The Dance Of PovertyThe dance of poverty woe,
(Oh the cold);
the dance that sorrow knows
and throws
...at each and every one us.
We starve, we pain, we weep
we reify the woes we keep.
Within our chest, which beats-
lies a forgotten heart that bleeds,
to the rhythm of the broken drum
of abandonment.
Beat the drum, kick it, tell it "it is worthless"
and forget it.
The drum will lie there in the streets regardless;
abandoned for the world to see.
It is the tragic tale of system abuse
and abandonment.
It is a dance eternal;
It is a forbidden ritual;
It is a tale of life and death;
It is poverty...
now forget it.
He strolled into the darkly lite room
giving off the scent of confidence
that eminated from him
that was palpable
even though
the room was crowded
with partygoers -
his skin was a rosy ivory
and hair curly and long
while his eyes took in the scope of the room
and there he spotted her
sitting off to one side with her friends...
the dark eye lashed man strode purposefully
across the room where she sat
"Would you care to dance with me" he asked politely
as she rose and took his hand
and with that began the Tango
there and then began the Dance of Love
as she fit into him like a hand into a glove.
It's the girls night out
at the local country bar.
This time we'll have to try
not to go too far.
We'll have no more
than seven shooters each,
And no more standing on the table
giving a slightly slurred speech.
On with our cowboy boots
and skirts a bit too short
To entice a dance partner,
a cowboy is a good sport.
We'll try and talk the band
into playing our favourite tune
And sing along like coyotes
howling at the moon.
We'll dance a few, and sing a few,
then maybe a few more.
We won't start a fight like Friday night
and get escorted to the door.
It's all in fun, we're just kids at heart,
going out to play.
It's time to unwind and let down our hair,
after all we've worked all day.
There's karaoke and two-stepping
and flirting with the guys
And telling stories, some of them true,
most of them little white lies.
We don't do this nearly enough,
at least that's what we think.
So here's to us, the local cowgirls,
now would someone buy us a drink.
Blended with fragrances
And the joyful carols,
The con games of children
Looking for gifts full of fun.
Kris Kringle’s cock-and-bull
Make them rosy and lull.
Adorned houses with odorous candles
Christmas tree ornamented with red ribbons and jingles
Marzipans fruitcakes and roasted chickens
Caramel cookies and plenteous chocolates,
The night illuminated
With the dance of the December souls
Gilding the lily with
Buoy up Wine and Champagne glasses.
Family gatherings and paisanos schmooze,
Couples moonlit winter-warmth savor
And the striplings night lammed booze,
Queued brewpubs and bopping discos –
The night illuminated
With the dance of the December souls
Gilding the lily with
Few ill-famed shmoes.
The Dance of the December Souls
Flageolet till New Year’s Eve,
The night at mid, lightened
By the skyrockets –
Gilding the lily with
Full-of-the-moon brightened.
Blended with resolutions and
Hugs and kisses,
Greetings followed
By myriad of wishes.
Clock ticked with few yesterday’s memories
Tears backed up by today’s beginning.