Best Ballerina Poems | Poetry

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Thumbellina Ballerina by turner, roger
the ballerina and the paedophile by hansen, jan oskar
The Dancing Ballerina by Bavington , Bette
Swan Ballerina Pages by Dietrich, Andrea
Ballerina On Yellow Balloon by Schumacker, Earl
Audience to a Ballerina by Handschuh, Daniel
Ballerina by Barden, Gregory R
Ballerina Marries a Bricklayer by Mahoney, Donal
The Ballerina by Simons, Brendan J.
Boiling Broken Ballerina by Nomaly , Anna

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The Best Ballerina Poems

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Swan Ballerina Pages

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 of by Broken Wings. This also seemed to be my best one according to Soup members, and I felt very inspired by the theme Constance gave us.

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2017

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Hi, grandpa, it's me again!
Your dentures sit in an open glass above the nightstand
Remember the tears grandma sang before she passed?
The way she looked into your eyes, 
Moments before she said her goodbyes
Grandpa, I found a note from grandma, 
She waits for you.

Hi grandpa, it’s me again!
The rocking chair is old and dusty
Remember the way grandma sat me on her lap?
Read many stories before I took a nap
How she enjoyed stroking my hair with her hands
I miss the way she rocked me to sleep every night 

Hello, grandpa!
I stored your hearing aid away
Remember that special musical box in grandma's drawer? 
I opened it last night, to watch the ballerina soar
I wish you could hear the tiny chimes grandma loved
I hope you don’t mind, I’m keeping grandma's favorite scarf

Hello, Grandpa!
I'm caressing grandma’s picture frame
Remember the way she looked in the yellow pretty sundress?
Grandpa, I miss the things grandmother did for you
Like the walking cane, she handcrafted before she left

Hello, grandpa, it's me again! 
Here I sit holding your hand
I have no more tears
Soon you will see her again
She will no longer be alone
Say hi to her, give her a kiss
Tell her I miss her so much
Bye, grandpa


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2013

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There she stands 
Centre stage for all to see
Tall and slender 
Precariously she balances.

I reach out for her
Draw her to me 
My hand skims her body 
Slowly reaching her skirt.

Playful fingers find hidden areas
Delighted her legs spring forth
Displaying the very beauty
Of her delicately adorned skirt.

Gaily she dances around
Dizzily twisting and turning
In the brightness of day shading
She gently tends to my needs.

Personal ballerina takes to toes leaping
Merrily bobbing up and down
As emotional to her performance
Clouds cry a thousand tears for her.

Reaching our destination
Slightly shaken, she leans
Watches me quietly drips
Against the wall.

Reminiscent of the day's fulfillment
We acknowledge one another silently
Restful knowing we shall be
One once more.

Copyright © Anna-Marie Docherty | Year Posted 2008

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The Ballerina

The Ballerina

The curtain parted...there upon the stage,
'neath bright chatoyant spotlight's glaring glow
she stood, a cynosure in tunneled beam;
demure, yet with ineffable glamor.

With lovely bow, this ingenue young girl,
composed, yet like a whirling breeze, began
her lissome ballet dance of twirls and swirls
to mellifluous sounds of violins.

A panacea of sweet calm filled up
my soul as she so gracefully succumbed
to call of violins and merged with them
in artful dance I wished sempiternal.

The beauty of her gracefulness in dance
enveloped me in deep, hypnotic trance.

Sandra M. Haight
Unrhymed Sonnet

Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2016

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A Game Of Thorns - Collaboration with Maurice Yvonne

