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in the rain-
darkness,     the sunset
being sheathed i sit and
think of you

the holy
city which is your face
your little cheeks the streets
of smiles

your eyes half-
thrush
half-angel and your drowsy
lips where float flowers of kiss

and
there is the sweet shy pirouette
your hair
and then

your dancesong
soul.     rarely-beloved
a single star is
uttered,and i

think
       of you
It was early nineteen thirty four
The world was set to change
Europe was on fire
It was time to rearrange

Poland was the first stop
The German Army on the move
So we left for America
I hope you did approve

You came with me to Jersey
On a trip across the sea
You've guarded all my secrets
Known by only you and me

You used to spin quite gaily
Now you just stand there en pointe
You're my clipped wing little angel
That's the name I shall anoint

Thumbelina, Ballerina
Dance your dance for me
We've been together eighty years
You are who I want to be
Thumbelina, Ballerina
Just one more pirouette
We've been together all this time
Our dancing's not done yet

I sit here and remember
All the treasures you once hid
You've still some trinkets in there
Some from when I was a kid

Your tu tu is all tattered
The silk lining frayed and torn
But, you've held together nicely
But, I guess we're both quite worn

Your lipstick isn't red now
I hear your music in my head
It hasn't played for 50 years
I just remember it instead

The music gave up playing
You were slightly over wound
But, you still twirled and kept dancing
Even though there was no sound

Thumbelina, Ballerina
Dance your dance for me
We've been together eighty years
You are who I want to be
Thumbelina, Ballerina
Just one more pirouette
We've been together all this time
Our dancing's not done yet

I've told you more than anyone
Than I have ever known
We've been together now forever
You're the most precious thing I own

You've been with me for two husbands
And you've seen my kids pass on
There's just me and you,  my dancing girl
All the rest of them are gone

Your paint is chipped and cracked
Your pony tail is broken too
If I still can recollect now
In the fall of fifty two

Your spring is rusted tightly
You need a hand to stand up right
But, then again, I do as well
And most days it's quite the fight

Thumbelina, Ballerina
Dance your dance for me
We've been together eighty years
You are who I want to be
Thumbelina, Ballerina
Just one more pirouette
We've been together all this time
Our dancing's not done yet


Charms and little trinkets
Plastic jewellery, real as well
Secrets of a child
Secrets you would never tell

I am now moving to December
Of my calendar of years
Soon my life will end and
There's no one left to shed  me tears

I sit here and I wonder
What shall become of you
My Thumbelina Ballerina
In your dancing dress of blue

You started as a music box
You are not used as that no more
But, Thumbelina Ballerina
Will you dance for me once more?

Thumbelina, Ballerina
Dance your dance for me
We've been together eighty years
You are who I want to be
Thumbelina, Ballerina
Just one more pirouette
We've been together all this time
Our dancing's not done yet
Sam Hain Mar 2015
The ballerina's pirouette:
   This is the little triolet.
Within a faëry scene and set
The ballerinas pirouette
To a limpid midnight minuet
   In Thumbelina-esque ballet.
The ballerina's pirouette:
   This is the little triolet.


Ghazal Feb 2014
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.
please please write a comment
Melting, dripping with time passing,
Wick still clashing.
Ashen, waxen,
Flame un-passion.

Holding candleholder handles,
Snuffing candles,
Watch smoke-shadows
Dance to who-knows.

Out! Out! like the light that it is,
But witness yet
Grey pirouette's
Dark banishment.
Mary Gay Kearns Jun 2018
I took the left path where hydrangeas grew and sleepy primroses under woods, edged shady trees.
The empty stream ran quietly dry
With grass cuttings piling high.
If one peeped, one would find tiny creatures
To cast a sparkle here and there, a delight.
So on tip-toe, with sandels bent
Up high I reached to take
The plastic fairy as she twirled a pirouette
In a theatre made by chance.
Reflected in a silver mirror intwinned with ivy branch
A mottled foal tends his dreams and Chrismas robin chirps.

My brother took the right hand path where the trees grew fruit
Ripe berries from the gooseberry bush bulged their prickles.
Dangling from hawthorn now a cowboy with a hat
Looking for his fellow Indian with the yellow back sack.
Sheep gather in a hollow, dark, protected from the sun
And Mr toad, now lost of paint, has turned a bit glum.

And so we leave our woodland friends and travel up the *****
Winding round the rose bed and goldfish where they float.
Then up we climb, the middle route, to jump the pruned clipped
Hedge.
The lawn divided in two halves, a contemporary taste.

Now we're nearly at that place where if one was to turn
Could see down across the land
To the sea and sand.
Of all the beauties that I've known
Nothing beats this Island home.

