"tutus" poems
One each end of a shelf
Victorian figurines
A boy and girl
Like crystalline
With stiff edged lace.
Never fell in love
But still precious
Bought by a Godmother
Who did not have children.
Then the plaster dancers
Spied in a box of my father’s
Given by a poor grandmother
Loved these two
With their net “tutus”
Such graceful arms
Long pointed legs
Felt their life twirling.
The difference between
Two worlds
The rich and stiff
Poor but beautiful.
My bedroom shelf,
With a poster of
**** Jagger,
in the middle,
smiling.
Love Mary x
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 2:21 PM UTC
Hare Krishna's
In their Pickups
Depressed Comics
Down on their Luck
Teenage Girls
Screaming Meme's
****** Pinko's*
Leftward Leaning
Vincent Price
Flo and Eddie
Rodger Rabbit
Priscilla Presley
Nuns in Habits
Dwarf's in Ponchos
Deadbeat Dads
Munching Nachos
Right-Wing Nut Jobs
Trading Slogans
A few Hero's
Including Hogan
Are just a few of the sights you see
At the front gates of Graceland
Memphis, Tennessee
Buddhist Monks
With Electric Banjos
Holding Signs Up
Of Marlon Brando
Taxi Cabs
Blaring Show Tunes
Pregnant Women
Down-loading Soon
Derby Jockeys
Flying Monkeys
Kool-Aidholics
Skittle Junkies
Bozo The Clown
Bumper Stickers
Psychedelic
Crazed Toad Lickers
Rhinestone Cowboys
In their Skivvies
Gothic Girls
Heebie Jeebies
Are just a few of the sights you see
At the front gates of Graceland
Memphis, Tennessee
Blue Haired Granny's
In pink Moo Moos
Ballerina's In
Tattered Tutus
Mathematician's
Number Crunchers
Even have Some
Out to Lunchers
Model 50's
*Do *** Daddies*
One More Round Of
Flo and Eddie
People Sneaking
Across the Border
Lonely Fry Cooks
Taking Orders
A Few Wannabes
Not Saying Much
Will The Real Elvis
Please Stand Up
Are just a few of the sights that you see
At the front gates of Graceland
Memphis, Tennessee
Thank you...Thank you very Much
Ladies and Gentlemen
Elvis...Has Left The Building
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
We paint over the things we dont think are normal and expect the bumps from the truth hidden beneath this temporary solution to quickly disappear as if every fault we hold inside of who we are can simply be ignored. I remember watching the paint dry but i was never able to identify if it dried from top to bottom or bottom to top, and that may never truly matter to anyone but me. That paint mau dry and harden and make us all god **** statues but for me it was always knowing that once i got home id have to hide and i can only hide for so long. When i was born they painted pink over the already blue walls trying to desguise who they were hoping id be, or at least what my father wanted. As i grew up the paint began to chip and the patches of blue were so beautiful compared to the bright pink. Pink. Pink bows pink tutus, learn to do ballet tory. Pink barbies, pink lipstick, pink earrings. The color pink just sends shivers down my spine, they said pink is how you identify if you are born female. Blue. Blue eyes, Blue shoes, blue chest binder. Blue the color of my freedom. I remember painting over my words as soon as i told you that i no longer belong under the category of being your daughter. Blue laughter, blue skies, pink cheeks, pink dresses. Painting over the walls of who we are and how we identify is our greatest weapon, too bad my paint ran out a long time ago.
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 3:56 PM UTC
She's a star-charged satellite
see how she orbits her restricted space.
Uncountable revolutions so precise
her ambition could burn a toe-sized hole in the boards.
She never misses the point,
if she did, her trajectory would send her way off course
toppling supporting roles,
crashing into the wings to a ruffle of tutus,
unfurling her celebrated petals from a tangle of tulle.
But imagined misfortune will not befall her,
she's perfection to the point of exhaustion
and the likelihood of crashing is a million curtain-calls away.
Her performance is flawless
and the only impact will be on her enraptured audience.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2011
Sep 14, 2011
Sep 14, 2011 at 12:50 PM UTC
To the blushing bride to be,
This rite of passage you’ll not be spared.
