Best Chorus Line Poems
A gallant moon extends gold fingers to me on the dance floor
as I slip my legs into the chorus line of tall, green grass with ease.
Like a spiraling leaf, I’m free until eyes freeze upon his tracks.
I'm Rudolph stuck in traffic, and on this of all the nights,
and up to now my nose has matched each set of traffic lights,
the fat guy in the back keeps bridling at our progress slow,
why I get saddled with him each year, I harnessly don't know.
When other Reindeer used to help, back then boy, we could fly
but they've been made redundant since their running costs were high.
Dasher's now a quarterback for Minnesota Vikings,
and Dancer's in a chorus line, it's much more to her liking.
Prancer's found a new life with the Spanish riding school
and Vixen works the shopping Malls, which I think is pretty cool.
Cupid isn't stupid he went for early retirement
and Comet just lives off the land, Lichen his sole requirement.
Donner runs a kebab shop, he's doing pretty well
and Blitzen helped but left because he couldn't stand the smell.
So here I am, life can be cruel, it never reins it pours,
stuck in a line of SUVs instead of home indoors,
and Santa's whining at the fact I cannot be cold started,
and that is why I warmed him up, I clenched my cheeks and farted.
(All spelling intentional)
For contest 'Christmas Rhymes', sponsor Kim Rodrigues
November 27th 2017
Dot to Dot
. 2 . Point to point
Painting life by the numbers
A moving chorus line of choice
Random patterns spurned
Unbroken pointillism paints a soul’s portrait
In shades of shadows and sunlight
. 2 . Day to day
In a sanctuary of measured stillness
Sunset and sunrise on a calculated thread
Sun and moon follow precise lines of gavotte
Like a moving celestial stairway
The pilgrimage of each morning and each night
. 2 . Mile by mile
Plumb line for restless steps
Stepping stones of revelation
Crossing over potholes of quick sand
Passing detours of indiscretion
Wisdom’s oasis marks each passage
. 2 . Note by note
Winsome, plaintive, joyful melody line
Rises from the deep eternal’s depths
That reads each note as written
One voicing after the other
The song of each life stitched together
. 2 . Line by line
Stars joined with silk filaments
Sweet ambrosia of constellations
Fiery guardians in strings of astral confetti
When north stars and southern crosses
Make paths through our tangled valleys
12-20-22
Contest: Dot to Dot
Sponsor: Kim Rodrigues
`
Slandered wavelengths
from an old worn out speaker
cracking with each unbalanced bass note
Finding my brain on overload
and a slower heart beat
out of tune
Static becomes the union,
tuning dial gone, volume at high
glowing in the corner of cobweb melodies
lingering on a distant shelf
now sinking lower in this
roadside armchair (Where are the earplugs when you need them)
An empty bottled fortress
protects the pain at my feet,
brown glass soldiers stand guard,
bottle cap mementos flip
like dancing beans on a folding table
at El Mercado
One more for the road
(like I need this)
along crooked dotted lines, weaving nonsense
two at a time, smirking
snickering like children hiding from a babysitter,
mimicking the way
Still the static, white noise,
drowns out the joy and the trees cry,
when birdsong of night haunts with a sound
interrupting the dance of the
beer bottle chorus line
and I tap a painful toe
From sounds heard on eardrums
and hair cells in the inner ears,
we refract and warp their tones
into sound shadow puppet-plays,
in the mind’s disc-jockey's booth,
picking and choosing what to keep or lose,
softening hard edges, to time-warp what we can bear,
bending the ear away from dissent,
replaying covers of old favorites
when we refuse the unfamiliar.
The unwanted drifts into static noise,
we switch off midway,
we look away, hands over ears—
we laugh to force a chorus line.
We get up and dance
to shake away the doubt now stirred,
quick-stepping away sideways
to avoid toes being crushed,
when what’s heard moves up too close—
too close to the bone.
“That can’t be true.”
“Can’t apply to me, surely.”
“Where did you hear such nonsense?”
“It doesn’t really matter anyway.”
“Enough already—OK.”
Midway, the call we're on
strangely is made to fade,
it seems to breaks up—
"Sorry you've dropped out"
"It's garbled"
"Say again, Speak up"
Or the soundproof door
quietly, gently swings shuts
before the message is complete.
Interrupting:
"Yeah, that's Right"
"I Know what you mean"
"That's so True"
"Everyone Agrees, Sure!"
