A mistress of her space
She moves,
with the airy grace
of a dancer.
No effort spared;
no gesture wasted
Choreographing breakfast
In her roadside trailer-cafe .


7th April 2017

Never will I be covered in tattoos

My legs and toes shall forever stay bruised.

I’ll never paint or carry a tune

Forever and ever, I’ll wear a tutu.


I won’t dye my hair pink or blue

My piercings will stay as the simple two

Nails cut short and hair in a bun

In ballet, this must be done.


Pink tights by the mound

Bobby pins all around

Leotards on the floor

Pointe shoes by the door.


Toes taped so tightly

Smiling big and brightly

Red lipstick adding to her beauty

The dancer moves so smoothly.


Turned out from my hips

No words coming from my lips

I dance sweetly to the sound

Ooh ballet, to you, I am bound.


Full of grace, never haste

Filling perfectly my costume of lace

Ever so sweet, my dancing feet

Step after step, I repeat and repeat.


Obtaining perfection is my key

It’s what I strive for, it’s all that defines me

Pushing harder and harder to reach my goal

It’s what I live for, ballet is my soul.


My toes may bleed

And my knees, grow weak

But I’ll never stop dancing…

Not until I reach my peak.


Pirouette, Pirouette

Dancer’s silhouette

Practicing at dusk

Dedication is a must.


Stretching my limbs

Choreographing on a whim

Alway aiming to be stronger

To hold my arabesque longer.


When I do finally reach that triple pirouette

and all is done and all is set

I put myself back into class

Aiming for a fourth, to be better than the last.


This is the life of a dancer en point

Risking the health of her feet, legs and joints

Just for that one perfect moment on stage

Where the ballerina stands tall and all are amazed.

Daydreamer waiting for her surprise
She's always sitting on the bench outside
Watching through the golden glasses
She sees through her eyes a world that unties
Beautiful creatures and where love prevails
She always wonder why her beauty does not impales
As she holds so many wonders
A sweetness in her bright almond eyes, behind the glasses that sat crookedly on her nose
She focused her eyes on a flat prairie
Where the unaccustomed eye sees only ordinary
In hers, the dale was a beautiful swathe of shiny green grasses
Trees are clothed in delicious cream and pink blossom
Jasmines dancing to the winds, choreographing autumn breeze
The sun casting its last golden rays
Changing its yellow into hues of tangerine and fire red
Her perfect world, she whispers
She is a daydreamer
With eyes so full of love that will make you melt
She is beauty and love
Looking at her shadow slowly shrinking down her feet
Only her can see the magic
You will find her outside
Waiting for the man to share the same picturesque landscape
Seeing her reflection on him just like a mirror
Sharing a moment, a smile, a touch, a gaze
Closing their eyes to a slow and soft kiss
Alas; she is still waiting on this
Waiting to meet him flesh and bones
Dreaming about it everyday
This love she's never met,
Yet she seems to glimpse him in every corner
And because of it, her heart craves for blossoming flower
Her heart is bound to a fictional imagery of him
Creating imaginary moments and opportunities
Clinging to a false sign that precipitates desires
The desire to lay her eyes on him and feel his lips on hers
The desire to feel her body shivers with his skin on hers
The desire to feel his heart beating to her caress
the rush in her veins, with just his look
She will be an eternal daydreamer
Until she finds him sitting on the bench outside for her
For an eternity of love

Snow falls heavy on head of Earth
Weight added as this mighty rock spins
Might be spring according to the calendar
Icy powder covers the dancing tree limbs
March choreographing slow routine
Time taken to feel sun's warm glow
Movements meticulously placed
We patiently wait for greenery to grow
Each morning rises giving way to new roots
Relying on heat that stays out of sight
Looking forward to the colorful weeks ahead
Good weather to melt the frozen cloak of white

I can hear the lullaby of life,
            serenading
our movements to where
we sway delicately to its
                                inevitable
conclusion, a moment that
is elegance haemorrhaging to
                                                 silence..

*"Life is a masquerade of motions, we dance till they fade,

A quasi fog hole is born
An urge to be somewhere
Anywhere but these islands of bloodstreams
Far maybe in Thailand

What awaits next is a scaber of thresholds
It's an unknown world if you fall and land here
Shimmering camels going about their own biz
Wearing demon suits with demon ties
Auxiliaries conversing in Bonomos
Common hats all practicing, choreographing all catacombs thundering novels that are occurring as they scream, pictures willowing one by one, second by second all occurring simultaneously
...and say again
Awaiting ...
Not occurring at all...
Never had occurred at all

I’m from vegetable gardens, pink lemonade and board games.

From tall, golden sunflowers blooming in the summer to soaked mittens resting on the radiator in the winter.

I’m from twinkling white lights arranged beautifully in the bushes surrounding the pool and from thinking that the Canada day fireworks were so incredibly magical.

