Today her silks scatter crackling arabesques in the shimmering air
today she’ll dazzle the casual eye with her sweet metallic gleam
today she waddles, awkward as a cow
today she packs a punch like a fresh shot arrow
today she reverses polarity
today she groans in a furrow, slick with sweat
today she daintily steps through a violet mist
today she sloughs off gummy stuff
today her laughter is quicksilver
today she’s a clammy grey rubbery stone with bristles
today her waterfall hair sheds intoxicating unguents
today she dances without knowing it
today the beauty peels from her face to reveal a hatchet
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My Dream Within A Dream Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
9/16/2025
Edgar Allan Poe: "All that we see or seem / Is but a dream within a dream."
My Dream Within A Dream
Somnambulant dreamer,
Dancing in time to silent music,
Pirouetting arabesques,
And grand jetés performed as on stage.
While all around her people stared,
Astonished by what this darling dared.
Leaping, spinning, and body rolls,
She danced through her dream out of control.
Tumbles and twirls, tempo frenzied,
Her youth and beauty were so envied.
Lithesome grace utterly entrancing,
This young beauty caught dream dancing.
So lost in the dream, her steps faltered,
Lovely dancer, soon to be martyred.
Upon the pyre of lust and greed,
Selfish desires of the watchers' need,
Pulled against the dancer's grace,
And brought a tear to the lovely face.
The crowd's screams broke the count,
Her mistakes began to mount,
Until what once was sweet and pure,
Became something so unsure.
The dream, a nightmare instead,
The dance, a thing of terrible dread,
Our lovely dancer dreams no more.
Rolling with the "R's" Sponsor: Nette Onclaud 8-4-25 Title Chosen: Rhythm of the River
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rhythm of the River
River
Rhythms boogie
Rollick in white waters
Ebbs then flows around mica rocks
That sparkle with alluring fool's gold
Arabesques over waterfalls
Tumbling mists ~ lacy veils
Pulsing ~ dancing
River
A crescent of high cliffs
rooted into a plateau of heathland.
From all directions cloud mottled wings,
dart between the light and shade -
falcons, their wingspans
aerofoiled for instant chase.
Heads and beaks
seem to part the sky,
as the raptors javelin the air.
Peregrine’s dive through
their own wind-dancing arabesques,
their streaked silhouettes
skimming over the towering rocks.
Camera's gaze to hold and capture,
lens's fishing for those ever passing
bolts of speed.
Malham's soaring cove
seems to be both their nesting
acre of sky,
and a place for plodding minds
to only follow.
The town pond was drained,
revealing minnows
wriggling in the residual water
they milled and turned
in silvered arabesques
choregraphed by a rippling wind.
Large ocean-going gulls
descended out of a troubled sky,
they walked among the writhing small fry
plucked out the little fish
employing just the tip of their great beaks
as if sensible of the delicacy of such morsels.
Dark clouds foretold a storm,
strange but the gulls did not fly off
to feast on Lake Erie’s plentiful bounty,
they lingered here on this little pond
like diners at a buffet
skewering only these bitsy sprats,
while squalls fermented the Great Lakes
and much bigger fish flew unmolested
through those high cresting waves.
Little ponds it seems,
do not at all mirror
the courage of the free.
Blossoms,
pink and cherry,
alabaster and puce,
herald the vernal equinox.
Sol arabesques lightly on His tightrope,
balancing His time equally,
stirring His audience
to burst forth with
blossoms.
The Pond was drained,
revealing umpteen minnows;
they wriggle in the residual water
turning in silvered arabesques
choregraphed by a water-rippling wind.
Large ocean-going gulls descend out of a troubled sky,
they walk among the writhing small fry
pluck out the little fish
employing just the tip of their great beaks
as if sensible of the delicacy of such morsels.
Dark clouds loom foretelling a storm,
strange but the gulls do not fly off
to feast on Lake Erie’s plentiful bounty,
the linger here on this little pond
like diners at a buffet
skewering only these unseasoned sprats,
while squalls ferment the Great Lakes
and bigger fish fly freely
through the cresting waves.
I’m ready for investing in some ballroom real estate.
The music starts at nine o’clock; we’ll get there half past eight.
Be sure to wear your sexy dress. I’ll wear my sexy pants.
The rooftop lounge is under glass; let’s go downtown and dance.
Listen to the magic of that Spanish guitar.
It can take us far and away
Swinging past the limits of the evening’s expanse,
Gliding through the night like in some gothic romance.
We’ll tango through the crowd like irresponsible gazelles.
Then sip some fine champagne and eat dark chocolate nonpareils.
If I may seduce you with a mischievous glance,
I’d like to take your hand and have us go downtown and dance.
Savor the abrazo as we caminata;
Abrida with your foot touching mine.
Ocho walking backwards when I make my advance.
Gancho as we tangle in a sensuous trance.
Now don’t expect ballet with arabesques and pirouettes.
I never met Gene Kelly; didn’t work with the Rockettes.
