Best Balletic Poems
On the day after Christmas, they started appearing,
cast out of houses, stripped of their finery,
lying crooked in the gutter, garbage bags flanking.
My brothers and I walked to school
and halfway there, three blocks away,
was a steep ravine called The Hollow.
A place of some dark mystery in summer,
one hundred feet deep and forbidden land
according to most parents, The Hollow
sang its song to all neighborhood kids.
Returning to school after Christmas,
my brothers and I would drag the discarded
Christmas trees along the sidewalk and onto the bridge
that spanned The Hollow, then heave them over the railing,
watching their graceful tumble earthward,
their air brushing final fall.
"Hey, I used to do that too!" Donnie was a lot older,
almost done with high school, and his walk took him
right by our elementary school - he laughed to see us
hauling the trees to that concluding bridge.
He grabbed a large one, bigger than any of us could handle,
and upon the bridge had us help him hold it upright on the railing,
as it stood in life, as it looked down upon Christmas gifts;
we watched it slowly lean into Gravity,
watched the balletic descent into silence.
Donnie kept with us that first month into the new year,
the pile of trees growing in the bottom of The Hollow.
He told us things, we told him things,
we asked him things and he told us more.
My brothers and I still talk about that big tree
on the railing of the bridge over The Hollow.
It hit right on top of the pile of other trees
and bounced off to the side, its own special place.
As January wore on, we didn't find as many trees,
and ultimately it was all done.
Eventually the school year too was done,
and then more years, and school itself was done.
The trees at the bottom of The Hollow rotted away to nothing.
Somewhere in there my mom told me that Donnie
had been shipped off to war, killed within a few weeks.
We had that one magic month.
December 25, 2016
For Anthony Slausen's contest - 'The Day After Christmas'
A serene summer evening
Brimming with beauty, the shore was panoramic,
Caressed gently by silvery waves
Dancing to the tune of soft cool wind. The
Ebb and flow of the waves so rhythmic,
Following one another like kids running in a row,
Gleefully holding hands. The sea gleamed in
Hues of azure blue: greeting me warmly.
In a moment so dreamy, my mind leaped for
Joy - as I stood by the shore, the waves
Kissed my feet, the cool water tickling my toes.
Listening to its murmur, I stood there amazed at the
Myriad of thoughts the azure blue evokes.
Nothing but a pulsating harmony of blue did I see -
Oh! the humming of the waves so enthralling and
Peaceful, as if answering all the
Queries in my mind. The sea in her
Robes of cerulean blue appeared to be
So poised and placid. Her dainty balletic
Twirls were graceful: an alluring elegant blue
Under the glorious sky that is a
Velvet of purple and pink now as the sun was setting.
Waves gurgled a symphony - soothing my mind like a
Xylophone's music. Far out at the sea I saw a
Yacht bobbing up and down the waves and a gentle
Zephyr whispered goodbye into my ears as I started to leave for home.
I know the five positions
(In ballet – don’t get all hot!)
Plus plie and pirouette
But all the rest I plum forgot.
I didn’t have a tutu
But a leotard? Perhaps.
My memory is dimming
And I’m left with just the scraps.
Most likely, I attended
Very briefly, very young,
So a few balletic moves
The only knowledge that has clung.
Was there really a Miss Ricky?
Guess there’s no way I could know
For my ballerina days were over
Many years ago.
