Blown along this windward stretch
Dressy shadowy
As light of step, skied a-twirl
Savour each birch-girl.
Swept, enriched, up in whose fame
Dazzles ghostily
Now to whose art converted
Pavlova's; well-bred.
Heavenly hyacinths in ruby red
Lure hovering hummingbirds to sip sweet nectar
With wonderful colorful costumes
They daintily dance from flower to flower
So swift, their beautiful ballet
Presenting pretty hues, having their dish
A Hibiscus has enticed them to dine
never a quitter ,
the boundlessness ballerina
is spunky and trusting
with mercurial will .
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • August 10–16, 2026)
Natalia was in charge of the Gothic Nutcracker Ballet
It was held in the darkest, dankest, nastiest alley way
The mice came out to trot around without their soldier suits
Feral cats pranced around the production, tummies full of toots
The Gothic Nutcracker, how marvelous, a few old ladies said
We love it too, remarked the vampires and others, all undead
This ballet is not attended by just anyone, invitation only you see
You are not invited unless you drink some spider eyeball tea.
Deaf can see symphony sounds with eager eyes
Imagining the noise as brown, flight of butterfly
Feeling the music from the car radio in time
Nodding with it in silver synch
To the rhythm deaf not blind
Walking on the beach as tan sand suckles feet
Toes making bowls of mud
while waves dance on repeat
And the cascading sun rays
All golden what is their sound
Perhaps they sound like a soft smile falling down
The drumming of an infants heart
As he jumps in arms and hands
Holding sweet child like holding a star
From a distant heaven or far land
The sound of tears of joy
Splashing in festive face
Happiness that fill a void
Gifts of God’s love and grace
Can you hear my satin soul
Rejoice on the deaf choir
Hands dance a ballet of gold
Sign language lifted higher
I am differently abled to hear
Sights hearing people may miss
Sounds of excitement I hold dear
As a deaf person I feel bliss
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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Her pointe shoes whisper
on waxed oak—a swan’s last breath
unfurls in midair.
Stage holds her like a secret
too fragile to speak aloud.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Each day begins with pain refined to grace,
the body bent but never breaking—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 strict and silent chase,
no step misplaced, no ragged breath to fret.
The mirror has no room for soft embrace.
Blisters bloom where satin ribbons lace,
yet pirouettes refuse 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 starts to close,
the ache remains, a ghost the dancer does not forget.
Each day begins with pain refined to grace.
The mirror holds no room for soft embrace.
The accompanying memoir vignette can be found at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/turning_pointe_13606
Night wraps woods,
frenzy fireflies swirl,
webbed live light
snares stillness…
dark stage holds cosmic concert,
star ballet on land.
Black butterfly why are you so blue
Understandingly because no one’s like you
Tears that trail from face to tail to wing
Teal dreams that lift you as you silver sing
Ebony eyes that keep looking uniquely up
Red from cries of unreturned flower love
Floating like a star in a solar ballet
Lifting up hearts who watch and pray
You will persevere finding love one day
It is no dance, sensual.
Plays around, hip to hip
With romantic love, too forceful.
Nigh whose pretence does rip!
Innocent-shaped as clothed.
Hangs poised which theme upon
Of love, as highly descriptive.
Till slumps its woeful 'swan'.
i just wish my body wasnt so mean-
when the mind still thinks its eighteen.
i cant bend or reach far any more-
and its so much harder to get off the floor.
putting on my shoes and socks gives me the blues-
and the bags under my eyes is luggage i didnt choose.
my ears and nose hairs are growing long-
but, the hair on top of my head is gone.
my skin is starting to look like a prune-
and my bum keeps whistling a tune.
my two legs look like a cities road map-
and in the afternoons, im looking at taking a nap.
"with age comes great wisdom" they always say-
now, thats the right tonic for times dancing, ballet.
Written: October 04, 2025
***********
An enticing tale of Sapphire
Embryonic resin —
the dusk’s distilled desire
in marigold attire.
Etched in flame agate,
a mystic sphere—
twilight’s trembling lyre,
Its shimmer sings
to murmuring wings of swallows
as they dance
in dusk’s devout ballet.
October’s veil—
tuned in tangerine,
a hymn to night’s slow sway.
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.
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