Love Mary x




My grandfather’s retirement bungalow was in Totland Isle of Wight.
It was named Innisfail meaning ‘Isle of Ireland’.
Behind, the garden led down to magical and delightful to children who came as visitors. My grandfather would prepare this woodland with some suitable surprises.
The garden and woodland deserved its own name and in retrospect
Is now named ‘Innislandia’ to suggest a separate, mysterious land.
Beyond the real world.
In the poem A Country Lane on page 8 the latched gate is the back gate to my grandparent’s garden and bungalow in Totland as above.
John Garbutt wrote the following piece on the meaning of the name 'Innisfail'.

My belief that the place-name came from Scotland was abandoned
on finding the gaelic origins of the name.
‘Inis’ or ‘Innis' mean ‘island’, while ‘fail’ is the word for
Ireland itself. ‘Innisfail’ means Ireland. But not just
geographically: the Ireland of tradition, customs, legends
and folk music, the Ireland of belonging.
So the explanation why the Irish ‘Innisfail’ was adopted as the name
of a town in Alberta, Canada, and a town in Australia,
can only be that migrants took the name, well  over a century ago
to their new homelands, though present-day Canadians
and Australians won’t have that same feeling about it.

------------------------------------------------------------­---------
The bungalow was designed by John Westbrook, who was an architect, as a wedding present for his father and Gwen Westbrook.
I do believe he also designed the very large and beautiful gardens.
It is there still on the Alan Bay Road. Love Mary xxxx
Duncan Brown Aug 2018
Archie was smart; at least he reckoned he was, because he had what he considered to be the good things in life: dosh in his wallet, a Cat in the garage, and a detach. in the green belt; all of which he had worked hard to acquire. Worked, is not exactly the word for it. Archie did deals. He reckoned he could always turn a fiver into a tenner an’ a tenner into a pony; a pony into a ton and a ton to a grand. He was one of the cash economy’s natural alchemists.  The folding stuff was the measure of a person, he reckoned. Archie never thought about anything; he reckoned everything, and nothing on God’s good earth was beyond reckoning, he reckoned. An ever-ready reckoner; that was Archie, and he loved himself for it. Only John Wayne did more reckoning than Archie, his old dad, bless him, used to say, thought Archie. In Archie’s world a grand was currency; less than that was just spare change. He reckoned he gave superior meaning to the expression ‘it’s a grand life’. The only blemish on Archie’s horizon as far as he could see was the lack of a class bird, or ‘ream sort’, as he preferred to say; hence this evening’s extravaganza at a posh French restaurant in the company of a beautiful lady. Archie only had two serious weaknesses in his existence: a fondness for the last word in a dispute about anything you care to mention, and his infatuation with his dining companion, the beautiful Carmela.


Carmela shared a common background with Archie. They grew up on the same council estate in the inner city. They were aware of each other’s existence as kids and teenagers, but they didn’t really know each other. Carmela was a quiet child and very singular; even in company she could be by herself. None but she was wise to her sense of solitude. She had three passions in life: knitting, sewing and weaving; the blessed trinity of her existence. Carmela interpreted the world by these three gifts. Here she was, she thought, weaving her way through an evening, in the company of three strangers. One she knew, herself, another she didn’t know at all, despite proximity and semi-shared origins. Then there was the complete stranger to the trinity: the waiter in his new and very polished shiny black shoes, “You can tell a lot about a person by their shoes”, Carmela’s mum used to say, she was thinking about that as the waiter appeared to almost pirouette into vision.


The waiter was a patient soul, it goes with the territory. The waiting game wasn’t something you should rush in to, he often told himself, in one of his more existentialist moments. He appreciated the irony of the comment in a Sartresque kind of fashion. He was from a steel town in the Rhonda Valley of South Wales. Iron was in his veins if not his appearance. A creature of paradoxes, that’s what he told himself he was. He liked that assessment of himself. It complimented his passion for all things French: French food, French wine, French philosophy, literature and art. He was learning the language at night school. Alas, his accent was as lyrically refined as the landscape that bred him He shovelled the words onto a conveyor belt of sound and meaning as best he could in the general direction of the person he was talking to, more in hope than in faith that they understood what was being said .The other passion in his life was tap dancing, and as luck would have it he could wear the same outfit for work and leisure, hence the very shiny shoes which allowed him to dance around the tables of the restaurant, practising his language skills on the clientele, His life work and leisure dovetailed with his ambition and he was pleased to wake up in the morning and set about the mortal trespass with a skip in his step. The waiter imagined himself to be a cosmopolitan and enlightened soul, in a very Fred Astaire kind of way, and life was a flight of stairs which he could ascend and descend in a Morse code type of style, just like Mr Bojangles.


