Long Ballrooms Poems
Long Ballrooms Poems. Below are the most popular long Ballrooms by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ballrooms poems by poem length and keyword.
Those who pray by marching
can pray alone
in endless competitions.
Those who pray while dancing
can only pray together
for timeless cooperations.
Hate and fear can only angry march
side by competing side
in uniformity of lock-step supremacy.
But love and compassion
can also truth and beauty dance
and sing
in full hope octaves
of multicolored harmony.
Resonant solidarity of ballrooms
and street performers
singing and chanting and drumming
good news gospel resonance
rather than bad news mono-marching hate.
We can sing and dance cooperatively
to angry patriarchal elitist marchers
more effectively than merely speak in not-kind shout,
and across,
and back and forth,
flow anthems up and out of all inclusive love songs.
This singing dance can,
with enough harmonic polycultured voices,
become sustained ego-happy filibusters
through marching hate,
marathons of love
proactively singing and dancing
alongside those marching through dualdark fear and anger,
inviting them to rejoin
our dancing gospel choir.
For every hate-mongering military march,
we have thousands of love-mentoring lyrics,
and,
therefore,
potential dancing lyricists.
Anger and marching paranoia are mutually competitive
double-binding allies,
as are love song and grace of dance mutually harmonic.
We can choose to march and shout ourselves apart,
but we would more democratically,
and gracefully,
prefer to dance and sing our cooperative ways together.
Those who pray while dancing
can only pray together
for timeless cooperations.
Mountain of ice a scene so awfully
/\ 0
/\ ~ / \ o /\
~~~~ / \ ~~~~/ \ ^ /\ O o / \ ~~
¨~~/ \^^o 0 o------- /\ .... /\ ~~ ooo /\ __
~~ Titanic
sank
oo ~~
~~ ## darkness
xxxx
~~~~ xxxx in the
II III IIIII ////
sea
( cold ... deep o O )
_________ o oo _________death
there are no ballrooms for dancing on the seabed
adventure - X - swallowed by the sea ////. \\\\
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
07.05.2023
Anne-Lise Andresen
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
no 1215
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
3rd place in the contest
As a writer
You can be anything your heart desires
take any shape size or form
as you please
Infinite possibilities of all you can be and do
With paint and a brush you can be Picasso
you can be Shakespeare if you wanted
even host a Coltrane concert if so wished
You can morph into
a cute little butterfly
a magical sea witch
a giant whale in the Atlantic
You can tour the universe and time travel
while sitting behind a desk looking out your tiny window
back in time as you survey the future and build castles
You can eat anything in this worldeven that which has not yet made it to Joël Robuchon's menu
You can travel as far as your imagination can take you
You'd be in Paris enjoying a croissant and a Café au lait
from your backyard
Or basking on the sandy beaches in Malibu
from the little concrete city you live in
You can experience
winter spring summer autumn all seasons
from a small tropical village on the East of Africa
You can be an angel, a demon, a zombie, a poltergeist
just choose your calling
You can walk into the world's greatest ballrooms
waltz and dine
with the grande dames of our time
and banter with charming princes kissing knights and curtseying to queens
As a writer you can be
anything
anywhere
anytime
It takes ten legs squeaking in sneakers
And eight rubber wheels heavily humming
On the checkered sparkling linoleum floor
To move a boy with a tumor
From one hospital floor to the next
For emergency tests
One nurse one doctor a technician leading the way
Mom and dad
Trailing the speeding parade with teddy bears and balloons
And faces full of frowns surrounding a white crib
And a mobile I.V. tower
Thrashing like an octopus fished from water
Whisk
Kicking down the hallways
Onlookers flattened against the walls
Get out of the way
And as all this passes by
From the corner of my eye
I see a creature on a gurney
Unattended
Parked to the side
Fossil of old woman with her head resting
On a mop of white hair
Everywhere
Her skeleton face framed like a crazed witch
No longer Queen dancing in the ballrooms
Toasting friends writing checks signing up her volunteers
Here she is
Abandoned
Vacuuming the stale air through her purple pursed lips
Eyes locked on my boy
Make way
Make way.
Wing footed winter’s dance is of grey skies,
bare branch silhouettes in silver gowns
dormant magic within icy poses
brilliant halls bedecked with frosted flowers.
Into the Grand Ballrooms of springtime
a sweep of pastel ball gowns - all awhirl
Fresh pirouettes that gleam with sparkling dew
To bring alive the dreaming garden songs.
Until the partners change at summer’s start
Now gowns sway green- as green as willow boughs
And all the maiden’s heads are strewn with flowers
While love renewed replaces all past cares
Then as the leaves turn slowly - red to brown
All regal shades of velvet now adorn
The dancers bow - the way of beauty flown
Their hearts have pledged a promise to return.