Let your hair down, be wild and free,
Allow your tales and secrets to be bared.
Not designed for hearts too weak,
This night’s when us girls misbehave.
In our tutus, fairy wings and pink feather boas,
We’ll paint the town red and rave.
We’re like one dysfunctional family,
But we’ll bond and shout tonight.
Cocktails and Prosecco will flow freely,
As we dance the “Macarena” ‘til morning light.
We’ll have a blast and be merry,
For girls just want to have fun.
Adorned with “L” plates, you won’t stay sober
And your makeup will inevitably run.
On this, your last night of freedom,
It’s your final fling before the wedding ring.
Your head may be sore tomorrow,
But, oh, the stories these walls could sing!
Remember this night always,
With all your girlfriends at your side,
For you’ll soon tie the knot and be married
And embark on a magical ride.
Mar 26, 2021
Mar 26, 2021 at 1:05 AM UTC
Girl, put down the pocket knife fist and pick up that pen of yours.
stop...
They aren't worth the status updates or the 140 character #hashtag
They are worth books. Trilogy novels of witty 'should have' banter and Good wins over Evil plot themes.
Rake in the millions.
Then put down the skinny jeans and wear the Tutu.
stop...
They aren't worth the clone bulimic fashion trends.
They are worth ballets. Extravagant classical shows where millions come to see. Each one hanging on you like fish hooks.
Because you got that audience hook, line, and sinker.
Then, go home.
stop...
They aren't worth the boastful air you inhale.
Exhale humility and stories about best sellers and the view from a ballet hall in Germany.
You are worth it.
You are worth the pens,
and tutus,
and a home.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 3:21 PM UTC
I jumped from couch to couch, avoiding the floor that was lava.
The balloon soared and floated in the air, and it could not touch the ground.
Circus animal cookies and chocolate milk were there everyday.
When I was small, the world was big and magical.
My role models were Barney and Babar, Kermit and Elmo.
I wore pink leotards and frilly tutus and stretchy slippers and shiny, black tap shoes.
I’d look up at the sky to see that fluffy white clouds were bunnies, hippos and butterflies.
When I was small, nothing was impossible.
Parks were kingdoms and the jungle-gym was the castle.
My glittery costume gown and my plastic tiara meant I was a real princess,
Peter Pan would come take me away, to live in Neverland.
When I was small, I was immortal.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 4:18 PM UTC
I.
pink satin masks
blood and broken toes.
i keep effortless poise
while knees and lungs shake.
i dance in tattered tutus,
in old toe shoes,
for a pocketful of coins;
i dance until i am blind with joy,
until my lungs are full of trumpet shouts,
until i am exhausted and weightless,
until my audience is standing,
breath gone, knowing what it is to be--
II.
in the storm of applause
one gnarled hand launches a torch.
"you danced with me," i cry--
her lips seal shut.
wild, cold eyes watch
flames singe my feathers,
fuse flesh to bone,
floorboards collapse.
she stays until she hears
my heart stop.
at dusk,
the stage is ash.
III.
at dawn,
a chorus of mouths emerge from the ground,
my audience, full-throated, white-knuckled,
tchaikovsky hollowing cheeks,
nasoprotivnyia daruia;
knuckles white--
flat-footed, slack-jawed,
the arsonist stands--
and i ascend from the dirt
on pillars of diamond forged from ash,
while my bare feet spill blood and i say
look at the source of my strength--
while new wings spread,
blood-red and gilded and brilliant in the sun--
while fire sprouts like flowers from my palms,
while spiders wrap my toes in silk
and i dance on thick-tongued harmonies
that tremble the earth with new roots
and i bourrée across the green trunks
and i become the sun
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 3:33 AM UTC
Hold my hand dear Benjamin
don't let Professor Edwards
catch me in a dreamscape
challenging me off guard
as we sit in math class
hands clasped together
for when you knowingly
squeeze my hand tighter
scribbling with your right hand
the answer which is required
to be erased so as not caught out
but today as I look out
onto drifting clouded skies
I see the changes and I lose
myself in shapes and smoke
forging out homes, characters
stories into my past, present
and what could be in the future
nothing is taken from me, distracted
in an instant I'm Vivian Ward
racing around Hollywood
with my best friend Kit De Luca
who eats cold pizza for breakfast
and crawls the streets with me
hop scotching across the
Hollywood Walk of Fame,
five star terrazzo and brass stars, names of Hollywood greats
blonde, brunette elegance
Manolo's, mink coats,
jewelled necklines of emerald stones
we'd both dreamt as kids
Los Angeles; the City of Angels
we are the winged, we are the free
inhabiting the land of opportunity
the ladies of the night, grappling onto souls of kids, shared flat
with bunk beds and a closet filled
with 80's short tight spandex
leg warmers, faux gold earrings
bright coloured lingerie, leather bomber jackets, tutus...
