Once in a forest, a long time ago,
there dwelt a young maiden, bright, sweet and fair.
Flowers she wore in her long wavy hair,
and each day she’d vanish into gloaming’s glow.
Alana Dulcita was this young maid’s name,
a name that fell sweetly from everyone’s tongue.
The townspeople loved her -both old and young,
yet nobody knew from where the girl came.
They only knew that, at the end of each day,
with sun dipping downward into the west
and sky splashed with colors Alana liked best,
was when, as if magically, she’d slip away!
“Where does she go?” all the villagers asked,
“And how does she leave us so quietly
that not even one of us ever can see?
Has some kind of spell on our dear girl been cast?”
Spell or no spell, the young maid had powers
as into the woodland she fled and then donned
a gossamer gown, hidden well near a pond
surrounded by beautiful flowers.
She peered into water after she’d kneel
as a lovely face gazed back at her.
In this perfect moment, what should occur
but, like magic, the girl became real!
Her filmy silk gown would blend with her skin,
shrinking into a stem, and her face
changed into petals till soon not a trace
remained of the form that a human lives in.
Alana Dulcita, her real self again,
breathing lilacs’ and lilies’ sweet scent,
would bow her fair face, a flower content,
to repose by the pond with her kin.
Awaking at dawn, renewed, she’d return
to the town where they loved her so well,
keeping the secret she never could tell
of youth’s beauty for which humans yearn.
She’d never grow old as long as she had
a place of seclusion where she might go
to water around which bright flowers could grow,
for this is what kept the soul of hers glad!
Never to marry and never to stay
too long in one place, she’d always move on.
Beloved she would be till the day she was gone.
This, for Alana, was the only way.
Alana Dulcita, where did she go
when forests grew small and lake beds grew dry?
Did the fair maid eventually die
or is she still sleeping where bright blossoms grow?
Note: The name Alana means "the bright fair one" in Gaelic
or "precious; awakening" in Hawaiian & "Beautiful dear child"
in Irish/ the name Dulcita is Latin for "sweet."
Written by Andrea Dietrich & Inspired by the "Reflections" Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France ~A Rambling Poet~
(Inspired by dance steps from a belly dancing class I once took!)
She rolls her pretty head from side to side
while, raised above her face, are slim curved arms.
Brief pose. . . . She’s readied to expose her charms.
Wrists twist, and serpentine, arms downward glide.
Her undulating silk-draped hips move round.
She churns them slowly, flashing bright green eyes;
then minces “Camel Walk” to tantalize
as ankle bracelets make a tinkling sound.
With bills in hand, men beckon with a glance.
She shimmies, jingling toward them in dim light;
then spins and thrusts her pelvis right, left, right.
Seduction of delight - her belly dance.
For Barbara Gorelick's "May I Have This Dance?" Contest
It jumps not to the thought of riches or the prospect of gold
For common treasures are not what it seeks
But rather it responds to that probable possibility
That it may have touched the depths of someone else's soul
It hearkens not to sparkling gems or lusts after a lifetime of wealth
For inside jewels lies the hearts of thieves
But rather it stirs at giving a word someone needs
For inspiration to even the smallest person is a diamond in itself
It doesn't ache for dollar bills or lurch at the sight of green
For nowadays money comes in many different forms
But rather it longs to patch up another heart that may have been torn
And once again to give that person's life meaning
It is a place where the world dare not or otherwise cannot go
A safe haven for valuables other than currency
A hidden trail where treasure means finding creativity
A path that only the hearts of poets know
From seconds to minutes to hours to night, then to day,
Time moved, taking with it, the bliss I was sharing with you.
Life's moments cannot be retrieved; so what could I do
while there in the warmth of your strong loving arms I lay?
With torrents and torrents of ticking and ticking away,
relentlessly, cruelly, Time rained down upon us that night.
Dark faded to dawn; I was wishing with all of my might
that Time would suspend itself, and in your arms I would stay!
But Time is an executioner one cannot sway.
How I wish (though it seems the mere pausing of Time is a sin)
that Time could have stopped, and my last night with you would have been
serene and unhastened, Time miffed by its own delay.
