Long Barre Poems
Long Barre Poems. Below are the most popular long Barre by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Barre poems by poem length and keyword.
Ballerina barre bob, white stocking wings whir
Mushroom plume tutu trails translucent steam
Sticky foot pick ups signal patient Spring’s stir
Pollen swollen coconut tip tongues crop cream
Statue branches pop rabbit ears amazement
Magnolia ruby tuxedo tucks ruffle ivory shirt
Wasps whisper, biscuit sugar stored fragrant
Whimsical wizard voila Iced VoVo for dessert
Tinkerbell petals tender invite insects parched
Peter Pan aeroplane dive in opioid pond drone
Champagne flutes etch a marigold moustache
Bon voyage hibernate, heavy hive honeycomb
Buzz! Botanical I’m back!
20th Royal Jelly July
It's within her ballet studio!
Round and round the poetess goes.
Seeing herself in the sparkling, glass mirror.
And rainbow-tainted visions of her past.
Doing positions at the barre!
Yet a vision into her past, is truly a holy foray.
Times of great angst, times of ineffable joy.
Recalling her first kiss and oh, that boy!
Parents who took her on pony rides.
Where are they now?
Swept away by life's salty tides.
All her friends, she sees in the mirror.
Events, parties, glorious wedding dinners.
She longs to waltz through the mirror and to hug them all.
But stopped she is, by reality's wall.
Each one, in their way contributed to her life.
Of roses, ribbons, total goodness and more.
A grateful tear, splashes in gratitude, in silence.
On her poetic ballet floor.
5/12/2021
~5~
*** Sketching the Ballerina ***
It is well, quite well after midnight.
My pup lies fagged on the blanket
as close to me as possible.
The young ballerina sits slightly slumped
On a bench across from the barre, still wearing
Her stage costume with its long net skirt.
I am vexed that the sleeping hour has come.
I grieve to leave her.
She was looking with her black eyes
Directly into my own, asking (as I’m asking myself),
“How can I leave her with a twisted foot?”
The enviable line of the ballerina’s foot, which
“En pointe”
Completes the geometry of the ballet:
Toes coursing the lines of the legs,
On diagonals or paralleling the arms
On through to a pointing fingertip,
With the addition of a superbly angled head.
I grieve having to leave my sketch, to keep
The pretty ballerina in a long-waiting lurch
With her foot twisted, against all her dancer’s instincts;
Against completion of her body line;
Against all her trained and now natural inclinations
Directed to set her preparation
For beginning any elegance in motion;
Add life to the already vibrant music;
Wear her training posture unto every finale’s curtsy
And well deserve the appluse that comes
Along with the roses tossed up
Around her perfect feet…
I simply must put the pencil down,
Wondering how soon before her
Tears might fall while she waits for her foot to be drawn
Correctly arched. The sketch’s error involves
Perhaps a sixteenth of an inch here and there
With the slightest touch of erasing…It’s
The additional light of day,
Which altogether should make a portrait worthy
Of showing to St. Peter as he stands by The Gate.
As she displays her weariness to me,
I must beg her pardon, for it’s now nearly
Three hours past midnight
And my pillow begs for the lay of my head.
My dismal skills must rest
And wait for my sketchpad
To be spread over with beams from
The window’s morning sun.
—————————————————————————————
(c) sally young eslinger 6/2023
Thanks be to God…
How I took for granted, thee!
Now, reaching an age, I began to ponder.
Their truly outstanding history.
Hands that once with grand wonderment
stared at crayon colors.
Tanned, dimpled hands of a girl
Who on beaches made sand castles!
Whilst the waters of Lake Michigan swirled.
And above her pigtailed head,
Clouds moved in tender dance, all
shades of pastels.
In her tutu at the mirror she stared
Her hands loved that Ballef barre
Mother has her costumes by a seamstress
made, because she cared!
The mini Swan Lake-star,looked in her
Mother's tear-filled eyes and with
thankfulness, stared.
In elbowed satin gloves at age sixteen,
she bowed gracefully.
She gave that hand to her proud
father to rise.
A very proud parent of his proud
paternity.
The same hands in schools, years
later covered with chalk.
She made a professional decision
to teach in the ghetto schools of
Chicago and walk her talk.
Not just to say that a "few friends
of mine are black."
But to contribute to black children
getting the best education, of that
there was certainly,a lack!
These same hands who pen this,
poem,not only went to the theater.
But became an improvisational actress,
a stand up comic who held a silvered-
microphone later.
And later,with a beauteous daughter,
by God was she so blessed.
She still remembers the smell of
that angelic hair,as Maria,breathed ever
so softly on her chest.
Now, look at your hands, that have their
own unique history.
God given appendages,,so strong, so rich
with your life's mysteries and histories!
12/30/2020
2:45am PST
Dance for me now ...
Eyes of polished onyx pierce me like the keen edge
of a scalpel, deftly wielded ...
The blood of my black heart flowing in and around you,
warm and welcomed to your wings and wants ...
The aspiration of our spirits - air between us as still as ruin,
while the world spins outward, ever, a cacophony of color ...
Calm coalescence in a realm of chaos, airborne and harmonious,
sublime, if only ephemeral - if only once ...
I am your vessel, awaiting, I am your barre, to stretch and strain upon,
I am the adoration in your hush, and the dark feathers of your plume ...