i heard a...what do they say...a spine chilling scream that the saying? a spine chilling scream followed by 'he's dead, my G_d he's dead' the phrase echoed inside the whole of me like tennis balls bouncing between two parallel walls i ran up aware i would be at the edge where the road ends and the gates of heaven stand saw a young man looked through the aperture of his existence looked and singed his eyelashes looked and could not see beyond now you know those beautiful fluffy white clouds the kind that feel like large teddy bears that want to hug you she had landed her very own- she cherished him knew who he was felt lucky they shared a mutual love i can't imagine the despair flowed through her when she saw him like that his doughy complexion screamed volumes breaking the thunderous silence he was a pale grey, blank, empty a sight impossible to process at odds with how one survives the experience of this tragedy she was lost in a dreamless mare [most of the time life its outcome depends on the flip of a coin if you don't know that you don't understand life his coin landed on its side ...all the kings men and all the kings horses...] her 'beautiful huge fluffy white cloud' had succumbed to the storm heart in throat hesitantly she touched him he was a frigid cold for a moment she saw her own smokey breath moving as if she was walking through the thick grains of unbearable pain thoughts racing she attempted to make sense of the senseless despair had grabbed her by the throat shook her around like so much thread and fabric she thought he might of seen life as futile society as a guise, as a failed paradigm thought he had reached the last motel on the road to nowhere and just...checked out depression the illness it's unlike any other pain when it peaks few if any survive it the afflicted instinctively self medicate but street drugs are mean she could easily empathize she too was him honestly she was tired of living in her sadness a life marinated in tears basted in blood the experience of having seen her partner lose his life to drugs and alcohol affected her profoundly experiencing his death was like getting hit over the head with a sledgehammer she'd never wash it off it clung to her like a pariah you can't wake up from reality and you can't sleep through it the tragedy had possessed her sensibilities it was a malignant truth she could not ratify singular in its nature unfathomable she'd been blindfolded and spun a ballerina on a high wire across the span of time spiralling down an infinite vortex one plus one is seven the ceiling isn't a celestial painting how many fingers a forty ounce of vodka opioids a hundred times stronger than heroin men in uniforms and and ...lost... what happened? less than two hours ago he could think- speak he had his very own persona now lying there as nothing it could have been her it could have be anyone but it wasn't it was- Him what did occur to her was the loss.

Copyright © Carol B. | Year Posted 2017

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On A Ballroom Of Stars

When I feel alone a gypsy soul without a home When nobody 's there with warmth to share When rattling rains are all I hear I close my eyes and take a ride On sugar-coated clouds I travel far to where you are. Far from a frosty afternoon One step closer to the moon. I fly up high to a blue -black sky Removing Her with all my might. I push away the lady in today To seek and find a happy child A happy girl that's trapped in me Still wanting to break free. A girl who lives inside Still struggling to survive. I close my eyes and take a ride One step closer to the music that's playing on my mind. Closer to late- fireworks burning in the night. An orchestra in concerto and a piano by my side. I fly up high to a blue black sky I dance above with the prince of love With wide-spread wings just like a dove. These waiting cheeks These open arms Young Ballerina waltzing On a Ballroom of spumed stars.
Just a fantasy song inspired by the movie Lalaland.

