"pirouetting" poems
i used to cradle her bleach-cracked hands in mine
and decode the stardust resting within her fingerprints
up until the day that i lost touch with the art of reading braille
and she stopped slinging tall-tales for me to fetch
and rest the plot-twist at her feet
often in the post-script
i'd find my train of thought highjacked by the sunlight illuminating the rainbow of earth-tones ablaze
in her frizz-ridden curls
as if she'd been washing her hair with the damaged case of beer
she'd gotten for half-price at liqour depot
she never did quit drinking
but neither did i
at least we tried
though sometimes
in the middle of the night when nothing was alright
and we'd barely survived another fight
her face would catch my glance
cast aglow by a flood of lava-lamp light
the sea of freckles resting at the crest of her cheeks
rose lips perma-pursed in half tilt
her resting heart-rate so high that i could almost see it
pirouetting within her chest
it was then that i'd love her best
amidst the ruins of who we were
just moments before
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
NEW YEAR INTROSPECTION PART FOUR
the air of maturity
is breathed today
with such rarity
that what is termed
the age of majority, <
is in reality not,
it instead being
a place of minority;
it's occupants being
the selfless lot who
give freely of their proffering,
offering themselves an offering
and considering themselves
adequately advantaged
as they willingly
position becoming likely
to be taken advantage
and taken for granted
hearts ready for breaking
yet give, love, share
heal, they do,
and freely so;
therein standing
in stark contrast to
the narcissistic hoards
who protect,
with pirouetting steps,
their barren nests,
empty hearts,
and meager pockets,
ever failing to realize
that nature’s law
bestows abundance best
at the selfless giver’s behest.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 1:31 AM UTC
A dancing child; a ballerina
A pirouetting adolescent; an anorexic
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
when i want inspiration to write poetry
i watch a heaving tempest of kisses
they have a better flavor
than cooking shows
what's prettier than pretty pretty
in pigtails
shaking her delicious
derriere whipped Soufflé?
i'm kissing butter princess
witchy ****
spread lickity splits
eating her
with a big wide **** eating grin
like an open face dagwood
whats more poetic than that hopeful glaring
of
Adonis's plumper in paradise
filling Cleopatra's slathered meringue?
ga-ga-ga-gag me, daddy
merciless, pa-leazze
fluttered big wet talking eyes
like pools of blue honey
getting it zigged zagged
hard against a redraw mouth
throttling fluted gullet
while eager throat gasps
a symphonic music of the spheres
in relentless staccato chokes
lovin her big devil **** splashing
all gym built wonder-boy
a litter of ****** and tongues
licking pig greedy
rapturous milkshake waterfalls
whimpering
mmmmmm
oooh big daddy
oh my ****** god
pillar of colossus
you Tunisian donut you
pierce me like a spoon
through summer guava
who screams like that eating lunch
but a half ate apricot?
better than a football game
I'd rather take her greek
more fun than math or small talk
preferable to a pat on the back at work
or a ridged procession at a funeral
oh beautiful dark fig
squatting crotch candy
bubbling tapioca ***
queen of
spun sugar ****
all pyrotechnics
and fluttering sinews
if you asked most
do they watch ****
they'd grow smug like a senator
or punch you in the mouth
outwardly high-minded
refusing the blessing of a
video **** parade
of pirouetting vaginas
and glistening areolas
for the glory
of the secret ************ ceremony
the *** moralists
only good for a secret ******
living their lives
with passions submerged
and nothing to confess
except for guilty offerings
as they wander through dreamland shopping malls
wanting to know
Victorias ***** little secret
seduced
but not caressed
by
a mouthpiece for castrated dreams
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 4:05 PM UTC
I am like a dew drop on the edge of a leaf
Cautiously balancing on tip toes
Another dew drop appears next to me
A whiff of soft wind sways the leaf
We start pirouetting on the edge
Balancing with all the skills we have
Finally, we bond together
Different, yet unrecognizable now
A ray of light passes through us
To create a beautiful rainbow
It’s just the dewdrops
© Amitav (Radiance)
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 3:51 AM UTC
I am the lust of the universe
longing to know itself
I am the thoughts like a cascading stream
water pummeling the rock of my soul
