Best Arabesques Poems
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
Maestro – 4-23-24
Dedicated to Dr. Stanley Chapple. Co-founder of Tanglewood. Conductor of the London Philharmonic. Head of the Music School University of Washington. Conductor of the University of Washington Symphony Orchestra. Beloved Professor and so much more!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Maestro
Music flowed from his baton
Like water from his English wellspring,
Taming trills in the perfume of restless scherzos
Coaxing shy adagios into lyrical splendor
Charming sinuous rondos into sinuous symphonies
Coaxing Thalia from cobwebs into tarantellas
In tangled woods and brick paths lined with cherry trees.
Bewitching a young baton to rise
Like a cobra hypnotized in west side stories
In concert with souls of Glorianna and Appalachia’s spring
And arabesques of rodeos to fanfares voces
Riding on concertos beckoning for east to oceans west
To streets glistening in an hourly carillon cadence,
Rain showers so like the Old City’s rhythms,
He found sheltered rests beneath gothic eaves
Soaring with scores of venomous revenge,
And octaves in librettos of a butterfly’s death,
To crescendo young symphonic dreams and emeritus chords
Maestro, melodic mentor, gift and inspiration
Friend of Lenny, Ben and Aaron.
A long, long time ago, when I was young,
on watching skaters move on Poets’ Pond,
(some gliding with great skill, some taking falls).
I donned skates of my own and I began. . .
Around, around I went, and in my mind,
a lilting rhythm came and said to me:
Go ON and ON and ON and ON and ON.
But I was youthful, restless, uninspired. . .
I left that pond and put my skates away,
to take a path removed from poetry.
Ten years became a decade, then ten more,
and suddenly, a new millennium!
My muse, now heartened, came to me and brought
those skates, which for so long, I had not used.
A bit unsure, I stood beside that pond.
The skates seemed more attractive now. They gleamed!
And something else - new thoughts came to my mind!
The things I’d dreamed and lost; the things I’d gained
came flooding over me; then said my muse -
Go ON and ON and ON and ON and ON. . .
I noticed all around me other souls
who often showed completely different styles!
Some glided with elaborate smooth moves
while others whirled and danced with arabesques.
The artists leapt and made me catch my breath,
another group did spins to make me laugh.
Some moved, at times, with jolts, and some fell down,
but rarely did a one of them fall out!
For all of them shared passion for one thing -
and so to Poets’ Pond we’d all been drawn.
Go ON and ON and ON and ON and ON,
my sweet muse whispered, and I could not stop.
I tried to model those who skated free,
for some of them made circles all around
me, and I dearly wished that I could be
among that group, glean popularity!
But all I really know and like to do
is move to my own beat. Iambic skates
are those that fit me best. No world-class star
I’ll ever be in poetry’s new world,
but ON I’ll go - and ON and ON and ON. .
Dance, dance as child dances before he walks.
Dance in the moon light with stars in sight
Dance to the smiles, in the shadows of love
Dance, dance as child dances before he walks.
Dance is a short cut to happiness and ecstasy
Dance-a folk dance is the only universal language
Dance is a relatively safe form of intoxication.
Dance, dance as child dances before he walks.
Dance, dance as a grown-up takes to classic
Dance with impersonal and graceful arabesques
Is nothing but a sort of gymnastic drills
Dance, dance as a grown-up takes to classic
Dance, dance as a grown-up takes to classic
But if one considers concentrating their minds
Leading the body in the rhythm of desired emotions
That which expressing the feelings of experiences.
Dance, dance as a grown-up takes to classic
Those converting the body into fluidity are
To surrender it to the inspiration of the soul
Dance, dance as a grown-up takes to classic
A performing dancer is endowed with essential gifts
A body beautiful, grace of line, spirit gracious
Joy in the art, ability to please, unswerving
Integrity, relentless ambition for abstract perfection
Not mere translation from life, but it is life itself.
It’s a communication between body and soul
To express what is too deep to find for words
It’s a poem of which each movement is a word.
Dancing is nothing but dreaming with your feet!
Our truest expression is in dance. Bodies never lie.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Date 1-26-14
Dr. Ram Mehta
Form : Free Verse
Ninth Place Win
Contest: Mood Music by Sheri Freshonke Harper
Occasionally we should expose the wackier lobe of the brain
in order to better appreciate the more sensible side of the mind.
~THIS is one of those times...
I capriole between my arabesques
fugaciously spasmodic in fluxes and leaps
indifferent to their misanthropic mocking
and cheeky syncopated schisms
BUT LET THEM SCOFF!
