Best Ballet Poems
I've thrown my quill in quiet rage
sometimes, when mocked by empty page.
I read such vibrant poetry
in awe, and ask how can this be?
Fresh imagery splashed on the page
with wisdom of the ancient sage,
allusions from the well-read shelf
with rhymes to please the Bard himself.
Thus insecure, I feel defeat -
believing I cannot compete.
My words like sap from maple trees,
I strain as others write with ease.
Poetic thoughts freeze like a creek -
why does my muse play hide and seek?
Why grow downcast when I compare
their gifts to mine - what gain is there?
It's then I spot a butterfly
and see my story flitting by,
with wings unique and delicate,
in colors bold and elegant.
It draws the flower's nectar sweet
and knows that it need not compete,
for nature's bounty will abound -
there's plenty there to go around.
My double-helix DNA
will dance its own distinct ballet,
no other tale could I design,
no other poet could write mine.
So I retrieve neglected quill
and vow to write again! I will
share thoughts to fill another's cup
with odes to hope, not giving up.
If insecure, make this your creed:
to learn from poets - read, read, read.
Let thoughts ascend to soaring height
to hone your craft then write, write, write!
Wait patiently upon your muse
to send fresh words to speak your views,
for only YOU can speak what's there
within your heart, your poet heart
so rare.
Written 19 May 2022
The old ladies
march onto the elevator,
steadied by their canes,
each a shrunken frailty
wrapping an unending soul--
they are going to watch
young people dance
their dances of grace
and beauty, while they recall
their own beauty long dissolved
in the acid of time....
Yet, they are happy--
I even joke with them
as I lean on my own cane:
'Come Ladies! Let's have a
foot race!" They all laugh,
as the young girls within
their tattered frames flirt
with the potent young man
hiding behind a time-marked mask...
for a moment we all feel a jolt
of that spark we call life.
Ballet of the Stars
Breath of the galaxy spins the night sky
Over the magic of midsummer dreams
Legends, lovers, pirouette through the night
Sculptures of fire carved with airy light beams
Dances l’etoile sparkle winter rondeaus
Gossamer nebulas leave stardust veils
Ensembles of stars in stellar tableaus
Costumed in lightness made of starry faille
Astral ballets dance on ebony stage
Patterns of stars in place in this dark space
Stage left then stage right arrangements change place
Celestial performance – rotating grace
Star-spangled glitter on star twinkle toes
Scrim curtain rises on nighttime’s light show.
5-18-23
Contest: Sonnet Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Sotto Poet
Syllables checked with www.howmanysyllables
Celestial – 3 syllables
Performance – 3 syllables
snowflakes dance mid air
jealous sun melts chalk blanket
snowmen lose their heads
Reeds and rushes by the opaque lagoon,
Flutter and frolic with a graceful ease,
As ducks glide softly by a midnight June,
And nature whirls to a warm summer breeze.
In palest moonlight nightingale now sings,
A rhapsody drifting with the night wind,
And butterflies sleep with pretty closed wings,
As the silent trees toss wildly and bend.
The tranquil world is engaged in dreaming,
And geese sleep while they are yet afloat,
But the lively crickets still are screaming,
And the slender stemmed blooms appear to float!
The silver treasures of this summer night,
Belong only to those awake for the sight.
Ballet is poetry. . .
And both share in
The magical movement
That is defined as art.
As brushstrokes blend
Hues onto a white canvas
And forms begin to
Appear in the glory of a
Golden pas de deux dawn,
Fingers of light stream
Through parting clouds
Capturing the divinity
Of the death of night
Into days beautiful birth.
Fluid motion, chassé. . .
Balancing earth's elements
In an alluring assemblé.
