"balletic" poems
Within a world of azure blue,
the mantas glide with angel wings,
and fly on winds of ocean waves,
inside their realm of mystery.
Like ancient beings from the deep,
they flash and shimmer in our light,
with other-worldly mammoth forms;
cephalic fins and flattened frames.
These gentle giants of the night,
draw fishes from the briny deep,
their vivid forms flash to and fro,
feed on the banquet of the sea.
They dance balletic in our lights;
exquisite, rings and summersaults,
with bubbles lit to guide their path,
they glide just past our mortal reach.
These stunning marvels of the deep,
are but a finite sampling,
of what our planet offers up,
far past our wild imaginings.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 5:51 PM UTC
Time passes by like a whistle in the wind. Ignored and only observed within the thickness of one's skin. The once gnawing temptation in Lula's eyes were now exchanged in kaput like a dead black swan in the lake.
It grew on her and she can only justify it by moving her legs back in forth and forward with her ballet shoes; she can only obtain her physical through the applause of everyone around her. Yet, there were trickles of blood forming inside her internal wound — as the piano strikes another note in A minor, she can only whisk in pain and undone drafts in her head. "Tis will be over", she raises her head upon the crowds heaping in excitement, she turned around and flew her wings upright and the heads of the audience once more clapped in vain and delirium nonsensical pleasure.
As Chopin's symphony were almost in the last note, she stood straight and made her way to the middle. There, she locked eyes with her forbidden lover and a small smile throughout. The intensity of another Vivaldi's winter classic can be grasp once more and another set up of white swans gathered together — formed a circle and she went in the middle. Her eyes turned black and her wings bleed another tint of jet black and crimson. The crowds awed in reverence and she soared above them. A starlet in the headless crowds and dreary sweet rustle of voices gave her another bliss.
And while she was served aloft, there were another macabre symphony that plays through the soft rough piano; it was a solemn prayer and they were the kind souls going up to the heavens.
"Go on, Salem. Play the winter magic," Salem could only look at his muse and he strike another note, passing notes two steps from their 'haven'.
Lula slowly ripped her wings for the last time and smiled to all the headless men. Her satin dress reveals her plumpy chest and an hourglass body. Lula is a goddess black swan. Men could only forward their eyes and threw her pennies once more and she could only move in her balletic conventional pose. For the last time, she flew with her black tinted wings and they were all beheaded.
The white swans began to sing in a solemn outcry until it became too remorseful. The white swans turned their heads down when they met Lula's dead eyes. Her laugh echoing the whole stadium with its own persona and it is like crawling down into waltz where it reaches their earshot. They can only sing in albeit and expensive heads started to explode.
"Two steps from hell," she sings.
May 30, 2021
May 30, 2021 at 7:11 AM UTC
He always wanted to be a ballerina
To dance so dainty up on his toes.
But everyone could see under his tutu
And the bump they saw was not his nose.
He had the talent and the perfect figure
To perform the balletic steps just right.
There was no way he could ever manage
To keep that ample package out of sight.
Jete, jete. Plie, Plie.
Dance like that’s all you want to do.
Dancing straight, or dancing gay,
Do whatever is right for you.
Hands and toes pointed fine
Back and necks held straight.
Maybe it’s not your time to get picked.
But make it worth their wait.
His skin was smooth just like a swaddling baby
There was no concern about flat *******
Many ballerinas are rather mannish
With not much curvature to their chests.
So he could pass completely undetected
Androgyny was his great good friend
But any moment when he swirled about
Tutu would lift and then spell the spell would end.
Jete, jete. Plie, Plie.
Dance like that’s all you want to do.
Dancing straight, or dancing gay,
Do whatever is right for you.
Hands and toes pointed fine
Back and necks held straight.
Maybe it’s not your time to get picked.
But make it worth their wait.
He never really loved the danseur posture
The holds and lifts and hearty leaps about.
But in the world of ballet and its leaders
Ballerina guys are always left out.
Still he danced in tutu at auditions.
He heard the comments, paid them no mind.
If they could not see grandly male Pavlova
That meant that all of them were blind.
Jete, jete. Plie, Plie.
Dance like that’s all you want to do.
Dancing straight, or dancing gay,
Do whatever is right for you.
Hands and toes pointed fine
Back and necks held straight.
Maybe it’s not your time to get picked.
