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Performing Art
by Michael R. Burch

Who teaches the wren
in its drab existence
to explode into song?

What parodies of irony
does the jay espouse
with its sharp-edged tongue?

What instinctual memories
lend stunning brightness
to the strange dreams

of the dull gray slug
—spinning its chrysalis,
gluing rough seams—

abiding in darkness
its transformation,
till, waving damp wings,

it applauds its performance?
I am done with irony.
Life itself sings.

One suspects the typical American poetry professor and/or workshop instructor would advise birds to give up singing for mostly inaudible expressions of jaded irony. Keywords/Tags: performing, art, poetry, song, singing, music, irony, cynicism, parodies, dreams, imagination, chrysalis, butterfly, transformation, natural, performance
One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three...
She dances to the beat of the music with glee
Her feet are pointed like sharp knives
Gliding across the stage, bringing her character to life
Her arms ascend over her head, creating an arc
The sparkles on her costume twinkle in the dark
Her toned legs move with a certain grace
Rising and falling gently. Never out of place
Her shoulders are down, her head is up
Showcasing her mask of emotion and makeup
There is a balance, a beauty, in the art of ballet
A discipline dancers are forced to obey
It's like I always say
Beauty is pain.
I know nothing about ballet. Thoughts?
Amanda Feb 25
Crowded bar
Drink held in hand
Music blaring loud
Pretty sure my soul is ******
After the second round

Shot of whiskey down throat
One more to follow
Sea of ***** keeping afloat
Weightless with each swallow

Dizzy head
Thick and light
And hazy
Tiredness drags down my sight
Legs relaxed and lazy

Warmth spreads throughout torso
Fingertips begin to tingle
Euphoria inside my brain grows
My neurons and serotonin mingle

Air heavy
Sweat and motion
Humid heat clinging to my skin
Around me is a blurred commotion
Logic and sense wearing thin

Tummy performing cartwheels
Whole place unbalanced and dark
Stool wobbly underneath my heels
Bartender pouring from a fifth of Monarch

Saturday night in a tiny town
Where everything else is just too far
So you find yourself driving the same road down
To the local nothing-better-to-do bar
In Talkeetna that bar is called The Fairview which is where I was when I began writing this little treasure haha
The Red Woman Apr 2019
my favourite actor
nothing less than perfect
my whole world, all i saw

but then you became something else
someone else
even though you were wearing the same mask
as you did when we first met

on the outside the same
but on the inside you changed
therefore i still watch you
as you perform in the crowded hallways

how do i heal from a loss of someone who hasn't died
He changed. Everything he does is like an act. I just thought that we were special, and there was no act with me. He changed into something that I couldn't recognize, and I was pushed away. I watch the face of a boy I loved, on a person I can no longer recognize everyday. Now I am left, trying to heal from a loss of someone who technically isn't dead.
Jacob Parnell Jan 2019
Heart settles for a second or a millisecond more.
Dew rises leaving the world in a smokey haze.
This is not a phase.
This is just me.
She prayed.
I stayed away from all of that.
When I was younger, everything was "as a matter of fact".
Everything was reading newspapers for the comic strips.
Everything was detective novels fit for my young mind.
She left it all behind, not by choice.
She was my voice.
She was my mom.

She watched me read poetry with sweaty pits.
Fear hiding behind my eye-lids.
It helped that she was there.
It helped the fear.
Performing in front of people, something I didn't often do.
Now the smoke rises leaving only dew.
Who am I now?
What will I become?
My mom knew me but someday I'll say she only knew me when I was young.
I'm not ready for that.
I'm not sure I'll ever be.
That day will come and the dew will rise again.
The dew behind my eye-lids.
A poem about my mom. She passed away almost a year ago now and always supported my poetry. I know she would be proud of me.
Eyes cast
Beautiful mind
Your energy and mine
Hearts beating fast
Lips locking
Body on mine
Your skin devouring
Deep in your flesh
Minds exploding
Dissolving in pleasure
An instrument to play
Delicious noises
Murmuring in my ear
Words with moarning
Art performing
................. Art performing
Kira Jul 2018
She was my inspiration
The way she spoke so clearly
Her voice echoed with no hesitation
and her words were meant sincerely

I could tell she wrote with passion
Not afraid to tell her story
It was her call to action
Not about the glory

I wanted her to talk forever
and not stop at the end of the paper
We had a connection I didn't want to sever
Her thoughts I wanted to savor
I've always had a love of poetry, but it wasn't until a couple of months ago that I was really inspired to write my own. This girl read a poem to me that she wrote and it was so powerful that it gave me chills and made me want to cry and I loved that I could feel so many different emotions just by listening to her talk. I hope that someday I will write a piece that will make someone feel something so deeply that they have to sit back for a second and take a deep breath.
Cheyenne Yacono May 2017
Click clack click*
We left the comfort of the amethyst curtain
Onto the stained wooden stage
The room is wide and filled with echoes
I stare into the red seats where identical faces sit
They show no emotion and I want them to feel
Feel anger, joy, sadness, something
My instructor paces across the stage towards the microphone
Suddenly the words that were to follow turn into muffles
All I can hear is my heart beat
They sound like quarter notes
The muffles end once my instructor is back in my sight
He exhales and smiles
The burning lights make him look like a god
He raises the baton and I forget everything
We play the keys robotically but we breathe humanity
The notes trace our fingers and play your heart strings
Our slurs curve your lips into a smile
We want you to feel joy
We want you to remember childhood memories
It's not just kids with instruments
There are stories being told
We put our life into the instruments
We remember being called fools
And how we were wasting our time
We tell you our stories through these notes
Hoping you will feel what we felt
But we'll never know until the final note
When the baton goes down and we bow to the crowd
It's exhilarating
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