Thank God
for the
moral argument
And your conscience
for the
time and space
— of its creation
(Wilkes Barre Pennsylvania: March, 1989)
Darkness whisks the egg white strands
into the yellow yolk glob.
Time claws its way
wallowing through a quagmire
of booze, ooze and bog-breath delays.
"I'm Late, I'm Late!"
"Who Spake?"
"Who's seen better Ways?"
Feet spread strangely,
disengage and untangle.
Interlocking with toe taps
pin-pointed to barre-
laughing at those old elbows and knees.
The gasp of old shadows
lurking in clouds
dispels the carnival
confetti spaghetti charade,
to yell:
"Joie de Vivre!
"What the hell!"
"Is all this stuff about?"
Silence lies petrified
by a pillar of Babel-borne salt
outside of the window.
It can't get out of bed.
“I’m fine! OK!"
"I'm laying in"
"Playing dead!"
Each contradiction
spoke with impeccable diction.
Intonation interlaced;
with poise and puréed perfection,
personified.
It brought applause, clapped with one hand
behind the other,
a contra-counterpart.
A toot toot touche,
bowing to cheers
from both ways.
REHEARSAL
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
my mind, a ballet dancer,
my thoughts in constant rehearsal.
each idea is poised
at the barre of consciousness,
leg extended, muscles trembling.
some are fouettés, sharp and quick,
a flurry of solutions,
a staccato burst of inspiration,
others, adagio, slow and deliberate,
a sustained arabesque of contemplation,
held by the strength of quiet observation.
there are moments of stillness, too,
a gentle plié, a pause in the music,
a chance to gather strength before the next grand jeté.
A dream of you and me
A beach house by the sea
A stroll along the shore
Knowing we want more
But this gets better yet
Wait until sunset
Stars and Venus rise
Desire's in our eyes
It's still a little soon
Not before the moon
And then a night of bliss
Commencing with The Kiss
A waiting music stand
A blanket on the sand
A chair with one guitar
Four hands, I help you barre
Before long unrestrained
Passion uncontained
The song we make and play
Carries us away
The heights that we achieve
Are heights none could believe
And when all's said and done
We toast the rising sun
Send me a poem
Once more for old times
Tell to me something
You write such good rhymes
I'll take it and keep it
My heart has a place
For all of your poems
It's only your space
There's plenty of storage
To save what you write
The capacity's massive
Not bits, terabytes!
Which means that I cherish
What you do for me
The little recordings
So that I can see
The progress you're making
In forming your barre
You're getting so good
At playing guitar
Please think about it
I hope you will still
Send me these bookmarks
I hope you still will
Little white airplane let's go for a fly
The reason I want to, between you and I
Is not to go cruise o'er the top of the earth
It's to send off a message for someone who's worth
All the planning required to do such a thing
Whatever I'm able, to her I will bring
Skills as a pilot, songs on guitar
Poems and bookmarks, the best way to barre
All that I have I will give to her too
Cleared now for takeoff, all checklists are through
Up over yonder her house is right there
Let's start from the north and draw hearts in the air
Again and again 'til her face we can see
There she is, look down, she's waving at me
Wait, go down closer, no way, what is this?
Little white airplane, she's blowing a kiss!!
~ PEEK INTO A POETESS’S SOUL ~
?
It's her own delightful ballet studio!
Round and round the poetess goes.
Seeing herself in the sparkling, glass mirror.
And rainbow-tainted visions of her past.
Doing practice positions at the barre!
Yet a vision into her past, is truly a holy foray.
Times of great angst, times of ineffable joy.
Recalling her first kiss and oh, that boy!
Parents who took her on pony rides.
Where are they now?
Swept away by life's salty tides.
All her friends, she sees in the mirror.
Events, parties, glorious wedding dinners.
She longs to waltz through the mirror and to
hug them all.
But stopped she is, by reality's wall.
Each one, in their way contributed to her life.
Of roses, ribbons, total goodness and more.
A grateful tear, splashes in gratitude, on the ballet floor.
9/7/2024
@ Panagiota Romios
Like an old cat stretching her limbs in the sunlight
Warmth seeping through knots in her gnarled hands and sShe sits on a paisley chair in front of the East window
welling in her stiff knees
Pressed roses tumble out of scrapbooks and fall around her feet
Those supple feet with the developed arches and pointed toes
Who quiver when Chopin plays on classical radio
Chopin…all those days in the studio with the accompanying pianist playing Chopin
At the barre…on the floor… before the long mirrors that reflected every nuance
She sees herself now in the mind’s Polaroid
The backdrop of a room stuffed with ballet programs, photographs of performances, newspaper reviews, pointe shoes, and Romantic tutus…Memorabilia of another life…lost in the brume of aging…alone…without applause
Sitting by the East window until the sun moves westward
When she struggles to take a bow
And the curtains close against the dark
Written: November 05, 2023
___________________________________________
Away from Earth, the sky is always hideous,
A whimsical sun made my dream obvious.
