Long Ballet Poems
Long Ballet Poems. Below are the most popular long Ballet by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ballet poems by poem length and keyword.
But let us remember, love's symphony
is not just sweet,
it can be vulnerable, fragile,
with the pain it may meet
Yet within those poignant chords,
strength and beauty reside,
for it is through the journey,
love's depths are magnified,
not to burn down the efficacy in an effigy
where obsession presides
So why decide,
to decouple your moons to a different umbilical line!
Move the ides, from its seat inside your head
Bartering lies !
So let our stolen kisses echo in eternity's embrace,
our symphony of desires, boundless
in time and space
May our souls forever dance
to the music of our hearts,
a crescendo of love, through every beat, it imparts
The whispers of longing,
echo in an ode to the fragile beauty laid dare,
to behold
Cold intertwines love in the fragile tryst, made of
crimson and gold, a stroke of cursed passion blade, painted in misty hues of verses untold, and lover laid bare under as cleaving glaive takes hold there
With every beat of your heart
Beware you, who the siren's call,
with promises untrue,
calls the tune of love's sweet melody, O, love can sometimes lead strays a skewed
with every play of apart
In the Twilight raimant so blue
BadvBlood, of shattered bonds weeps through
ballet of pain, to undo
So let the poet's pen dance upon
the parchment white,
and with every word penned,
ignite a guiding light
for love transcends mere words upon a page,
It weaves emotions into eternity's stage,
whose Signs, who hides moons of a different line!
Who but trust and loves-rosy-hue
moves aside winds, ends...
...blues
...chooses, sides, in favor of you
Of whose designs, satellites hearts two
at a time! Who
moves to breath your sails on the Seven Seas
of Life...
In the Twilight raimant so blue...
I can only live in a garden
where warped talons
of tiger tulip petals mar
unbroken lines of pastel shimmer,
not where silent cerulean lakes
float as though aloft
in frames of polished stone
to tell the cloudless sky,
I'm your offspring.
I smile for blighted statues
mocked by companies of peonies
effervescing in ballet
and the coarse tusk of St Augustine
thronged by emerald dichondra.
I have no business among wisteria's cornucopias
of lilac bounty nor the glee
of summer marigolds.
I tend thorny stalks
of a wild rose that never blooms
and climbing ferns whispering
in shaded corners of spring's
explosive allemande.
I feel only weight of gray misted mornings
when the dank of coming rain permeates
in pale foliage's stag line
where vines creep in distant communion,
ignored by harsh jonquil rays.
Surrounded by kaleidoscopic colors of every hue,
From blue-black nighttime, to redbird's dawn debut;
So easy to see why it all began in a garden green,
Stirring emotions supernal, which had never been seen!
In the presence of dazzling, blush gardens of June,
Filled with joy of kinship, the heart beats in tune.
And butterflies takeoff on dreamy flights of fancy,
To see the wildflower ballet, so graceful and dancy!
Drunken with the unparalleled raptures of living,
Nature is benevolent, with great joy in the giving!
The crickets, and others on the beloved soundtrack,
Never will be hasbeens-there'll always be a comeback.
And the deeply compelling, deeply sensuous splendor,
Arrests the eyes and evokes the heart's surrender!
For the contest FINETUNE THIS COLLABORATION sponsored
by Line Gauthier
INTERCEPTION
Shadows waning distorted fading
Teasing tempting, a psychotic hack
Scheming concealing cerebral deceiving
Sun retreating behind shades of black
Memoirs succumbing, alpha notes strumming
Hope dwindling midst each laboured breath
Dusky-eyed wretchedness, reflective reminiscence
Sporadic spirits predicting sinister death
Powerless to quell the oppressor within
Oh, desolation! The thief with the sinister grin
The day bleeds, no conveyed clarifications
Nightfall brings its own demonic demons
Moodswings of crazy with judgements so hazy
Interceptive apathy through feelings of lethargy
Music evokes emotions with resilient duress
Though once familiar titles slide back in regress.
Living within her own fluid transparency
The piteous empathy, does she even discern?
Is she to become a fading frequency?
Or… ungenial ashes in a decorative urn?
As the soft rose shades of twilight transcends
In the quietude of peace – a hushed calm descends
One last recall remains in her artistic archive
Where the Star of the Show still dazzles and thrives.
Maria Williams © 2023
I know this will be a sensitive topic, especially at Christmas with people caring for or visiting their loved ones afflicted with Dementia or Alzheimer's—such a sad condition. Apparently, the worst thing to possibly do is try to jog the patient's memory, as it causes more stress.
Instead, why not give them your time and play their favourite music?
Music memories often remain as others disappear.
This is because brain regions involved in musical memory and processing (e.g., the cerebellum) are not as affected by Alzheimer's or dementia until much later in the disease course.
Please watch the video; it is so beautiful and touching. Marta Gonzalez was a professional ballet dancer who developed Alzheimer's. One thing she never forgot was her Swan Lake routine She passed in 2019.
Written for contest "Haibun" 11/29/2024 by Tom Woody
Stoic by the edge where sand meets the salt, sun warmed grains so white whisper beneath your feet and we are anchored here in this moment. The waves unfurl as if in mental thought, the crests rise and fall in a ballet of blue and white and having been dancing in this rhythm for centuries. They crash together in violent laughter like to lovers that embrace after being apart far too long, their respect and love for one another apparent. Looking ahead at the horizon that stretches out like an open invitation to explore endless possibilities. Clouds drift lazily above sharing their own stories of travels through the sky. We come here in the echoes of summers joy always with the promise of return to splash through Salt Creek's crystalline breakers filling our lives with hope and inspiration once again. Here in this place where time pauses in handfuls of these precious moments for us all, as the gentle breeze caresses' your skin reminding everyone that beauty still exists; Not only in perfection but in every wave that crashes to shore and recedes in every imperfection that weaves through our lives. Walking on the edge where sand meets the salt watching them erase our footprints left until next time...