The fare was fine. the wine was rare, but the conversation was spare until the cheese board arrived.” Good grub”, said Archie to the waiter. “We don’t do grub, sir, we only serve the finest Gallic cuisine in this establishment,” replied the waiter, in his usual mangled French, whilst smiling that smile that only waiters can manage when registering disapproval. Archie looked blank. It was Carmela who spoke: “C’était magnifique! Mes compliments au chef.” “Streuth! You speak better French than Marcel Proust here” said Archie.” I studied Fashion and Design in Paris for five years “replied Carmela.” “An’ I joined the Common Market many moons ago. It’s good for business” said Archie. The waiter was impressed: “Food, fashion, wine, Proust and Paris. This must be Nirvana” he said. “Great band, but a very dubious heaven.” replied Carmela, knitting together the threads whilst changing the pattern of the conversation in a very subtle fashion that was more to her liking.” “It’s only rock ’n’ roll” said Archie, an’ if you’ve ever heard French rock ’n’ roll it’s enough to make you believe in Foucault” “Foucault, my hero!” said the waiter, “a philosophical genius”. “According to Foucault, a knitting pattern is the hieroglyphic of a consumerist and decadent capitalist society.” intoned Carmela.” “And ‘A recipe is a critique of a cake’, said the great Structuralist philosopher,” interjected Archie, so if you serve the gateaux we may effect the collapse of western civilisation as we all know and love it”. “Allors, Let them eat cake” said the waiter, and everybody smiled at the irony of the comment.

The waiter bojangled his way into the night, tapping and clicking the pavement as he went.  Carmela and Archie got into a black cab. “That was a night to remember,” said Carmela, “very Proustian”. “A la recherche du temps perdu”, replied Archie, pleased as punch to have the last word. Carmela just smiled as she looked at Archie’s shoes.
dancer of the clouds,
ink of dream,
as if the sky, hushed
and utterly forlorn,
turned a pirouette.
Andrew Penman Jan 2011
In a crowd not standing out

doing up pumps ready for the fray

dancing like a swan on a lake

hearing applause making the day.

no more, just placid memories

blood percolates from ragged pumps

practice, practice, a childhood lost

the last pirouette, was it worth the cost.
(c)andypenman2011
Did this last night after seeing a painting of a ballerina painted by my friend Anke Wheeler
1.

When I
was young
I listened to
Billy the Kid

I galloped
across the
living room floor
giddy upping
in an ecstatic
square dance
with my beloved
America

excitedly
enraptured
boundlessly
enthralled
in youthful
zeal
ebulliently  
yodeling
hymns
whistling
reveries to
America’s
heroic prairie
songs

a precocious
kinder beaming  
moved and illumined
by the broiling fanfare
of trilling trumpets

to uphold the promise
I pledged allegiance
to diligent  work
galloping onward
on ponies of
reverent faith
respectful duty
playful engagement
and guardianship

2.

expectation
never fell short
of resounding
supranaturalistic
optimism

energising
the sweep of
a nation’s
self evident
exceptionalism

our democratic
vista stirred
and steeped

a nation of
wheelwrights
building
wagon trains
to traverse
stratified latitudes
with sturdy ladders
erected with common
sense sensibility
of hands to work
and hearts to God

earthen
yeoman
dancing in
wheat fields
threshing sheaves
of prosperity
their exertions
elevating
families
raising
a glorious chorus,
a peeling crescendo
of horns of plenty
splayed across
landscapes of
an ennobled
nation
placing fruits
of labor upon
ascendent
alters to
to receive
the anointing
of abundance

the lighted grace
of infinite possibilities
shines for a grueling
world listening to the
clamouring drumbeats
sounding in the hearts
of all grace anointed
republicans


3.  

No lullabies
no quiet moonlit nights
we ardently
dance on keys
boasting soul
filled dexterity
the quick self
assuredness
extemporaneously
jazz tapping
across bold
hidden rondos
grasping
transcendence
squarely set
in the minds eye
of unbroken resolve
our cool countenance
an unassailable
righteous destination

any
spare sweeping
plaintive introspection
lends space to
affirm
an
affirmation
beginning
with the individual
unum to e pluribus

solitary dancers
incorporated into
fully enfranchised
troopers

the gyrations
the rhythms and steps
of individuated melodies
join to form a harmonious whole
a beautifully woven consensus

this democratic symphony
perfected in an intelligent
choreography of
separate people
sojourning  
toward
a mutually
constructed
shared destiny

aspirational desires
call forth generations
of spirits boldly engaging
the challenges upholding
the rights and privilege
of all citizens
the celebratory harvest
of a new nations
natural law


4.