I derogate their arrogance
in silent smirking repudiation
for they know not of the decoctions
spating rapidly through my veins,
nor of the massive assemblage
of my miscelany grey and white matter.
The mordant humor of this absurdity
is that I am irrationally rational...
psychotically speaking;
I am dripping with percipience
sagaciously intelligent beyond the measure
of those cretins who kvetch, pule, and postulate
that I am strabismic and nonsensical as a loon.
After reading this write of gelastic absurdity,
it's become mereticiously opaque to me
that my discourse is oxymoronic, OR
I am a dimwitted addlepate.
There is more than one kind of crazy!
*********************
A translated version of the above nonsense,
so now Jan doesn't think she's hopelessly lost.
I dance as if I were a ballerina,
a total klutz, but I don't care
if they laugh at me.
LET THEM MAKE FUN!
I don't care if they smirk at me because
they don't know what I feel or think.
The funny part of my silliness is that
I'm really rational, pretending not to be.
I'm really smarter than I look or act
so let those idiots say that I'm
as crazy as a loon.
Now that I've read these words,
it's clear to me that nothing I've
written is clear. Soooo....
I'm either clever at writing an oxymoron
OR I'm crazy.
Tiny marimba pinwheels rotate,
Under flippant bass.
A poodle barks...
A barrage of dissonant sounds,
Melodies played backwards...
Then the music stops.
A ambivalent sneer,
As sounds rush around
Taking cover from
a blitzkreig of odd meters...
A mournful solo
filled with arabesques..
a sonic fart.
Demented cartoon music
turns into
atonal distance
turns into
rock star psuedo-blues
turns into
elegant, triumphant arpeggios.
Good night , Frank
Wherever you are.
old post from last year.....
"Music Maestro," the conductor turns-
The curtain rises and the ballet begins,
People sit on the edge of their seats-
Tasting the sweetness of the violins-
Dancers make not a single sound,
As their slippers touch the stage,
The audience, still, gazing forward,
Quite intimately engaged-
The music pitch is soft, then loud,
Creating a somber mood,
With cabrioles, jetes, arabesques, plies,
An ambiance of mystery, the dancers all exude.
Painting a captivating canvas,
Gracefully moving, white sylph-like silhouettes,
The "Prima Ballerina Assoluta" twirls,
Executing perfect en-point pirouettes-
This ballet tells the story,
Of how a peasant girl, from a broken heart, dies,
Her last dance - a spectacular performance,
Brings tears to the audience's eyes.
Nearing its dramatic ending,
Dancers complete their last entrechats,
Spellbinding, flawlessly done,
A standing ovation for them all-
The music stops - the Maestro takes a bow,
The curtain lifts, then falls,
The applause of the audience demands,
A number of curtain calls-
Ballerinas retreat backstage to celebrate,
Their "Prima's" last dance was today,
Inside, the dancers weep softly,
Outside, people praise the ballet-
Dance, dance as child dances before he walks.
Dance in the moon light with stars in sight
Dance to the smiles, in the shadows of love
Dance, dance as child dances before he walks.
Dance is a short cut to happiness and ecstasy
Dance-a folk dance is the only universal language
Dance is a relatively safe form of intoxication.
Dance, dance as child dances before he walks.
Dance, dance as a grown-up takes to classic
Dance with impersonal and graceful arabesques
Is nothing but a sort of gymnastic drills
Dance, dance as a grown-up takes to classic
Dance, dance as a grown-up takes to classic
But if one considers concentrating their minds
Leading the body in the rhythm of desired emotions
That which expressing the feelings of experiences.
Dance, dance as a grown-up takes to classic
Those converting the body into fluidity are
To surrender it to the inspiration of the soul
Dance, dance as a grown-up takes to classic
A performing dancer is endowed with essential gifts
A body beautiful, grace of line, spirit gracious
Joy in the art, ability to please, unswerving
Integrity, relentless ambition for abstract perfection
Not mere translation from life, but it is life itself.
It’s a communication between body and soul
To express what is too deep to find for words
It’s a poem of which each movement is a word.
Dancing is nothing but dreaming with your feet!
Our truest expression is in dance. Bodies never lie.