Copyright © Charmaine Chircop | Year Posted 2017

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Out of Control

I spin, faster and faster… losing control, I am a propeller rising. Once, you were my mystery to solve – my challenge, my highest vista to climb. You lifted me to your private skies. Spread out before me on red-winged flights, eradicated stars came back to life, painted iridescent by your own two hands. What could only be crayoned by inferior men. All aglow, the universe circled my head - round and round till the dizziness came, infatuation only to blame. I spin…slower, rhythmic, scraping. I am a pinwheel on softest breeze. memories come…memories go. With a crystal crown of constellations, you adorned my flowing hair – locks spun golden, locks I loosened for you. I became a glowing body for you to orbit, a fiery flood of sunlight traveling, Venus gifted in violet dusk, auroras of ribbon braided… I spin…slanting, lower, on tip-toes. I am a ballerina with an audience of one. I watched you watch me in light of all things. I wanted to be center of your universe… rings of Saturn encircled you and I. Mercury’s fire blazed through what was us. Blue-silver splattered moons orbited our sleep. I kissed the moon rock I named after you. I kissed you and only you until dawn slipped between the warmth of our linen sheets. I caught you in my arms time after time, clouds dappled with your eyes floated by… doting, they released scintillating showers upon a wilting flower. When it was time for you to catch me, you were gone…taking with you part of me. I fell hard…back to earth, stained crimson, star-struck. Forever is a long time to chase shooting stars through echoing space. I trusted you, trusted only you, trusted you with me. I rusted, no protection from your harsh elements. We all come back to reality of a spinning earth… we rise or fall, move or hide, heed the call or lie. We come to the self-sharpened point of swim or die. Time rushes by… I sat next to you, held your hand, feeling like my own miraculous sky, regaining my identity… while you read Hemingway, a man’s man you’d say. I spoke of the poem I wrote for you another day. “Yeah, yeah…Aha”, you whispered…my words dismissed, a foreign language never understood. Space and time altered our skies; below, your lies became our demise. Our footprints disappeared before my eyes. In my own miraculous sky, I have slowed my pace, aware of my mistakes, my fear, my grace. I embrace beauty, peace, tears I've cried, the ride… Dawn came early this new day, I drove away, weaved around a pothole, almost crashed. The gravel road rattled my faith. I started to spin again…disoriented, I faltered, but I never turned back. I wonder if I avoided my own catastrophe, saved face, or a little of both… I remember how I asked you about the meaning of love. You turned away, reading Williams that day, madness and genius you’d say, I planted my feet, met your eyes, then marched away. Head held high, you dimmed under a starlit sky. I searched myself and found the brightest star… it led me home. Now, I brush my fingers lightly across a constellation on high… Pegasus, I think. Only to realize, it’s reflection mottles in a rippling puddle below... beauty awakened by my grounded feet. Rhonda Johnson-Saunders, 4/11/15

Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2015

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God Created Lullaby

Cascading water dancing like ballerina down the green mountain singing a sweet melody God-created lullaby. © kashinath karmakar(27th Dec.2011) ==========000============== Placement:5th; (Dec.2011) Contest:Short and Sweet Sponsor:Francine Roberts

Copyright © kash poet | Year Posted 2011

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Wild Mango Fandango

Wild Mango Fandango Tongues of my temptress fire lick, arousing your ardent artistic desire, if you dare, imagine me – the intensity - capture me, take your chance; I’ll love you, leave you, please you, tease you, traipse you, take you heavenly higher, I'm your drama queen, your diva, ballerina, your fierce flamenco dance! Scarlet swirls sweeping and dervish whirls weeping, we are a fluorescent fandango. Flowing your ink through my virtual veins; I'm your lust, your lament, your confession. Wrapped in rhymes rippling, in your skin stargazing, I'm your taste buds, your sweet wild mango, Imbue my lyrical lilt your angst, beauty, magic… I am your rhapsodic obsession. I am your bird-of-passionate-paradise, plumage preened with geranium esprit, in rapt rhythm, twirl me in provocative pirouettes, flare the sensual skirts of your mind. With your humming heartbeat I pulsate; you love me, hate me, need me.., you can’t live without me, I embody the designs, dancing across your page, of our pillow talk poetically lined. Forge my nature in the flaming fervor of your mesmerizing muse, I am your ingénue; soulful seduction strumming my spirit to liveliness with an effleurage of emotion... I’m the creation of your inspiration, a dazzling display of ravish red and citrine hue, in prose I pose arabesque till vivid verse sets me free; I am your poetry in motion. September 23, 2017 ------------------------------ Contest: Premiere Contest Number 15 Sponsor: SKAT A ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~ First Place ~ Contest: Poems That Paint A Picture 3 Sponsor: Silent One

Copyright © Susan Ashley | Year Posted 2017

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Her fit and fluttering form behaves,

As sunlight frolicking atop the waves ...

No heavenly music is yet as sweet,

As the song she dances ... with her feet.

* FIRST PLACE in the "Four Or Five Line Poem" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Sponsor. *

* THIRD PLACE in the "Seven Line Maximum" Poetry Contest, Rick Parise, Sponsor. *

* FOURTH PLACE in the "Spring Premiere" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Sponsor. *

Copyright © Gregory R Barden | Year Posted 2017

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The Tenderest of the Roses

This rose stands alone
In the garden
Like a ballerina waiting on cue
For the sun to rise
So she may dance and sing and bloom
In full glory
Her blossom fully exposed
Her shyness hidden underneath
Her season is short
She will soon weep with early morning dew
As her petals fade away
So tender
Her desire only to please
The garden will sorely miss this tender heart
The gardener even more

Note: Inspired by Cherl Dunns poem of similar title.

