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Tag: dance

The World’s a Mess: balada

The world’s a mess, some folks will say –
at least, it often seems that way,
the lines are blurred and hard to see
sometimes, and we may disagree
on what we should and ought to do,
what’s plainly false, and mostly true.
Oh, let us chart the proper course;
First put the cart behind the horse.

The world’s a wonder, others state,
it’s our own fault, we can’t blame fate
for what effect comes from our cause;
we choose the fools who make our laws,
and have no right to kvetch and whine,
you on your side, and me on mine.
Oh, let us divvy up the blame,
and likewise share some of the shame.

The world’s is magic, true enough,
beneath the petty surface stuff
that helps us want to disengage
from wonder, and rely on rage
to fight each other without end
and win – at least we can pretend.
Oh, dance the dance until we die;
that’s all there is unless we try.

The world’s a mess! That may be so,
but life goes on, and even though
we seem to love to fume and fuss
there is still hope for all of us.
Pick up your broom, right here and now,
and clean what you can reach, somehow.
Oh, to begin you need to start;
and each must try to do their part.

16 APR 2025

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Hope and Despair

How fleet of foot is dream-spun Hope;
and how Despair, her lead-shoed sister,
trips a clumsy way to fill her place!

How fair and rosy Hope’s sweet cheeks;
and how their bloom is lost to mind
as glum Despair’s sad visage fills our eyes.

How fickle, that our foolish minds
oft mark these twins we woo unequals
as we come and go through life’s wide rooms.

How quick to judge, and hurt from judgment,
paint another’s Hope, Despair;
gloat to see another’s sorrow.

How fleet of foot is our sweet Hope;
across the room, her doorway shadow
hides in double dark, Despair.

How soon the tables turn eternal –
spin, reflecting like a mirror;
Hope and Despair mere phantasms.

How we dance, by Hope enamored;
hounded by Despair, we crawl.
Constant changes make life’s music.

24 JAN 2017

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The Dance: balada

And there upon a hardwood floor
the dancers gather, to once more
repeat the steps and spin around
betwixt mid-air and solid ground,
their minds affixed on meter’s mark,
the breath between time’s light and dark,
a march toward a last release
that once begun can hardly cease.

And how they shimmer as they twirl,
girl clutches boy, boy clutches girl,
each entertaining joy, and fear,
extending now, then drawing near
in measured movements circumscribed
by time, convention, and their tribe.
The consequences? War or peace,
that once begun can hardly cease.

And if the dance should slow or stop,
the dancers, much like spinning tops,
would falter, falling to one side,
let loose their partners, and collide,
and while the gentle music fades
forget to maintain the charade,
the vain illusion and caprice
that once begun dare not to cease.

12 JAN 2017

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