Footprints by the shore
Thoughts etched within perfect waves
Eternal Ballet
She turned her head, looking back at the crosswalk, with her feet slapping the ground as cold
rain poured down her neck. Tears mingled with the fat pounding drops, that stuck her cocoa
brown hair to her face as she wept silently. His words rang in her ears, “There are just some
choices............ you can never take back.” Her heart wrenched at his last few syllables, and
she felt completely overwhelmed with nausea. His words were like poison from a snake bite,
so full of venom it felt as if her chest walls began to ache and her breathing began to slow.
She felt as if she was the lead ballerina in the ballet the Red Shoes, as the world seemed to
spin out of control. Spinning so quickly but fearing the fall, where no one would be there to
catch her at the end.
Anxiety attack, now as her tunnel vision clouded her eyes. She felt the world waver around
her, and all became a blur. Like when your a kid, and your father picked you up high above
his head and spun you about. Laura barely was aware that she was even standing, let alone
standing in the rain while mothers rushed their children inside, and the wind began to pick
up. Her skin was growing warmer, even though the rain two degrees above zero. In her
anguish she winced as she felt that as if her skin was set on fire. Cars swept past her, yet
she felt as if she were the only person left on earth in her sorrow. She shivered as the rain
water dripped loudly in her ears, only hearing the reverberation of the last words he ever
spoke to her. “I never want to see you again............”
Laura started to run, as she wildly pumped her arms to pick up her speed. She ran so fast
that she could taste blood in her mouth, and her saliva, like glue made it harder to breath
stuck to the back of her throat. Laura didn’t care, that she was pushing her body so far that
it hurt, because beneath that physical hurt, there was another kind of pain. A pain that shows
no bruising or outward cuts. Her heart was completly broken. As a 20 year old, in a very big
world. She had made him her entire world. She was unable to distinguish a life without him
there.
Form:
So you wear these thorns with pride, accepting the hand that invites you to dance,
and you spin alongside your reflection, to the music of voids that sing to your tears.
Because you know, this pain looks better on no one else but you,
you know you have always been the perfect mannequin to display it to the world.
In the mirror of your soul, a ballet of shadows and lights is reflected,
where every step is an untold story, a silence that bears your name,
and in this dance, pain becomes a silk dress, a crown of thorns,
which you wear with grace, for only you know how to dress suffering with elegance.
The whistle of time sings a refrain of loss and rediscovery,
and you, wrapped in melancholy, embrace your imperfections as rare artifacts,
because you have learned that beyond the pain lies an inexplicable beauty,
a story written in shades of sadness and light, understood only by you.
Thus you dance with your thorns and tears, blending reality with illusion,
a perfect mannequin transforming suffering into art, into a spectacle of life,
because in every wound and every tear hides a part of you,
a truth you wear with pride, an eternal dance in the mirror of destiny.
“Ballet is a psalm, a form of worship and a sacred dance between the ballerina and God.” quote by prima ballerina, Ann Etgen-Atkinson.
She enters where the soft light waits
and feels its hush draw near her soul
as silence opens her inner gates.
Her *turnout forms a gentle whole,
a yielding shaped by quiet trust
that steadies her in sacred role.
Her center holds a tender must,
a call to rest in God’s soft breath
letting her striving turn to dust.
Her lines extend beyond the death
of fear or haste or earthly claim
leaning toward Love under’eth.
She moves within His whispered Name~
her steps a psalm of lifted flame.
*Turnout in ballet refers to the outward rotation of the legs from the hips, which allows dancers to achieve greater extension and maintain balance during movements. It is a fundamental aspect of ballet technique that enhances the aesthetic quality of the dance. (Source Wikipedia.com)
In the boundless black of space, where celestial bodies gleam,
There lies a canvas painted vast, where cosmic tales esteem.
Stars sparkle in the distant void, like diamonds set aflame,
Each twinkle a whispered secret, in the universe’s endless game.
Galaxies twirl in stately dance, across the cosmic sea,
A ballet of astral entities, a celestial symphony.
Nebulae, with vibrant hues, the cradle of new stars,
Hold within their gaseous folds, stories from afar.
Meteors trace a fleeting path, across the starlit veil,
A brief, incandescent journey, through cosmic trails they sail.
Black holes, mysterious and dark, with an insatiable desire,
Consume all that ventures close, in their invisible, dense quagmire.
Planets, each with unique tales, orbit suns with steady grace,
Holding secrets, mysteries, in the vast, interstellar space.
Moons cast their silvery glow, upon planetary faces,
Guardians of the night sky, in their eternal, celestial spaces.
In this canvas of the cosmos, where stellar artistry entwines,
A story of existence, and timeless design defines.
May we look unto the stars, with wonder in our eyes,
And seek the unseen threads, that in our own being lies.
As we gaze upon the vastness, of the universe so grand,
Let’s ponder on our tiny world, within this stellar sand.
For in the infinite tapestry, where cosmic tales are spun,
We find a connection, uniting us all, under the same bright sun.
Maybe the clouds had a point.
“It’s a wonderful life,”
They sang, in godly choir chorus.
I look at the calendar—
Another week in ember,
and no time for theatre.
My gaze drifts down the road—
A plastic bag lifts
off the old brick pavement.
It c s
o l
i
in the air
just enough
to dodge the screeching tires.
I watched for so long
I missed my class.
Such a silly reason,
but on my note I wrote:
I was late,
because a plastic bag was doing ballet—
and someone had to see it.