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014

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A Music Box and Memories

On a cobblestone street,
cracked and ill-repaired, 
I rifle antique shops 
  for a jeweled music box 
     to cradle my empty locket. 
I wish to drop it 
     in a velvet corner 
       one tear at a time. 
If I find an heirloom 
with a bittersweet story, 
      its own tragic history, 
my sorrow may lighten 
     within the confines     of its space. 

If I were rich, I would live 
            curled up 
on the satin lining of a music box
   coupled with my locket,
and with every tender lift of its lid,
              I would rise in graceful dance. 

My restless nights shall one day sleep 
                               in rhythmic breath. 
My flailing heart shall tether 
                                      itself to heaven.

I found a music box today,
but alas, it would not play.
Without the song, 
the story       dies. 
Perhaps, today’s fruitless search 
will guide me to my hope, my treasure. 

If I were rich, I would live
in a Viennese music box, 
 a timeless ballerina twirling 
          for you alone, my love.
At a local pub, I sit alone 
                        in a corner
sipping seltzer and trying to ignore
your husky voice rising 
from a half-empty glass. 
Festive bubbles burst, 
     sounding off before 
               the tap tap tap 
                     of the conductor's baton. 

 I close my eyes to find you laughing
     as you sing and dance in the corners of my mind. 

You are the part of me set free.
     I am frozen in hushed memories. 
I twirl my hair to distract me from all
     the darkness I see, fingers determined
                                    to soothe my daydreams.
My spirit has weakened 
fake smiles and faded time. 
I pry thoughts from a swirling head, 
   quench my angst, 
     ignore faces of strangers. 
It’s easier to whitewash 
the world in my despair, 
than to see its     colors. 
I wear my grief like a turtleneck sweater. 
I let it keep me warm when 
        winter lingers to bullet
                     spring with sleet.

When did I fall into a dark corner?

I tripped on a crack 
in the cobblestone today,
skinned my knee, looked up to see 
you smiling down at me. 

If I were rich, I'd fly to Vienna, 
      live in a ballet slipper 
        at Konzerthaus forever. 
I hear your voice, 
it's smashing glass,
    a cacophony of howls, 
metal on metal, 
    a melodic chaos 
of heroics and blood. 
It fills my corners.
I wonder -
did you scream
in your last moments or 
slip beneath the drop cloth 
you carefully lay
with less than a thud? 
In a hush 
   of onlookers, do-gooders,
      did your eyes widen or fall? 
If only 
      I could live in the corner 
         of a jeweled music box,
a ballerina dancing for you,  
   the world might spin in a hush.
                      If only I were rich,
                            I would escape.    

Written 11/14/15, 
revised 3/19/17 for In the Corner Contest

Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2015

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Oh in the mirror world, she dances on a stag all her own,
A reflected ballerina, stepping ever lightly in the shaded
Silhouettes of yesterday, twin figures of elegance, neither
Realizing that they are one in the same, identity thieves.
Beguiling the shimmering images standing in illusions rippling
Glass, touch each other, yet they are the untouchables double.
Blissfully the maiden trips the light fantastic, as inspirations long
Lost muse, hidden beneath self-doubt and pains anguish, the opposite
Refuses to except that these two reflections of inspiration are one in the same.
Dearest Lady of wisdom's clarity let the clear waters of clarification flow, as
A soft streams miracle in faith’s river conjoins at the mighty delta’s edge.
In the framed rippling pools of frozen pains separation, it is the liquid
Of realism that combines thee, defines thee and unites thee as one whole
Being let these two timeless dancers of inspiration merge as one whole.
Beauty does wait in inspirations chamber to be set free, embrace her
And allow your wings of the imagination to soar again amongst the heights.
Beyond celled barriers of your past mistakes, for they do not define the artist,
The future of this mistress of poetic artistry, must waltz in sync with her spiritual
Kindred, whom dwells beyond the looking glass, in the realm of wonderland.
Oh sweet Alice just place your fingertips upon the thy side, reach through the
Tides of separation let the waves of truth wash over thee, and with tenderness
She’ll grasp at thy inner soul, softly uniting these torn images of the lost, as one
Dancer waltzing, in unisons divine musical tune, in harmonious rheum.
The breeze of life is a timeless unique spiritual adventure, each paths step must
Be experienced alone by the traveler, through the harshness of the winds of
Destiny we must walk alone, yet behind us are others waiting to help thee along,
But few realize this practice of faith’s devotion, for within each single step taken,
Another walks and his is the miracle of our salvation, and preservation.
Let the rock of truth shatter the glass of resistance, for dearest child of inspiration,
You are not alone to pick of the pieces of these shards remains,  for we feel the
Sting of your crystal tear drops , and are willing to help wipe them asunder, with
Loving wings of friendship, always.



Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2015

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Curved Coconut Tree

Curved coconut tree
holds a ballerina pose
worthy of applause

Copyright © Joe Murphy | Year Posted 2014

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Picture Perfect


                          Cascading water

                                      dancing like ballerina

                                                down the green mountain
                                                              singing a sweet melody

                                                                              God-created lullaby


Copyright © kash poet | Year Posted 2013

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A petite ballerina named Tina Seemed serene but she couldn’t be meaner When she got in the sack She was on the attack At the size and the shape of his ‘wiener’ Her suitors would then try to dodge her After insults on their little todger But listen up guys I have a surprise She’s transgender and she was once Rodger! New or Old 4 - Poetry Contest Sponsored by Eve Roper 20th March 2016

Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2016

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 Is it simply just a wooden music box?
Charming the human soul, with its melodic undertone,
What a hypnotic melody it so plays, enticing the listener
With its delicate waltz' sweetly strumming, exposing it's
Mystical quality of the supernatural
By its spiritual essence attractant, I'm thus so memorized,
A ballerina dancing in step, with the spell cast upon me,
Thus do so I spin, on this stationary pedestal, unable to move
On my own volitional power of chose and free will,
I've be consumed utterly,
By the haunting tune, compelling me do its evil bidding.
The notes grow slower, unwinding until perfectly still,
But I'm not in a daydreams nightmare, I suddenly realize
This absurdity is reality, has become real.
I'm that tiny figure within a child's musical box,
Frozen in stances freeze, unable to cry
Out for help, for made of wax am I now.
Then the lid is gently shut upon me, and in the
Darkness a sadistic voice, heckles and mocks
Me, speaking in musical notes it sings a deadly
Lullaby, rest eternal my beauty for you belong
To me now.
I've become a play thing to be tormented,
Languishing within this jewelry box.
Caught in this land of giants, whom wind
These musical chimes, to join me as a
Prisoner's collection, of a thief called music.
Whom orchestrates this symphony of the demonic?
I dare not ask, for the voices anger would
Ravish what little is left of my humanity,
So I smile, and I dance at its pleasures
Whim, but within my soul a flickering
Ray does burn still, and it is called hope.
The music screams in terror's disbelief,
For the giants house has caught in flames,
And now he is the prisoner captured
Within a wooden tinder box.
I do so smile as I myself melt away,
Listening to the voice begging for help,
But no one comes to aid such evil as he.
But I am free at last, and except death
As a comforting friend's reprieve,
From the beast, is it just a simple?
Wooden music box.


Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2015

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ben reine ny hoie

Supermoon picture: Manila, Philippines, on March 19, 2011 (biggest full moon of the year) The wind laughs softly The full moon with the stars In the sky, As I lie near the fountain Gazing at the Exquisite beauty Of the nature. It's the charm of the moon Opens so many thoughts And dreams. The moon Looks like a beautiful Ballerina Dancing with the troop of The professional stars. Twisting carelessly with the Elegance of a swan Through the lilac beauty Of the spring time. The sky seems a bandanna. A dewy freshness Fills my heart and soul. How beautiful is the night, I captivated, enchanted. Oh! Gealach, ben reine ny hoie. _________________________ "Gealach" means......Brightness, "ben reine ny hoie" means.....Queen of the night. The language of the Isle of Man. _________________________ The moon and the moon poetry in general seems to dispel the human centredness that we all suffer from. Thank you for reading. Chitta.