I’m from my teddy bears and dolls cluttering the basement floor to fresh cut peonies sitting on the kitchen counter and filling the house with their familiar scent.

I’m from ‘elbows off the table’ and soft boiled eggs in little painted egg cups.

I’m from wondering what the hundreds of old books on the bookshelf could possibly be about and from watching Shirley Temple movies over and over again until I could recite nearly every word.

I’m from choreographing dances to classical music and preforming them in the backyard.

I’m from ‘goodnight’ and forced bedtime prayers.

I’m from Gudrun and John better known as Nanny and Poppy.

A birds song echoes throughout a chilly winters night
Flightless with an everlasting dream of the sky
A tune more beautiful than the dawning of a new try

A staunch ache a craving of a dream
Creating a delicacy
Sorrowfully gleamed
Moonlit distress paved in silver beams
A spotlight of romance
Held in high esteem

A love made up
Spreading wings once more
Torturous dissatisfaction dances with such allure
Habitually choreographing  
A compromising score

A birds song echoes throughout a chilly winters night
Flightless
With an everlasting dream of the sky

Wearing regret like my Sunday's best
My eyes are smiling a sad song
Weighing heavily on my chest
Crying crystal memories, so long
My dear, your sweet kiss, neglected
You're gone now, laying in a casket
Looking within, there is nothing reflected
I'm drowning myself, trying to mask it.

Missing you and our reading minds
The dormitories rainbow swirls and laughing
Walking and walking weightless and it reminds
Me of our wispy white choreographing
Our souls entwined

And now there's a part of me
Swift and free on the other side
Speaking, whispering through cups of coffee
I'm trying not to contemplate suicide
So you and I can reconvene
Remembering, though, I'm a part of you
On this side, living, white clouds and grass green
Breeching all realms, I'm there, and you're here, too.

Bones in a box, empty of yourself
I don't want to think about it anymore
Shutting pages, back onto the bookshelf
A tale for posterity, it's folklore
Wearing regret like my Sunday's best
Sad songs ringing, deafening, I'm praying
Paralyzed in bed, ghost treading on my chest
Trying to escape this place, but staying

Here sits a poet,
A constellation  of thoughts,
A colourful sunset of rhythms,
Meteors of rhymes.
With pen in hand, by lamplight,
Only a poet knows
to create order from chaos,
His every word on paper flows,
Spinning dreams, emotions and wishes,
Whence the threads of figure of speech weaves,
A never-ending  tapestry of  poems.
Choreographing each stanza to be awesome,
Dancing over the meter,
Painting each picture to better,
The character,merit and existence,
Of what each poem means.
7/4/2019

Soon
The Lightning McQueen light ups lying on the floor will be traded for shiny black pumps
Soon
The screams will be muffled cries for help rather than loud, blatant shouts of disobedience
Soon
Dinner won't be a time to be together, it'll just be another meal
Soon
Nights up late choreographing will be nights up late writing essays
Soon
Coming home won't mean the excited shouts of tiny voices, rather, silence or the sound of adulthood
Soon
Everything that used to be, won't be
Soon
Everything I know will be different.

Wallontly i glared toward the heavens
Seeking homage with the deities less registered in my recess
Sanity compromised my doubtfulness
As the blue sky and the grinning yellow occulus obscured my quest
"You can't see god"they warned my sight deprived eyes
Discernible kaleidoscopic star performed a victory dance in my cornea
I squinted in surrender

Choreographing my eidetic
Memory wikipidia
I vividly recall being
cautioned about mentioning the name of the gods in vain
Yet here i was
Calling my lungs out
Coughing and spitting profanities
Just trying to catch their attention
I searched with futility for heaven,paradise or even olympus
Whichever residence the gods laughed at my pitiful threats

I called my voice hoarse cursed the moon and swore never to think about the gods
Yet as i lay my tattered flame at night i wondered
Could they have heard me but decided to play hide and seek
Could they have seen me but decided to spare my pathetic human soul
So in dream land is drowned and i dreamt death....

unconsummated snow
melting in the sun
choreographing blooming bulbs
sown below the sheets
warm flowering fantasies
with nectar gushing down
the freckled blossoms of my dreams
craving hands fluttering south
like migrating butterflies

I hope you remember me as your favorite hour of your favorite season.

Maybe it's dawn of a spring day, the new morning light glistening through dew drops on green grass springing forth and flowers just beginning to bud.

Maybe it's a fall evening, a slight breeze arousing fresh fallen leaves, choreographing a dance that is at once bursting with life and also a solemn epitaph.

Maybe it's a winter day, soft snow brighter it seems than the sun itself, falling slowly and covering the world in a soft embrace, both cautious and beautiful.

Maybe it's a summer night, stars patiently emerging one by one through a clear sky, whispering of the humble vastness of all that is.