As a man
I cruise
along
Main Street
in a joyless
joy ride
gliding by
disassembled
factories
moldering schools
defunct governments

surveying the
demolished ruins
of cities,
the decrepit
wrecking ball
of history
is busy,
rolling through
towns
not worthy
of cast iron
destruction
forged in
foreign kilns

we built palaces
to democracy
in the tiniest hamlets
dotting the granges
wholly assimilated
into a national congress
of freemen

today our
congress
is scattered
dialog seeking
resolution is considered
betrayal to holy
partisanship...

selfish insistence
masquerades as
high ideals

portraiture
of obstinance
is a grotesque
reflection
of virtue

we have
reduced
the peoples
house

to a battlefield
for tribes…..

once freemen
now captives….

soulless ghosts
wandering lost
inside grand
rotundas...

mocked
by murals
and inert
granite statuary
howling
expiration dates
of timeless
psalms

sojourning
the trail of tears
drinking from bowls
of anguish

our only
respite
the silent
ruins we
find impossible
to leave

fear fills our bellies
rust stains our hearts
abiding acrimony
ain’t easily brushed
from dust laden cloths

the deconstruction
of dead cities, mark
expired civilizations
centuries in the making
hammered by the blows
of the mightiest blacksmiths
with precision and deft craft


5.

the spareness of
Martha Graham's set
frame black shadows
of fortitude

it always starts
with the individual

then surely
sure footedness
measured footsteps
boldly dance about
the lily pads
of the keyboard
a resounding ballet
the arms wave
like swaying stalks of wheat
but hurry to respond
opportunity knocks
conditions change
the group awaits
to be joined

my pirouette
remains my solitary mark
on the weaving spindles
crafting the mosaic
of a complex American
complexion

the possibility
the promise
laid before us
wheat fields
of democracy
tilled planted
attended

the wondrous yields of
an Appalachian Spring
the promise
hectare of grace
apportioned to all
citizens

the promise
harvest of liberty
freedom
of opportunity
all anointed
freemen
conferred an
amazing grace

civil discourse
was once spoken
we can learn the
lost languages again
sitting on the porch
with neighbors
sipping ice tea
sharing thoughts on
hot summer evenings
caring too care

but scoundrels
became heroes
we fetishized
idiosyncrasies
of insisted
entitlement

we ******
the whole by
exalting the part

we dare not condemn them
lest we condemn ourselves




6.

the west was once woolly wild
I hear the sweeping sound
of my youth rustle again
the dramatic symphony
of a brilliant people
filled with courage
undeterred optimism
claiming a continent
manifesting a new
Pax Americana
a century
of immigrants  

coming to integrate
coming to assimilate
coming to believe in the promise
coming to make a new promise

I came to hear Copland
when I was young

when America was young
when promises were made
and sworn by a brilliant
fanfare of trumpets

when America was young
Copland composed
when America was young
a promise was made

come forth brothers
come forth sisters
come claim
the promise
of a simple gift


Aaron Copland:
Billy The Kid

11/29/11
Oakland
jbm
Em Feb 2014
I knew a girl
Back in my hometown
And should you ever
Decide to go down
To see the hills
And valleys
There's no better view
Than Allie's.

I knew a girl
On holiday
Who liked to sit
Next to the bay
And look to the sea
When it's sunny
There's no better ocean
Than Bonnie's.

I knew a girl
At a B&B;
When I lost my way
In Sicily
At the end
Of your journey
There's no better bed
Than Courtney's.

I knew a girl
Who worked at a club
And liked jazz, blues
And jailhouse rock
If you like the sound
Of harmonicas
There's no better show
Than Danica's.

I knew a girl
Who breathed in fumes
Of marijuana
And did *****
If you like to get
Delirious
There's no better trip
Than Emilia's.

I knew a girl
That made no fuss
And bathed in sweat
And reeked of musk
If you're into
All that hanky-panky
There's no better bed
Than Frankie's.

I knew a girl
With perfect teeth
But had a thing
For eating sweets
And if you lose
Your stash of candy
There's no better place to look
Than Ginny's.

I knew a girl
At a fancy bar
With salon-fresh hair
And a red sports car
I'm gonna take her home
Or better yet
There's no better place
Than Harriet's.

I knew a girl
She had no shame
I barely even
Caught her name
When you're in the mood
For something obscene
There's no better bedroom
Than Irene's.

I knew a girl
Who liked to dance
And displayed a fondness
For romance
If you'll love her 'til
The end of days
There's no better love
Than Juliet's.

I knew a girl
Who spoke her mind
And didn't care
For cuffs and fines
So if protesting's your
Idea of a date
There's no better activist
Than Kate.

I knew a girl
Knew how to work a pole
As long as people
Kept dealing the dough
So if you fancy
Yourself a high rolla'
There's no better showgirl
Than Lola.

I knew a girl
We met at the gym
She was into the whole
Fitness thing
If you can keep up
On treadmills and weights
There's no better body
Than May's.

I knew a girl
Who could make a mean shake
Whether by ocean or poolside
Or down by the lake
If you have the time
To head out to Bora
There's no better smoothie
Than Nora's.

I knew a girl
In the symphony
Who played the double bass
In perfect harmony
If you like to watch
The orchestra
There's no better sound
Than Octavia's.