oh and those perms and scrunchies
fake eye lashes, an 80's kid high as hell
being courted by an older wealthier man
living fast, dying young, a fugitive
of the land
broken
The silence I succumbed to
bruised by a cacophony of bells ringing
"never change Lou lou!"
he winked and smiled
packing his rucksack
leaving for the day.
© Sia Jane
“She was the amoureuse of all the novels, the heroine of all the plays, the vague “she” of all the poetry books.”
Gustave Flaubert, “Madame Bovary”
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC
So young was I,
Back then.
Tight buns with tutus,
An undefined fuchsia on that stage.
Curtseying along for the applause,
Branded by spotlights.
Typically oblivious,
Like others prancing in the herd.
What shackeld influence had,
Diluted our impressionable
Selves.
A petals detail grown
On such feeble foundations.
Stemed from those early teachings,
Of the parents own unachieved
Dreams.
So young I was
Back then.
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 8:51 PM UTC
i wish not to write of sadness, instead
of teacups and tutus
of blankets and brie
and of greetings in the airport
early mornings while the sun rises
the night fades into day
with a warm mug and appreciation
for life and light
but sadness persists.
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
pigtails, tutus, ballet flats
diet at age of six
running, skipping, jumping jacks
did she know what beauty meant?
long brown hair, pretty eyes
gym class, age of ten
stretching, push-ups, two more laps
would she learn what beauty meant?
a boy, a kiss, a little more
life at young 15
sweet talk, smiles, and lots of force
of course she knew what beauty meant
silence, hate, weakness, lies
only sweet 16
binging, purging, swears and cuts
she'd never get what beauty meant.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 10:56 PM UTC
Soccer moms and sander scars
Suburban life is strange.
Play dates and in-line skates
Schedules to re-arrange.
Yoga teachers and lay preachers
And those are not a metaphor.
Costco trips and air-kiss lips
Nobody trusts a bachelor.
Coupon savers in SUVs
Never use turn signals.
Driving while chatting hands-free
Wearing golden **** whistles.
Appointments to make daily
With exercise gurus.
Cocktail luncheons for charity
Toddlers wearing tutus.
Traffic jams of cars and vans
Honking at each other.
Double parking on narrow streets
Calling each other mothers.
Starting out fifteen minutes late
As is the usual way.
Somehow never figuring out how
To have an on-time day.
Screeching home a night in time
To throw together a meal.
Watch television with family
And pretend that is all real.
Put the kids to bed right on time
Try to have quality time.
While the other half is half-asleep
From that second glass of wine.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 12:13 AM UTC
Tricks, treats, taffy, tutus, timber, and trees.
Night time arrives, and the children come out.
Ghosts, ghouls, witches, and even bumblebees.
Readily running round, rugged, rough route.
Mandy and Randy get lots of candy.
Meanwhile, mom and dad are at a party.
Playing charades and sipping on brandy.
By the way, whatever happened to Marty?
Mandy says she lost her in the graveyard.
Scared, spooked, shivering, she slowly saunters.
Marty makes her way to the boulevard.
With red bite marks on her neck, she falters.
If Marty’s parents had not been toking,
They could see it was Jared just joking.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 1:07 AM UTC
Dear Sammy,
I pray one day you'll read this and realize how far away you are from me.
