Cabaret

Who Will Sing When Democracy Is Whispering?

There are those who believe
the theater is an escape.

They are only half right.

We enter a darkened room
to remember
what the light looks like.

Long before history
finds its way into textbooks,
it first trembles
through the hands of a violinist,
the breath of an actor,
the paint beneath a sculptor’s fingernails,
the cracked voice of a singer
who refuses to soften the truth.

The arts have never belonged
to comfort alone.

They belong
to the child searching for belonging,
to the widow who has forgotten how to cry,
to the worker who has forgotten how to dream,
to the stranger whose language is translated
not by words,
but by beauty.

Every civilization
has left behind its songs
before its laws,
its stories
before its treaties.

Because art survives
where power cannot.

When governments divide,
when neighbors become tribes,
when fear becomes currency
and outrage is traded
like shares on a stock exchange,
artists inherit an ancient responsibility.

Not because they are wiser.

But because they are witnesses.

They are the first
to notice the silence
where laughter once lived.
The first
to hear the crack
beneath a nation’s confident voice.
The first
to recognize that indifference
is merely injustice
that has learned to whisper.

There is always a price.

A role that disappears.

A concert that is canceled.

A gallery that closes its doors.

A donor who withdraws.

A contract quietly offered
to someone
who promises to remain agreeable.

History rarely applauds
the courageous
while courage is still expensive.

Yet every generation
produces those improbable souls
who stand beneath the lights
knowing the spotlight
can illuminate
or expose.

They speak anyway.

Not because they are fearless,
but because silence
would cost them
something infinitely greater
than employment.

It would cost them themselves.

There are careers
that become monuments.

And there are souls
that remain alive.

The fortunate
are those who never discover
they had to choose.

The brave
already know.

The measure of an artist
has never been found
in ticket sales,
standing ovations,
critical acclaim,
or awards polished to a brilliant shine.

It is found
in the quiet question
asked at the end of every life:

When truth needed a voice,

did yours answer?

Perhaps that is why
the curtain still rises,
even in difficult times.

Not to distract us
from the world outside,

but to remind us
that humanity
has not yet surrendered.

Every poem,
every dance,
every mural,
every symphony,
every play that dares to ask
instead of merely entertain
becomes a small act
of national restoration.

Not because art changes governments.

Because it changes people.

And people,
with awakened hearts,
have always changed the world.

So let the artists keep singing.

Let them paint,
write,
compose,
question,
provoke,
comfort,
and refuse.

For when they risk their applause
to preserve their conscience,

they are doing far more
than protecting their own souls.

They are standing watch
over the soul
of a nation
that may not yet realize
how desperately
it needs them.

To The Ones Who Make The Room Glow

Volunteer Appreciation Celebration – The Arctic Playhouse – July 18, 2025 

You arrive before the music, before the first note is coaxed 
from the keys, before the hush of anticipation settles in the air.
You are already there—with table lights warmed just right,
with places set like quiet invitations, with the kind of presence
that makes strangers feel like they’ve come home. 

You do not ask for applause, yet you shape the stage in ways no  
spotlight could ever capture. The ambiance breathes because of you—
soft and certain, like a memory we didn’t know we were missing
until we stepped through the door. 

Your welcome is not loud, but it is unwavering. It lives in every
poured glass, every offered chair, every thoughtful gesture that
says: “You matter here. We see you. Stay awhile.”

And so, when the music begins—when voices rise and hearts
unfold in songs and stories—know this: what the audience hears
is only part of the performance. The rest of it—the warmth,
the ease, the joy that lingers like candlelight—is your inspiration.

Finally, when the night closes—when sound of the The Rainbow 
Connection begins and you all join in, binding every heart in 
the room with its quiet truth—it is your kindness that makes
the moment feel less like an ending and more like a promise.
A promise we’ll find each other again, under these lights,
held by this music, in the intimacy you so effortlessly create. 

You are the ones who give more than time. You give care.
You give soul. You give The Cabaret Club the magic of being
more than a room. Thank you for making this place not just
somewhere we come to listen, but somewhere we come to
feel known.

Ode to the Stage Manager, Vicki Yates – The Arctic Playhouse, West Warwick, RI

She enters the theater before it can yawn,
 With coffee in hand and the ghost light still on.
 While actors are stretching or lost in a line,
 She’s taping the stage with a grid so divine.

She wrangles the chaos with headset and charm,
 Says, “Places!” and suddenly—calm.
 She knows every line, every glitch, every cue,
 And the prop you forgot way back in Act 2.

She speaks fluent panic, and patience as well,
 Can call cues in blackout or handle a yell.
 If the set starts to crumble or someone forgets,
 She patches it up with dry wit and no sweat.

Her script is a journal, a map, a memoir,
 With scribbles and notes like theatrical war.
 She’s the first one to laugh, the last one to leave,
 The magician who ensures the audience believes.

No spotlight will catch her, with no curtain bow,
 But everyone knows she’s the queen of the now.
 For the cast and the crew, she’s the heart and the glue,
 And the show goes on nightly thanks to what she can do.

For the Hands That Sing

On the 65th Birthday of Jim Rice –  Beloved Friend and Maestro 7/11/25

Today, the keys pause for a moment— mid-phrase, mid-feeling—
to tip their hats to the hands that guide them. Today, the
spotlight bends not toward center stage, but to the soul in
the shadows, who lifts every note like a prayer.

You, Jim, the quiet architect of song, the steady breath
beneath the singer’s storm, have given your heart to
hundreds of voices— and in return, we give you ours.

At Club Café, where laughter lingers in chords, and in
The Cabaret Club, at The Arctic Playhouse where warmth
meets your artistic wisdom, you are the spine of every
ballad, the unseen pulse of every encore.

We have watched your fingers teach courage, watched them
sculpt self-doubt into composure. You have accompanied more
than melodies—you have accompanied us, through tears and triumph,
with grace that never asks to be named.

Kindness is your key signature, generosity your tempo. And in a
world too often off-pitch, your presence keeps us in tune.

So on this day—your day, Jim— we celebrate not just your talent,
but your spirit, which plays in us long after the final note fades.

Happy Birthday, Dear Friend. You are the heartbeat of every 
performance. You are the thread that weaves the music into magic.