molding, shaping, forming, conforming
I am the peace of the bamboo forest
a society of shoots
shades of green solitude
standing together, clunking hollow,
serene, transfixing parallel angles, mesmerizing
obscuring the gaze beyond, reflecting within
drops drip and fall with a shake
I am the child throwing sand into the ocean,
jumping from the rushing water
challenging fate with a raised fist and a laugh to do his worst
I am the dancer in the waves
lifted by the tides
pirouetting in the current
I am the red stone cliff on the sea shore
sovereign stratum carved
growing with green, lush yet hard
I am the buttressed black lava rock
standing in the water, remote and mysterious
accepting time and erosion, jagged
I am the new sun rising red
arising from the mountain mist swirling on the ocean
ascending from the clouded horizon
a grand illusion of motion, perception, the seer
I am the beach wood
fallen from the trees standing
as sentinels to the ebb and flow
laughing in silence with the wind and the sound of tides whooshing
I am the surfer
riding the energy of the earth
slicing across the liquid wall face
I am the flag of men
unifying and dividing
I am the sand welcoming water and feet
soft as creamy butter
I am the mother and the son
replenishing, trailing, following, playing, watching
sharing belly buttons
I am the butterfly gliding on the Kona wind
wandering immortal
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 8:05 PM UTC
picture perfect plastic dolls
line up in the ballet hall
masks adjusted, shoes pulled on
the cameras flash, the lights are on.
flaunt their figures, beguile the boys
wildly pirouetting with a perfect poise
a silent chorus of envy they sing
patch the masks and sew a grin.
the curtain falls, the masquerade drops
her pointe shoes are all worn out
her toes are bleeding, her ankle’s sprained
but a sparkling reputation she has claimed.
a perfect picture of plastic dolls
lined up with their masks all on
the colours fade, the angle’s changed
to show beneath, their melted face.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 5:35 PM UTC
shes sat by the window
like a flower to the sun
burnt deep
paled lotus, mechanized motifs
cigarette, sweet parallel steams
lips pink, eyes deceased
silica tears, seeded
fiber optic designed !release
enter
automated dreamstate
delve
inside the beast
oscillating
pirouetting
psilocybe
serene
days gone underground
plagiarized by peace
prototyped the touch
she’ll never know
it’s me.
Aug 11, 2021
Aug 11, 2021 at 7:07 PM UTC
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
blinking from who-knows-how-far,
holding captive all our eyes,
muse for all our lullabies.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
how I wonder what you are.
Twinkle, twinkle, Milky Way,
cosmic star of cabaret,
filling up our eyes at night,
making moonlight shadows bright.
Twinkle, twinkle, Milky Way -
what a vision you display.
Twinkle, twinkle, galaxy,
often do I think of thee,
hurtling through time and space,
pirouetting in your place.
Twinkle, twinkle, galaxy -
Teach us all to be as free.
Sep 17, 2017
Sep 17, 2017 at 8:47 AM UTC
stand(ing) here alone in the dark
like a head of tack pirouetting away
to no music - only acrid scruple
of this being with and not being with,
one is always alone.
space occupies the potteries in
the garden as a steady arm of light
stills in its mouth, a flowering dark.
it is only 3 o'clock in the morning
and the heat clambers the wall of
the vacuously atrabilious moment
of just plainly existing. the slender
harlequin of moon, like an old lover
having its own way with me, a child's
yelp coming home — the hermetic
air crushing the light, slivering it
revealing all the ensconced phantasms
too commonplace like a fork in the road
that i know, or the wayward metropolitan
that teems with a concatenation of roads
and gutters bilious with the squall of day.
a figure moves entering a warm miasma,
receiving the star of aloneness,
vacillating between
place and placelessness
telling this originary of repossessing
the moon with a hand in my hand,
pressing a question of where
have you been all the raging while.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 3:52 PM UTC
A well-rehearsed dance,
the waltzing waitress tosses The Times
on table 1 as if she’ll actually finish
the Sunday crossword this morning.
She won’t.
Grease lined lights flicker on one
by one.
Like spotlights on a stage.
It’s show time.
Twostepping while taking down chairs,
she flows to the rhythm of ritual,
across a worn checkered dancefloor.
No applause.
In a dining room of Astaire’s and Rogers
she is the coffee choreographer.