But make it worth their wait.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
Awesome animal
Magician with your amazing sleight of neck tricks
Coat of tawny spots a perfect artist painted
Your wondrous balletic grace lends mystery and eyeful daze
as we look up to you with inexpressible sorrow
aware that one day you might vanish from our smitten sight
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 7:55 PM UTC
It is that time before bed
When the day says stop
But still there are things to do
As talk and chat winds down
We give our attention
To the News and Weather
As couples do before bed
Before the sorting of cats
Locking the doors
Before going upstairs
To brush teeth and
Peek at the children
(Oh the way the heart’s
love leaps as
the landing-light falls
on those dear faces -
sleep gathering in
what the day has grown)
_______________________
Now the promise
Of bed’s lamplight
The click of the switch
And the slow radiance
Of the low-energy bulb
Spreading across pillows
Into the shadows where
As I lie in bed and melt
you remove your clothes
Such careful unbuttoning
before the limbs’ balletic
Moves in sequence
Pull-up draw-down
Shed-off un-hook
Drop fold pile place
A jigsaw of curved forms
coming together
in a dance of shadows
And now the final gesture
When if naked or not you
Stoop to pull the cover back
In exquisite shudder
Your *******
Fall and sway
As the smooth fruit
Of your beauty’s
Tree is revealed
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 3:04 AM UTC
early nightfall in the canyon
a bat's balletic swoop
complements the alpine tribu-
tary, it's gentle loop
hi! I see you ursa major
you too are part of this--
the lull, the beat, the spell, the sleep
now with a goodnight kiss
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 11:44 AM UTC
the acorns tumble, the dried leaves slip slowly sideways,
each a slow motion death, almost balletic, or acrobatic,
the decedents, like bodies on the Field of Hastings, their
skeletons to be consumed by a history ******* earthy soil
this more than any thing, as much as covid deaths of known
older brothers more than the messages on the answering
machine from robotic nurses and truly concerned doctors,
impatiently waiting to discuss test results with still alive patients
four lines in each stanza was unplanned like sets of decades,
that the man’s life can be retrospectively be divisibly assayed,
each titled, consistent of games and sets, until the last match
not on center court, is finale tie-broken, the faults too numerous
he writes this unshaken, but stirred, for the hours spent observing,
of each trajectory of every fallen leaf is distinctly connected to losses,
oh! how the losses multiplied; loves, children, unspoken words of
affection and forgiveness, mounted, moats, barriers to fulfillment,
a lawn of dead shriveled things, mounting, dear mother of god, all
préludes that hasten(ed) the shedding of lives every August!
Aug 25, 2020
Aug 25, 2020 at 3:52 PM UTC
Such is the sound–
These hearts are a'breakin'.
Snap.
Only I know that crink in my neck–
that sprainin' a'joints grinding 'gainst disks.
I know how the cold creeks do get in October,
sheets and slabs, it's wet in October.
Listen to those frost-ridden reams underfoot!
Snap.
Cold conversing, I said, "A'hush off. . . Now, now. . . smirk'd, yea-sayin' open an ear–"
Listen to that shard, to them shimmerin' sheets of ice underfoot: Snap.
You'd think them finger-snappin's was some jazz! Jam! Jubilate! Just do it again.
I want an iced, ambient encore; chilled to the bone-core, I grab that glarin' a'glistenin' glass.
The median is near the middle, give that shard a shove, I want to hear it again–
Snap.
That's my kick, my wake-me-not whistle borne of creekwater:
That single soundin' o'shatterin' of sharded sheets,
two halves of a once-whole gripped,
glistenin' a glass singin' as it snaps:
*I, ice, do hiss!
Listen: it's in the hiss, man!
And my snaps sound ballistic
when I break, balletic, in two!*
'Twas a hiss indeed.
that ice does as electricity:
O' it does cry when it cracks,
it does fizzle as it fragments,
it does spark as it splits,
it does bend light between bubbles,
it does melt in my midst,
things do get wet in October.
O' it was by the creek that I told her:
"Such is the sound of two hearts a'breakin'–
'Tis only ice underfoot."
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 2:13 PM UTC
I was driving on the highway
at a skipping 70.
Singing along to 80’s top 10
phrases like“everybreath you take” and “total eclipse of the heart”
splurged off my tongue.
Waving out the last ember of my cigarette
like a star in a constellation
I was drivin' back home after a
10 hour flight and 1 week business trip.
2 hours of sleep were guarded under my seat belt.
The windows were down, the air conditioner was blastin'
I was brakin' all the stops to stay awake
Come on! my ****** eyelids wouldn’t stay open
they kept slidin' closed as if 100 pound weights were clipped onto my eyelashes
like those freaks in the Guinness world record--
or something---
focus.....focus.... slurred off my tongue as red carlights blurred
and danced to a balletic symphony of speed.