© Connie Marcum Wong
An open window frames a scene
Compelled obsession’s wistful sway
A metaphor imbues my dream
Entranced a moth, in porch lights gleam
Around it flits, a cruel ballet
An open window frames a scene
With you at night, the same routine
Your heart within a glass display
A metaphor imbues my dream
Unaware the faux flame's scheme
A driven urge the moth replays
An open window frames a scene
With fettered will and pull extreme
Your gravity of soul persuades
A metaphor imbues my dream
The glass I stroke as slumber weans
In crushing heat I fall away
An open window frames a scene
A metaphor imbues my dream
Skipping and leaping,
Lift legs up high.
Good toes, naughty toes,
Pluck stars from the sky.
Stick feet together,
Do you need magic glue?
Wave butterfly wings,
Hold out your tutu.
Little pink girl's
With little pink feet.
The Ballet class
Was just so sweet.
*** THE CATS DREAM ***
The cats snuggling dream
Of turning through the music between stars…
Of their fur transformed to feathers…
Of a time past when
Brought to ballet class
They danced for the great George Balanchine —
As living models
Jumping high, high to
The peaking of their
Seeming so easily springing leaps…
To tap noses to his fingers
Then hang as if landed there… In
A pause overhead of any descent…
A stay of all motion
— even of time —
Where
Felines go
To dream
And dance
———————————————————————————————————-
(c) Art & Poem sally young eslinger 5/14/22
Thanks be to God
I saw her dancing with candy canes a mesmerizing sweet ballet.
Between the snow flakes they did chase each others shadows from place to place.
With dips and twirls she caught my eye as she did of passers by.
From glance to gaze we stood transfixed and watched her dance with three stripped sticks.
On blue white light and crystal flakes these four did move with style and grace.
And in that moment frozen in time we left our hurried worlds behind.
A chance to dance a chance to dream inside ourselves sight unseen.
Together yet separate we all remained and watched her dance with candy canes.
the entry below is an Acrostic with a beginning and ending couplet attached
"butterfly ballet"
twas one day God said "let there be butterflies"
they will grace heaven and earth along their skies
butterflies waltz
unveiled for all to see
telling the world
"take a look at me"
every classic move
resembles a ballet
floating and gliding
longing to be free
yearning visible light
bouncing to and fro
along earth and sea
let it be said
let it be done
everlasting is this flight
the timeless butterfly ballet
their story now told of glory so fine
ballerinas grace to the end of time
SkyWatcher - 05-21-17
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
Time's not sleeping but forever creeping
Breathe to live while the blood is hot;
in shadow dreams lies incessant weeping.
Heart beats like the clock, never sleeping
love burns with flames during a nightly walk;
Time's not sleeping but forever creeping.
A moon rising high in this twilight fleeting
with a teary haze, while the clock tic tocks;
in shadow dreams lies incessant weeping.
Love kind and true, now absent and fleeting,
the full moon exhales within a lunar clock;
Time's not sleeping but forever creeping.
Unto a midnight waltz, as feelings seeping
in the stellar ballet stars twinkle in shock;
in shadow dreams lies incessant weeping.
Starved as your ego continues shrieking
devouring hearts within a devious stalk.
Time's not sleeping but forever creeping
in shadow dreams lies incessant weeping.
1/30/2021
All Yours (Jan 30) Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
The ballerinas, dressed in pink,
Adorable, you can't help think,
All rush to where their teacher waits,
Where music wafts and resonates.
The grown-ups must remain outside
Where covered windows seem to hide
Whatever lessons might be taught.
(Attempts to peek all come to naught.)
The moms chit-chat, comparing notes,
(Which cereals get all their votes).
The grands and sitters sit alone
And read or focus on the phone.
When class is over, spirits high,
She demonstrates the butterfly
And how to point and flex her toes
While standing in a ballet pose.
Now slippers off and sneakers on;
Another lesson's come and gone.
We dress and take our dancer home,
The star, today, of Nana's poem.
My ballet shoes have a name,
undisguised among a multitude.
They dance free all over,
without a name.
My dancing shoes are old,
great enough for the right feet
to keep on dancing.
My ballet shoes only fit my feet to be dancing in the best performance forgotten many years ago.