Balancing on the precipice of change.
Teetering on the brink of gratified destruction;
Taking them down.
The fear and enthusiasm, paralyzed and exhilarating,
Forcefully, categorically forward.
Knowing, trusting to step, gracefully, assuredly.
A sturdy base to stand on; cultivated.
Kneaded, nourished with breadth
On the verge, the breakdown, standing, staring,
Stand and stare, unmovable.
The energy the spirit propelling forward,
Kept moving, not stopping.
Gone.
The peaceful quiet awoken.
A tumbling mass, exuberance, electric pulse, the pulp.
A body tired but yearning, a beating, prove and withstand, a chance.
Push, pull, set, test…limitless.
A mind, relieved, unquestioned, constant.
Wandering singularly without reproach; unchained…
Grow, learn, blossom.
A heart poised, ready, unheeding, at home to thrive,
The pulse the prance, a beat of the drum.
Pounds alone, for everyone, masterful, palpable,
A new little tune, rhythms and groove.
Corners to turn, new corners, sights and faces…
Unexplored, unquestioned, conquerable.
Red Velvet Rocking Chair
The red velvet rocking chair
Where you rest your weary bones,
Its arms surround you like your
Father's lost embrace.
The Christmas tree stands solemnly
Offering the warming glow
That casts the green light passively
Across your tear glazed jowl.
The time of year tip-toes around
The absence of his merry sound.
Those roaring laughs with great resound.
You wait for him to drop us off,
To take your chance with love.
We're welcomed with your clanking glass,
Wrapped with this year grudge.
Destinée Manifeste
His hand slides down
the contours of her slender arm,
her eyes focus on a spot in the sky.
His pecan hand
slowly streaks down
her white gown, firmly
resting on her inner thigh.
There is heat in her cheeks, a warm
brush stroke of pink
across her caramel skin;
her breath begins to hasten
as the music quickens its beat.
He tightens his hands between
her fingers and thighs, as gentle
winds flow from the speaker
whispering time to begin.
He lifts her towards the heavens
as she arches her lovely spine,
the point of her foot extended
as he spins her, keeping time.
The pads of her feet press
lightly as he lowers her to the ground,
their movements, mirror images,
like a poems use of sound.
Their story is a solemn one,
of passion, lust and loss.
He dies there on that stage each night
as she weeps, her cursed luck.
She spins around his body
contorted on the floor.
Her arms cross her chest,
her heavy feet drag
left, right, left,
slowing the rhythm of her dance.
The burden of his gruesome death
pressed heavily on her chest
She collapses on that wooden stage
with one last glance at God
the story ends as it began
lying there, hand in hand.
(The above was written after watching a dance performance by Terrence Henderson's Vibrations Dance Company)
Rekindling
The night began with a drink in her hand.
The liquor she sips unzipping all of her stresses,
Swaying and stepping to the sounds of this band,
Wonder if he noticed how pretty her dress is.
Ruby cheeked with no chance for defeat
playing it cool now time to charm and to fool.
Catching her breath walking back to her seat
He touches her arm catching fire from her fuel.
She'll never ignite without some sort of fight
Batting her lashes while strutting right past him.
With a pause for composure he regains his might
this war is worth winning, but this battle's looking grim.
Now hand in hand he feels like a dominant man
But she smiles to herself, amused by her master plan.
Glimpse
I carefully pull back the albums plastic,
Torn brittle and dry from too many years
That passed by. Your smile ear to ear
seductively taunted by the last candle lit.
Your beauty, your power, chilling and tragic
Passed down year by year. So many revere
The way your warming eyes are mysteriously clear.
Or how you skillfully charm all the men with your wit.
It was as a child I learned of your tricks
Your pillar possessed no crevice for fear,
Pushing through opposition, never shedding a tear,
a woman's right to be valiant, you fought bit by bit
You taught me your ways, so subtle yet brave
So tomorrow I'll take a rose to your grave
The Ravine
The Ravine
The door echoes through the hollow floor.
As sunlight pours through the windows,
the carpeted room surrounds the girl,
her bronzed skin polished by a somber rouge;
she stifles a cry and takes her place in line.
The portrait delicately illuminates the corner,
cold hands softly pass one by one.
The girl rests her gazes upon the coffee stain,
violently discoloring the neatly tailored suite.
A hand brushes her shoulder,
the thick room is thrust back into view.
The wooden chairs tenderly placed
side by side begin to fill;
they are filled with eyes, glances stares,
all watching the girl, waiting, praying.
The black rim of her hat dips,
the aroma of flowers overwhelms her senses;
she fingers a porous petal and sits in silence.
Like a shadow banished by the light
her hat raises, revealing her strong features
threatened by a wave of insolent tears.
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