Everyday I watched Daisy dance in the park.
She was a girl of eight years old.
She always looked so carefree and
without a single problem in the world.

I came to watch her dance each day,
because I envied her beautiful innocence.
She twirled and leaped and curtisied and tip toed
across the playground without a hint of wickedness.

I watched her and thought of the work I had to do,
but Daisy had an abundance of free time.
I knew I was much too busy to be watching her,
but I loved the reminder of my long lost prime.

She was the ideal of who I aspired to be.
A girl who can dance with all of her soul
and not worry about anyone that may be watching.
A girl who knows the simple things make us whole.

I feared for my little Daisy.
I was afraid of the day she'd start to comprehend
that this life isn't one giant beautiful ballet.
When that day comes, her dancing will violently end.

I feared for myself as well.
What will happen to me when her dancing is done?
Who will I watch and admire each day?
The restless sinful flesh will have won.

One word and we pause,
        Hanging suspended in space.
        Limbs the very picture of elegant restraint.
Two heartbeats before release.
        The tension is shattered.
        Feet once more on the ground.
Three bodies moving together,
        En pointe, flying as one.
        Somewhere, I became the tulle of my skirt.
Four limbs is all we have.
        Our limbs and our hearts,
        And the dance already owns them.
Five positions we move through,
        Having already etched them
        On the pillars of our memory ages ago.
Six minutes the music endures
        And we along with it,
        Transfixed in time by tradition and passion.
Seven criticisms we each weather,
        Holding our breath,
        Grace comes with a hefty price.
Eight beats and we move once more
        -Folding and unfolding-
        Balanced on a knife's edge, we can breathe again.

Step by step,
With a gorgeous plié,
Kick some pep
Into a battement jeté.

A toy brought to life
During a winter dream,
Wining a mice fight,
Becoming king and queen.

Graceful and white,
Perfection is seized,
A swan's flight,
Applause from the pleased.

All these to treasure,
To hope for, but first
Have the right measures
And break the weight curse.

Do not eat much
And practice all day,
Have the right touch,
Get that perfect cambré.

Pointe for pain
And chukkers for luck,
Just hide those blood stains
And redefine pluck

When all the joints hurt
And toes can't be touched,
When all one has heard
Is Tchaikovsky's crutch...

So proceed and endure,
Feel pain and relief,
Prokofiev's pitch contour
To be ones only belief.

Let all this be forgotten
When the curtains rise
And show all this works gotten
Perfection for a prize.

large panel windows with a view of brick beyond
white (pristine, pure)
untouched fantasies
and
compromised realities


draped in sunlight it tastes bitter like
unaged marble, freshly cut and hung
(on a languid pointe you advance
    — a graceless ballonné)


there’s a peace to be found
in quiescent words dripping in honey   sounding across an empty room
sinking to the soles of your feet
as you dip your toes into discarded symphonies
painting them across my heart.

He reached his fingers to the stars
willed his legs to dance
  forced his head so far back
   that in the bow of his body
    the bridge of his dance
     allowed particles of flaring sunlight
      little faeries of elation
       to traverse to the other side

      He saw his lean lithe body
     pirouette and position,
    ran screaming from one side to the next
   in a perpetual wish to catch
  that last step, that last grand
move, to capture small smiles
for infinity in his psyche

He said adieu to his last dance;
  farewell to the music
   only his ears could capture,
    goodbye to a world of ballet
     without him, his choreography
      no longer
       visible, but still resonating
        in this time and space where
         once he moved.

The little girl danced
she took the stage
and she danced
She learned all the positions
one by one
The steps and moves
came naturally
she danced
Her heart and soul
on stage
on display
Music drove her
force of vitality
It was ardor
it was desire
she danced
Among her in-crowd
she was sweet but shy
A goodie two shoes
quiet and meek as a mouse
A scholar a
an unflagging student
Whenever she was sad
she danced
Whenever she was happy
She danced
When it was sunny
She danced
When she fell in love
She danced
She flew from
toe to toe
When she had children
She danced
When she had grandchildren
She danced
Across the tapestry
Of life
She danced
When the banshee howled
She danced