Uncle Bardie’s Spotlight Creators: Sarah Kay & Phil Kaye, Spoken Wordsmiths

Once a week on Friday, Uncle Bardie celebrates the creativity in others by shining a Spotlight on a movie, a song or a creator. This week’s Spotlight Creators are Sarah Kay & Phil Kaye:

Sarah Kay and Phil Kaye performing.

It was late at night and I was out cruising the highways and byways of the world wide web. I came across these two spoken wordists. Liked them a lot. And wanted to share their creative storytelling with you.

It only goes to show you what you can find when you are not looking.


haiku for the day: stories

Every car has a story. Or maybe many stories. There’s the story of the car itself. How the car came to be in the possession of the driver. Then there’s the story of the driver and what the heck are they doing next to you in traffic. If there’s passengers, there are more stories.

Perhaps the driver turns to the passenger next to him and says, “So, you’re not going to marry me?” She might say, “You bet your sweet booty I won’t marry you.” “Then why are we still dating?” “I thought you might win the lottery.” The car is thinking, “Ha. Him win the lottery. He’s got worse luck than Louis XVI.” In case, you didn’t know. Louis XVI was Marie Antoinette’s cake-eating husband.

man in the next car
stopped at an intersection
it’s his turn to go

The Woman in the Park

From her bench in the park, the woman looked into the camera. It was not a stare, just a look. History stamped her face with all its sorrows and its joys.

Her hair now turned grey and thinned was once a full and a solid auburn. In those days, it hung down to her waist. Her forehead wrinkled, her skin now tough from all those days she spent in the sun. Her temple carried a large splotch of yellow. Her eyelashes had thinned like her hair. Only her left ear heard the sounds of the world around her. Both her eyes were a deep blue and she was blind in the right one.

A mole rested just above her lips. Her nose slightly bent from a break in her youth. Her left nostril was slightly bigger than her right one. Her chin was small but so was her mouth. She reached up and stroked her jaw as if she were remembering some long-ago boyfriend who kissed her cheek, then that small Southern mouth. She had been loved once. And that was all that matter to her. Her name was Sara and she had once been happy.

She smiled at the photographer. He snapped her picture, thanked her and walked away. They were two strangers who had encountered each on a Saturday afternoon in the park.

He went off to photograph others. Sometime later he decided he wanted to tell her something. Sara was gone from the bench.

The next morning Sara’s daughter, Margaret, found her mother dead in her bed, a peace on her face, a smile on her lips. That last photograph had been the gravy on the mashed potatoes. Somewhere someone would see the picture, maybe hundreds of someones, and they would love that face as the photographer had.

The flower seller

The old lady sat by the flowers. She knitted while she waited for the passers-by to stop and buy some flowers. Through the years, she had managed to knit a whole wardrobe. It was her way not to become impatient. To trust that the customers would come. And they did. While she knitted and waited, she prayed for each of the passers-by. “God is good,” she told the troubled souls who came her way. And she believed it. She believed that each of her prayers was a seed.

One sunny spring afternoon, she sat in her usual place. She had just put away her lunch of a baguette, some cheese and a glass of red wine, then she went back to her knitting. This one was a blanket for her great-grandbaby. Michel was six months old with the most beautiful of smiles. Every time she looked at him, he smiled. His smile seemed to fill not just the room but the whole world. How could anyone be sad after seeing a smile like that?

A woman in her early forties, tall, long black hair, approached her. “Margarette?” she said.

Margarette looked up at the woman. She remembered the woman. She never forgot a face. Twenty years ago, the woman stopped and shared her story. She had no one else to share with, she said. She had been abandoned by her lover. He had brought her all the way from the United States to France and left her for another woman. She was afraid to contact her family. They would reject her and she would soon be on the street, a foreigner. Margarette took her hands, held them, and prayed for the woman.

“Margarette,” the woman said as she kneeled before the old woman. “You saved my life. You won’t believe what happened after I left.”

The Magician’s Assistant

It’s Halloween and time to celebrate. So here’s a Halloween story.

Brooks and Frank were not brothers although others thought they could be. No one could remember them when they were not together. Brooks was a magician; Frank was a fireman. Or at least, he liked to dress up as a fireman.

Brooks was often on stage, showing the world his trick of sawing a fireman in half. Usually magicians saw a woman in half, Brooks sawed Frank in half. People loved the trick. Frank showed up on the stage and Brooks introduced him to the box. Frank wore his fireman’s uniform. Once Frank was in the box safe and secure, Brooks set the box on fire. Then the sawing began.

Frank always thought of himself being like the one the knife thrower threw the knives at. It took steady nerves to stand there and let those knives come at you. He thought that the knife thrower’s partner could dodge bullets if she had to. She had that kind of concentration. So he worked on his concentration.

All was well and good for quite some time. Then it happened. It happened just as Brooks and Frank became a sensation and started to fill larger venues. Frank met Darla.

Darla was a tall, slender dark-haired beauty with only one ambition. She had spent years wanting to be a magician’s assistant. She saw Brooks on stage. She just knew what he needed. He needed Darla to hand him the saw. It was a matter of faith. Every magician needed a Darla.

One night during the show, Darla walked onto the stage. She had the saw in her hands. She lifted it above her head. Then she handed the saw to Brooks.

At first surprise, Brooks was taken aback. How dare this woman interrupt his performance. When he heard the applause, he changed his mind. As the three of them walked off the stage, Brooks whispered to his new assistant, “I can’t pay you much.”

Darla just smiled. She was happy her dream had come true.

Frank took one look at Darla and he was smitten. Cupid aimed his arrow, and kwhack, it hit Frank in the heart.

For several performances, the act went on perfectly. Brooks introduced the box. Frank walked out onto the stage in his fireman’s costume and crawled into the box. Brooks locked the box. Darla brought out the fire starter and set the box on fire. Then she raised the saw above her head. And the trick went off without a problem.

Frank couldn’t keep his love to himself. One night just before a performance, he walked up to Darla and whispered, “I love you.”

Well, Darla was having none of this love thing. She knew it could blow a good act. She had seen other acts go up in flames because of the jealousy. So she let her partner-in-crime know she wasn’t interested in a gentle sort of way.

Frank walked onto stage with tears in his eyes. He crawled into the box like always. Darla set the box on fire. Brooks took the saw from her hands. Things were going well just like usual. But Frank couldn’t concentrate. He just couldn’t concentrate.