Pristine pink pumps press
past the pale pine,
Placing poised pirouettes,
perfectly prime.
Proudly, she pauses, portraying
pure grace,
Pacing the platform, a phantom
in lace.
She spins sweet symphonies,
swift, soft, and still,
Soaring so splendidly, showing
sublime skill.
Silken skirts shimmer and
shadows start sliding.
delve and curb or puff always she the ballerina howells in hippie warfare
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • August 10–16, 2026)
am district formulate jabber shakeout shuck snore southeastward strangle sunk was
tactfulness warfare
with inhuman
constrict your
expendable headmistress
noncritical nonradioactive
bombsight puff
leveling hippie
activism and
boundlessness beatniks
were receptor
to inducement
leech anestrum
always ballerina
trusting jazz
wallop the
alchemic turret
through spunky
foothold will
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • August 10–16, 2026)
never a quitter ,
the boundlessness ballerina
is spunky and trusting
with mercurial will .
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • August 10–16, 2026)
Arcing in the blue,
the beach ball rose~
light as a whispered spell,
bright as the lifted tip
of a conductor’s wand
calling the morning awake.
It swirled above the yawning sands,
a sky-born ballerina
swollen proudly
with oceanic breath,
turning slow pirouettes
in the hush of early light.
Then, as if summoned
by some gentle, unseen command,
it drifted down
into my outstretched arms~
a small miracle
wrapped in peach-colored dawn.
In that tender glow,
I felt the world beyond
lean close enough to speak:
Be patient.
Wait.
All will become right.
Each day begins with pain refined to grace,
her body bent but never breaking—not yet.
The mirror has no room for soft embrace.
A leap, a turn—each muscle must erase
the doubt that lingers like a hidden debt.
Each day begins with pain refined to grace.
The music calls, a disciplined and silent chase,
no step misplaced, no ragged breath to fret.
The mirror has no room for soft embrace.
Bunions and blisters bloom where satin ribbons lace,
for pirouettes she doth obsess, refusing to pause or let~
each day begins with pain refined to grace.
The stage demands what training can’t replace:
a will that burns but never leaves a sweat.
The mirror has no room for soft embrace.
And when the final curtain begins to close,
the aches remain, ghosts the ballerina does not forget.
Each day begins with pain refined to grace.
The mirror holds no room for soft embrace.
sweet ballerina
pink bows in your hair
~ don't grow up too fast
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
Hair straightened,
A slick back bun,
Each follicle - has a part to play,
Silence -
Not one hair out of place,
If they were she would be called a disgrace
Makeup done -
To perfection,
Before she performs,
She will face inspection,
The other girls with skin so fair,
Don’t have to deal with treatment so unfair,
But the girl with dark skin -
Knew she would never win,
For they were very critical of her blackness
Her body,
Tightly squeezed into -
A leotard two sizes, too small,
And a tutu, that swallows her whole,
They gave it to her,
Because they said that her thighs jiggle,
And that for her age it was unnatural,
She was a black girl,
And all the other girls were skin and bones,
It’s not her fault she looks ‘grown’
She couldn’t complain otherwise they would label her non compliant
This all happened before her performance,
And, yet she outperformed all the white girls,
And just like her skin - her medal reflected gold
gothic ballerina had dainty footsteps of course
We watched her from our graveyard seats said the horse
She rose out of a grave at dusk, with some kind of energy force.
After day of the dead, she will return to that grave of Morse.
She fantasizes day and night.
Jessica's dream is to become a ballerina.
Practices dancing heart and soul.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 1st place 2026, 3rd place 2026
Dancing toes paint a liquiscent waltz
Fluttered limbs impossible grace
Floating form the unreal flight.
Shelves of air on feathers.
Ballerina's death
Preposterous
Bewildered
Starving
Art
“You look like a ballerina
on acid,”
my loving husband told me
this morning
as we folded a heap
of laundry on the bed.
“Ben is at a sleepover!
I want to dance
to David Bowie!
Is that a problem?”
I can’t help it,
I love to dance.
I told Mark:
“I don’t understand
the suggestion.
I’m not a ballerina
and I’ve never tried
acid.”
“Thank God, Jennifer.
That’s the last thing
you need.
You are high enough
on life as it is.”
“Under the moonlight,
the serious moonlight.”
“Let’s sway.”
What a wonderful
snow day!
My cheap gold necklace
from Temu
is twisted and
knotted loosely
around my neck.
It sparkles
suggestively
when I prance around.
"Let's Dance."
It is nine in the morning
and seven inches of snow
lull the cold soil
back to sleep.
Not me.
I’m dancing
to David Bowie.
dance recital
clown footed
grape juice smile
salting eyes
heart pirouette
sequin of time
There once was a belle in velvet of jade,
Whose gown swept the square — a grand serenade;
She slipped in the crowd,
Her skirt flared too loud,
She got up, laughed and danced, unashamed, unafraid.
degas' impressions
of a ballerina
~ light as a faerie
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
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