Dark rain dripping
hands and feet poised ready
as danger appears
Two Kung Fu masters ~ trouble eye to eye
There would be no peace ~ the tension was high
Each one knew that their Kung Fu was the best
This deadly duel was the ultimate test
The earth gravitates
heat waves forming within a soul
Those watching could not see what each one thought
In this Art of War ~ composure was sought
Each knew that one move could bring their demise
Lightning strikes ~ deadly blows ~ such cloudy skies
Butterfly feet lifts
shaping sharpening soul daggers
whizz forward
Stalking in a circle ~ slow did they move
Gazes locked ~ hands cocked ~ this battle would prove
Who's fist style was the best ~ skills they did not lack
One said "Enough!" ~ he then launched his attack
Fist on flesh
electric luster crackles a visceral snarl
His hands and feet became punches and kicks
Vicious techniques in the rain did he pick
The attacked moved with grace out of harm's way
Within striking distance ~ response without delay
Phantom lightning strikes
circle within a circle
souls become blades
Raining hammers ~ the attacker felt the blows
So many angles ~ some struck high ~ some low
The one attacked moved in circles ~ here and there
The attacker was lost ~ his target seemed everywhere
What appeared aimless
was actually a glazed cover
Witnessed by all ~ the one attacked lost "her" hat
Long hair cascaded to "her" shoulders ~ all were staring at
A Kung Fu "Masteress" ~ they were taken by surprise
The attacker defeated by "she" ~ in a man's disguise
Lips curling one side
a demure little maiden
fixing eyes on him
A lesson was learned ~ never under estimate
It affects the outcome ~ it affects one's fate
........................
A Collaborated Poem with Walter T. Ashe
This poem was written in Renga-Quatrain style, ending with a couplet. It was inspired by the action movie 'The Grandmaster'.
The bright-eyes breathless girl barefoot across fields,
Fading sun in her eyes and her straw hat clasped
With one hand, a sculpture of flawless definition,
Supple animation, spellbound as summer collapsed.
Grey skies spilled chains of rain that melted her dress,
Patterned with daisies until against her lissom figure
Hugged with moisture, a fabric of growing transparency,
She splashed on sodden ground with youthful vigour.
She laughed at nature’s soaking of her golden tresses,
And with balletic grace, her mind absolved of all care
Hurtled gasping through the barn door and fell upon
New mown hay, bright-eyed breathless and laughing there.
It was her poise and grace
that set her apart;
a gentle rhythmic walk.
Soft velvet tones of
gracefulness as she talked.
Her voice danced as she spoke.
Her eyes glistened in animated
interest as she listened,
focused, undeviating from
the intense conversation
she was involved in.
Expressive, long-fingered hands.
Gesticulating with the ebb
and flow of torrid words.
Stopping only to smooth a
straying hair back to perfection.
Interjection of soft salsa
verbal rocking, picking up
the tempo to tangoed crescendo,
waltzing in three time,
quick stepping to conversational conclusion.
As she stood to leave,
long legs unravelled, rising
to pose in balletic stance,
her bar a chair back, a smile,
a graceful backward glance....
Drifting on a cloud of chiffon
she floats away. Willowy limbs
carrying her noiselessly,
stunning her audience as heads
all crane to admire her as she leaves.
Always a dancer. Her life her stage.
Carefully choreographed.
Her earthly progress mapped
in song and dance on every page
of score and libretto....
Disciplined.
Majestic movement from head
to tiny tapped toe.
Always a dancer.
Applaud her as she goes.
These modern day girls,
they don't fall in love
like they did in the black and white movies,
no more Audrey Hepburns' sipping on chardonnays
and pursing gold flake cigarettes
over a bowl of delicate conversation
they're unsophisticated,
they puff on cigars
and gulp down jello shots
while attempting a balletic demeanor
as poetic as Grace Kelly
but their actual depiction
is gauche
and lacking the ability
to fool any heart,
especially Cary Grant's
resting by a garden path, I watched them lean into each other
like sodden loofers in a warm pool
then they rose to walk away and her voluminous dress, (silk)
danced a parachute ballet, caressing his tanned, mottled shins
and not heeding the peeling bell, he took her by the hand
to watch the balletic display...Coppelia or Giselle?
and he mused... would'nt it be swell to dance like Nureyev,
in $1000 shoes?
Gracing minuetto in the castle of fortune
I gazed upon the chance of serendipity
I can perceive she is a sublime creature, that of which I marvel
The smell of infusing fragrants enchants my desires
Reeling me like kir poeticness
Grace, scent, feline lure of jaded ushered
Virile fantasies amid the gothic night
As we clung into a seductress tone
The swirl of sweet voices and opera come to form a stirring endeavor
With this discern mystique, the hourglass feels hastened
Fatigueness leads to an alluring slumber
The dawn of feverous romance enigma
Darkening a man’s intellect into mistress adoration
Consumed by gilded ravishment of rose elegance
She craves the caressment of balletic sway of a paramour
Craving the taste of rouge lips
Charming the fiery mortality to satisfy the appeasement
Candle lights burn the explicating flesh
Perspiring with a sobbing yearn
She is a vixen impacted by this occult night
When you struck me,i vibrated like a kettle drum
then as smaller percussions and repercussions
echoing from all the glassy surfaces
creating a balletic geometry of sound tracks
in space and time.