=====================================
9-7-2010
Eighth place winner in
Contest : Dance
Those trademark circular elements of style in vogue every four years
When the crème de la crème of the athleticism
presents itself on the world stage
Suspending and transcending any present day internecine conflict
Allowing, enabling, and proffering the five continents
And gathering of top-notch mental, physical and spiritual prowess
Extant with adroit prolific curved arabesques on one corner of the globe
That (like Noah with his Ark kit) human techno wizardry
Bedazzles viewers charting unparalleled feats
Whereby the human body defies the laws of physics and challenges gravity
Fielding a hypnotic colorful tapestry
Whereby the woof and warp of any melancholy moody blue, mellow yellow
Gunmetal green, roman a clef real time red doth white out
The dark knight, temporarily sequestered in a bishopric
Of faux queenly royalty, where a pawn
out the parapet of her castle keep
She imbibes requiem toward protesting the limits of *****sapiens
Inherent parameters, where fluid dynamics
of each most supreme contestant
Sans his/her specialized arena
Further the prior leg holds with free from arm-twisting head lock
And make a mockery of invisible manacles
Purportedly and formerly believed to tether man/woman kind
With unbreakable hidebound genetic/ chromosomal restraints
But nay to those who professed impossibility against the reins
Boxed and fenced in by bow rings set by Mother Nature
Well nigh obsolete and superfluous
What with evident burlesque stellar performances
Leaving the spectators starry eyed with collective mouths agape
As polished prominent performers blithely offset previous milestone
Setting a new yardstick to measure the Olympian capacity
That Heracles and Zeus would most likely deem
as some sort of magic trick
Yet lo, the sensational and majestic pageantry absolutely serious
Lying to rest what used to be merely amateur games
Whereby most any novice could coax a charade, façade, travesty et cetera
Without fear of getting flagged, but phenomenal exhibitors of today
Can nearly bank on netting a truckload of worldly wide wealth
Whereby a hand-made Scottish tartan Harris Tweed welcome mat
Ushers August men and exuding mettle and iron clad dedication
With pomp and circumstance into pantheon of future legends!
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
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.
The winter emerged bare chested and ripe, stripped of summers hot and heavy lusty nights.
A virgin frost had formed upon the flesh of the olive branch, and the flushed face of summer's bloom slowly sank.
Cloudburst now revealed the nude turquoise of winter, which flooded the skies with its breathless chill of frigid pleasure.
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.
I objestigate between arabesques and sleep,
fugaciously spasmodic in fluxes and leaps.
I'm indifferent to the misanthropic mocking,
that welltering inflection that I call plockingism.
It's their cheeky syncopated schisms that I rebut,
and yet they slantathunt for the right to boff.
Well, blanderluse I refuse, so let them scoff!
I derogate their impultritude and arrogance.
Drapple their smirking repudiation of my dance
for they know nothing of the dark decoctions
spating rapidly through my vendacious veins,
nor of the mastacular alter assemblage
of the miscelany grey and white matter in my brain.
The mordant humor of this absurdity
is that I am irrationally rational...
psychotically speaking, perhaps,
I am dripping with percipience
sagaciously intelligent beyond the measure
of those cretins who kvetch, pule, and postulate
their hate. I am strabismic and nonsensical as a loon.
Mayhap writing in this style is as tedious a method
of torture as it would be to dispropart a heart!
After reading this ranting of gelastic absurdity,
it's become mereticiously opaque to me
that my discourse is oxymoronic, OR
I present my ischemic side as a dimwitted addlepate.
I'm a conflagration of animation or maybe I'm just lazy.
I'm not of the artificial intelligence variety,
but there's more than just one kind of crazy.
Vogonese is a language that few will applaud.
I see it as a form of whimsical words, without a reward.
If this is the third worst type of poetry in the world...
keep the first two ridiculous rooskits in sails unfurled!
Insanity is bred in flompous fields of clantigendice clover.
Moreover, before I drop my plasmergent pen on the floor
I find myself crossing the threshold of depravities' door.
*Don't ask for an interpretation. I have no clue.
Oh, how's this work, how to reFrame?
The s p i n I'm in
"I hear your Name and I'm aFlame!..."
In Portraits to arabesques in Castles in Spain
And belles letteres of A. Nin
Oh, how's this work, how to reFrame?
Perhaps a chanticleer, puffed jactate, abreast of whether, vained
For thy meadowLin
"I hear your Name and I'm aFlame!..."
ReSown seeds, reap our grain
Grapes to wine, nary raisin'?
Oh, how's this work, how to reFrame?
A burning untamed
Unassuaged by Verse, unlessen'
"I hear your Name and I'm aFlame!..."
Will girasoles thrive arranged
Or Lilies' parure Daffodils akin?
Oh, how's this work, how to reFrame?
"I hear your Name and I'm aFlame!..."