I'm staring at the comic strip you drew for me on my birthday three years ago. You wrapped a jumbo Hershey's Bar in it and left it next to my backpack at school. I remember when my birthday used to mean something to you. I remember playing with you when we were three and four years old and dressing you up in my tutus and lipstick. I remember when you were my little brother.
I don't know who you are anymore.
You've been falling apart for so long and I tried my best to fix you. I should've done more, I should've told somebody. When you told me you wanted to **** yourself, I should've called your mother. But I tried to help you myself and I gave you attention and now that's all you want.
You still tell people you want to **** yourself. I know now that you just want attention. One day I fear you'll stop getting it and you'll actually **** yourself and I will fall to my knees and tear my hair out and wail and scream because you are so young and in so much pain and you tried so hard to leave me behind and now you've finally succeeded.
Now all you do is find girls and cheat on them and smoke and drink and swear and fight and you left Jesus and your big sister and your best friend in the chaos behind you and we cannot keep up. We've stopped trying. You don't want to listen. We don't want to talk. We just want you.
I haven't had a conversation with you in 3 years. I see you every ******* day and I talk to you and you hug me but you don't even see me anymore. And I don't know who I see anymore.
You have so much promise. So much talent. You are so smart. Sam, I love you so much. We all do. And despite what you think, your father does too.
I miss you. I've lost you and maybe it's my fault, maybe I should've done something more. But now you're too far gone, you've denied every shadow of your pain and therefore I cannot help you heal it.
I pray for you now. I pray for the little boy who I ate Mac and cheese with and built forts with. I pray for the star musician, for the painter, for the writer.
I pray for the boy who is killing his body and suffocating his heart and abandoning his family.
Sammy, please come home.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 1:31 AM UTC
I am from
A yellow house and a little red bike
Bruises and Band-Aids on my knees
From learning every time I fall
I am from
The Band, The Beatles, Buddy Holly, and Bruce Springsteen
Our small kitchen table and Christmas cookies
From a family that almost fits on my Grandparent’s front porch
I am from
Summer memories and freckles and the Field of Dreams
The swimming hole, egg salad sandwiches, popsicles and pecan sandies
From Gramma and Fred and the Mill Road
I am from generations of tiny waists and dainty wrists
Of Marlise and Melissa and M’s
Brown eyes and pine needles and Big Rock
From denial and acceptance
I am from
Tea with my mom and driving with my dad
My beautiful Hazel
From the Harvest Party and my beloved barn
I am from soft white clouds of comforters
A room painted the shade of pink lemonade
Arizonas and cosmic brownies and Matt’s Honeydew melon Sorbet
From Quickway and the Gazebo and Cherry Valley
I am from a collection of keys with no locks
Chewed cuticles and paper cuts
A mouthful of words and a bad habit of tripping
From the love of glue and sharp scissors
I am from years of ***** bare feet
And freedom to be me
Getting the mail everyday except Sunday
From picnic tables and corn on the cob
I am from a love of language and words and poetry
A love of planes and tractors and the Superbowl
A big family as strong as the Brooklyn Bridge
And just as supportive too
I am from my dream catcher
Catching my fantasies of fast cars and shooting stars
A bottle full of memories and polaroids taped to my wall
From hip hop and coca cola and heart shaped sunglasses
I am from the baby freckles on my shoulders
A love of sun and freshly mowed green grass
Brave New World and Brandy Melville
From tweeting and handwritten letters
I am from the studio floor and my ballet slippers
My favorite black leotard and Fuentes
12 years of pointed feet and tutus
From the dressing room and the barre
I am from the Star of David and 8 burning candles
Suburban Philadelphia and Black Friday
Diners and Chinese Food and Fortunes
From my dad
I am from the cornfields and red barns
Chickens and cows, fresh eggs and warm milk
Valedictorians and Ivy leagues
From my mom
But most of all, I am from the puzzle pieces of myself
The dark, dusty, unexplored corners of my brain
The fear of death and rats and failure and loneliness
From the love of life and belief and hope
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 2:58 AM UTC
She learned to dance.
