Fred could not dance,
He wanted a chance,
To learn,
So he could court a girl,
To hold in his arms,
And show off his charms,
When they twist and twirl.
Fred had two left feet,
He could not compete,
With the other boys fancy moves.
No matter how hard he tried,
All the girls cried,
Laughing,
As he tried to get into the groove,
He wriggled and squirmed,
Like an elongated worm,
He was a sight to see.
A young girl looked at fred,
And loudly, she said.
He dances alright for me!
Dangling on a string in his underwear
Looking ridiculous and without flair
Tempting fate on a simple silly dare
Without a hint of worry or a care
Blissfully too ignorant to beware
Lest he falls flat on his fat derriere
Can he be so dumb blindly unaware
So quickly thrills can mutate to a scare
Giggles quick to vanish into thin air
An evening of fun can turn to nightmare
I swear he hasn't got in hell a prayer
Someday somehow somewhere I do declare
I’ll throw up my arms in total despair
He's a lost cause of blatant laissez-faire
Can you believe our friend's a millionaire
Don't you agree that life is so unfair
AP: Honorable Mention 2021
GINGER ROGERS AND FRED ASTAIRE
If Jesus Christ were a dancer,
He would have danced like Fred Astaire
around the room with Ginger Rogers.
He'd have danced on the air with Ginger
because he was a gentleman,
and his passion was like the shepherd boy
on the Grecian Urn that Keats wrote about
who was forever perpetually young and loving;
forever wrapped in a dream-like illusion
from which he never awakened.
Fred tapped his hat on his shoe
and bounced it back on his head
with the tip of his cane.
He glided like a gazelle.
He moved like God Himself
and Ginger, his Goddess,
was never more beautiful
than when she reflected
all the loveliness and innocence
of womanhood; unattainable,
yet cherished like the maiden
etched on the Grecian Urn.
Janet Marie Bingham
debonair with tails and top hat — his ritzy shoes in frenzied tap dance
12/17/2018
Silent Ones Entertainment Poetry Contest
An outlaw, a felon, a choreographed thief,
Stealing the moves like a crim,
Seizing the twirls with a straightened top hat,
Tap dancing around on a whim,
Gliding a smile with shining eyebrows,
Hands tip top tapping his cane,
This remarkable man of pure elegance,
No one could fully explain,
Because he drew from ballroom, swing, Latin and jazz,
He used every bit of the room,
Dancing on walls, hat stand and on ice,
He even danced with a broom,
But this dignified man that everyone loved,
Loved dancing with one woman in pearls,
His one Ginger Rogers in a free flowing dress,
With her beautiful dancing blonde curls.
A man with impeccable charm, sophistication and grace,
Fred Astaire was at once both marvelous and enchanting
As the twentieth century’s greatest dancer and master artist.
He made his sublime dancing (“hoofing”) seem effortless.
Capturing the American spirit with both panache and verve
Fred Astaire glided across some quite wonderful movie sets:
Top Hat (1935), Swing Time (1936), Shall We Dance (1937)
Done magnificently—all harken back to a different America.
This America tho’ more old fashioned was one of “can-do”
And boasted a gutsy bravado even in times great hardship.
Fred Astaire with others was a sturdy star symbol of the then
Greatest Generation that helped bring peace to a war torn world.
Fred Astaire was part of this Greatest Generation entertaining
Packed audiences and dazzling them with steps of joy and perfection.
Tho’ now gone Astaire’s past accomplishments serve as a prologue
For new generations to come and to seize opportunities for greatness.
Where are you Fred Astaire?
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved, Schoeningen, Germany
(September 2, 2014)
Fred Astaire,
Danced with flair!
Graceful and lithe was he,
As he danced into celebrity.
7/18/2013
Paddy Murphy Is Fred Astaire
It's six below and so much snow
this January midnight.
Sunday's gone
and Monday's turning.
Yet Paddy Murphy's stepping out,
his crushed fedora all askew.
He's soused again and all aglow,
dancing along Fifth Avenue.
Tonight he thinks he's Fred Astaire
and so he's swirling in the air.
He needs a partner way up there,
someone pretty, someone fair.
If it weren't for the music
that only he can hear,
Paddy would be gone by now.
Tonight he's whistling, though,
delighted that his fingers find
the parking meter posts
are an endless xylophone.
Listen to him play those posts
so all the world can hear
Paddy's favorite tune,
the jig of an ancient tippler
with one last dance to go.
Donal Mahoney
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