Exotic Jazz ballerinas I Sweetly Love You
For many of your Abundant gifts
and talents

Not just for your Ethereal
and Casual beauty, but also for your
Exotic And luminous grace,
That may be the first exquisite qualities
That comes like a Waterfall pirouette
To Ones mind when it comes
to the Sweet beauties of Exotic ballerinas

Exotic ballerinas how much I Love thee
Let my Love sigh the ways

Sigh number one (Uno)
(I always loved that game especially
When you draw a Wild card)

Awwww, Your beauty is naturally wild
As much as it is graceful and serene
Like the Evening lakes just after the Sunsets lavendar caress,
Its great to be able to Unwind
Around the enchanted circumference
Of the Evening lakes, the waves waltz
Svelte and limber like you do
And on a scale of 1 to 10 I'm 10x times
More clumsy than an Exotic ballerina,

So that would probably be sigh number 2,
Hey just thought of a number two pencil
For some reason, yeah your elegance
Thats sigh dos
Aww, Ah,
how many pencils would
It take to accentuate
your Supreme elegance,
probably way too much
All the gorgeous maple lake trees
Would be lumber
for the campfire bonfires

That Springs to ones mind,
Awww Sigh three (tres) your
Passion for the art of your dance
Is very innately romantic
Like the wistful wicks
of valentine candles,
your unique Silhouettes
from your tutus and leotards
Are like the dance of lovers candles

Sigh number four Awww, Awww, awww,
Awwww,
You dont wear sandles
but rather
Sweetly sport the flats
when you
Get into your Chopin cascades
of sweet
Loving transcendent
and sublime rhythms
that is Amazing
In itself
you hurt your sweet delicate pretty feet for the pure love of your art,
You sway naturally like Summer roses with alot of heart and Love,
And I have alot of Love for you
For that there alone, Its Sweet sweet jazz

Sigh number five
Awww, awww, awww, awww, ah,
the way your crescent hips
Dips And dives like sultry doves
and mellow swans
and keeps the Passion alive
Thats not easy to do
But you make it look so effortless

Sigh number six
AWWWWWW, the way the honey
Of your hair licks the breeze of romance,
Love, and ones vivid imagination
And inspires fascination,
Like the rainbows of irises along
The Heavenly lakeshores
Are you blushing now Exotic ballerina
I do not just love you naturally
As your very swayyyy I simply adore thee
If you are you blush
sweeter than rose gardens

Sigh number Seven
Awww, awww, Awww, awww, Awww,
Awww, awww
You are not only sweetly beautiful
You always have the most exquisite
names like penelope, bridgitte,
audrey, salma, daphne,
And the Holy mother,
No wonder so many great painters
and artists
like degas, matisse, and picasso
dedicated their craft
and passion to accentuate
your ever flowing beauties and charms, you are Sacred as you are down to earth as Sweet Vineyards
And Exquisite
with The Moonlight and Rain
And
I Naturally and sweetly Love you

Reynaldo Casison

by now, the moon knows that my chest is just a burial ground for this thousandfold of sighs — in their hands, all different ways of my undoing, and i am a breath away from one. you see, some nights are for the softest, gentlest moments of lunacy. some nights, for waging wars and succumbing into these sighs, barely held by the petals tightening around my throat. by now, the moon knows that i had once been a battlefield and it's a pity — growing poems on such an unholy ground, only to fall apart like aster leaves and ancient city walls.

darling, it's getting dark, and this is starting to look less like poetry — and more like spoils of war from inside my head.

my nose now runs seasonallyfrom sigh droplets

every new season celebrated by the constant continuation
of its running from, running to ?, or as I joke,  
from  September to September inclusive

but something new, my eyes now watery, a permanente daily irregularity, the imaginary laundry lady whines consistently, as she cannot always locate, prior to machine insertion, for all my secret hiding places of the always everywhere ***** tissues!

“too many pockets, too many tissues,” she underbreath mumbles,
but secretly I observe her similarly daubing~dabbing of the eyes,
in this time of constant sorrow, no one immunized, the sigh droplets
pass through any mask and gown, and then become full time residents

wry thinking, “let he or she who is without stone, cast the first tissue”
but we are all ****** all the time, heavy heaving, eyes tearing and
noses running

it don’t take much, the continuous reportage batters me and turning
away from my electronics impossible, they now hard wired inside the maniac-brainiac, wifi’d, from every side, even a actual glance outside at the desert of our dehumanized streetscapes always amazes

we no longer worry that every sniffle or tear
is a warning sign of  a more serious ailment;
no, we understand too well this is a sad spirit inside,
it’s symptoms unleashed but un-lethal, the antibody
to a weariness that has no name, only tissues that

cannot cure nor disinfect

Instruction
by Michael R. Burch

Toss this poem aside
to the filigreed and the prettified tide
of sunset.

Strike my name,
and still it is all the same.
The onset

of night is in the despairing skies;
each hut shuts its bright bewildered eyes.
The wind sighs

and my heart sighs with her—
my only companion, O Lovely Drifter!
Still, men are not wise.

The moon appears; the arms of the wind lift her,
pooling the light of her silver portent,
while men, impatient,

are beings of hurried and harried despair.
Now willows entangle their fragrant hair.
Men sleep.

Cornsilk tassels the moonbright air.
Deep is the sea; the stars are fair.
I reap.

Originally published by Romantics Quarterly.

Keywords/Tags: instruction, sunset, night, skies, wind, sighs, moon, silver, portent, sea, stars