Long Ballroom Poems
Long Ballroom Poems. Below are the most popular long Ballroom by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ballroom poems by poem length and keyword.
Let me get r o m a n t i c, cross my legs,
pucker my lips, slip into your shadow.
You say, “It’s a bit hot in here,” as I draw near.
You're pulling at your collar, releasing your tie.
My scarf, silkily and seamlessly, slides
onto the parquet floor, next to your shoes,
kicked off. My s t i l e t o s join yours
on the ballroom floor. They’re ruby red.
We are not ready for bed, Mon amour.
For now, we are in this for kicks. High
riding our stallions through the m e a d o w.
Enjoying our tricks and treats together.
Our wet skin, pearlescent, in the moonlight,
swimming with p l e a s u r e in the dark.
We get closer and closer to the t r u t h
of who she is; who he is; we’re in the depths.
The mistletoe overhead reveals a mystery.
You’d think it is a k i s s, but it is a knee.
The d i a m o n d brilliance of cerise cheeks,
and a “yes, oh yes,” and yes, comes the kiss.
Let me get r o m a n t i c, in snow of negligee,
looser lips, and a slip b e t w e e n the sheets.
It’s never been h o t t e r as you draw near.
It’s time we know no bounds, my love.
A Dream Come True
Little princess with her unicorn.
The magic wizard keeps her so scorn.
Her father the king never lets her out to play.
He is always scared.. she will be taken away.
Mighty knights.. always guarding her doors.
Poor princess.. is always so board.
Then one day.. they were all having a great feast.
This prince from a far away land.. swooped her off her feet.
Love at first sight.. in each others eye’s.
Meant to be together.. they danced in the ballroom all night.
Before he left.. he put a promise ring on her hand..
Then said.. “ I will be back as fast as I can “..
The prince came back four days later.
He gave the king gifts.. then married is love forever..
Then the prince.. became a great King.
He protected his Queens land.. and all human beings…
Warm yellow stone bricks, a palace to the viewer
Columns and facades in swirling and dazzling designs
Classical architecture, intricate carvings on the front door
A treasure, an exotic fantasy, a dream . . .
Ornate chandeliers of leaded glass crystal
Sparkling fabulously and twinkling in a ballroom
Used for countless costume balls with orchestra's, surely
Some said it was haunted . . .
It stood vacant and alone for years
Gone to waste and ruin and tumbling down
Leaves blowing in under it's ornate front door
A beautiful home forgotten . . .
Walking by, I see a sign "to be demolished. . "
For some reason that made me sad and lonely
What of the families that once lived there, I wonder
For sure they are long dead . . .
___________________________
September 6, 2012
Poetry/Verse/A Home Forgotten
Copyright Protected, ID 09-418-875-06
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Submitted to the Standard contest, Writing Contest: A Home
sponsor, Len Gasun, Judged 05/28/2013
Sixth Place
GUESTS OF EMBERA DRUA
We are guests in this village on the Chagris River shore.
Tribe members of Embera Drua twist palms of Panama -
embrace us each, with this wreath of scented flora,
language barriers break down with food and dance.
In this jungle we’ve no need to be formal in dress,
the natives share achiote seeds to redden my lips and cheeks.
And fresh coconut chased down with sips of sugar cane,
plenteous Panamanian fruit, hot lunch served in banana leaves.
Before we position our eyes upon the treasured trades
we are invited to join them for some entertainment.
Our acquaintances in tribal wear, write lyrics upon
their dirt floor ballroom, with calloused feet.
Dressed in paloma skirt and cotton taparabo, men and women
invite tourists to dance with them, as drums pulse and flutes charm.
We will remember the stilted homes of our friends,
dogs lazing underneath the floor, abundance of fruit trees,
a school in development so students can remain with parents
instead of placing sandals upon feet and leaving their family home.
Our dugout canoe glides back to the shore of lily pads,
we swim with invigorated thoughts and gladness.
Kim Rodrigues © 2017
Friendly, charming and loving describe my Dad well.
A man of integrity and pride, I knew I could trust him.
Tennis player extraordinaire, ballroom dancer, history and movie buff,
He was all these and more, so much more.
Even so he had his flaws, but he loved his children.
Restoring old photos and photography were his trade;
Solitude and quiet were what he craved: he was a gentle soul.
Dogs were his best friends: he rescued many, kept a few and they
adored him.
A day in June, Two thousand thirteen, he left this earth and me.
Years have passed and I still miss his hugs.
5/16/2021
For L. Milton Hankins A Tribute to Father's contest
While I watch this drama unfold,
A weird feeling keeps bothering me.
Like an itch from a mosquito or a chip in your tooth
That you keep coming back to itch it or lick it,
But it just gets worse and worse and worse.
I want to be a part of this drama….
I wiggled into my brown coat,
Flung off my blue striped pajamas,
Wait, no,
Reverse that, I flung my pajamas off first,
And then I threw on my coat.
As soon as I embraced my coat, it felt like an oven,
Smelled of soft paste to a delicious chocolate chip cookie.
I rushed down two flights of squeaky stairs and finally,
I wobbled down into the streets.
It was snowing,
Glistening and shining, magnificent and beautiful,
And cold.
My eyes wandered from left to right,
Empty.
Where is everybody?
I rubbed my eyes and squinted some more,
Until lights began to flicker and colors began to fade.
