"glissade" poems
One step ahead, and three steps left;
Sous sus, plié, and pirouette.
Let me dance adagio,
Will you play me the piano?
I can do chassé,
Float in bourrée,
Entechat, glissade...
Just play for me, if only once.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 6:02 PM UTC
When we were young,
Before broken by age
We danced our grand pas de deux,
Upon life's stage
Our plie's were graceful
Many grand pas, we danced
And I, never knowing,
A solo I chanced
I thought I'd always,
Be your danseus
I'd hoped for no other ballerina,
You'd have a use
You did glissade
Into my heart
But I see I've danced solo,
From the start
Pas de waltz en tournant, alone
My dance now
Since your grand jete, from my side
This ballerina, will take her bow
And for the final time,
The curtain closes
But for this ballerina,
There are
No roses
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 7:29 AM UTC
The picture hangs upon the wall
of a slender woman, une eleve
She is eternally en pointe
a Student of great Nurerev.
With Martha Graham’s Corps de ballet
She’d danced (before the children came)
Performed a beautiful Glissade-
enjoyed, for a while, a muted fame.
Light and shade proportionate
here catch her look of radiant joy
The dancer, ignorant of her fate,
seems more a heavenly envoy.
But you and I both know the rest-
The ravages of age and time
The sad result of little strokes
that slow the step and cloud the mind.
Here is her cane, her walker too
Their owner has succumbed to age
There will not be a pas DE deux
Nor bouquets tossed upon the stage
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 6:17 PM UTC
“The sound that pours from the fingertips awakens clouds of cells far inside the body”
Robert Bly 1926-
You could say that the sound that tips deep cells are waking
heralds with bugles divine revolution
You could say that the sound that echoes from spirals
gossamers emeralds’ scintillant light
You could say that the sound that squishes from mangoes
is luscious and opulent tripping with pearls
You could say that the sound that slumbers in harp strings
howls round the polar bear’s tumaceous couch
You could say that the sound that tremors from tadpoles
triggers eruptions of undersea mountains
You could say that the sound that sits on the windowsill
on Arcturus flickers as icicle fire
You could say that the sound that bounces off drumskins
loosens the shackles of acuate cacti
You could say that the sound that shivers off rainbows
silkens red poppies at sunstrike unpacking
You could say that the sound that rumbles round moonrocks
passes on purple to stillness of shadows
You could say that the sound that echoes cicadas
crackles through canyons of memory rising
You could say that the sound that gallops through nightmares
shrinks in the face of the falcons glissade
You could say that the sound that is diatomaceous
tangles up synapses sparking at random
You could say that the sound of deep cells awakening
&n
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 4:57 AM UTC
yestereve we succame
A lengthy ballad of longing
formerly one of obstinance
flared in a cacophony of passion
Whilst usually twirling in a seemly epitome fashion,
yestereve a caprice thought laid heavy on hearts
as there was no doubt of desire
nor were there objections to her
for even when my affections consumed you
lady desire was just an inexorable
yestereve she picked petals from a Sinensis blossom
there went the pain
any semblance of grudge
along with sanity
reason
and lastly, walls as carefully constructed as that of Pyramus and Thisbe's
such vulnerability unmatched
for your sweet scent lulled me from the arms of reason
for reason, although safe,
is the most intricate and fragile part of the ballad
and the first to fall victim to the cascade
What a fool I must be to have gladly forgotten the kinks of your hands
or the freckles on the back of your neck that form a perfect triad.
The way your upper lip curls when you grin
made my glissade blissful and passionate
Your flustered twirl
the very epitome of aubade
Ignorant of the harsh retombe of reality
Your flustered face En L'air
Every touch a pleasant surprise that formed a grand symphony
A moment of unfiltered emotion
A heavenly ballad
so cruelly of yestereve.
Apr 16, 2021
Apr 16, 2021 at 2:37 PM UTC
Tango on a tightrope
Argentine Cross vibrating the line
like the strings of a Latin guitar
playing our song
only a spider’s web for a net
if we fall
Waltz on a wall top thirty stories high
our story tops them all
traffic below doesn’t even see
top hat and tails, silk gown
cocktails in our hands
Fred and Ginger sit it out to watch
Rumba on a rope bridge
hips sway in time
with the windblown span
gliding past missing boards
waterfall below shouts up to us
can’t make out what it says
Paso Doble on a plane
faux bullfight on a wing
Matador and his scarlet cape
pose and sweep
turbulence tilts the dance floor
ten thousand feet to the ground
Quickstep in the quicksand
feet so light in rapid step
no time to sink
flow across the surface
to syncopated beats
shoes left stuck to the floor
steps we mastered long ago
now we glissade and sweep
only to the rhythm of us
most challenging of all dances
and most natural of movements
always in step
dancing on the edge of our hearts
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 1:02 AM UTC
When I reach the ridgetop on the way to the summit, the wind & views of the vast expanse of jagged snowy peaks Breathe life into me.
Heart thumping, no dead feeling inside today.
