light footed danseuse
admired by the masses
original steps
danced like a faerie
twirling her petite body
bloodying her feet
Beneath the city's concrete awning,
Sunlight pirouettes through the urban sprawl.
A danseuse of shadows on an asphalt stage,
Nature's pulsations thrum through it all.
Skyscrapers, leviathan bellwethers,
Forge an ersatz forest, soaring high-hearted.
Yet, within the interstices, light clandestinely seeps,
A palpitant echo of the limitless sky.
Amidst the urban hustle, a delicate interlude,
Komorebi, a tender kiss on the city's veins.
A pause in the plangent urban resonation,
Nature reclaims what the concrete constrains.
Crystal leaves and chrome branches entwine,
Casting intricate choreography on sidewalks below.
Sunlight gavottes through the narrow openings,
In the eurythmy of ebb and flow.
Candescence alights in hidden sanctuary,
Where sunbeams dance, and freedom finds liberty.
Komorebi, a serene urban ballet,
Nature handwrit in city's clamorous fray.
She slipped into the ballroom
Shimmied across the floor
Bobbed a graceful curtsy
Slid quickly through the door
Leaving some mixed reactions
From all those gathered there
First time they’d seen a tango
With the artiste totally bare
And it’s not the sort of thing
One ever ever expects to be seen
At an Official Civic Reception
For Her Majesty the Queen
And certainly not in Bolton
Not even as a merry jest
Especially when entertaining
Hordes of other Royal Guests
Though some few unkind people
Thought the Duke wanted more
Insisting they heard that personage
Murmuring encore encore encore
The palace issued a strong denial
An apology came from Tony Blair
Seen as rather ridiculous
As he wasn’t even there
The Heir was rather annoyed
Because he hadn’t been invited
On that special day that the
Mysterious woman was sighted
Somewhere up near Wigan
The dancer read her press
Already preparing for her
Next appearance sans any dress
I was never told
To behold
The tears
Carrying all my fears
To let them flow
For the glow
To pay the price
For snatching the prize
To let someone die
On the mere roll of the die
I was never told
To behold
The dance of the fairies
Amongst fires in the prairies
Of the sacrifice
For the fool’s paradise
I was never told
To behold
The danseuse death
In her fight with fate
The glory bequeath
With the fory dead
I was never told
To prepare myself
To fight herself
To wrench my prize
From someone her size
I was never told
To behold
People’s fate
In someone’s gait
To let the decision
Be forsaken of vision
I was never told
To behold
The dance of the dead
As if they had never bled
Their waking up again
Out of deign not disdain
I was never told
To behold
The history being rewritten
And the mysteries being smitten..
From barre to en pointe.
Ballerino in plié.
Jeté through coda.
Rhythmical gestures and steps
make for a happy dancing in present days...
either to worship God if the purpose is sacred,
or to worship Satan, if the purpose is wicked..
A genuine, artful and heartfelt dance
is devotion to our true God, who blesses
all dancers performing before His shining throne;
even a danseur or danseuse can never feel alone.
When the absence of light invites darkness to rove,
don't be daunted...dance and be dazzled from above;
God's chosen people became impatient and rough,
and started dancing before the golden, glimmering calf.
Invite all believers to your dance,
young and old, poor and rich: forget no one in your search;
everyone must share in the glory which enlightens each,
count me in...I'll lift my praying hands!
A leap ... jete
a turn ... fouette
in the drama dance
of ballet.
A pas and then
glissade again
choreographed
by the danseuse
in her slippers
steel toed.
Balanced on tarsi strong
beneath her stiff tulle tutu,
she vaults
in an allegro passage
to soar
and interpret the tale.
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