Copyright © Chittaranjan Dey | Year Posted 2012

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The heavens, their stage;
spotlights of sunrays.
Soaring angelic chorus.
Ballerina dance,
their movements enhanced
by beautiful songs of love.
A sweet lullaby
drifts down from the sky.
Performance demands a hush.
Entranced, we are now,
as they take their bow.
Mother Earth's mobile for us.
Contest: The Alouette Sponsor Dr. Ram Mehta

Copyright © Arlene Smith | Year Posted 2014

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This is a poem about one of our endangered birds of prey, the Marsh Harrier. 

Dancing in the air 
moving to an unheard tune 
instinctive steps 
laid out 
under the summer moon. 
never to be seen on stage 
nor laid upon the page 
Ballerina of the sky 
above the ground 
nothing escapes 
your searching eye. 

Dancer of the air 
princess of heather and moor 
pirroueting to finish your dance 
no audience to approve 
or imagine 
a fatefull, longing romance. 

All alone 
you dance above 
only the clouds 
to give 
you love.

Copyright © Andrew McIntyre | Year Posted 2016

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Original limerick written by Jan Allison A petite ballerina named Tina Seemed serene but she couldn’t be meaner When she got in the sack She was on the attack At the size and the shape of his ‘wiener’ Her suitors would then try to dodge her After insults on their little todger But listen up guys I have a surprise She’s transgender and she was once Rodger! Continuation poem written by Sonny Roper Tina wanted a special honeymoon night She wanted everything to be just right Into his drink she slipped two little blue pills It was to enhance their midnight thrills Into the bed she jumped with her stud But the night suddenly turn into a dud Fred was in the land of dreams! As a joke it seems Someone had slipped Novocain into her Vaseline! Original Limerick by Jan Allison - the story of Tina continued by Sonny Roper 25th March 2016

Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2016

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Pirouette and practice daily sheer perfection to achieve.
Ballerina, dance through pain, success does not come without effort.
With the spot light shining down, your payment is the wild applause

Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2011

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Princess Ballerina

Princess ballerina
Comfortably numb
Hidden from the world
Holding angels ransom
Princess ballerina
With ivory inked thighs
Legs swallowing purity
Prying pink eyes
Princess ballerina
With sin studded threats
Slicing delicacy
With pierced pirouettes 
Princess ballerina
Leering from afar
Come out of the corner
My jaded sultry star

Copyright © Xavier Keough | Year Posted 2006

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Inward Thoughts On A Troubled Day

Light dances with the idea of love 
the sharks circle at mere plight 
of weakness but you cant kick out
a ballerina tiptoeing across rivers
red flowing with contemplation
and the final twin feather bed calling

Tomorrow's successes seduce
the captain's chair  empty
he's gone out for air
backed up pickup but the limbs won't move
just need another reason for loving you

The walls are built by more than just an emperor
The chains are laced in verse of discrimination
but I'm building a bridge to you
just don't jump and leave us to clean up behind
and as the cock crows it's going to be alright

Copyright © Tim Smith | Year Posted 2017

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Two Tutus, Too

Two tutus, too
Laying on the ground
Ballet slippers strewn all around
One complete wall with mirrored glass
Chattering girls waiting dismissal of class.

A gaggle of Moms waiting patiently
Knitting and needlepoint surrounding me
The one lone island of masculinity 
That rare father with custody.

I smile at my ballerina and she smiles back at me
We’ve been on our own ever since she was three
I just love being her Daddy
And don’t mind the role of also being Mommy.

We stay a little longer at the end of class
She shows me her plies in the looking glass
She smiles at my reflection and says, “I love you”
We pack up her slippers and the
Two tutus, too.

Copyright © Joe Flach | Year Posted 2010