Frivolous tutus and
Twinkling tights
Soft pink slippers
On hardwood floors,
Young, dear, unadulterated.
The centerpiece
Of a music box.
A poor melody,
Indeed,
Does reality play.
Pirouettes don’t show potential.
Relevés don’t yield results.
Interest doesn’t pay interest.
Submission for survival.
Piercings…poles…provocative.
Glittering ensembles,
Sensuality in smoke,
The scandal of skin.
Little ballerina,
Her audience awaits.
No time to be shy.
They want her,
And that
Is what she always wanted.
She learned to dance.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 2:05 AM UTC
i am a somewhat simple soul.
i find happiness in most everything,
a glimmer of hope,
a glint of a smile.
i aknowledge the great sadness anger and despair, that is the happy coins opposite bling.
have tossed and lost,
many times.
but now with joy,
i declare these things,
below, today,
are my happy fare:
a lover's kiss brushed across my sleeping brow, a grimy face,
two muddy little hands
and a satisfied grin.
the smell of muffins
baking in a tin.
the rhythmic click, clacking of knitting,
from the nanexxe exuding.
the smile of a gerberer,
the purr of cat,
the flight of ladybird,
the look of my bloke,
in a pork pie hat.
giggling, tickling, wriggling, boys watching cartoons. little girls, in pink tutus
with a lack of poise.
fine art,
a good turn of phrase.
me singing off key,
out of tune,
bass booming,
to my favourite song.
skip-trip dancing, along.
chocolate, coffee,
tea with dear friends.
o me, o my,
my list never ends,
so many things,
on my list,
so many things,
i have missed
but i must begone
to live my list
and wander on.
i find that in my pursuit of happiness i am often tackled by it.....
....that is the joy in this game of life i love
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 6:49 PM UTC
The cemetery trees are dancing in the wind.
Shimmying unapologetically
like a chorus line of boozed up
Burlesque dancers.
Some are tall and regal with pointed crowns,
Isosceles dresses, neat and tidy,
Complete with Pine colored tutus.
Whoosh!
Like entering a room sliding
On your knees.
Whoosh!
Like someone breathing fresh life
Into you.
Mysterious but holy,
Divine yet impermanent.
Whoosh!
Strong yet fragile,
Gliding with the wind
In this game called life.
(and death)
Some have solid legs
And big shiny afros,
Showing everyone how
It's REALLY done.
Bump. Grind.
Confident yet elegant,
Bump Grind.
Full of themselves in the
Best way possible,
Bump! Grind!
Living. Being. Rejoicing.
Others have tassels
dangling from their limbs.
Shimmy! Shake!
Shimmy! Shake!
Teasing me with their
Devastating beauty,
Shimmy! Shimmy! Shake!
Revealing my longing,
My passions,
For what?
I don't really know.
Shimmy! Shake!
Feeding me an elixir
Of fresh sweet hope
To drown freely, once again,
In immortal youth.
They all weave themselves
In the wind.
Acknowledging my existence
Through movement.
Using interpretive dance
As a symbolic conversation.
Happy to see me,
Welcoming me to their land.
Welcoming me home.
Welcoming me to
NOW.
.
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC
Love is not pink.
It is is not the squeals of a little girl,
of a little baby whining in the cradle.
Not pearls round your neck
or a flower blooming in your soft, soft hair,
Love is not white.
Not the song of an angel,
of the innocent beauty of ethereal light.
Not the heavenly singing from above,
or a dance in tutus around a swan's passing,
Love is not black.
Not the harsh, gritty sadness,
of an age old fire's remnants.
Not the evil darkness lurking,
or a lie that breaks down the walls of the living,
Love is not purple.
Not the mystery of a simple mind,
of death's lullaby to sing you to sleep.
Not the murky depths of an old sea,
or a wicked distortion of concrete old rock.
Love is red.