Pirouetting to the ***
then a sidestep, quick! Quick!
Slow.
Warming up now, she stretches.
Switching on the metal machinery.
It grinds and growls as if it prefers
decaf.
Rings from rusted bells
hanging from the door chime
to the beat. This is her
cue.
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 10:09 AM UTC
Snail trails of a cloud, bleeding life into a dying sky,
As feet drum out a rhythm for wounded thoughts to dance to:
pirouetting voices shout to keep a smile on that face,
And anxiety tripping in a failed twirl, trampled by pointed toes of glee.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 9:55 AM UTC
We watched the sun fall down and scrape its knee again, across the horizon.
Effusing amaranth, carmine, and cochineal across polluted vista.
It felt petty to issue guttural laughs, or engage the myofacial crescents beneath its visual lament as the Earth turned its back again.
We watched the sun rise, bruised, tender and shy this morning.
Its muddled contusion obviated by the gauze of fog.
A mottled neophyte -
Luminescent crepuscular rays defied dregs of interstellar debris and cloud.
Aching to kiss your skin -
In stellar cloud nursery, it eschewed the torque of orbit and gravity - eras before verity of your essence.
Humbly settling concentrically about oblate sphere, and gaseous tome.
Latterly - It altered the atmospheric pressure on the other side of the planet a week antecedently, as you clung to your dream lattice, and Earth innately turned oblate nucleus.
Its intent –
A veneration of you.
It bade the atmosphere convey a breeze echoing about your dermis, as it gilded your frame laconically, betwixt shaded steps beneath cloud and arbor.
The sun yelled at me at its pinnacle today,
Pallid bone – molten - miasma of rage
Its core missive garnered inertia – coronal plasma warping ellipsoid factions in inflections of elusive filigree
Pirouetting spicules spattered smelted torrents in the dismal anchorite
Atomic schism – silent but felt
It stoked humidity under shadowed niche - casual vaporous smears evinced no clemency.
Flesh torqued, and seized beneath itself, briny globules shed from puckered pore.
Culminations of sensitive fluid sacs scorched into the shallows of my chassis.
Insignia knit in cellular shrapnel
The sun ignored me today – or perhaps, it was I it.
Enigmatic tenacious resolution – an echo of its gravitational collapse
Inverse thermonuclear fusion
It is not fear in a relationship that keeps you apart, it is neglect of the infinitesimal.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
Fifteen uniform clouds
Roll across the prairie
In a neat little line on the horizon
Kicking up dust storms as they go
Hurrying along
Silently
The settlers driving their wagons
Keeping their lips tight
And their eyes sharp
Because there are Indians
Lurking behind every rock
Bandits and thieves
Waiting in the hills
Snakes
Scorpions
Buffalo
Guns
Disease
Separation
Heartache
Might surprise them at any moment
Might make them victims and this moment their last
The settler’s hearts are racing
At 120 beats per minute
Pounding out a rhythm
Unlike anything they’ve ever known
Their hands are working at nothing
In the thin dry air
Twirling, twisting, pirouetting frantically
Their jaws are clenching tightly
Spasming, biting, drawing blood from their tongues
Their eyes are wide, unblinking, terrified
Seeing it all as it really is,
Really should be
And secretly, perhaps subconsciously,
Unrealizing,
They hope life will always feel this alive
But then,
In a few weeks
When they’ve made it to the city
To the town
To the shelter and comfort of ease
Civilization opens up her greedy maw
Swallows them whole
And licks her ****** fingers clean
So as not to stain her tidy white frock
And the settlers do nothing
Complacently allowing themselves to be digested
But they are thinking
“This is what I wanted?”
The voices in their heads have reached fever pitch, disgusted, screaming,
“This is what I wanted??”
And still they do nothing
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 4:05 PM UTC
*Like fairy dust caught in dappled sunlight they dance.
Swirling gracefully like a ballerina pirouetting
on a child's music box.
Graceful specks of fine dirt engrossed in cloaking
surfaces smooth and coarse.
Like petticoats caught in a summer breeze
rippling, and dipping, causing a sneeze.
Dust motes like a kilt swirling,
whirling in the kaleidoscope of daylight,
engross you in devoting a poem to their dance.