I knew a girl
In New Orleans
She could read tarot cards
And decipher dreams
If you'd like to know
The things to be
There's no better fortune
Than Penelope's.

I knew a girl
Who was quite possessive
And I must admit
A bit of a sadist
But if you can look past
That killer grin
There's no better poison
Than Quinn's.

I knew a girl
With venomous lips
And razors on her
Fingertips
That troublemaker
Will give you hell
But there's no better trouble
Than Rochelle's.

I knew a girl
At an art exhibit
She liked the emotions
Raw and inhibited
If you ever pass
By a gallery
There's no better aesthetic
Than Stephanie's.

I knew a girl
Who could arabesque
And pirouette
With all the best
If you'd like to try
A ballerina
There's no better plié
Than Tina's.

I knew a girl
From the Philippines
And was the brightest star
You'd have ever seen
Major in astrophysics
A real Minerva
There's no better brain
Than Ursa's.

I knew a girl
Who lived next door
And when she woke up
Every morn
She'd start playing
The harmonica
There's no better wake-up call
Than Veronica's.

I knew a girl
Who was always loud
Soon as she had an idea
It had to come out
Bursting with
Youthful energy
There's no better mind
Than Wendy's.

I knew a girl
She held the reign
Over all pretentiously
Spelled names.
Somebody ought
To give her a tiara
For there's no better Ciara
Than Xiaira.

I knew a girl
Who owned a shop
She'd sell the goods
And work the mop
She's a hard worker
That one
And there's no better employee
Than Yvonne.

I knew a girl
With a heart of aurum
With grace, she observes
The proper decorum
Climbing the ladders
Never once a pariah
There's no better friend
Than Zariah.
I deeply apologize for the overuse of the word "harmonica." No, really!
Angelonia Sep 2018
perfectly poised, i paint poignant statures
alive yet devoid, an entrancing actor
diamonds and daggers i dazzled through
a circus girl's cunning, but a heart beats true

pirouette, ball change, waltz and twirl
singsong silly circus girl
my heart is heavy but i cannot weep
my eyes are closed but i never sleep.
.
Anna Martinez Mar 2012
When did Wishes become as commonplace as pennies in Fountains?
When did Unicorns stop dreaming?
In a place where Unicorns can Dream
And Stars are Paths
And Fat Orange Cats are Sullen Irish Dancing Potatoes
With Biscuit Legs and Waterfall Eyes
With an Everything complex
Due to feeling the Absence of all
Whilst having felt an overwhelming Nothing
And Ant ****'s full of Honey and Air
Pirouette and bend their slim Amber eyed head backwards
To see such hopeless Unicorns Dreaming of
Trollops and Almosts who don't know what Mermaids are
Mermaids that only Sing Underwater
And watch Sullen Irish Dancing Potato Boy
With Biscuit Legs and Waterfall Eyes
And an Everything complex
Because Garfield can't figure out
If Fat Orange Cat is okay with loving Selfish Harlot Mermaid
Or not

Maybe we should all just stay Honey-Eyed Harlots
And Hero Twin Flames
Maybe the penny can be a Wish
And the Star's dust pathways
And Unicorns can see black instead of Dreams.
And it would do you much as well
To leave well enough alone.
Em MacKenzie Jan 2019
Is there room for context at this table?
We can move some dishes and shuffle chairs.
I’ve checked all four legs and they seem stable,
but choosing a placemat is like splitting hairs.
I notice the candle’s flame is getting dim,
and my fingers pirouette in the puddles of wax,
my hair needs a cut but I settled for a trim,
and I’m donating my salary and spending my tax.

I’ve told you every thought in my head,
except the ones that matter the most,
the facts that scald my cheeks to red,
now they’re burning up like charred toast.
I’d promise you whatever you ask for,
and I’d drag myself to deliver each time,
but I’m ignoring the truth at my core,
and I’m confessing to you in mime.

Sit across from me with crossed legs,
see magnets becomes our eyes,
“come closer together” both begs,
but we’re determined and polarized.
There’s no world existing around us,
and there certainly is no group,
you listen while I ramble and make a fuss,
over the death of Lipton’s Alligator Soup.

We turned Heaven into a Hell,
we took a skeleton and made a shell,
We dragged our nails down the walls
scribbled ephiphanies on bathroom stalls,
and silenced a story we could never tell.

And all the things that have driven us apart,
in truth have only made us stronger.
and my love you are actually my heart,
I won’t question it’s beating any longer.

If you’re stuck with a choice
you should flip a coin in the air,
then listen to your mind’s voice,
‘cause your answer will be there.
When it comes to heads or tails,
you already know your favourite side,
you’ll pray for it as the coin sails,
ignore the outcome but absorb the ride.
natalie Nov 2013
Like bladed birds of steel they glide and wing,
Across the ice without any dismay,
Fearing no hard body check or cold swing.