But I’ll never let you fall if you piernazo by chance.
So, my pretty senorita, let’s just go downtown and dance.
Freedom to:
Play hopscotch between the puddles on a rainy day
while adults turn a blind eye and smile.
Play dress up and serve tea to invisible guests
not caring if the neighbors find you a bit odd.
Take a cigarette break on a spring morning
not caring if your boss catches you.
Dance while you vacuum
music loud, feet flighty, kicks and arabesques.
Buy a prime rib roast, even though
you are the only one at home to eat it.
The fresh smell of newly turned soil for potatoes
when last year’s leaves smell like summer.
Freedom to be who I truly am, as I want to be
Freed from other’s sensibilities.
Lute
Curved, inviting, light,
it has the look of antique ships,
a galleon bulge of straight-grained woods.
Fretful cat-gut cords
coiled taut by silver screws
above the calibrated neck
conceal a thousand foot-pound pirouette.
Child of Sirocco and Spain,
veils, fans, brocade, and lace,
olive, vine, and orange surprise,
its plangent sound irrigates the moonlit air
peeks through black-eyed jalousies.
Dowland, Cutting and our solid Bach
crocheted arabesques of tuneful notes
like pearls, rubies, emerald stones,
to pluck or tease from that dark pupil
a winking smile of treble Sun.
Racer
Flat out speed
Hot blooded steed
Pacer
Speed walking race
With unmatched grace
Steeplechaser
Fearless full fledge
Ace over hedge
Dressage
Arabesques on display
The equestrian ballet
Draft
Flowing feathered heels
Beer on wheels
Trail
Rent the power
By the hour
10/28/18
Six-Word Couplet Series Encore Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney
Like delicate white swans were they,
the white swans of a grand ballet -
ballerinas waiting in a row
underneath the candlelight’s soft glow.
But what are ballerinas with no parts
to make them dance? The poet gives them hearts!
Inking pirouettes and sautés onto white,
she gave them words to spin them into night.
Arabesques that her pen on each one pressed
made a woeful tale beautifully expressed.
The dance was finishing by early dawn
with one last white swan to be written on.
The poetess, now drained, could do no more.
Her eyelids closed; the swans fell to the floor.
Fluttering, they fell, all in disarray.
Pure white no more, ink-stained they would stay.
Tears the poet cried are now living in each swan.
Might they be displayed even when she passes on?
The poetess who let her feelings spill
created swans now black, yet lovely still.
Written May 25, 2017 for a Contest inspired by Dear Heart
Reflections on a photograph of Audrey Hepburn
I know those eyes, that haunt my dreams and
Fan my fevered imagination; they are windows
Into the soul, messengers of my fate.
To look within is to face oneself, and all one's
fears and hopes, reflected in their laughing
Twinkle, lit by their shine of understanding
And compassion. Those eyes; the ghosts
Of things past, that linger yet.
Who has not looked into these eyes? Who?
Whose soul has not questioned itself
Seeing into that of another; that once danced
In time, but now moves to another tune,
Dissonant? Who has not hoped, beyond hope,
That time will stand still, that the hour will
Not come and the abyss open to eternal
Despair?
And, the arabesques of those eyes lure us
To damnation, to the foolishness of hope and
Denial of what lies before us. But, in time,
The cold chill of silence speaks its truth
And hope dies and we find peace.
Yet, still, in moments of doubt and disinhibition,
Those eyes draw us in and resolve
Weakens and faint hope is fuelled to fire.
The Kodaks of memory fade
The Kodaks of memory fade until all that remain
Are the sparkle of your eyes and the arabesques
Of your lips; haunting ghosts in muted hues, limp
Postcards discovered in a rummage through the
Attic of my mind.
I pause, staring in my mind’s eye at the
Curling cards, edges worn and torn from my
Grasping ruminations; an empty nausea grips me,
Tight chest reminding me of my heartache, and
Incomprehension of your rejection.
Images in the mind, albums of memories, fragments
Of life once cinema verite; now all coalesced
Into a frozen tableau of moments, each one
Eastman coloured only in dreams, the conscious mind
Seeing but sombre greys.
Gathered up, they fit neatly into a handy box,
That I can tape closed and hide in some dusty corner,
Until such time as I pass my memories in review;
Then again you will look out at me and smile,
With twinkling eyes.
Red
Red rag to a bull. It’s funny how
That makes me smile inside: I think of
Your hair and how it entrances me.
Red hair; and me, stamping and snorting inside
As those shiny waves sway and swirl, heavy,
Chestnut hued and red, red.
But you are no daughter, prattling child nor
Reluctant pupil, to hang on every word and quip
And feed my misconceiving ego.
Oh no! A red rag all right, challenging the
Misconceptions and preconceptions, by which I
Habitually order my inner world.
Yet in the soft light of evening, arabesques frame
your face, elfin and mischevious; a beauty,
A feminine Puck indeed.
A woman in the outward form of elf or fiend:
(That’s my red rag to you!) but a woman all
in all and so delightful to me.
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