How long the dark smothering cloud stays away...a mystery
A wolverine! He brought me goosebumps.
Extremely lucky if only for a moment...but I have no luck & only a few bucks
The trees, the snow, the breeze, a grand show
As I glissade...pure happiness
My kind of descent, avoiding the dark plunge for now
Is adventure the only thing that saves me?
Next day soreness so satisfying
But happiness is only a state of mind, fleeting
Ill have to climb out of those depths again
But for a while a depression cure
Until another journey when I'll take those steps again
A rise within....
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 1:30 AM UTC
glissade, tours jeté; poised and powerful
pirouette, sous-sus; humbling finesse
agility: deceivingly immortal
classsic elegance to encompass
enveloped audience, alluring physique
grande jeté, fluid grace, moving mystique
clean sauté arabasque; lissome wonder
sharp, precise, polished; she moves without blunder
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 2:04 PM UTC
Jumping around to the rhythm of music begets sweat
The baseline vibrates and my shirt drenched in sweat
Flossing to the ditty with a pretty lady both dripping sweat
We both slide to the left pouring with sweat
Stop on the beat wiggle & twist ****** in sweat
We both slide to the right pouring with sweat
Break on the beat wiggle & contort in sweat
We roar to the chorus & dripping in a cocoon of sweat
Coming up my hands on her waist damp in sweat
Dip to the cadence her hands on my waist moist in sweat
The melody pumps & we prance our hair damp in sweat
Body temperature hot phizog flowing in sweat
Cheek to cheek buxom ***** enmesh in sweat
Belly to belly we wine lower back in rainy sweat
Electric slide in floor droplets of sweat
Transition into the shuffle then glissade in sweat
End the party twerking trickling in sweat
Jul 9, 2020
Jul 9, 2020 at 10:48 AM UTC
It was the last drop to glissade down my cheek
The hazy delusions I saw through the creeks
And despite my efforts of simplicity
I'm drawn to an array of complexity
So as I sat and fought those demons
I cut the ties despite the screaming
Of Hope
Of Change
Of Love...
Because none of it was true
As it lie in my mind
The search for ME has been hard to find
Jun 30, 2021
Jun 30, 2021 at 10:41 PM UTC
The beauty of ballet
is not found in the graceful plié
nor the elegance of a perfect glissade;
it is in the twisted, broken toes of the dancer;
the slipper full of blood.
The exquisiteness of life
is not in the gathering of fame and riches,
but rather, like the danseur lifting the ballerina,
it is found in the painful sacrifice of self
that lifts another heavenward
toward the dazzling stars.
The beauty of the butterfly
is not in the shimmering iridescence
of its painted wings in morning’s light
or the weightlessness of its flitting flight;
but in the awe-inspiring metamorphosis
from lowly caterpillar to winged god,
as it slowly struggles to survive beneath
the hungry beaks of a thousand birds.
Likewise, the magnificence of Man
is best reflected in the transformation
of the lonely individual
who, despite the darkness of the hour,
finds his wings and angelic cause
in the collective community of humankind.
Beauty isn’t always lavish and dazzling,
apparent to the surface of the eye;
beauty can be elusive and transparent,
to be felt only in the interior of the heart.
It takes form when you discover something
greater than yourself in the world.
It takes meaning when the light that is you
is redirected and reflected on the
anonymous shadows of another.
The smile that is on another’s face
because you put it there;
hope that takes root in another’s soul
because you planted it there.
Faith that no proof requires;
the love which fills and inspires.
Living in this world isn’t wonderful
simply because you are in it –
living in this world is wonderful
because of all the people with whom
you get to share the journey.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 12:17 PM UTC
under the cover
of white sheets
from the docked
and burning
boat
our children
downhill
(like rabbits
from a recently
humbled
tree)
leave us
when we
drink
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 4:58 PM UTC
Tomorrows heartache began yesterday
the clock heals ,
Although
Left behind are the physical aspects
From avid prospects .
Reminders of deeds
That showed the way
And the
Scars on souls
From lovers , mothers and daughters
Of old
Hold value because they are given it
To shape
The mindsets
And glissade
Into reality,
So in reality
The wounds
Heal the soul and the soul heal the wounds
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 3:00 PM UTC
Loneliness plops in my soul
like the daylight rain.
With a light of hope
hanging majestically under my heart.
My hand are nippy,
covered with ink and filthy red marks.
The whispers still echo in those domestic vistibules,
rumpling me under million ounces of guilt.
The spirits come and hum soft words to me, filling
my mind with deceitful lies.
The creeps glissade me
in sentences
aimed by their ugly tongues.
Making hope grow down
my maneuvers.
-Khushi
Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 7:22 AM UTC
Tomorrows heartache began yesterday
the clock heals ,
Although
Left behind are the physical aspects
From avid prospects .
Reminders of deeds
That showed the way
And the
Scars on souls
From lovers , mothers and daughters
Of old
Hold value because they are given it
To shape
The mindsets
And glissade
Into reality,
So in reality
The wounds
Heal the soul and the soul heal the wounds
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 3:00 PM UTC