I am rapt in awe by such immaculate and lithe form, destroyed
wholly by the feral, flawless grace of your movements ...
I am devoured by the ferocity and exquisite finish of
your line and flow 'en fouette' ...
It is the anger and complete abandon in your expression
that at once terrifies me and slays my spirit ...
That brings all that is demoness to your passion, and all
that is angelic to your erotic ire ...
Spellbound by the dance, I plummet into your shadow,
and let your black wings surround my delirium ...
An aphotic interplay of souls, a forbidden allurement of
figures, a carnal and concupiscent 'pas de deux' of fury ...
Dance with me ...
Now.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Contest Number 360" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Obsession" Poetry Contest, Silent One, Judge & Sponsor.
( N/A'd on 2/28/20 in the "Free Verse On Love" Poetry Contest )
life …
lived parenthetically -
impulses placed like black boots
in soft sand,
stumbling …
betting a fool’s hope that it leads …
SOMEwhere …
or garners a courtly chuckle
(if perhaps by accident)
my pas de bourée
to your sublime elegance and
perfect line …
you and yours, entire, have ever been in frame -
shoulders down, elbows up
work, play, love, life, achievement -
always the apex, the penultimate
the bright brick path laid out before you
(or placed as you went)
naught a detour or leg up
each meter earned with a
precious blood …
while I caught the brambles -
hacking away at life
with a machete of words and wishes …
all the while believing
that character required as much -
that struggle and chaos tempered the
steel of our sinews and spirit
when in reality
they only served themselves
and fed a monster that
devoured all I found worthwhile -
all I defined as good …
you …
were born to golden toe shoes
every point INTENDED
at the barre, or at the curtain
upon waxed wood, or midst the spindrift
for the masses, or for the gulls and I
orchestra …
or sounds of the sea
you dance on -
like coins of sunlight dance atop
the breaking swells …
our destinations are the same
no matter our start or our direction
we leave alone and without
thus …
it is the journey that defines us
whether the shining stair
or the weedy wood …
whether the demanding ballet
or the stumbling jester …
whether let with precision and poise
or a hesitant stagger …
every foot in front of the other
and every wayward path
its own precious …
adventure.
Bitter night
seventeen degrees
all is covered
in frozen white
comforters and blankets
piled so high
tugged up high
warmth to seek
Christmas time
just days away
my night is filled
with guitar dreams
there was a girl
in earlier days
when I was young
in velvet prime
I did sing
in choirs then
and did croon
solos sweet
she did dream
and did long
that just for her
I’d sing my song
she did seek
a music store
where she did buy
a steel guitar
a present then
she made to me
that I might then
for her sing
steel wires
so narrow they
strung so tight
for tender flesh
six to press
with fingers five
twisted to shapes
that hurt my flesh
books of songs
I did buy
and practiced hard
so many hours
steel too hard
and calluses too slow
I did sell
that steel guitar
classic ones
with nylon strings
my fingers found
to be easier be
and more hours
so many long
I did play
a classic guitar
so long ago
when I did try
and I did fail
to play guitar
in dark of night
at Christmas time
I do dream
of bass guitars
strings of four
and a lower pitch
that I could tune
to a open G
then to barre
with finger straight
then playing chords
would simpler be
and the pitch
much lower then
to match my voice
deep and low
I do dream
in dark of night
that I might play
a bass guitar
i'll eat your chicken
if you eat mine
but you don't cook
but i can rhyme
but i don't eat meat
even fried cast iron
but i'll eat your chicken
if you eat mine
now a dime ain't worth
a nickel these days
once said a Yogi
Barre was his name
he didn't have dreads
but dreaded all the same
that a dime ain't worth
a nickel these days
i once met a woman
as hairy as me
compared my beard
to her butt cheeks
i thought i found
what sought i seeked
when i found a woman
as hairy as me
i can't say what attribute
suited her most
her laugh or hirsute
like a bear compared
i'll be resolute
i metaphor
for her bare suit
Form:
A dream of you and me
A beach house by the sea
A stroll along the shore
Knowing we want more
But this gets better yet
Wait until sunset
Stars and Venus rise
Desire's in our eyes
It's still a little soon
Not before the moon
And then a night of bliss
Commencing with The Kiss
A waiting music stand
A blanket on the sand
A chair with one guitar
Four hands, I help you barre
Before long unrestrained
Passion uncontained
The song we make and play
Carries us away
The heights that we achieve
Are heights none could believe
And when all's said and done
We toast the rising sun
Written: November 05, 2023
___________________________________________
Away from Earth, the sky is always hideous,
A whimsical sun made my dream obvious.
A deep redolent dream, moon, and scheme,
Ideal site for drifting ways of cosmic gleam.
I'm swaying in space, skeptical of the place,
Cool wind ruins the stars as emerald tunes trace.
Arms may be lifted in sync due to the breeze,
I breathe in even the peculiar air to appease.
Only musings glimpse through my icy hand,
A strange adventure with a translucent stand.
My first trip here, I couldn't decry the North Star,
Lacking solid support, the stars went barre.
I am clad by kaleidoscope matter and vitality,
As I cross space, black holes are a split reality.
A cosmic light kiss of life infuses my skin,
Lips of ash, frame stuck by whimsey within.
A billion stars cover each soaring nebula,
I'm an instant hit, as speculated by a fibula.