The Choreographed Cars All In Spaced Lines
Flashed By
A Black Ranger Extended His Hand To a
Toyota
Dance with me?
The processed metals leaned close to
One another
Twirling their wheelings on the ground
Pirouetting
Other cars joined in
Tumbling on top of each other
Glass showered upon them like flower petals.
My cigarette was jammed into the dashboard
and the sirens of melodic ambulances
were in my ears.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 7:44 PM UTC
Long lines at midnight, breathless hype,
shiny sheen, the high gloss of marketing,
cosplay and balletic spoiler avoidance,
slammed multiplexes, overloaded ticket sites,
Croesus-like CGI kissing earnest steady-cam shots,
fan service, callbacks, countless punches.
Childhood idols fleshed out
on the grandeur of the silver screen,
writers room noodling netting billions
long after all the shaggy boho creatives
that originated it all were lowered
into the loamy maw of anonymous grave plots.
There's a degree of validation for the pasty
and hopeless, the low and lowdown
in watching a distinguished professional legend
pretending to be Bartoc the frickin Leaper
as though it's not silly, as though all
your idle moments, all your random diversions
really matter in the end, as though it all ties up
with a master-planned through-line of purpose,
as though it all mattered when you avidly read
about Iron Man, Hercules and Giant Man punching
out the red-shirt Skrulls (or was it the Krees?) on some spaceship
for a few minutes back at your grandmother's house
back before she was dead, before you were consumed
with the caustic sting of bitterness and bile, all the
accrued weight of a life generally but pleasantly wasted.
Apr 25, 2019
Apr 25, 2019 at 2:28 AM UTC
“I write blurt by blurt, edit once, then post and send it out like a puppy”
that is learning to walk, impossible to walk straightly,
thank gawd for walls and laundry baskets and single sneakers
that obstacle us into trouble, opportunities always a near
but never fatal crashing,
and our whisking swishing tail is an ever
countervailing, counterbalancing
waving gesture of
“oops,
there we one goes from nearly, nearer, almost another
nearest disaster
*that is the style of substance of how I write
headlong smashing, bouncing off walls,
regrouping spindly words into a balletic
clown show,
startling off in a new and unforeseen direction,
scrambling energy like three sunny side up eggs,
whistling and crackling and popping,
god, this writing stuff is **** tiring,
so much easier to respose,
chew there upon,
selectfully taste and spit~select
a single word,
picking the appropriate apropos,
taking a nap in between,
then
recommencing
blurting
blurts
of escapading words
that tumble out,
falling all around,
requiring reassembly like
an impossible-to-put-together
new toy,
anyway,
here for you to play with
for your sensory pleasure
is my latest greatest
blurt,
which rhymes with
dessert,
which I will imbibe
after eating all my*
vegetables.
Mar 11, 2024
Mar 11, 2024 at 4:47 PM UTC
I HATE IT.
I HATE THIS.
I HATE HIM WHOM I HAVE TO MOURN FOR.
I HATE IT. I HATE THIS.
I HATE THE WAY IN WHICH WICKED IS BAD.
I HATE IT. I HATE THIS.
I HATE PREFORMATIVITY.
I HATE MOST THAT I WRITE THIS.
I HATE IT. I HATE THIS.
I HATE THAT MY ICONS ARE DEAD.
I HATE IT. I HATE THIS.
I HATE THAT I’M BEGGING FOR MORE.
I HATE IT. I HATE THIS.
I HATE THAT I HAVE TO CHOOSE.
I HATE, FOR WHAT I WAS DESTINED IS TAINTED.
I HATE IT. I HARE THIS.
I HATE THEM WHOM I HAVE TO MOURN FOR.
I HATE IT. I HATE THIS.
I HATE THAT I CAN’T GO BACK. BACK TO THE ZYGOTE, TO THE GRECIAN AGE, TO A LAND WITHOUT EARS.
I HATE IT. I HATE THIS.
I HATE HER WHOM I HAVE TO MOURN FOR.
I HATE IT. I HATE THIS.
I DON’T WANT TO BE WICKED.
I HATE IT. I HATE THIS.
I HATE XIR WHO I HAVE TO MOURN FOR.
I HATE IT. I HATE THIS.
I HATE THAT STEEPED IN PAIN I AM SUPPOSED TO TRANSFORM.
TO SHINE BRIGHT. TO DROWN AND SURVIVE.