Those molecules, atoms of time passed.*
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 4:30 AM UTC
There is fire in the dance. The head of a candle burning and flickering in time to the dancer’s movement. The flame sways to and fro, responding to the dancer’s energy. Then the candle disappears.
Blisters begin to bubble up upon the dancer’s skin; then fully formed explode with liquid fire. Screams of agony reverberate across her tortured flesh. Her cries go silent as the pain slowly fades. The dancer becomes a living flame.
So, she dances. Each step scorching the soft ground, leaving little fires in their wake. Her legs ascend at an angle and descend in a spin. Hands clasped and rising upwards as her feet return to the earth. The fire trailing her movements like living echoes. Enflamed arms opening and closing with billows of smoke expanding around them. The ground burns beneath her feet as she leans her head back slowly.
Her face consumed by the flames fury; she attempts to howl. Instead of sound, rivers of crimson liquid explode from her lips. Jets of blood red water congeal into shiny flesh. First, impressions of a face form in the flat flowing puddle of scarlet goo. Then, a neck, next something akin to limbs takes shape.
The red rawness is evident but not painful, as she spews the last bits of the red liquid. Drips of crimson drops from the newly formed figure fall on the flaming dancer. The droplets sounding a soft beat and sizzle in rhythmic fashion like a drum snare; T sss T sss T sss T sss. The flaming dancer shudders in pleasure. The flames, encouraged by the dark moisture, recede then rise, as rouge vapors smoke off its’ figure. The fluid form expands further forming sinuous strands of cerise liquid hair.
Pirouetting in a whirlwind fashion the dancer continues her ballet. Her leg rises again as she leans back. Her head, inches from the ground, drops liquid fire. Then she straightens her tiny flaming frame. Behind her the red watery body slides its hands across the ground, calming the flames, and leaving only scorched and sticky earth in its wake.
So it goes with each movement the dancer lights the earth afire, and behind her the flames are doused. Each minute passing the fire weakens and shrinks as does the scarlet body. Until at last they embrace. The dancer’s arms rest upon her sides as the crimson liquid figure envelopes her.
One more red stroke across the canvass and the figures blend perfectly. One color fading and bleeding into the next in perfect abstraction. The month long dance finally finished. The brush is rinsed then ceremoniously placed in its spot. The artist sighs, there is a slight sense of relief, for this dance is finished, but an echo of sorrow remains for this dance is finished.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
*Life is worthwhile when you see the sunrise
Listening to the chirpy birds making merry
Glinting dewdrops are nature’s solitaire
Pirouetting on the edges with nimble feet
Sun rays kissing life into all the half sleepy heart
Waking up to the fresh aroma of pristine dawn
Walking on bare grass to get a strong foothold
Feeling one with nature embracing me tight
It’s a symphony of the grandest orchestra
Starting our day with a pledge in our heart
In making this day all the more worthwhile*
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 12:21 PM UTC
*A bittersweet mixture of agony and ecstasy
Found in the lone voice of a piano
Painting colours in harmony
That leave my senses reeling
Flying through the air like an arrow
Shot from cupids bow
An electric arc in the atmosphere
Piercing my soul with forgotten longing
Balancing in timeless beauty
Pirouetting chiffon billows elegantly through the notes
Defying gravity
Suspended in animation
Music that compels my body into
Configurations that delight and thrill my perceptions
An exquisite pain of my own making
I lose myself in abstractions
Octaves fluidly creating shapes
Resembling cursive script
The author of symmetry
I hover on the edge of a lost dream .....
I once stood on my toes
Until the day
Fate took it from me*
(C) Pixievic 2016
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 10:12 AM UTC
She --
albeit still
and very distant;
tiptoes
'round
my heart;
constantly
pirouetting
in my mind
And I am left
seeking --
where she hides;
crashing
towards her
spell;
wondering
if she ever --
misses me at all~
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
We are musical notes
Drifting as waves through the air.
Each of us has a unique rhythm,
A different beat.
We are nothing more than melodies,
Penetrating the ears of those we love.
And your melody is beautiful.
It moves me across the floor
As I dance,
Spinning and pirouetting through voids of happiness.
Your breath is the voice of a bluebird,
Your heart the gentle beating of the drums,
Your ribs the strings of a guitar
And your eyes wilful composers.