I felt lonely. Very. Very. Lonely.
If only I had stayed in there and continued watching.
If only I hadn’t rushed down into the empty streets.
I curled up into a ball and waited for the snow to cover me.
“Hey neighbor! What are you doing out there!”
I whisper back to him in this storm.
“leave me alone. it was too much to bear.”
“What’s too bare? Your fingers and your toes that are freezing out there?
Come join us for a drink!”
I gathered all my final strength and took a peek at the light.
I gasped out loud, shocked and delighted.
“Mr. Tippy! And Mr. Happy!”
I rushed to my neighbor’s house while they let down a ladder to the ground.
*zippy zappidi zoopadi flop
Every step I climbed upwards was a happy tippy dance,
Followed, of course, by a magical note up on the roof.
The ladder seemed so long, but in a blink, I was on the top.
I saw Mr. Tippy is still dancing his musical and magical dance.
I saw Mr. Happy no longer red as a tomato.
Then the dancing man reached out his hand,
He gave me a smile and a pair of twinkling eyes.
He reached out a hand to me and a hand to Mr. Happy, then,
The three of us, Mr. Tippy, Mr. Happy, and I,
Danced whimsical jazz and ballroom dance,
On Mr. Tippy and Mr. Happy’s roof.
In the shadow's caress, where light fears to tread,
Echoes of silence, in the void widespread.
A tapestry woven with threads of the night,
Where dreams fracture under the weight of fright.
The moon, a ghostly sentinel in the sky,
Casts a pallid glow where the forgotten lie.
A land of whispers, where memories seep,
Into the soil, where secrets keep.
Here, in the dominion of the somber king,
The air is thick with the raven's wing.
A waltz with the shadows, a courtship with gloom,
In the ballroom where the dead roses bloom.
So venture not where the darkness is rife,
Lest the night's embrace becomes your life.
A realm unseen, yet deeply felt,
Where the darkest stories are indelibly spelt.
He is the sinking of the final red orange sun of the glowing summer
Warmth no longer oozing and seeping into the pores as I lie bare under the skies
Jeweled dewdrops on the morning grass to dampen bare feet all softness under
And the shimmer on the surface of the lakes like the diamonds in your eyes
He is the golden cusp pf Autumn's Fertility
The ritual dance of the scarecrow in the breezes
(Straw coming loose and flying towards you, most certainly
will brush up against you and tickle before he ceases)
And this thinner less lumpy all seeing scarecrow
Seems to be in no remorse: his knowing face will always grin
And his arms will always be raised in a wave to show
He will protect the yellow brown stalks that bend before him
He is the crisp wind that caresses the crinkled foliage
Their rustling like long flowing skirts on a 1940s ballroom floor
These winds chill the fingers and toes and your face with the stinging red roses
Yet when winter beckons the retreating light, we will be frozen at its core
He is silent snowfalls and many winter moons
And the brown earth beginning to expose itself
The uncoiling of green and mud beginning to ooze
And all new life breaking free from its fragile shell
Clarity Through Static
She sits where chandeliers spill gold on marble floors
Diamond cold against her throat, Gucci bag at her side
Friends lean in, laughter bright like baubles in a ballroom
Talk spins: Paris in spring, Italy by the sea, new bags, new trips
Forks touch plates piled high, then rest. Half the food untouched, cooling
Beneath the diamonds beats a broken soul in velvet seams
She laughs, but the sound thins out before it reaches her eyes
Outside the glass, heat shimmers off the street
On the footpath a crate holds donuts dusted with sugar and sweat
Her dress is patched, joggers dusty from miles walked before dawn
Wrinkles carve worry lines, but her eyes keep a steady, quiet light
She stands through summer, smiling at each passerby
Under the bridge by garbage bins is where she sleeps, yet she thanks God
Hunger rises when the restaurant door opens and scents drift out
She feels it, turns, sells one more donut and counts it as enough
Static clears. Her gratitude rings truer than hollow chimes
Poet’s Note
Date: April 22, 2026
Title chosen: Clarity Through Static
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Nirvana awaits dada dear
thine paternal parent,
who helped sire yours truly,
a widower these
last fourteen plus years,
he laments absence,
and sorely misses presence
regarding scatterbrain spouse,
single word description,
he would readily concur
appellation linkedin with
bubbly headed just legal bride
born November thirteenth
ninety thirty five
learned thru the grapevine
(I must telephone him...
before the curtain call...,
whence his spirit
exits stage door left,
cashes in chips
gives up ghost
kick the bucket
rest in peace
et cetera, cuz
heavy sadness still pronounced
since me birth mother (his wife)
departed about three years
following grim terminal prognosis
metastatic uterine cancer
sabotaged her vivacious person
doggedly die hard zest
Arthur Murray ballroom instructor
unbridled questing nabbed,
(albeit flirtatious Lolita)
husbanded coy demeanor
snookered young, tall, slender,
handsome, athletic bachelor
unwitting prime ketch
female instinct pheromone scented
bewitched, enthralled, intoxicated...
pretty thang wrought yoked
without resistance ohm mat tickly
generated electric charm
crackled, popped, and snapped
synapses nsync between infatuated pair
future groom invoked flying colors
courtesy maternal grandmother
marriage spanned approximately half century,
not entirely wedded bliss,
yet each swore fidelity to the other
..."until death do us part".