I rise in wrath, sadness, regret. Balletic and vile, dipped in warmth. Lifeless, like milk teeth. Tar, sits vast beneath my feet.
I am all. All the ways that it hurts plus the beauty. Padded shoulders, green and purple.
I will never be complete.
Dancing beings underneath the evening stars, stretched out ionosphere, elastic, ecstatic. Paused yet stillmoving.
I am black, pointed. Free, stillinchains. A dripping matriarch. A reflection transcendent, moss-filled and fed up. Afraid.
Stylish metalwork, animation and formlessness.Wilted and strong. Lilac, xir name.
Protect these ribs from that strain.
The thoughts unexplained.
Protect the clothes never worn. And the freedom forgotten.
Protect me.
For I still hope to be forgotten.
Dec 6, 2019
Dec 6, 2019 at 12:58 AM UTC
Emmett looked at me like that
the first to do so in the year + 2 months
since I debuted the scar
Our paths literally crossed -
*I drew them later on a street map
with a big X where they eventually converged*
- on the turn of the stairs
between floors 3 - 4 at the mall
, the way he ran from those cops
lithe economy of gesture
so balletic in flight
that I thought about how
his hips might interfere with me
before I bothered to look at his face.
I just wish Emmett didn't have
swastikas in his eyes.
Mom, I met someone.
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 9:31 AM UTC
One can almost hear the operatic chorus
Cry out in emotion,
As they ascend the marbled stairs,
Hands shaking so in excitement,
That the ornate metal railing cannot be felt beneath them.
Down a hall, feet gliding on the polished floors,
Around the corner,
And there it is,
On the wall like an altar,
Mountain range of colors,
Geometric patterns,
Like gilded windows into other worlds,
And a resting place of alabaster skin,
The calm prairie
Amidst a festival of shimmering lights,
Celebrating with vigor
The peace
The eye of the storm
In her expression,
The Woman in Gold.
Her figure rising from the extravagance
Like the simple and graceful tendrils of steam
From a cup of tea.
Amiable and tender,
In the middle of a bustling cafe.
At once, you are spun onto a dancefloor,
Crafted by Midas,
Twirling and dipping and dancing,
With explosions of royal sunlight,
Before the gentle partner takes you by the hand,
And leads you into a steady, yet balletic waltz.
Say her name,
This secret woman,
She deserves more than anonimity,
Say her name,
In a whisper as quiet as her poised hands,
Or in a glorious cry of admiration,
As cacophonous as the color of the robes
She is swathed in.
Say her name,
Like a prayer,
Or a pledge,
Or a dutiful anthem,
With your hand to your heart,
Say her name,
And never let the memory of the sound slipping off of your tongue.
Say her name,
Like you survived the war in her honor,
Say her name,
She is not just a woman,
Say her name,
No matter her religion,
Say her name,
Because she was forgotten,
But no longer,
Never again,
For you, we’ll remember,
Adele.
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 11:10 PM UTC
The woman, the one whose intellect stands and pleads on her legs, bring about equality
But whose body recoils not out of her own conformity
Manoeuvre balletic,compassionately and LADYLIKE
Humanity continually directs her, she is a woman, and that is her lone portrayal
Where she yearns to put her foot down ,
she is always giving a foot stool
Assistance is what she needs
Her being independent is hazardous
Only scrutinised for what she wears
underneath her garments
identified solely as a exquisite blossom
A instrument for the hands of society to play
The artistry of woman’s body withholds plenty functions
That men lust for
Gratification being the prime reason
The make-believe contrast bound by “She and He”.
A level of credit is disposed from men.
Pureness faraway from conclusive
Self-pride being fundamental
Society makes this concrete description.
How to act according to our particular
In order to be respected in the eyes of the people.
of lust and desire.
To gratis herself, to alter what being a woman means,
what (gender) equality means.
Women shouldn’t be criticised by the dimensions of a skirt
A women shouldn't feel apprehensive to chase her dreams
because of society’s wail
It shouldn’t be intricate for all to be the same
to be equivalent
Free of cost from the penny priced stereotypes
Sep 23, 2020
Sep 23, 2020 at 9:37 PM UTC
so many people on
the city streets
on a fine spring Saturday
how can I,
her *** grab,
in a gesture of
genuine admiration,
for its balletic pas de deux
a perfect gyration elation
within a tight jeans artistic
framing
with all these impolite people occupying our space
in the Q train subway station
on the isle of Manhattan
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 7:29 AM UTC
dark skies come to life
ballerinas in the sky
dance in the moonlight
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 12:35 AM UTC