Love is passion, fire,
it is a great, great inferno,
it crumbles your life to ash,
Love is the taste of cherry red lips,
of a dress which shimmies down your shape,
of everything just coming together like strings on a piece of fabric,
Love is red.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 9:29 AM UTC
Cloud Nine is average
A three out of ten
Kind of gray and *****
Not at all into Zen
Cloud Ten is all fluffy
And full of fun
If you want a good time
Ten's the One
It's so much nicer
Lots of pinks and blues
With angels like ballerinas
Twirling in tutus
But forget about Nine
It's Dullsville in space
Check out Cloud Ten
It's a happening place
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
In a flourish of tutus,
Proud elegance in a swan's long neck,
Beauty in the enchanting movements,
Music paving a path to the depths of thought and dance,
A curse of bitter-sweet heart-ache,
Made from luscious mellow melodies,
Covering the sovereign in a flurry of glittering feathers,
From gliding wings, forever soaring as high as hope and unconscious passion,
Dancing upon a high cloud, leaping over majestic stars,
Twirling robotically with such smoothness and precision,
Fragile human machinery; well calculated,
Her longing arms stretched out wide in a drastic need of embrace; of the warmth of love,
The spectacle draws tears for the spectators to shed,
As no warmth is received, no modest love released from the drowned heart of a boy,
The poor swan is left agonized, spinning alone, numbness taking over,
Left to the intense cold of an empty world of loneliness,
As the thief runs away, stealing her bleeding heart,
Leaving her to wander ever on in the bitter cold and slowly fading music...
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
Growing to manhood is a slippery slope
Of razor blades and bones that grow.
****** screen shots of angel wings,
Red carpet slits, eye popping lips,
Miss Pageants and tutus on skates.
Britney shaking, Jennifer quaking,
No Old Spice to take young spice's place.
The X comes before the Y,
Yet Toxicity is the hue and cry.
I'm a man in a mixed-up world,
But girls still like boys,
And boys adore girls
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 10:34 AM UTC
*in the house of poems
there are no words
only sheaths of rapture
color and puzzle cutouts
on an empty table
mute
composed of shadow thin
aching smoke ghosts
desires
aphotic and tender
twisting souls in labyrinths lurid
*** shake sweet inky *******
that turn earth
to pleasure domes
and shadows
like cimmerian children
in harsh judgment
******* on
purple night shade candies
burning incense and black candles
uncrossing energies foreboding
while subterranean crystals
refract burnished glows
pulsing blood diamonds
in sacred heart manias
throb with warm breathy kisses
on plates of ash
engulfing
a terrace of pink flickering tongues
drooling and biting
that turn mere pleasure
into inflammations of ecstasy
oozing creme de menthe saliva
where souls levitate and flutter
on bilious stained beds
copulating
being impregnated with verse
smelling of warm **** cauldron
fetuses curl
in their little crib's
and bubble tapioca lyric wrangles
afterbirths purged
poems emerge
like sand bars and palm tree islands
from
sopping woven tunnels
and
caress upturned poetic posteriors
dancing in glitter frilly word tutus
while torrid confessions
dreaded breakdowns
and resurrections
dress themselves in garments
of language re-pleat
quickened by eloquence
in the house of poems*
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 3:04 PM UTC
Pale pink tights wrapped in an elastic hug
around a little girl’s strawberry plump thighs.
With wavering fingers, she gave a mighty tug
at her silky ribbon wraps, and began to fantasize...
Basking in the heat of a glimmering light,
a dancer shuffled her way across a wooden stage;
she was weightless, her body contorting away from the night,
as she flaunted her lyrical ritual under a spotlight cage.
She extended her leg and twirled her arms,
perpendicular against the forces of gravity.
She wanted to reach the sun, to touch the stars,
but the crescendo ripped through her balance, and she was considered free.
Spinning, spinning, like a dreidel;
Every muscle poised and ready to be a bulletproof vest.
Spinning, spinning, until she was unable;
A thunderous applause erupted from the crowd of unwelcomed guests...
“REBECCA!” a voice snapped outside her dreamscape.
Drooling little girls with tight buns and runny noses
staring at their tutus, mouths agape.
A shoe in one hand, she ran to do her first lunges.
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 3:19 PM UTC