We know what we like
the home disk jockey to spin:
old favorites,
covers and tributes
echoing into sound shadows
along narrow self-worn and self-torn
protected shadow lit pathways.
it was a chorus line of hollyhocks against a crumbling red brick building
that devastated my poem,
they laid waste to the words you asked me to write,
you said I would try to hurt you with my intent,
my rhyme,
I said your prejudice and ignorance were showing,
like wearing a hooded down overcoat near the end of June
you said 'fire away' and I asked if you knew why
Bodhi-dharma left for the East,
on the grand scale of conclusions high on a hill
shepherds guard their flock from the thorn bush
and the mountain lion,
the fishers of men
live down in the valley of the marketplace;
you will not understand this poem
and you'll go about your business
blaming someone else for what you'll
never understand until you can see
inside the magenta and chestnut brown
mid-summer hollyhock, bursting
with painted ladies, hummingbirds
and poems.
The sun rises with unrehearsed drama
as an egrets wings its way gracefully
across the canal saturated
with lily pads near to bloom.
Nearby the cypress trees weep
in Spanish moss along the shoreline---
their knees rising daintily just above
the murky water line.
A sudden gust of wind carries with it
the fresh scent of rain falling
somewhere nearby---
wafting softly with it the smell
of vegetation in stages of decay.
Frogs croaking in the chorus line
in early celebration of showers
promised on the morning breeze
adds a musical touch to the scene.
Copyright © 2013 Debra Squyres
Standing at the waters dividing edge....
Watching the sparrows and dragonflies flying by
Spitting into its mirrored reflections amid these
Shimmering thoughts of being as one; life ~
Walking down its banks and gazing into the sky
Searching....
Sacred verse; flowing currents and swaying flowers
Jewelweeds, colourful turtles and curious mallards
Butterflies dancing afore fascinations bloom; purity ~
A chorus line its blessed light and unknown night and I
My own hands; before the altar carved years ago....
The precious name of “Christ, The Messiah.”
Turning toward the north to pass, this sweeping sun ~
Spirit in hand; spitting into the waters of mirrored
Moments as One, with my Soul....
Searching beyound the currents flowing inside these eyes
Nature, life, tides and tides; time, standing at divisions edge
*************************************************
....“Again, At The River Jordan” ~
Middays muse; with tinseled fingers and what is this, but a mockeries dust amid the wind....
Lost laxus, in its own schematics malignful maze everwinding unto inevitables end within
A self-fulfillings twisted prophecy spelling this enigmas day of irony, that shall be!?
Finding but a paradox in bittersweets truth clinging to these ivy genuises walls
Scaling both reason and purpose; this mingling of night with day and laughters illusions
Soon to fade into what was no less than a sifting breeze passing by as it lingered upon
This bed of thornful roses which pierced their eyes while tears gathered in shadows blind....
Unto where is the irony to be found in this tangerine testament aneath times carnival tents?!
In quantums theories these porcelain dolls with their charcoal smiles; defiles dangling
Upon strings of pain to be broken inside; a chorus line of deceit and lies kept in a bios box
As daydreaming within this mirages muse amid a maze which they once believed, their truth....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
....“The Puppet Master” *
There was a party tonight
here in the park where I live;
a three piece band played
mostly oldies from the fifties.
Some couples danced
and that was fun to watch.
I even got up and joined the chorus line
of single women, movin' their moves
and struttin' their stuff,
after a glass and a half of
my favorite vintage Cabernet,
and after reliving a very brief moment
from at least one past life
as a belly dancer, for the old guys
who were egging me on...
One couple, maybe in their 80's,
danced like two people
who have danced together all their lives.
One could imagine that their dance
portrayed their life together,
honoring each other's individual movement while
combining them to create a third rhythm
and a dance all its own.
Neither of them alone
would have been nearly as captivating
as the two of them
were together.
Have you ever noticed that?
Paper Doll Chorus Lines
by Odin Roark
Sun and wind
Imagination’s puppeteer
Turn and twist cutout paper dolls
Strung across blown out window casements
Creating daily enchantment amidst the smoke
How precious
These afternoons
As scissors assist small fingers prepare
The matinée performance
Cutting daily “stay in your homes” flyers
Into dancing friends
Soon
Say the mothers
The war stage
Will be replaced by
Velvet curtained openings
Where make-believe hope
Will find flesh and blood still intact
Renewed hearts respecting
Freedom
Happiness
Soon
Well I declare!
Gawd, did you hear
the minister just
dyed his hair,
a reddish tint
with purple streaks
to match his flowered
untied “sneaks”.
I do declare!
