As a follow up to last night’s blog, I am attaching a PDF of the first act of my audio drama titled “Spout’s First Note”. The word note refers to a note of music. The people who live on Spout’s planet of Songsing, tend to be gifted in music. But how would they react to a non-musical youth?
James M. Kemp
October 28, 2021
It never occurred to me to create a script of the narrative for my children’s book titled “Spout’s First Note”. There are a number of video versions out there on places like YouTube.
However, any of those versions probably feature a narrative being read by me.
So, I have begun working on a voice-over script which can be read in a setting such as a Zoom meeting and then pasted into an MP4.
If I get the script done by the end of the day, I will post it tonight.
James M. Kemp
October 27, 2021
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The thinking sun holds little out before the Average Man.
At most a saddened tale of a Creator Man betrayed.
A tale that leaves the Average Man without dividend –
A tale of mental void with spirit-view in rent.
The Average Man can see romance inside his pearly shells.
But absent sex, his pearls descend to sand, and out to tide,
Where God left too much sand ashore and little of herself.
“More grit than wit’s the rub,” the angry mermaids chide.
If not a wit, what then? Perhaps a swollen glans?
Sans hands, this job of soul’s too big for Average Man.
Still Temptation on his plate lays angel wings of gold.
But Man demands more filling meat than gazing into soul.
What then? Man needs a dividend, remainder to suffice.
And after all, his problem is division, not device.
Alas! These jobs like soul reduce Man and his reach.
Without the Whole, in fading light, Man flops upon God’s beach.
This day’s diamond dawn exposed
A knowing spirit’s morphos grin to me,
Whose mad glee filled my eyes; announced
the sanctity of some new blood within me.
It spoke a name we have intoned before,
and named me bearer of such stuff;
named me holy and select, the source
of suffering hope, wonder-filled name.
I had been haunted much at late
by thoughts of family and of union.
But knowing the lot which fate had cast for me,
those pressing thoughts had dragged me down.
Now, air glides freely through my lungs and lower,
feeds that dormant hope, my appetite;
made more glowing warm which once had burned
when gold rewarded my fleshy virtues then.
Will he who has confessed his love for me,
accept this sign as proof of He who gave it?
Or will such thoughts also pull him down
to that dark place where I was without trust?
This thing announced even now seems moved,
as if sympathetic of some burden I must bear.
The psychic sap is heavy in its lightness.
As if to pull me down while lifting up.
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This bailiff of my humor grates me most.
This assuming son of Jesse
that his Holy Oiliness would anoint.
So, between his singing and his looks, I sent him reeling
From me earlier this evening.
I am still capable of rage. Evening contemplation now.
But how that boyish mocker has unwound me!
l have watched him
Spying at my crown.
He should be more watchful of my humor.
He does need so to fill
That girlish frame to manliness.
He pleased me once with his strumming.
After battle, nightly music was becoming.
His was sweet as any handmaid’s.
I was accustomed then
To place my hand upon his head,
not knowing that he read it more a blessing than a thanks.
But even blessing was too lean for his appetite.
When I first discerned his threat, even then, it was too late
to send him back to Jesse’s lap.
My own armies fancied him, marveled at
such stature’s forcing Philistine to kneel.
Whetted, he must have seen that primal bow
as proper medicine for such disease as his
that gathers to addiction now.
That my own seed bows, I am concerned
to what levels of lowliness. Suspicious, I
have seen them pray upon their knees as one.
This almoner of mine has habit
Of offering his greater portion to that cub.
His is an ignorance of how great
That portion is to greedy eyes.
These cares encrust my latest dreams
Of lesser than an hour’s sleep.
Repeated nightly this chilledmonth,
I see a golden youth crawl into my court,stand up erect
And burst from chains
To stripling wielding cutlery.
My counsel witch conjures this youth is Time, will dwell fully in my reign, predicts my golden age; unless, I cut myself
from out of old Jehovah’s chains.
That which the weird depicts to me
Is fresh Ambition – would prick
the jewels from my embattled crown to adorn his ceremonial gown.
But for the chance I’d take,
I’d pluck his catchy tune. Yes.
Yes, I’d prick his little song
and make a lyre of golden hair and sinewy bone.
I’d betray his seed.
But, what demons would grapple
with my humor then,
Planting poisons in my feed,
Making sacrifice from need?
To betray his ransom creed!
It is such a madness that makes the monarch migrate –
the first smell of that season sinks upon us in late September.
Such powerful subtlety.
All nature forced to kneel
in instinctive awe by that singular smell.
It is the smell of green leaves
at that instant before they change to red.
It is the smell of soil that creatures turn up
as they burrow unerringly downward.
It is the smell that we mistake for cold
on that first night –
sends us groping for the extra blanket.
It is a smell that announces the remembering season –
the fifth season.
Does not itself last longer than
a memory;
a season that haunts with failures we had not acknowledged
until now.
Yet enchants us with potent achievement –
the dreams in later summer
when such madness will be
sated by more ferny smells.
dzinor2013 