You are the song I can't stop singing.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 10:23 AM UTC
*Let me court you and bend my pride,
Venting foolish passions,
Vowing with my heart,
Volleying pebbles to your window.
Do not forsake for my sake,
Say, you are the fickle Moon
And I'm a grumpy Narra tree,
That I'm the dizzied Sun and you—
A pirouetting world, that we are
Two islands of the Archipelago.
But never say, impulsively say,
That you are the shooting star,
The Perseids, a meteor shower,
For it is then, love,
That I would have become
The melancholy,
The Universe.*
© 2015 J.S.P.
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 7:14 PM UTC
There’s some comfort
In a Cigarette –
Slack on the lips,
Balanced as a Newton’s cradle,
The smoke rising,
A heavy silver blue
Lifting and settling in the air; a toxic mist,
Emerging – volcanic - from the singed
Yellowing paper.
And the mind clears and
Slows, for a moment and settles as the nicotine infuses
With the brain.
And it feels
Good.
You tap the ash and it falls, dissolving into hot powder –
you take another draw.
Breathe deep.
“Smoking’s bad for the health” someone says.
As the smoke -silver blue –
Travels down the throat, into the lungs; inflating -
Exhale (more refined now)
“I know” you reply.
Give some excuse or other, for the habit –
Needs to be kicked -
Their eyes flash to
Yellowing skin which
reflects the yellowing paper cradling the ash
encasing veins of red.
Smiling, a crooked smile, you take another draw
“the last one.” you say,
“good.” They reply.
And there’s some beauty to be found in
The silver blue smoke pirouetting in the air
A poison, personally selected.
Some assurance in this perpetual act of self-destruction,
Some comfort in knowing what it is that’s killing you –
Though it takes some mystery out of life -
Conducting one’s own mortality can be quite the security.
Inhale again,
Turning the filter,
Ash drops,
The word Marlboro
(If there’s some money in the bank)
Stares back.
A Cigarette is a sin to be shared or taken in private,
A true pleasure which leaves one wholly unsatisfied -
Something in which to partake with others; the rich, the poor, the lame -
Those who would not normally give you a second glance, nor perhaps you them -
“Got a Cigarette I could *** they ask
“Sure” you say
As you reach into your pocket,
Pull out the packet,
Weathering,
And hold out an offering.
In that exchange
Alone
Is a bond born, a moment of connection,
some common ground.
You turn away,
“Smoking’s bad for the health.”
Someone says, to them,
“I know.” They reply, give some excuse
And then smile
That crooked smile.
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 2:01 PM UTC
I love these lines
I hate their stops
I love these words
I hate their last letters,
pirouetting like French kisses
They say, "So now it's done. Goodnight,
I love you.
Break that pencil in half,
now throw it away.
See you next time
The Demon
wants to stay.
You look so neat dressed in jewels
that complete you."
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 1:09 PM UTC
At it's ecstatic heights, life is
a splendid display of ballet moves.
I watch you fly high precariously,
stopping a beat of my enamored heart
with an astounding move speaking beauty
and dexterously land statuesque,
in a graceful arabesque stance.
Defying gravity with amazing ease
you create beauty none ever dreamed,
so kaleidoscopic, appreciating it means
touching the eternal with one's being
in a fleeting moment, get transported.
For that, one needs a mind as sharp as
razor's edge and constantly pirouetting
360 degrees embracing you at the
speed of light, before you turn to a
lightening flash,of different wavelength,
all over again and begin the next cycle.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC
I swore when I woke up this morning my heart was singing. Or flying. Either way, I just knew. The sun snuck in through my window grazing my cheeks, whispering “you are beautiful.” It sent a surge deep inside and the butterflies opened their eyes from gentle dreams and began to dance. Pirouetting inside of my soul. I don’t believe in broken hearts; well, I did until I listened closely to mine. I can hear it beating like a lover’s ear on the other’s chest. Its rhythms exuding love;life;fire;lions roaring in the middle of the night. With every beat the fire grows, igniting electricity to shoot through my whole body—passion. I will never turn cold or calculating because my heart is big enough to sing for those who don’t want to hear anything. Can you hear how loud it is pounding for you? My extended fingertips are sending solace to your soul. Dance. Sing. Shout. Just don’t sit in silence when your heart wants to roar.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 9:35 PM UTC