Do not let me be a face or a name, but a feeling, returning to you once again, each year.

specified such so as to issue a rhyme,
but proceeded as this scribe
didst *** linkedin with the cutting crew,
mow or less feeling grassy us,
yet not the least whirlwind will offset
my b52 coiffed Hair style,
or hirsute shellacked beehive type do
the idler wheel is wiser than the driver
of the ***** and whipping cords
will serve you more than ropes will ever do.

No matter from what literary website,
an unsuspecting reader will accidentally
stumble upon a ewe
fo' mystic impression
wilt shame burr lean ache
shift shape about myself
some accurate ledge
gin dairy cowed horsesense
about me will ensue,
especially if I sheepishly admitted,
this beastie back street

boyz to men iz a genuine foo
fighter toward this former
stone temple pilot, wildly whizzing,
gurgling in age inappropriate burbling,
dribbling, flickr ring for a goo goo
doll to dare buffer end me,
hub bee of piggish,
ham handed, bay kin a poetic slop hoo
might at this juncture
succinctly cease reading

prior to putting
finishing touches on ma igloo,
when the remaining
portion of this dippy goofy,
slippery when whet,
trippy treacle G.I. Jew,
who would, more aptly
**** sitter himself hub
horn hug ken atheist, boot knew
not a whit about Judaism,

nor any other belief paradigm,
yet does get fixated
(usually in the loo)
about philosophical ideas,
which yet to be revealed
abstract notion came to me
while enjoying a plateful of moo
goo *** pan, plus other Chinese food
(a favorite cuisine),
now aye will try to new

dill back to the initial pretext
found me drawing blanks
(no not shooting) – ooh
aah, this theme
within guttersnipe noggin
more difficult to codify
than one who ****
constipated and try'n might
**** hard tip poo
anyway, the general premise

alighted, and fired
mine gray matter cause
major cerebrum perilous jam up
with sudden crackling
star bursts forced
great mind over matter
to set brainy bedlam
in an organized queue
so while attention of yours
might be moderately rapt, this rue

stirring, hen pecked spouse
best stop digitally squawking sew
the ethereal essence can beak *** comb
brought to cypher awareness too
and in a figurative nutshell,
when doth a wordsmith
know when to quit,
or tubby pointed rhetorical question -
at what juncture does any artisan
more prolific than yours truly

reckon that his/her
faux matted masterpiece
can no longer be perfected?,
cuz further ridiculous tampering,
to Potschke, or play footsie,
would induce dedicated followers of mine
to undergo severe urge to wanna spit
or throw FAKE *******,
subsequently they would feel ***
till late head, find this schlemiel
to end this plotz to whit!

FINIS.

She walks like there's a film crew behind her
hoping that they'll find her appealing,
he strides along like Gene Kelly in that song
choreographing his moves to fit the grooves in the disc.

Risk it all, they say,
you can only fall, they say
and failures are ten for a penny.

If not in the films then the magazines?
make the cover of Tatler or Harpers,
oh, if only Mother could see me now.

a dancer’s body
a writer’s pen
undulating gyrating
scribbling scrawling
across floor and paper
choreographing sweating
imagining writing  
touching kissing loving
expressed in her movements and his words

With honeyed comments, you absorb adulation in vain;
Drinking it in like a congratulatory champagne.

Down your nose, you smoothly cajole;
Deft at choreographing leverage to reach a goal.

The effete man you put forth is cast in boorish airs -
stealthily exuding to foil all players.

Irreproachable character, you claim in spades,
but to athwart interference you throw up blockades.

Speaking in bitter tones, speeches full of lies suppressed -
churlishly angered with those that protest.

Whenever we speak
I can feel my entire being,
My heartbeat, my breathing
I mean, all of me
Choreographing
To the sound of your voice
It is always an euphoric moment.

An unwritten poem
is as a beautiful maiden
laying dead  
on a sheet of paper;
a single drop of ink
falls into her veins,
coaxing the first feeble
pulse of her heart.

One more drop,

two,

three -

it's beat strengthens
and she rises,
prepared for her grand ballet;
each prance and twirl
tracing every word,
every line;
choreographing her beautiful tale,
until the last drop of ink is spent,
and she collapses  
into the period at the end
of the final stanza.

at school my name is Ida,
the one that alternates
between lively chatter
and awkward silence

at home my name is Lily,
the one that starts disputes
as often as she tries to end them

to myself I am Chloé,
the one that waters the trees with her overflowing emotion,
spilling the both the agave syrup of a positive encounter
and the bitter vinegar of rejection
onto the roots of the plants she speaks to

the doctors guessed I was a girl,
and I would say they did a pretty good job of it

but with this guess comes the less accurate ones of others,
who think I must like boys
I would say that their guessing skills are less refined,
but neither are really notable

my hands are happiest when holding a pen,
whether using it to sketch out a face
or detail a notable event,

and when an instrument rests in them
my mind choreographing a dance
for my fingers to perform over the holes

this happiness spreads to the rest of me
when their efforts yield a thing of beauty







that happiness spreads to the rest of me when they are making something of beauty