They circle the net in frozen ballet,
Flitting about like puck-handling mice,
Tenacity drips from each ounce of their play.

They dazzle with grace all over the ice,
With a jump, a spin, and a pirouette,
Always ready to pay a high price.

They give it all ‘till they’re soaked through with sweat.
We watch with joy from our perch high above.
Our yells, their chirping—it’s quite a duet!

These men change the game with the drop of a glove,
And so, bloodthirsty, we give them our love.
the Sandman Mar 2016
We will pirouette
On browned grass, until it turns
Into faery rings.
Valsa George Nov 2016
On the stage she stood,
a sculpted image

With music,
she began to sway

With rising rhythm,
she gyrated in frenzied joy

Her body flowed like a droplet
on a slimy lotus leaf

As she revolved like a top,
I got lost
in the poetry
in motion!
Andrew Kerklaan Sep 2013
As I approached this new anomaly I couldn't help but notice how seamlessly it was dancing...

Flowing through the street like a land-based whirlpool with the elegance of a veteran ballerina

It's distressed white plastic tutu left drifting freely, spinning into a pirouette in spite of it's singular audience

A defiant **** between sidewalk blocks--It's simple presence, a larger then life statement

As if to say "Go on, try to stop my freedom! I'll just pirouette away!"
A short scribe from one of my travels. Enjoy.
Laniatus Jun 2015
Her first Pirouette

dark
to light
             like clouds
as if around the moon

Vulnerable

Vapour, nebulous,
          ghost.

          Distance becomes abstract
when dancing
upon
        newly broken eyes
Linguistic Play Oct 2014
I have dreams that as the world spins
we will all succumb to noticing the motion teasing our insides
instead of tampering with everything outside of our grasp
I have grandiose dreams that as the world takes to an infinite pirouette
we'll take to practicing spotting so we don't miss this motion picture
spinning whimsically around our shoulders


I have dreams of a paint pallet nestled softly in your hands
while painting the details of our oceans and trees
for a live audience because maybe then
maybe then, we can see the world as the work of art it is
and stop burning books that haven't been written
maybe then, we can stop dumping buckets of the cure for so many lives over our heads
maybe then, maybe then, we'll see that we're all but a percentage of a brush stroke different, and the strife and wars and capturing of life has never been justified but rather lied about in a game of telephone spoken in different languages

now...that's a twist

I have dreams of our world over time in a stop motion
like as the sun creeped over our skylines it took a capture of the world each day
and in each flick of a photo gone by, leaves fall and never return because their frame work was stolen by thieves
the seas rise taunting the cities and the people bustling about the staggered streets
the sprawling fields you painted in the last stanza are peppered in a multiplying phenomenon of a species gone mad


and sometimes I worry my dreams are turning to nightmares
because I rarely conclude my stories with a mare riding into a sunset with a knight and his dreams
but I take to remember that your dreams are made up of a concoction of everything you see and maybe this elevated sense of realizing is everything I need
Lucid Sep 2018
everyone has that place their mind wanders to whenever boredom strikes, or whenever they become "zoned out"
mine?
my mind always imagines a ballerina in black, doing pirouette turns over and over again
it's especially vivid whenever i'm listening to music
over and over, round and round
i only realized this today, & it made me wonder why my mind always drifted there
i thought about it until i realized
how fitting
my conscious mind is always turning in circles
so of course my subconscious mind would, too

his hands on my body
the reeking smell of alcohol and coercion
my mother's lies
my brother's handshake with the grim reaper
the realization
the humiliation
the first time i told her i hated her
the sting of her palm against my face
my father's alcohol problem
i can't escape alcohol
my alcohol problem
the feel of the blade against my skin
the sterile smell of the crisis unit
everyone's willingness to condemn & forget

i don't forget

my body
his breath
her lies
death
humilation
the sting
the alcohol
the blood
the sterility
the pain
the pain
the pain

over and over, round and round
turning constant circles in my head
i fall down
With You - stwo
Janette Jan 2013
Turns a soft pirouette of finger end
Along the ridges of discs that make the spine
And I mark a period to end the sentence
Written upon soft skin
Smooth as a relaxed sigh that escapes parted lips
In a gentle exhale of seconds ticked off
One check (tick)
Two check ( tock)
I scribe to small of back where hollow forms
Letting tongue taste the salt of sweat glistening
Before a rise of hip curves to please eyes
Or palms that might erase dark windows staring back
At the blank gaze of face lost inside
The mirage of dreams

Three check (tick)
Four check ( clock tocked seconds rhyme)

With vowels moaned to the whisper of poems
Glyphed a slow summons of wrists gently turned
To show the veins that lie beneath as I bled softly
Along the nerves a simple thread of heartbeat
Rhythms show how a verse ends
A metaphor for the ribs caged
And stone to hold apart the looking glass world
Of Cheshire grins upon lips wet with wry spittle
Licked by tip of tongue

Breathes soft once upon times
To inhale the scent of amaryllis bloom
Gracing glass of its own with fair heads bloom
Petals of delicate hue opened vulnerable to bruise

Five check ( tick )
Six check ( toggle along mark of hands the tock)

I scribe soft to the end of line and pirouette fingers end
Marking a period again to end the simple words
Brushed upon a supple velum
And begin
Seven check (tick)

Second hands slow circles
Matching my own...
Aaron Gill Jun 2012
The night starts off with a bang
She enters the room
And the spotlight starts to change.
It hits her as she walks through the door
An aisle splits down the center of the dance floor.
She starts to walk towards the stage
And then the music slowly plays.