When you knocked me down,
I fell against her and her and her;
we were like a row of skittles
and we all went down with the lifeboat;
the infinite chain of being is.
When you hit me,the Fall spread across the world
Now there is no Vertical
All is undivine and graceless.
By the Rod it's ruled
When you left me,I left myself,the world,the rocks,dry land
I weighed down sank to the ocean bed
with coral eyes
gazing.
When you struck my mind
I became an instrument of a foreign power
Singing a song I didn't kmow.
When the glass was smashed
the splinters flew into all our hearts.
You didn't know what we couldn't see.
I lay on barren ground and gave birth
To my own Creator in the desert.
He was not dead at all.
But you killed him.
Wailing during life darkest hours
Holding ashes of emptiness
While calling oracles by sacred names
Begging to help you honour your fallen dreams
Rescue you out of the wasteland
And anoint you favourably,
To witness shining days again;
Wailing through nights of thunder
Pledging for sadness to go away
Have chance to light candles
And brighten your life again
Just another chance to bid for paradise
With daily beatific smile
Showing you balletic skills,
While holding on to the crown
And carrying the light with pride
Flying Jib son of Curry Comb
The care of the comb son of Garden Gnome
Garden Gnome son of Pillow Case
The case of the headrest o’ Second Base
Second Base son of Baby Chick
The chick who’s a pip son of Pogo Stick
Pogo Stick son of Gunder Fahr
The father of man son of Zanzibar
Zanzibar son of Zanihey
The hey zani hey son of Make My Day
Make My Day son of Monocle
The cull of the one son of Dimn Endoll
Dimn Endoll son of Angel Eyes
The seer of the saint son of Biting Flies
Biting Flies son of Linseed Oil
The oil of the flax son of Munsell Soil
Munsell Soil son of Swami Snake
The snake in the basket o’ Pullman Brake
Pullman Brake son of Hatta Tik
The bug in the rug son of Balletic
Balletic son of FBI
The Tommy gun men son of Hy and Dri
Hy and Dri son of Daily News
The word on the street son of Boogie Shoes
Boogie Shoes son of Years Ago
The gone by the way son of Best in Show
Best in Show son of Links of Chain
The iron that weeps son of Dick and Jane
Dick and Jane son of Bob and Weave
The blow to the head son of Makebelieve
Makebelieve son of Elmo Bib
The under the pin son of Flying Jib
In balletic poise
focused with intense stillness
arc of white light strikes
Idyllic illicit illusion…
Complicit daydream delusion…
Explicit panoply profusion…
Other worldly garlanded gems..
Purring poetic…balletic..stirring kinetic aesthetic..
Absurdly drop atop delicious stems..
Heavenly blue hue...serenity’s serendipitous shade..
Or purple patch so plush…fairies blamelessly blush..
Bucolic blossom hush... mother nature's made..
Garnishing..varnishing.. intricate forest floor laid..
Magical mist…delicate..sumptuously sprayed...
Trysts persist…unctuously dappled glade..
How can you resist..not be swayed?
Flagrantly decadently displayed.
Fragrantly delectably conveyed...
Casts seasonal smorgasbord spells..
Marvel at the mythical majesty..
Spring’s cocooned woven tapestry..
Festooned filigree of bluebell dells
vile vibed violin
pruning punctured pelvics
damped veins scrunching
tossing tactic traces
kleptomaniac kinky crunches
vesting voluptuous voices
silly strength spent
spilled seals etched
rustic reels rent
callous crest cupped
lanky lousy lust
revamping coda rust
balletic bounty bod
assumed caboodle Corpse.
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