influenced by MTV,

it's caught up in some hip hop fantasy

it denies the genre in which it belongs

this poem thinks that it's a rap song:

"P to the izz O

E to the izz M

that's the anthem

get all your hands up."

This poem will never be published

revised or anthologized.

This poem will never reside on a library shelf

because this poem is illiterate

it can't even read itself.

This poem could never be a love poem.

It's too busy trying to be a 

let-me-lick-you-up-and-down

till-you-say-stop-mack-daddy poem

but countless careless encounters

have made it a

that's-just-my-baby's-daddy poem

and it has left fatherless verses

in journals and notebooks all over town

with each passing line,

it sinks further down.

Job, Psalm, Proverbs

and not just these

but Ecclesiastes

and Song of Solomon

yearned for this poem

to follow them.

These prophetic poems

that foretold of the coming Messiah

and the glory of the New Jerusalem

reached out to this poem,

prayed for this poem,

loved this poem,

but some poems

just don't want to be saved,

they just crash and burn

at the bottom of the page.