The lights go up and the music plays
She dances around this tiny place.
The spotlight fades and she quickly turns
He’s never seen someone with such grace.
He grabs a mic and starts to pace.
His lips open up and he starts to sing
A song about a forgotten place.

Tonight we gather in this dance hall
Everyone is looking for a way to let their feelings out.
It takes two to tango and I think I’m ready
To sweep you off your feet.
We’ll count the steps as one, two, three
And act out a story between swaying bodies.
A small twist here and pirouette there
Is all it takes to make this kids heart start to race.
So let’s start this off with a twist
and end it with a dip
As we start to move you’ll feel the rhythm
Start to move you as it takes control of your hips.

They dance the night away
And he continues to sing.
All this dancing has all
But burned a ring into the floor.
They keep moving circles
Counting out the steps
As one, two, three.
That final move will be one
That will forever remain in history.
He lifts her to the sky
And then she starts to see
In his arms is where
This dancer was meant to be.
John F McCullagh Dec 2016
Some days she feels better than others;
Her life ebbs and flows with the pain.
She’s an eighteen year old girl fighting cancer
facing chemotherapy once again.

Thanks to some kind hearted donors
who conspire to make dreams come true
She flew into New York City
To spend her last Christmas with you

She’s spending three days in our city;
enjoying the hustle and flow.
She must see the Tree and window shop stores
and there’s one other place she must go.

As a young girl she loved figure skating.
Now she laces her skates one last time.
Alone on the ice it’s as good as it gets
There’s a smile on her face and there’s joy in her heart
as she spins in a tight Pirouette.
In honor of Zoey Kohler. an 18 year old girl suffering from an inoperable cancer. visiting NYC thanks to the "Make a Wish foundation"
WistfulHope Oct 2014
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.
Shadow And A Dancer by The Fray kinda prompted this...
That, and I've been practicing pointe more than usual lately...
Princess Dawn Feb 2013
Once in a while
let us not be frightened
of ghosts living within
our bodies.
Let us forget the routines
that make our lives
machine-made.
Let our music be played
one afternoon
until the world hears our
pains and the things we can't contain.
Dance pirouettes—whirling gracefully,
knowing the center of the earth.
That we are the center of the earth
spinning to find one another
although we carry
the same heavy roots
of our past.
But of all these things
we are uncertain of—
let us keep ourselves boldly
with our faith
with our love.
Burning passion, gentle movements, and unwavering precision
Are only three sets of words that describe her
She moved en pointe with her ink-dipped shoes and wrote herself down on the pages of my existence
Delicate cursive appeared across the blank, unlined leaves
Creating soothing poetry amidst all the chaotic rants in the pages before
I watched as each step, throw, and turn add new words to the narrative
The spotlight followed her every movement as she floated across the stage
Jotting down line after line of her calming words

The lights faded after she ended the fourth stanza
And she was greeted with thunderous applause by the voices in my head
I could see her silhouette dance slowly on the unlit stage
She spun for what seemed like hours before the lights came back on

There she stood

The once pure and clean ballerina in white was drenched in blood and ink
She moved aggressively and without remorse painting rough lines on the soft syllables she'd written for me
Her eyes glowed with unholy strength as she knelt upon my pages
And ripped them from one corner to the other, tearing the book's spine
All I  could do was stare at her as she smiled at her work
And silently exit stage left
mûre May 2012
mourning doves for late afternoons
a lament for the golden hour
the end of adventures
a little girl comes in for dinner
tiptoes upstairs
strokes her mothers hair
leaves little blue flowers by her bed.

                       I let my hair go dark again-
                          just like yours, do you see?
                           I'm a woman now, I have your mouth.

forget-me-nots for noontime
where the little girl would lay
violet blue healing shroud
and disappear
un-pixelating a photograph in the sky
the portrait that made her father cry
it was a five year old aesthetic of death.

           I guess I never really knew you, did I?
            
music box hidden in the mystery of a closet
shades of midnight, shades of dust
a ballerina's slow pirouette
called into life after forgotten years
the haunt of Sleeping Beauty.

