Through broken glass,
Blood in ribbons
On the grass.
False laughter fills
The air with smiles,
A collection of fake happiness
For a short and precious while.
Appluad the graceless efforts
Of the sinning ballerinas
As the crowd cackles
Like the call of a hyena.
If your sadness were an ocean
plagued with typhoons,
and you were being thrashed around by the waves
and beaten across the rocks;
then I would be the fool who jumps in after you
However, your sadness is not the ocean
it's merely the ground,
and I cannot save you
because we are two bald eagles
talons locked, eyes focused
hurling towards it
So if we die,
we die together
and we can both write stone words
" Sadness overcame"
but if we manage to lift each other up
just before we hit the ground
then we've done a beautiful dance
and managed to pirouette away from our doom.
The way he dances for me
reminds me of sweet kisses passed
and flames licking at the corners
of impassioned nothings
that light me up
The floors are so far flung
and I am missing my partner
all I can do is watch him dance behind my eyelids
sitting on the side of my own dance floor
We are all but dancers
In the rhythm of life
While some seem to dance it perfectly
Some can't get the steps down right
Don't let that stop you from dancing
We each have our own heartbeat
Whether or not you are sure footed
Or if you were born with two left feet
Though we often feel that life can be
A large gymnasium at times
Waiting for someone to dance with us
As we sit on the side
Instead of waiting to be asked to dance
Like so many often do
Where ever it is you are right now
You can dance just for you
Perhaps a ballerina floating gracefully
Across life's massive stage
Giving your own rendition
To the beauty of swan lake
Or dancing to the river
Perhaps something in modern style
Whatever dance it is you deliver
How ever far it is the mile
Dance like there's no tomorrow
To your very own rhythm
For no one else can dance like you
The dance that you've been given
Liquid ballerinas wait behind pink curtains...
to dance upon a stage of flesh.
Dancing, twirling and spinning for all to see,
but embarrassment overcomes them at every mistake.
All tumbling off the stage to a cold hard floor,
each falling to shambles at everyone's feet...
And the audience can only laugh.
There's an inner sinking in my ocean.
A billowing crescent, waxed devotion
Whispering within the subtleties of breath.
I believe in what will cause our death.
I believe discovering our inner selves,
In among the mixed revelations,
Dainty compilations facing dilapidation.
The many soulless miners delve deeper.
When you learn who you are past the shouts of the gods.
Shattering composure with their mighty voices.
Left to one's own devices, secreting away the factual answers.
Humans dreaming in spite of their own conscious, forever dancers.
When you learn you're like the rest, a part of the whole.
What will hold up to you? As the best, the beauty of the soul.
Noisy screaming folklore.
Swirled over rail road track.
Firstly one for sorrow.
Soon joined by a mate.
A rash a dash of flapping wings.
Then there were three.
Is it to be a girl perhaps.
My daughters little chick.
A moment later.
Raucous noisy bird number four descended.
Train flashed past.
A flick of silver sparks from emitted from the line.
Magical mystery bird number five.
Appeared as the train went by.
His entrance not spotted.
Five lucky birds flew over the track.
Magpie number six.
He was the unlucky chap.
Landed on the track.
Train won't stop for magpie.
His number henceforth up!
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the ground, it trembles.
as if thousands of little feet trample its surface,
rhythmically packing the hard earth.
And none can see a thing.
their eyes matter not,
touch overwhelms their being.
it caresses their necks
and trickles between their fingers.
it washes over them
in undulating waves.
they dance, and they inspire dance—
in light, filtered through wind ravaged trees
and kitchen windows.
which glitters entrancingly as it kisses the floor.
Artists are not people who draw, or write, or make music.
Poets are not just people who write, poets are observers, poets see the beauty and tragedy of life and put it into words.
Those who draw are not people with pencils and paper, people who draw have figured out how they see the world, and how to recreate their views on paper.
Dancers are not just people who can move to music, dancers are people who spell out stories with their being.
Painters are not people with paint and a canvas, painters are the people singlehandedly making the world brighter.
Artists are people with leaky faucets.
Those happy Morris dancers make for a happy sight
They wear bright scarlet ribbons and their shirts and trousers white,
They clash their sticks whilst dancing and you hear the timbers ring
Though 'twould seem that Morris dancing is not a female thing.
I've never seen a female Morris dancer I stand corrected if I'm wrong
It has it's roots in England and to England it belong
And I hope that Morris dancing will not go the way of rhyme
That in a changing World it won't lose out to time.
They brought their culture with them from England far away
A culture perhaps fading like many of the old cultures are today
With the old dances of Europe I see a link somewhere
And sad to hear that Morris dancers are now becoming rare.
At the Dandenong Ranges festival east of Melbourne they perform every year
And after in the booze tent they laugh as they drink their beer,
They brought a thing of beauty when they brought their dancing here
And to those marvellous Morris dancers let us raise our glass of cheer.
Morris dancing vary from English Village to Village or so I have been told
Though the times they are a changing and fading are the ways of old
But those marvellous Morris dancers may they dance forever more
In the sunshine of Australia far from England's rainy shore.