A deep redolent dream, moon, and scheme,
Ideal site for drifting ways of cosmic gleam.
I'm swaying in space, skeptical of the place,
Cool wind ruins the stars as emerald tunes trace.
Arms may be lifted in sync due to the breeze,
I breathe in even the peculiar air to appease.
Only musings glimpse through my icy hand,
A strange adventure with a translucent stand.
My first trip here, I couldn't decry the North Star,
Lacking solid support, the stars went barre.
I am clad by kaleidoscope matter and vitality,
As I cross space, black holes are a split reality.
A cosmic light kiss of life infuses my skin,
Lips of ash, frame stuck by whimsey within.
A billion stars cover each soaring nebula,
I'm an instant hit, as speculated by a fibula.
Ballerina barre bob, white stocking wings whir
Mushroom plume tutu trails translucent steam
Sticky foot pick ups signal patient Spring’s stir
Pollen swollen coconut tip tongues crop cream
Statue branches pop rabbit ears amazement
Magnolia ruby tuxedo tucks ruffle ivory shirt
Wasps whisper, biscuit sugar stored fragrant
Whimsical wizard voila Iced VoVo for dessert
Tinkerbell petals tender invite insects parched
Peter Pan aeroplane dive in opioid pond drone
Champagne flutes etch a marigold moustache
Bon voyage hibernate, heavy hive honeycomb
Buzz! Botanical I’m back!
20th Royal Jelly July
One would not know, to look at me,
my years spent at the ballet barre -
tights sticking to me in summer,
cold fingers in winter.
And the aching to be better,
to be seen,
to be given a correction from my teacher.
She was the goddess of all dance and knowledge,
the stern angel of technique and artistry.
She made me cry,
yet I loved her.
She made me hate myself
and hate ballet and its impossible standards.
If I had been perfect,
self-loathing would not have existed
in that sweat-wringing studio;
the click of her cane would not have conjured dread.
I yearned to be beautiful-
in her eyes and in my own,
but she always wanted something unattainable.
Now, decades later,
if by chance I hear that music,
I inhale with anticipation,
dancing in my mind -
weightless and lovely,
the movements forever ingrained in me.
Perhaps I do a port de bras
if no one is watching.
But I'm sure she is looking down and frowning,
hoping I will extend my arms a little more.
The strange thing is, I know she loved me.
She just wanted something from me that I didn't think I had.
I lift your hands and place them on the neck of the guitar
My left hand covers yours, I gently help it form the barre
I don't press hard, just firm enough to make each string ring clear
You're playing, I'm just guiding, you drive, I just help steer
Here let me help your right hand play a simple melody
May I place my hand on yours? Ready? 1-2-3...
Our fingers sync, next thing you know we're playing two as one
I place a kiss behind your ear, I think this lesson's done
Acqua di Gio cologne fills the air
It's time for your lesson, I'll be right there
Tune up for me so we can save time
Today we'll start working on musical rhyme
Now you sit right here and hold the guitar
I'll be behind you, I'll fret the barre
You play the melody high on the strings
And together as one we'll make lovely things
We are shaped from silence.
I am struck by life's upheaval loudness,
We've been sucked into the abyss.
The deterrents proceed to extensiveness.
We're still utterly annihilated and witless.
Floundering about in a foreign land.
Everything happens at a breakneck pace band.
As well as ferocious gusts from the past stand.
Our leading spirits are being ruffled.
I'm puzzled whether they were on guard.
In their gleaming towers, the affluent rare.
For all the immortal soldiers drear
Whatever it scarcely in similar barre
For all the awe-inspiring masses dare
As time goes on, it becomes less austere.
Not in the slightest is it secure to leave?
Unless a dreadful catastrophe deceives.
Written: November 30, 2021
Dreaming she is a ballet star,
Practicing delicate, ballet moves
before huge mirros and with ballet barre.
There's something wistful in her smile.
She knows not, these memories will
last more than a little while and take her far.
She will be unable to post a picture
with most poems.
Knowing her poetic words mean far more
than a picture can ever hold.
An art gallery? No, she will never be.
An artist with words only, she hopes to be.
To paint both stars and mysterious sea.
No shortcuts to true poetry for her.
Her words only hers, woven beauty,
Of her history and finely.finest words.
A long way to go, to be the poet of her
dreams.
No sell outs, no teams, just wants her
poetry ala delicious, like fresh whipped
cream!
9/18/2021
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