               I know you didn't mean to miss my birthday.
                   I begged you for a music box, you remember?
                      It's my most dear treasure on this earth.


mourning doves for missing you
forget-me-nots for remembering you
my music box will live for you

How strange that such wonderful things
should make me so sad.
mûre Feb 2012
...you stand surely to shipwreck.
all hands on deck.

accordion three-four lilts amelie
hymn hummed
beneath frenetic waltz of fingers
Rain-bitten and dumb

pirouette recessional to the sea

and such enchanting cobbled waves

how truly quaint rosy tempest in the square

pour down the dirge to murky drain.
throw in the bottle, the maps, the ropes

pirouette recessional to the sea

lastly heave-**
i throw in me.
belbere Dec 2014
Our dance is meant for two.

They pirouette and we weep
They pirouette and we drink
The peals are a haven
We stagger forward
Our appeals beg for haven

The only choreography we know
Is that of broken bottle footsteps
Imprinted on the floor
Turn left turn left
There's not enough time
Turn where turn where
Do we go next?

Our dance was made for two.*

The room pirouettes and we drink
The world pirouettes and we weep
The "tantaraza" is a dance in the novel "Slaves of the Mastery", the second in the brilliant Wind on Fire Trilogy. It's a wonderful novel, and the dance is written breathtakingly.

Written in response to (Want) some barriers too by The Anonymous Joker: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1016038/want-some-barriers-too/

This is our collection.
Logan Robertson Nov 2017
The Lost Bird In The Sky

The Lost Bird In The Sky

Somewhere there sits a lone man
at a bar filled with lowlifes
lost in his thoughts
mad at the world
and at her
it's eight in the morning
and dawn is long past
and its eve's seat he'll now nurse
across the bar room
through the blinds, some sun peeks in
over the seedy rug
the sun drying the last cleansing
of a patron's puke
the musky smell the last of his worries
his eyes take in the bar
he intimates a hand gesture to other patrons
and a meaningless nod
indifferent to being friendly
matching the terrain
of the other lowlifes at the bar
all on crutches, it seems
on the wall
hangs pictures of storm clouds
black and ominous as his life
the first of his worries
him and his head always drooping
or were those pictures in his imagination
the music box plays a sad song
smoke gets in your eye
followed by lies
another sad song
stories of his life
accentuated
grabbing at him
his worries
her effect
how poetic, he smiles
him in effigy
through the smoke in his eyes
and more beer
he can clearly see her
with a voodoo doll in hand
sticking needles in him
maybe deservingly
if only he could tell her a story
he thinks better of his thoughts
and a pending epilogue
thirsting for sunshine instead
his eyes glance up at the women bartender
plain, plump, playful, pierced
sunshine for the moment
his lips, and tongue curl
his feet touch earth, seeing if it's still there
as she lumbers back and forth serving drinks
her backside sticking up like a beehive
and for a moment he wants to be a bee
he plays with his beer bottle
running his hands past it's neck
caressing, taking a sip
thinking of his past love
the softness of her neck
*****
her essence
of how pleasing it would be to touch her
her nest
if only he could be a bird for a moment
fly and be in flight with her
together in the sky
making baby birds
their innocence and first tweets
that would have been nice
now ... landed at a hole in a wall
his eyes and thoughts keep soring
he grabs more beer
more beer
pausing to grab some honey with his eyes
he keeps playing with his loose change
spinning a quarter
like watching her pirouette
again and again
she had that effect on him

Logan Robertson

11/15/17
I wrote this poem today on Poetry Soup under the pseudonym, connie pachecho. At last count the poem was drowning in 9 views. I'm not going to lie that was very disappointing. Maybe it's me. Truly I'm lost. Maybe I'll pick up a few more views here and light a candle.
Nirali Shah Aug 2014
A quaint little bazaar
In the heart of the town
Tells a story
Of a thousand moments
Dal Bazaar as they call it
Or "Curry Market" for others who don't know.
I have fragments of memorable memories
Deep within my mind
The smell
The intoxicating smell of spices
Blended with the quiescent yet cacophonous lives
Of Merchants and Beggars
Of Buyers and Sellers
Of Bullions and a single calloused rupia
In the hands of the old *****.
The sunlight baking
Bags of turmeric.
Suspending the scent
In the minds of men.

Capering clouds of black and grey
And the sudden squall
Stirring the monotony
Of the customary.
The pirouette of rain
The one that excites the plainest of the plain
Painting the whitewash with shades of grey
The chalky walls
Dust
Moist corriander
And the relief of earth
Conciliating
So rewarding
For the ruins of the bare sun.

This flashback into my soul
Where all my senses seem to be so awake.
The feel of the wooden veranda
Scent so inexpressible
My eyes devouring the sunset
Tasting the heavens
Hearing it all.
Feeling it all.
Oh the plight of poets
The ritual to end a poem.
Painful.
August 16,2014

— The End —