For Barbara Gorelick's Contest:
Once Upon a "Time"
this is not just a poem
this is my ticket out of here
these are not just words
there steps taking me somewhere
this isn't just a page in a book
it's a society taking a second look
and taking me up another level
rescuing me from a devil
that held me down for so so long
this is not just a poem
this is someones dream
a picture of heaven
a wonderous scene
this is a heart filled with love
words that tell the meaning of
to a society taking a second look
this is not just a page in a book
it's something to ponder
bidding take a deeper look
this is not just a poem
this is a call to arms
on the lips of our heroes
in the hearts of our sons
join in the battle for freedom
join in the battle of love
join in the name of the Father
and the Son
this is not just a verse in a song
it's a universal call to make right
what is wrong
this is not just a poem
this is a child to a barren man
a tombstone a monument
i inscribe with my own hand
my institution my revolution
my way to move on
my dedication for your education
and encouragement to be strong
these are my words
that i hope i used well
in hope that this poem
is my ticket out of hell
With brilliance, clad in white, in an enchanted world,
a vision most inviting stands before my very eyes.
She treads a grassy hill beyond which mountains rise
to heaven's heights where fluffs of clouds, as if in pink, are swirled.
Her golden locks are streaming in a gentle breeze.
Her lovely face is beaming. It's a woman-child I see.
My steps are quickening. She seems to beckon me.
But suddenly the sun is streaming; soon the maiden flees!
Who was she? Can you guess? And where has she now gone?
A little hint - she'll come again, but not till night has passed.
Wake up bright and early; she comes and goes so fast!
Look to the sky and watch for her. She is the Goddess Dawn.
For Brian Strand's Poulter Measure (in quatrain form)
Time has become my greatest enemy
It drags on, an infernal grating on the nerve
Like a broken muffler, dragging around the curve
While my love and I starve for each other’s company
Until time surrenders, I wait my love with baited breath
Watching time, which I have confounded for going by so slowly
For that hour, that minute, that second, when you will be mine only
When I shall pledge my love to you forever, until death
For: Barbara Gorelick’s contest
Once Upon A “Time”
I’ve always loved the name Mom gave to me -
a name she’d heard and wanted to bestow
on her first girl; she got it from a show
on radio. She thought it was so pretty!
While not a name for girls in Italy,
my name has got a version masculine.
From Greece comes “Andrew,” meant for manly men!
The female version, though, means “womanly.”
In Spain, one girl in fourteen has my name.
However, in the USA, the year
that I was born, you’d hardly ever hear
this name which now enjoys a greater fame.
And since my name was not too common when
I came into this world, it helped me grow
to treasure things unique and lovely, so
perhaps for that, I use a poet’s pen!
I also found, in numerology,
the letters of my first name add up to
a thoughtful Seven’s destiny so true -
inventiveness and eccentricity!
I’m glad the name of "Andrea" is mine.
My middle name is even rarer still.
Its likeness to my first name I’ll not reveal,
but all my names together brightly shine!
For Linda-Marie's Contest:
What's In a Name?
Oh, fireman, by your saving grace,
my babies remain now with me,
so I give kisses thankfully
all over your sweet dearest face.
And please do not think that I’m rude.
Though my kisses be rough and wet,
there's no bigger love you can get
then this mama dog’s gratitude.
In honor of Joyce Johnson's first contest ever:
A Poet , a dreamer , a man named Michael.
Named after my father and also a saint.
Drifting through time with my pen I paint.
Just a soul gliding in and out of God's cycle.
My name is known as the Godfather's last son.
Also a star who wore a little white glove.
But mostly just me who writes from love.
An Angel I'm not , but there's no harm in my fun.
Though I'm not Michael the second.
I tried to fill my dad's big shoes.
We coached together whether win or lose.
Such times imbedded in my heart as his son.
Now my own man and later in life poet.
I share my life in words to those who can't see me.
I hope to touch a few of those who read and feel me.
Each new write is another way for me to show it.
Now you have a clearer view of Michael your friend.
A confused life at times but now has found his sight.
With Rosanna by my side all is good, and life is just right.
I'm stronger for it all and never will this heart bend.
"What's In a Name Contest" by The Sweetheart of Poetry Soup