CONTEST NO 470,ANY FORM OR NONE,ANY THEME,UPTO A MAX OF 20 LINES
Contest Judged: 7/25/2018 1:07:00 PM
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
6th. Place
Published in PS It’s Poetry Available on Amazon.
boy and girl intermingling
blood and veins overlapping
vulnerableness
a violet's caress
lavender kombucha
passion's persona
jasmine's megaphone
harmony's tone
music's movements
sincere sentiments
amethyst's kiss
hot and cold amiss
an artist's loaded brush
a starfish's bluish blush
a fairy dusting
mountain berry ice cream
jelly doughnut filling
ripened grapes distilling
regal drape twine
an eggplant's bloodline
royalty's manners
hung Lutheran banners
a swing-seated spiritual rest
creativity compressed
a poet's potential prose
a rare rose
a nose of lilac blooms
beauty's ballrooms
a pleasurable bruise
love's uncomfortable shoes
a plum's point of view
progeny of red and blue
evening sky's blending
a rainbow's favorite ending
River chopped
Into rugged blocks
Of ice and powdered snow
Under a covered bridge
The tap of horse’s hooves overhead
Rapids froze in place, agony on her face
A boy growing tall in his sleep
Under the crisp white clean sheets
His daddy’s shoes he dreams to fill
Stockings hung above the mantle
The river poses for deer painters
Find the slope of her ear lobe
The shadow of her cheekbones
The snowy curves wound through the forests
Like skirts on dance floors swirling
Her canvas she gives to rows of winter crows, a crown
Cold wind musters at our latched window
Like murmurs behind a closed door, the songs
Of Christmas best belong
To the static ebb and flow
Of a distant station on the radio
Crooners singing to their high school sweethearts
From ballrooms soft with violins and horns
Unreachable from so long long ago.
Carcass evens out sand
Skin lands in your hands
Push past tainted smiles for better lands
Call me
When we reach the peak of boiling
and I've sweat out all my provisions
I'll answer
No need to memorize nonsense
in your numbers stead
I will always know your name
And it plays like the knocking of two outside a manger
There is nothing holy here
but lessons taught in down times
And so I practice dance for ballrooms I will never tread
You have never and will never see me
Call me
and I'll tell you how it's supposed to go
and you can teach her, them
It's too pretty outside to lose my mind
but you have it
Blow heat on kerosene and burn down your own monument
I'm tired
Prompt: ~ Kaleidoscope of Emotional Suffering
A Kaleidoscope at Twelve
I grew up on glass slippers and midnight promises,
On ballrooms where even orphans could be queens.
I believed clocks only struck to begin the dance.
Then you came, and the glass turned.
FIRST TURN: THE GOLDEN HOUR
You found me in ashes and called me light.
We danced until the walls melted into air.
Music stitched my torn heart with threads of gold.
For one night, I was not a shadow in the corner.
I thought some magic was carved in stone.
SECOND TURN: THE SHATTERING
But clocks are guillotines in disguise.
Twelve struck on the wall like a hammer on glass.
I ran.
One shoe stayed behind — a ghost of the dream.
The carriage, the gown, the girl — all unraveled into smoke.
THIRD TURN: THE EMPTY PATTERN
They say the prince searched the kingdom with my shoe.
But kingdoms have short memories and glassy eyes.
He remembered the slipper, not the soul that filled it.
And I was left with the echo of twelve,
A bell tolling in every empty room after you.
They call it a fairy tale.
I call it a kaleidoscope —
The same story shattered into fragments:
One shard of gold,
One shard of glass,
One shard of grief that will never fit back together.
A gentlefellow and maiden intermingle
on curiosity's swing-seated rest.
Vulnerableness is compressed between them,
as if a violet's caress requested their presence.
Harmony's tones are blown through the air,
like lilac's laughter scattering
as jasmine's megaphone hums.
Music's smooth movements dance within them
as if mountainberry ice cream were sampled
from their dreams with a fairy dusting.
An artist's loaded brush paints their moment.
A starfish's bluish blush comes naturally.
Beating blood and veins overlap silently.
Regal drape twine hides a stage
where beauty's ballrooms bloom before their eyes.
Love's uncomfortable shoes
leave a pleasurable bruise as they
peruse through fields of vine-ripened grapes.
An eggplant's bloodline finds royalty's manners
are hung like Lutheran banners
in the boldest of circumstances.
A stream of jelly donut filling
lunges into their tongues at once.
Tastebuds are given amethyst's first kiss.
Like hot and cold amiss, the warmth is blissful.
A rainbow's favorite ending begins indefinitely
as a projection of the evening's sky blending.
The progeny of red and blue is born by two.