I saw him there
buying thong-style
underwear,
to match the
tightly binding jeans
that held him in
with bulging seams.,
caressing every
part of him
Dear Gawd, it’s
got to be a sin.
Saw him wiggle,
dance and sway
in a most peculiar way.
Purse his lips
now pearly red
flounce his hair,
toss his head.
I fear he’ll lead us
into hell
at the next ringing
of the bell,
but I must follow him
you see
from aisle 6
seat twenty three.
But I declare,
he’s looking fine
and dancing
in A Chorus Line for
He became
a “sistered” brother
played his part
to help another.
Shook the rafters,
wooed the crowd
made the humble
roaring proud.
Said to those
with faces set:
“I never
should have took
that bet.”
APPLAUSE
CURTAIN CALL
WELL I DECLARE!!!!
John G. Lawless
for Well I Declare! Poetry contest
sponsor Judy Konos
We drank cheap beer in a rusted-out shed.
Buzzing before our 8:00 AM English class.
Trying to be cool- to fit in with the "Ins."
Instead, we're becoming the wobbling outcasts.
Spinning further out from the golden Ins.
Ah, the golden center.
Filled with jocks, cheerleaders.
A chorus line of silver thighs and golden pom poms.
Smirking at my pimpled insecurities?
But your long bomb popularity didn't stop that tree.
From slamming into your popularity.
It didn't move aside as you passed by.
Like I used to move aside as you passed by me.
You were popular in that narrow hallway of slow death called adolescence.
Now your football helmet is yellow and cracked.
Destined for a garage sale. Bottom shelf existence.
At the very center of long forgotten.
You with the pom poms and patented dimples.
Nowhere near that cocky cute kitten anymore.
Turned plump, pregnant, abandoned, aborted.
What happened to that sweet cotton tail and golden lips?
That used to pip "you'll never be with me".
Finally, after forty-plus years.
You're lying with me...figuratively.
Spread eagle atop pom pom mountain.
An outcast on the periphery of everything.
ON THE PLANTING OF TREES
The Chinese say to keep a green tree in your heart
and perhaps a singing bird will come.
Stretching fingertips to the starry skies above,
trees are perhaps silent, but they are far from dumb.
Reaching, praying, whispering in glorious exchange
with their mobile short-sighted human kin,
Trees sweeten our air by taking in what we exhale,
rewarding us with their breath, which we breathe in.
The storms of life make trees take deeper roots,
they have answers for any question a man seeks
they are witness to every change that occurs around them,
And so are the best possible kind of antiques.
To see trees dancing with the moon, framing bursts of stars,
we are gifted with their tender, rugged celebration,
a rooted chorus line holding the power of the universe,
every human beings chance to participate in creation.
Trees are beautiful in their peace; they are wise in their silence.
They will stand here long after we are all gone on to dust.
Beauty will have been added to this corner of the world
that to our children and grandchildren we will entrust.
There is much we can learn from the trees in our lives,
they are as grounded as it is possible to be,
yet they continuously strive to to touch the heavens above,
and without effort they remain uninhibited and free.
Trees are our most intimate contact with nature,
without artifice, never guarded, never coy.
A society grows great when old men plant trees
whose shade they know they shall never enjoy.
Blistering acts of making new life are often held in reserve
for gods in heavens above, or lowly poets in their hovel,
But today we can all partake in the creation of life
With little more than light, love, and a shovel.
So we travel through time when we plant a tree,
Regardless of the why, the where and the how.
The best time to plant a tree was 20 years ago.
And yet the next best time is right now.
Dusty Rain
Puffs of random promise coldly awaken the hope of droughts thirsty ticket holders.
Parched dust joins in pig-like, snout in the trough, dry tongued greeting.
Satiations mud bath ensues
leaves rub their hands together
cupping cool water
soothing the screaming roots.
Flowers lean back
rinse their colored tresses
rejoice in the trickle
of renewal.
Worms lay – Cleopatra-like -
self seeking mud worshippers
freed from their dungeons.
Puddled streets shiny rainbow hues
search for the pot-o-gold
of street signs end.
Dandelions shake golden crowns
mimic the sun,
smile on the dream
of future days.
Garden Buddha,
licks stoic lips, smiles
cool trickles tickle his girth.
Thin groundhog sleeps
knowing his prized shoots
will soon be plenty.
Birds succumb
to the perfume of petrichor,
dance in fence top chorus line
to the dusty drum beat of
Spring rain.
6/5/2016
submitted to – ika-labing-tatlo(13th): Rain, Rain com my way – Poetry Contest
sponsor – binibining P.iNK